A Knight Well Spent. Jackie Ivie

came into being with the light.

      She moved her head, swaying the disheveled curtain of hair out of her face. The fact it was loose wasn’t her fault. Her captor had wanted it that way. His hands undid the braids as they rode. Aislynn made a face at him. Then she noticed the lack of color to his lips.

      “What’s happened?” She asked it as she approached, managing shuffling, sliding steps that were the equivalent of the length of a half-foot. It was the only movement her strapped and joined knees allowed her.

      “He took a blow.” One of them answered.

      “Turn his head! Now! Quickly!”

      “What?”

      Aislynn didn’t think through her actions. If they hesitated, the man was going to perish on his own blood. “Turn his head now! He’s got a mouthful of his own blood and is sucking it in with each breath. Do you wish his death?”

      All nine of them looked down at the prone man. Aislynn rolled her eyes and scooted closer, so she could do it. She used her shoulder to roll his head to one side. All of them watched the blackish fluid spilling onto his blanket. “You see?”

      “I—”

      “Dinna’ waste breath on your actions. Roll him. Pound his back! Now!”

      “Pound his back?”

      “He takes nae breath. You see? Dinna’ just stand there! Tip him forward over his bed and pound!”

      Some of her urgency got to them and the largest of them moved to help. Aislynn hopped backward, out of the way, as he shoved Brent onto his front. Then he slammed a fist into the man’s back, splattering blood onto the blankets and wetting the dust on the floor with it.

      “Again!” she hissed.

      “But, he’s—”

      “He’s without life if you dinna’ get it back into him! Hit him again. He is na’ taking breath. You have to remind him how to do it. Now pound!”

      He slammed another gauntleted fist into Brent’s back and all that happened was Brent’s body moved on the mattress, making it creak a bit.

      “Again! He wears his mail. He can hardly feel such slight tapping!”

      The man she taunted glared at her, before turning to hit the body before them. This time Aislynn knew he used force. It sounded like he was cracking bones. It worked. All of them heard the weak cough, followed by a spasm of Brent’s body. Aislynn gulped. She knew they all stared at her.

      “N-now—” She stopped, before the tremor betrayed her. If she were going to assume her assertive Lady of the Brook mantle, she had to sound more like a confident healer and less like a frightened village girl. She cleared her throat. “Tell me what ails him.”

      Aislynn went to her knees to look over the unconscious man’s face. The blow had worked. He was getting his color back. She didn’t think it lucky for her, however.

      “Bring a light closer,” she ordered, since no one had answered her question. One of them held a torch aloft, where it shed more light. Aislynn’s upper lip lifted as she watched vermin scurrying for the darker corners. She barely kept the shiver inside. He lives with rats? Ugh!

      “What is it? Will he live?”

      They’d misinterpreted her expression. Aislynn gulped and stood back upright, using the mattress with her crooked arm as a leaning post for the movement. No one offered help. If they had, she’d have shrugged it off. The fact that they hadn’t made her lip curl worse. Brent’s knights were an unchivalrous lot. Every one of them.

      “I canna’ tell that if I dinna’ know what happened to him. Well?”

      No one answered her again. Aislynn favored them with narrowed eyes and stifled her own gulp. She didn’t like the way they were looking at her. Men didn’t look at her like that. She rarely gave them the opportunity. Mother had spoken of how surprisingly lovely their faery-child was, if Aislynn stopped moving long enough for a body to get a good look at her.

      Aislynn knew it was what was happening to her right now. The way he’d left her hair unbound and rippling probably made her look wild and untamed, and the tight straps about her were making every swell of her body apparent. She could sense the difference in the room and it stalled her breath. She swallowed. Her throat went as dry as barley dust. She was in a lord’s chamber, deep in his castle, while his knights looked at her, lust written on every feature. Lust! Men and their lusts! She hated them even more than before.

      She looked back down at the man who had caused her disarray and situation. He was creating havoc and he wasn’t even awake. She set her shoulders. Very well…she couldn’t change it. All she could do was keep their attention on him, and hope they had some valorous instincts hidden.

      “Are you his knights, or na’?” she asked, in a sarcastic, loud tone.

      “What?” One of them spoke. It was obvious he’d forgotten her question.

      Aislynn slanted her head toward Brent. “He bleeds from the nose and mouth. You were leaving him to die if I had na’ been here. What happened to him? I canna’ heal him if fright holds tongues silent. Are you his men, or na’?”

      “He took a blow,” one of them finally said.

      “A blow? Just one?”

      The one who had spoken nodded. She could tell her plan was working as one by one, they looked from her to Brent. Aislynn swallowed. “One blow? Just one? With what? One of your Sassenach clubs?”

      “A fist.”

      Aislynn gasped and looked at the blackish coating on Brent’s face again. He was breathing smoothly and deeply now. “Was it a mailed fist, then?”

      “Nay. It was bare.”

      “I have heard of the games you English play. ’Tis stupid and wasteful. Just look at the results. He may lose teeth and I suspect his nose is broken. I will need herbs. Spices. I need them fetched. Now.”

      The man who had pounded breath back into Brent jerked his head at another of them. “Fetch what she needs,” he said.

      “Why should I?”

      The one who’d commanded it raised his fist at the other. Aislynn watched them. She was going to name him Brute and the other Weasel. The names fit. Brute had his helmet off and was in the light. She could see he sported dark hair, dark eyes, and slashes of black for his eyebrows. Still, in all, he hadn’t been unpleasant to look upon, until a scar had scored across his nose and both cheeks, halving his face. Brute was an undisciplined, large, bullying sort. Most of them were. She knew that from the ride in. Not one of them obeyed willingly or without question. They obeyed because someone forced them to.

      “Stay your blows,” she said sarcastically. “You men use it too oft. I will tell you what I need and the why of it.” She shuffled into the space between them, using her bent arm for propulsion.

      Brute’s fist slowly dropped. Aislynn turned, placing her back to him and looked up at Weasel. She’d rightly named this one as well, she decided. His eyes were closely set, and he had a thin, long, spiky nose. She didn’t think he’d ever been pleasant to look upon.

      “I need mistletoe and valerian for his teeth. Or you can bring dried linden flowers. Check the kitchens. I’ll also require boiled water. A pail of it for his face, and at least six buckets of it for cleaning this hovel of a room. I need kelp or peat, as dry as you can find it. This is to stop bleeding. I will also need rosemary. It will prevent blockage of his nose while it heals. That should also stay his temper once he awakens and looks at the damage done to his face. Bring me mint, too. Four leaves of it.” She stopped, afraid of her own impudence.

      “What is this mint for?” Brute asked from behind her. Aislynn hopped as she turned to face him.

      “For his breath. It reeks.”

      “You’re