How would she make him suffer? Perhaps she has been, by eluding capture. The thought gave her comfort.
“Sleep, Mary,” Michael said and turned on his side to drape his cape over her. “I will let nothing happen to you.”
She sighed softly, pressed her fingers to her lips and then pressed them to his lips, an innocent gesture of gratitude.
And as she drifted off to sleep she thought she smelled a familiar scent again, one she could not identify but which seemed to be the key to a special memory.
Chapter 4
They slept well into the next morning and it was not until midday that they continued their journey. Clouds hurried overhead only minutes after they began walking, and Mary hoped the rain would wait; a muddy path made travel all the more difficult.
A good night’s rest had helped and her legs felt strong today. Michael had told her that if they kept a steady pace they could reach their destination after nightfall. There they would have hot food and a soft bed. The thought gave her strength and she was determined to keep pace with him.
He was agile for a man who appeared burdened with heavy garments and a mask. If she was not aware that the face-covering was of a thin material, she would have wondered if it were magic that allowed him to walk the road so confidently. And his harsh voice allowed for no insight into his true nature, and often fostered fear.
He hid his identity well. There was no telling who this man was, even his true height went undetected; a slight hunch always with him.
Yet Mary could not help but wonder over her rescuer’s identity. Were his facial features also harsh? Was he so hideous that people recoiled in fear?
She knew nothing of him and attempted to piece together what she could. He was brave and unselfish, placing himself in danger to help her. But he was also confident in his ability to protect her. She wondered how often he protected the innocent and if it was a service he provided for a fee. Keeping his identity hidden was a wise choice, for then he could walk freely among the masses without fear of capture. He could actually live two separate lives, unless of course this shroud concealed a badly scarred face and body.
Michael turned suddenly, startling her. “Men and horses nearby.” He took her hand and dragged her off the path. He found an area dense with shrub and forced his way in, pulling her in behind him. It was a tight squeeze with little room. They huddled together between thick branches, the thorny leaves poking at their arms, legs, and faces. One pricked like a fine bone needle at her neck. The riders were closer now so she knew she could not move. She remained as she was and soon felt the first drop of blood drip down her neck.
She could hear the men grumbling as they guided their horses over the rough terrain. She wondered if they searched for her or if they were thieves who preferred a trail less traveled.
It seemed a very long time before their voices drifted away; even then she did not move. There was no telling if men straggled behind. She and Michael remained as they were, bodies pressed against each other. She realized she was growing accustomed to their closeness. She knew it was not proper for a man’s body to be so close to hers unless of course it was her husband’s. She recalled when she was young how she and the other young girls in the village would giggle over the lads’ attempts to impress them. Those giggles had ceased when she had been brought to Ireland. She had been too fearful of strangers to share in the village activities so she had kept herself, isolated from people. As she matured she made a few friends, but mostly with people who could teach her things—the bowman, the healer, the metal smith. She had felt the need to protect not only herself but also the aging couple, James and Nona, who had so generously opened their home to her.
Michael stirred and she was quickly brought out of her musings. It was time for them to go and he parted the thick branches for her.
She stepped out and placed her hand to her neck to see to her wound.
“You are hurt.”
He sounded angry as he examined her wound but gently wiped away the blood, his glove-covered finger lingering on her neck. This tenderness was in such contrast to his harshness. A touch barely detectable, a faint whisper across her skin. Gooseflesh raced over her.
She gently pushed his finger away and shook her head, letting him know it was nothing to be concerned with, then pointed to the direction where the men had disappeared.
“We must change our course. We cannot risk meeting those men along the trail. It will delay our arrival time by several hours and the terrain will prove burdensome at times.”
She shrugged; she understood there was little choice.
“Think of the food and soft pallet you will rest upon tonight; it will be the impetus that keeps you going.”
Was that a note of teasing in his harsh voice? She hoped so, for it made him more human.
Several hours later she fought tears and exhaustion. There was no trail to follow. They climbed hills, scaled rocks, descended into valleys and climbed out of them. She barely felt her legs, and her arms ached from pushing away branches and grasping them to help her climb. She had thought she ached before but never like this, never had she felt so compelled to drop to the ground and give up.
“A short distance more.”
He had encouraged her with those words time and time again, but now they only meant more endless walking and climbing. And when she thought things could not get worse, night fell and darkness rushed around them.
The barely visible path was now impossible to see, nor could she see Michael, his black garments blending with the night. He finally stopped and, standing on the edge of a slope, he pointed down into the valley.
She wished she could cry out with joy when she saw the small village, lights glowing from the cottage windows.
He took her hand and helped her descend into the valley. As they got closer she caught the scent of roasting meat and heard laughter and children playing, and she wanted to run and join them, leave her fears behind.
By the time they reached the first cottage her mouth was watering from the delicious scents. She was exhausted in body and mind. They were greeted with enthusiasm, almost as if the villagers were expecting him.
They were ushered into a cottage, the children shooed away while the adults busily saw to getting them food.
Mary grabbed for the pewter tankard offered her, the smell sweet. She relished the pleasure of the brew’s thirst-quenching taste and the way it soothed her sore throat.
A short, stout woman introduced herself as she replenished Mary’s tankard. “I am Glenda and it is pleased we are to have you here.”
Mary quickly drank more of the soothing brew, her eyes turning wide in appreciation.
Glenda patted her shoulder. “We know you cannot speak. Rest your voice and do not worry. You are safe here with us.”
Mary eagerly reached for a thick hunk of dark bread to dip in the pot of stew placed in the center of the table. The delicious aroma made her salivate and she wanted to sigh at the exquisite taste.
“Rabbit stew,” Glenda said. “Enjoy, there is plenty, and when you are finished I will help you wash up if you would like?”
Mary was quick to nod her head. Tired as she was she wanted to rid herself of the dirt and grime and climb into bed clean and refreshed, ready to begin anew.
She looked over to Michael talking with a man in the corner of the cottage. The man looked old and worn though Mary could not say it was from age. His long red hair held not a hint of gray, his body appeared strong but weary. The curve of his shoulders showing he once carried heavy loads. He was worn out and worn down as though stamped on repeatedly until it was impossible for him to stand up.