The hollow sound of a bell tolling echoed, its tones eerie and distorted through the downpour. The men waited, their horses shuffling and snorting with the desire to feed and bed down. Gavin's head lightened as blood continued to seep down his side, providing the only warmth save that of Rule beneath his legs.
"Do those within have no pity?" Thomas growled, tugging at the rope more vigorously, and again the bell sounded.
At last, just when Gavin was preparing to curse those who resided beyond the gate for their inhumanity, his glazing eyes discerned a small figure making its way toward the portcullis. He pressed Rule forward, reaching the iron bars just as its inhabitant did.
"Aye, my lords? You wish shelter? An' who be ye?"
He saw that the figure was naught but an old crone, cloaked in dark garb and stooped with age. "Lord Gavin of Mal Verne, Lord Thomas of Clervorne, and ten men-at-arms, mistress. " He had to concentrate to keep his voice steady and strong as a flash of light before his eyes told him he was weakening further. "We have wounded among us, and beg for shelter and, if you have it, care for our ills. "
Even swallowing was painful, and, as he waited for the woman's response, the gate seemed to tip onto its side and then right itself.
Then the gate swung open, and the woman stepped aside. "My lords, you are well come to Lock Rose Abbey," she said in a strong voice that did not match her frail figure. "Come. "
The men filed their horses through the entrance, then waited as she slammed the gate shut behind them. She shuffled along, leading them across a large bailey that had been cleared of the forest surrounding the stone wall, and paused at an outbuilding.
"You'll see to your own horses," she said without preamble, "as we've only one marshal and she is ill. "
Gavin slid from the saddle, landing on his feet with a hard thump, and leaned against Rule. Standing made his head spin harder, and nausea well in his throat. Before he could take a step toward the stable, he felt an arm slide around his waist, bracing him. Thomas's voice registered dimly as it snapped, "Clem, see to Mal Verne's horse. Mistress, take us to a bed for him. "
The wound in his side stung like boiled pitch, and Gavin fought back a groan as Thomas, weak himself from his own hurts, supported him through a seemingly endless walk.
Just as he felt the final vestiges of clarity leaving, Gavin saw the pallet meant for him and allowed his knees to buckle. His last impression was of the prickly comfort of a straw-stuffed bed.
"He has no sign of fever, my lord. I've packed the wound with a poultice and he must rest anon. "
Gavin slowly became aware of the voices. The first was a gentle, female one, and 'twas followed by the rough, familiar one of Thomas Clervorne.
"He'll heal, then?"
"Aye, if the fever does not come. "
Gavin tried to pry his eyelids open so that he could see the face that belonged to the silky, calm voice. She continued speaking as he struggled to focus. "Though the sword cut deep, the blood clotted well and we were able to sew the gap closed. "
At last: his lids cooperated and he focused on the face of the one dabbing something cool on his sore arm. When he saw the visage bent near his, he nearly recoiled at the shock. The face did not match the beautiful voice.
'Twas that of an old woman: a long countenance with wrinkles woven in the skin and brown spots everywhere. Her eyes were watery and gray, and the lower lids gapped away to show deep, red pockets. She wore a wimple that covered her entire head but for the face that, though horridly ugly, carried peace in its expression.
"He wakes. " This voice was old and thready, and emitted from the elderly woman's shriveled lips.
Then two others were at his side, looking down upon him. One was Thomas, Gavin's oldest friend, and the other was the Madonna.
Indeed, she had to be an unearthly being, for he'd never seen such beauty and serenity on the face of a mortal. Her eyes were luminous gray moonstones glowing in a perfect oval face framed by a nun's veil. High cheekbones created smooth hollows in fair, ivory skin, unmarked but for a small freckle near one eyebrow. The mouth that curved into a pleased smile was sweetly formed of soft pink lips that were neither too narrow nor too full.
"How do you feel?" It was the voice again, the mellow, soft one to which he'd awakened. The one that fit this face. "Can you speak, my lord?"
Gavin knew what he wanted to say, but he hadn't the energy to form the words. When she offered him a sip of water, 'twas all he could do to open his lips as she pressed a cup to his mouth. The wooden vessel felt rough against him, but the water slid, cool and smooth, down his parched throat.
"The others have been tended to. " 'Twas Thomas speaking, almost as if he knew what his lord meant to ask. With effort, Gavin turned his head toward him. "John and Robert have the fever and are being watched, but the others have lesser hurts and will most like recover fully. "
"Where are we?" Gavin forced the words from his throat, and they came forth like guttural groans.
"Lock Rose Abbey. " It was the woman-the Madonna-speaking again. "I'm surprised you found us, for we are well-hidden-as is our intent. "
Gavin vaguely remembered the cloying forest and how the gate to the abbey seemed to rise from nowhere. He nodded painfully, and managed to speak again. "Where is this place?"
"Deep in the forest, several leagues from Mancassel. Few there even know of our existence. "
Mancassel. Gavin's fogged mind cleared enough for him to realize how far they'd traveled from the skirmish that had left them near death. His lips twisted.