The Memory of Her Kiss Read online

  HE FELT AS IF A HORSE had kicked him, first in his stomach and then in his head. But Gregor could recall no such thing happening. His eyes were open, and he found himself in vast darkness. After a moment, trying to gather his wits and determine his circumstance, he realized that something lay across his chest. He tried to lift a hand and found the weightiness of the appendage and his near inability to lift it a frightening thing.

  After a moment, his eyes began to understand the darkness. His hand, which finally decided to cooperate, lifted and touched something warm and soft lying over him. He was light-headed enough still that he didn’t startle when the thing moved beneath his touch.

  “Oh, you are awake.”

  A face showed itself to him, but he saw only wide eyes and pale skin in the darkness before the entire body left him. A moment later, a taper was lit, bathing the small room in soft orange light.

  The girl approached him again. He moved his eyes to see a very young woman, dressed in a drab and coarse kirtle which covered every inch of her skin save her head and face and hands. He took note of her hair, cropped so close to her head as to be nonexistent, and of her eyes, large and round and strikingly blue. Complete memory flooded him.

  “I have you to thank for my life,” he said, his voice rough.

  She only nodded, watching him almost expectantly. Gregor knew not what she waited for. He stared back, considering her in the bare light. She was not a child, he surmised, though very young still, he imagined. Those eyes were rather magnificent, he decided. Large and wide-set, they tilted up ever so slightly at the corners and betrayed every one of her emotions, though he didn’t know her at all to recognize them individually. Uncertainty and worry, he distinguished easily enough. Her skin was unblemished, her cheeks sporting a rosy hue just now, warmth or embarrassment, he could not say. Her nose was straight and small, above lips that were pink and full, the top lip no smaller than the bottom, and being of the exact shape as a bow. Perhaps his eyes, resting upon her mouth now, had made her uneasy. She opened her mouth only slightly, seeming to make a show of breathing slowly.

  Gregor was sure the lack of hair accentuated each of her features, making the eyes and lips appear so prominent in her face. It was perhaps her small size and that hair that gave her the elfin appearance. She was very striking, he decided, though presently he was more impressed with her role in his life since he’d met her. Vaguely, he recalled a chattier version of this silent one before him now.

  “I should be feeding you!” Her tone contained a chastisement. And she knelt beside the bed upon the floor, reaching for something beside it, and showed him a small wooden bowl and tipped it to show her intention of feeding it to him.

  He tried to sit up, having no liking to be spoon fed by the lass. But that reality wasn’t to be his yet and he managed only to lift his head while she applied the tilted bowl to his lips. When he’d sipped near half the bowl empty, he settled his head back down, lifting a sluggish hand to swipe the back of it across his mouth, pretending that hadn’t just felt and tasted like sandy goat piss streaming down his throat.

  “I have ale as well,” she offered. She pulled that vessel from a spot on the floor above his head.

  Gregor closed his eyes, bracing himself to lift his head again. The ale was nearly as awful as the broth but proved a tolerable chaser.

  “Jardine?” He asked, thinking he remembered that as well.

  The girl nodded and seemed to form words in her head before sending them out. “That is where you found me. But we are near Haddington now. Might someone be looking for you?”

  “How long have we been here?”

  “Not yet a day.” She sat beside him, her knees pressed to the floor, her hands holding the cup in her lap. Gregor stared at those tiny hands, likely half the size of his own, and wondered how she’d managed all that she had.

  “The lads’ll come to Haddington,” he said more to himself than to her. Gregor tried again to sit up, needing to more clearly assess his situation and determine his next move. Just as the girl vocalized her disapproval of his movements, Gregor became aware of both the pain in his side and the linens wrapped there. He glanced down at his side, moved his hand to feel the area of the wound, pressing that spot exactly and wincing when he did. He surmised the bandages were wrapped many times around, but not too tight to be restricting, or make him more uncomfortable than the wound itself did. “Trussed up like a sausage,” he commented absently.

  The girl laughed, which made him pause. God, he hadn’t heard laughter—soft, feminine laughter—in so long. Hers was particularly fetching, lilting and sweet, almost husky.

  He managed to sit up completely, bending his legs a bit on the floor, noticing the bottom half of his hose were gone, and he remembered he’d sliced them off to press into the hole shortly after his retreat, when he’d fallen into that thicket of woods.

  He realized the girl was anxious at his side, but he couldn’t fix that just yet, taking a moment to catch his breath, and evaluate the true amount of pain he was in. It was considerable.

  “You did this?” He stilled again and asked of the girl.

  “Cairstine and I did. She’s left again.” There was an awkward movement of her eyes away from him as she kneeled on the floor beside him. She found sudden interest in her kirtle, plucking imaginary threads from the skirt.

  Gregor showed her a reasonable amount of appreciation, which she saw when she lifted her eyes again. “What name do you go by, lass?”

  Her countenance relaxed. Her eyes really were remarkable, he decided, curious suddenly to see their blue in bright sunshine. They must be fair glorious in the light of day, but he would not know yet, not here in this darkened room.

  “My name is Anice.”

  “But why do you whisper now?” Gregor wanted to know. “Can I no be told your name?”

  “I’m called Maria Louisa. At Jardine,” she whispered still. “But my name is Anice,” this, firmly, defiantly.

  Gregor understood at once—perhaps had known somewhere in the periphery of his mind—that becoming the bride of Christ required the removal of all things that defined the person. He’d not been aware that a girl’s name might be one of the defining attributes erased.

  Her whisper gone, the girl clarified, “Not all girls lose their name. But the prioress said because my name means “grace” and I had not received that yet from Christ, I was not to hold on to that.”

  “How long had you been there?”

  “Since I was 14 summers.”

  “Still graceless?” He guessed.

  She shrugged with little humor. “Apparently.”

  “Have you heard your true name spoken since then?” He guessed she might have seen six or seven more summers pass since coming to the abbey.

  She shook her head, her eyes regarding him intently, almost expectantly.

  “Anice,” he said, whether intentionally softly, or because of his roughened sick bed voice, even he could not say. But again, this time steadier, “Anice.” The reward, the sincere gratitude in her eyes, did not go unnoticed, nor did it leave him unaffected. “I thank you kindly for all that you’ve done for me, Anice,” and he meant it. Would he be alive now if not for this girl? “Aye, and now I’ll be asking what put you into the stocks?”

  She bowed her head so that he saw only the close-cropped hair, not evenly done, its true shade unknown just now in the dim interior.

  “I had been watching for the soldiers we were told were near. And thus, I did not sleep when I should have but then I did...during matins.”

  He settled an unholy frown upon her, while her head remained bent. “For sleeping only? Put into the stocks for sleeping?”

  And now her face lifted, seeming embarrassed and breathless, the former likely because of her sad circumstance, and the latter no doubt a reaction to his present fierceness.

  “I am, I am told, rather incorrigible.”

  He held her eyes, reading them. Aye, she’d likely been told as much, but he gues
sed she wasn’t any more incorrigible than he was petite, and she knew this as well.

  “But I thank you all the same for releasing me,” she said, her eyes dropping away again.

  “I suppose that,” he said, “and now this, put you in a difficult position.”

  Her small shoulders moved up and down. “No more difficult than it was or might one day be again. ‘Tis only unknown, or unnamed, just now.”

  “Aye.”

  Gregor shifted again and began to move, hopefully to stand.

  “But you must lie back again, sir,” she protested. “You’ll disturb the bandages. And why would you be needing to be risen anyway?” She asked pertly.

  Gregor breathed a short laugh. “There’ll be more sores to tend if I dinna stretch and move a wee bit.” He pushed himself up from the pallet, and the girl did likewise from the floor. She stood close to him, obviously unsure of his competence in standing on his own two feet unaided. Her hands hovered just near his chest and left arm and then touched him at those spots as he demonstrated a shakiness. Embarrassed, he realized he did indeed require her small but steadying hand at first. But after a moment, not untroubled by the feel of her hands upon him nor how close she was pressed into his side, he dared to step forward, forcing her to step with him. There wasn’t really anywhere to go, as the room, filled with the slim pallet and a small table and only one chair, allowed only for a few steps. But it did feel good as he grew steadier. Pain he was accustomed to, had known this often over many years, and had accepted this as part of his life. The weakness, however, was something he would never tolerate. It was never safe to be weak.

  They paced to the door, seven steps for Gregor, and she reached forward to pull it open.

  Gregor was forced to duck his head under the door frame, and they stepped outside, into the short grass and gravel. There was a lane, of sorts, that led to or away from the cottage. This home was mostly secluded, he noticed, with trees immediately behind it and along one side. The lane meandered off, up over a heath strewn knoll.

  “Haddington be that way?” He asked, lifting his hand vaguely to indicate the direction of the lane.

  “Aye,” she said, her head still tucked under his arm. His left hand was wrapped around her thin but apparently strong shoulders, so he saw only the top of her head.

  He stopped, and she reacted as he’d hoped, turning her face to look up at him. Yes, her eyes seen in the natural light under a blue sky were incredible, an amazing shade of bright and light blue, the iris rimmed by black on the outside and teased with hints of green near her pupil. Atop her head, her hair was much shorter than his own and appeared the color of light sand with some streaks of proper blonde. Her eyebrows, thin and arching, were perhaps a shade or two darker, and raised now with a question. He shook his head and continued walking, or trudging along, as it were.

  “You’ll be wanting to return to your own home, I imagine.”

  “Aye, and quickly.” They continued in silence for several minutes. “Let’s turn back, lass. That’s all I can do now.”

  She obliged and they pivoted and walked back toward the simple timber framed dwelling.

  “To whom does this place belong?”

  “Cairstine. She is a healer. I met her several years ago when I was... required to assist in the repair of the roofs of many crofts in the community.”

  He chewed on this. “Required? You mean punished?”

  “Aye, but I never let the abbess know how much I enjoyed it, so she sent me back with Athol year after year.”

  Gregor sensed a satisfaction in her voice and was pleased for the lass. “You were punished often, I’m starting to believe.”

  “More than most, less than some,” she allowed. “I didn’t quite fit in there. I hope you won’t send me back.”

  “It’s no for me to decide, lass, but what might you do? Where can you go?”

  “I’d hoped I might impose upon Cairstine to allow me to stay here,” she said, giving the impression this idea was newly come to her.

  “’Tis close yet to Jardine,” Gregor countered. “If you were discovered, the abbess might request the bishop see you returned.”

  “Oh,” she said, that one word filled with much worry.

  They reached the cottage again and ducked to enter, leaving the brightness outside. Gregor was sweating a bit, hoping he hadn’t overtaxed himself. He sank down into the only chair in the room, eschewing the pallet again as it was too difficult to rise from. The lass went immediately to the pot hung over the tiny hearth. The fire within no longer burned but he imagined the broth was still warm. She presented a bowl to him, having added some mix of herbs from the shelves at the far wall.

  “To keep the fever at bay,” she explained but with a grimace about her face, an apology for the foul taste and grit.

  “Get the ale ready, lass.” And he tipped the bowl up to his mouth and poured the entire contents down his throat. He lowered the bowl when it was drained and gave his head a good shake as the bitterness stung him, then traded the bowl for the cup she now offered. He threw this down just as quickly. Sadly, the ale offered only minimal relief.

  “Lass, where is the horse you commandeered last night?” He would need a good mount if he didn’t meet up with his army in Haddington.

  “I set him and the cart into town,” she answered. “I didn’t want to be named a horse thief as well.”

  Gregor nodded, regretting that the animal was not now at his disposal. A noise, one that was not natural to their location, came to him, from somewhere outside. Though it cost him great pain, he reached around with one hand for his sword, which he’d noticed had been propped against the wall nearest him, and grabbed the girl’s hand with his other, yanking her swiftly to the side of the chair on which he sat.

  The door opened, and a woman who hadn’t any need to duck under the low frame entered. Gregor felt, in the hand that held Anice’s, her own immediate relief.

  “Cairstine,” she said for his edification.

  “Aye,” said the ancient woman, who’d stopped to consider Gregor upon the chair and the ominous weapon in his hand.

  Gregor returned the sword to where it had stood against the wall.

  Cairstine passed her eyes slowly over him, letting him know she was sizing him up, determining what quality of man he was. He allowed it, ‘twas the least he could do since he’d found refuge in her home. Her eyes, not nearly so striking a blue as Anice’s, strayed to where his hand still held the lass’s. He would never know what prompted him to challenge the old woman’s stare just then as it found his eyes, or why he didn’t simply release Anice’s hand, but he did not, just returned the woman’s stare, daring her to comment. She did not, just entered fully and closed the door again.

  “No English, nor any soldiers near to Haddington,” she said to no one in particular, presenting her back to Gregor and Anice as she settled things about those shelves, filled with her medicinals. When she turned, her eyes were on Anice. “Some talk about a novice escaping from Jardine, stealing a horse and wagon,” she said pointedly. “The nag was found, and now they’re all talking about the lass running all the way to Glasgow.”

  “Glasgow?” Anice questioned. “How did that...why would anyone think that?”

  The hag shrugged, her shoulders barely moving under her coarse brown tunic. Gregor suspected she herself had planted that seed and was grateful for this assistance to the lass. Cairstine approached him, while he still sat upon the chair, and laid her hand upon his brow, bringing the not entirely pleasant scent of wood smoke and blood and grime to him. But he didn’t blink, not until she stepped away and gave a nod, approving of his temperature.

  Chapter 3

  He couldn’t stay here any longer, Gregor decided much later that evening, watching the lass as she slept, sitting up, nestled into the inside corner of the front wall of the cottage. Her head with its pitifully shorn hair rested nearly against her chest, her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. The hag had departed ag
ain—showing more energy and vitality, or a supreme fervor toward her calling, than Gregor had ever known of one of such advanced years—but not before she’d plied him yet again with more of the herb-fortified broth and on this last occasion, some bread as well. She’d said, as she’d offered the bread to Anice also, that the three large loaves had been her payment only yesterday for her care of some sickly child.

  He stood now and passed one last and searching glance over the elfin girl and then stepped outside. He adjusted his belt and sword, having returned those items to his person, and breathed in the cool nighttime air. For one who was little used to such great lengths of inactivity, the day had seemed interminably long and dreary, the dank little cottage not helping his souring mood.

  Stonehaven came to mind—home—and he felt a familiar ache to be there again. It had been months, as Gregor had spent some time with his friend, Conall MacGregor at Inesfree before both of them, and portions of their armies, had gone to Wallace’s side at Elcho Park, to aid him in all attempts to both harass the English and defend that area of Perth where they’d met him. While Gregor had no desire nor intent to shirk these proud duties, he would be happy to see Stonehaven again, if only for a brief time while he recuperated fully and reassessed his own force of men. With luck, he would be able to contact Wallace to determine the success of the tactics and gather news about the progress of the fight for independence. Being out in the field, and constantly chasing or running, presented the disadvantage of not having current news delivered or found.