Evermore

Locksley picked up her practice shield, a rectangular square of metal save for the bouche, the channel on the top right side where her lance would rest. He traced some of the scars in its surface.

"You are almost as tall as I am, and we have a similar build," he said casually. "In the saddle, with helm and armor, no one could tell the difference between us."

"Probably not," she agreed, tightening a strap.

"I can ride against Nottingham in your place."

Jayr's fingers stilled as she stared at the fringe of black mane under the edge of the crinet. "You think I will lose, too?"

"I think he will cheat." He turned her to face him. "Let me do this—No," he said, pressing his finger to her mouth when she would have spoken. "I was there. I listened to all the arguments, all the proud words being tossed back and forth. They mean nothing when you ride onto that field. There, the only thing that counts is ability. He has deceit and cunning, and two good arms."

"I have truth and honor," Jayr said. "And one good arm. Although I am in need of a practice opponent." She checked the sky, now purple with twilight, and took down one of the wooden lances from the practice racks. "Will you ride against me, my lord?" She tossed the lance to him.

Locksley caught it. "I should knock you over the head, lock you up, and take your place anyway."

"You could try." She took down another lance and flashed across the barn to stand behind him. "But you will have to catch me first."

He looked over his shoulder, his exasperation plain. "You cannot do that on a horse."

She tapped his lance with her own. "Let me show you what I can do."

The sound of voices shouting in Arabic woke Harlech, who stumbled out of bed and pulled on his trousers before staggering out into the hall to see the source of the commotion.

Three of Nottingham's Saracens ran past him, followed by Farlae and Beaumaris. He trotted after them, catching up with his men outside the hall to the guests' quarters, where a crowd of drowsy Kyn milled about in confusion.

"What the devil is happening?" Harlech demanded.

"Someone has done us a favor," Farlae told him, "and cut off Nottingham's head."

"They've killed the seigneur and his lady, too," someone called out.

Harlech waded through the guests to Nottingham's quarters. There he saw Skald and the Saracen guards standing in a circle around three bodies. The seneschal pried a bloodied sword out of his master's throat and examined it.

"I have seen someone using this," Skald said, turning it over and wiping the blood from the hilt. "'Twas in the lists, I think." He frowned and thought for a moment before turning and seeing Harlech. "You, there." He held up the blade. "Whose sword is this?"

Harlech recognized it at once, but he had no intentions of telling the little man that. "I cannot say."

"The lord's girl bested me two days ago with that blade," one of the guests' men said.

"Does this weapon belong to Jayr?" Skald asked Harlech politely.

"It does, but obviously it was stolen by another," Harlech said quickly. "Jayr would never do this."

"Just as her arrows were stolen and used to shoot Lord Byrne," Skald said. "What an unfortunate coincidence. I will relate this to my men." He rattled off something to the guards in rapid Italian.

The Saracens muttered among themselves, and their captain gave Harlech an ugly look.

"We will find Lord Byrne and get to the bottom of this." He waved Beaumaris and Farlae inside. "Take the bodies to the infirmary and store them in the chill room."

Skald looked at the crowd of Kyn outside. "My lords and ladies, did any of you see someone enter my master's chambers earlier?"

No one said anything, and then one of the women spoke. "I saw Lord Byrne's seneschal leave this hall as I came back to my rooms this morning. She looked… well, angry."

"Thank you, my lady," Skald said. "Was anyone else seen near these chambers?"

No one replied.

Skald turned to Harlech. "Where is Jayr?"

"You cannot condemn her for walking down a hall," Harlech protested. "It proves nothing."

"My master was murdered in his sleep, with a sword that belongs to her," the seneschal said calmly. "She was the only one seen near here at the time. She lost her place in this household over my master's challenge. Who else had more cause to hate him or wish him dead?"

"This is wrong," Harlech said. "I know Jayr. I know she would not do this. She is being framed."

"By whom? Who would do such a terrible thing to her?" When Harlech didn't answer, Skald nodded. "I ask you again, where is Jayr?"

"'I saw her walk out to the stables, but half an hour ago," one of the guests said.

Skald issued orders in Italian to the guard and pushed past Harlech. The Saracens followed.

"Wait. Wait." When they ignored him, Harlech swore. "Beaumaris, assemble the men. Farlae, find Lord Byrne."

Chapter 20

Alexandra woke up with a dry mouth, a throbbing head, and a sheet covering her face. She shoved it away and sat up to find herself on a gurney next to a shelf unit stacked with bagged blood. Next to her were two other bodies draped with sheets: one white, the other soaked on one end with dark red blood.

The memory of Skald shooting her came rushing back, and she rolled to her feet, hurrying over to yank back the bloodstained sheet. Nottingham, his decapitated head placed neatly on his severed neck, stared up at the ceiling.

"Chérie."

She turned and gaped at Michael as he pulled the sheet away and sat up. "Are you hurt?" She went to him and looked all over for wounds.

"No, I am well. Skald shot me with one of your darts when I came to find you; I think that is all." He looked over her shoulder. "Where are we?"

"In the refrigerated room. He must have killed Nottingham and brought us all in here." She strode over to the door, saw there was no inside handle, and pushed at it. It didn't move. "We're locked in. Why would they lock us in? Didn't anyone bother to check for a pulse?"

"I cannot say, chérie." Michael came and tried the door, and then looked around the room. "There must be something we can use to force it open."

Alex went over to cover Nottingham's body. Whoever had decapitated it had done it with one blow. She closed his eyes, and felt something touch her arm. When she saw it was a hand trying to grab her, and Nottingham's eyes opened, she screamed.

"Alexandra?"

"Jesus, Michael, he's not dead." She slid her hand under Nottingham's neck. "Skald didn't cut all the way through his neck. His spinal cord is intact. I can't believe it. He's still alive."

Michael came to stand beside her. "His head is almost completely severed from his body. He cannot live like this."

"With a little luck he won't have to." She scanned the room. "Get me five of those suture kits over there while I look for a knife."

Michael gave Nottingham a doubtful look. "Even you cannot repair such a wound."

"I can try. He's lost so much blood that nothing has healed over." She ripped open a cardboard box, looked inside, and dropped it before reaching for another. "Hurry up, and put on some gloves from that box over there."

He brought the kits over and set them on the gurney he had vacated. "Why do I need gloves?"

"Because they help you grip better." She found a small box of copper-coated scalpels and an intravenous kit. "You're going to be my nurse."

Alexandra gloved, took out her penlight, and carefully probed the massive neck wound to assess the damage.

"Point of impact was the larynx, part of which is gone, and the rest is smashed all to hell. The sword severed the neck muscles, the trachea, the esophagus, and all the major blood vessels." She shifted the light and peered. "Skald doesn't have much of a swing. The blade bounced off one of the cervical vertebra. The axis, I bet. That's the one that forms the pivot so the head can turn." She straightened and saw that Nottingham's eyes had shifted. "Oh, God, Michael. He's staring at me."

"He can still see and hear you."

"Did they bring my case in here?" She looked around. "I've got to knock him out for this."

Michael searched through the room. "I do not see it." He went to the gurney. "Lord Nottingham, my sygkenis will operate on you to try to repair the wound in your neck. You must go into the dreamlands. I will call you back when it is done."

Nottingham closed his eyes and didn't reopen them.

"He's doing that trance thing you did when I operated on you," Alex said. "You call it going to dreamland?"

"Dreamlands," he corrected. He watched her rig the IV and prepare an impromptu instrument tray. "How will you do this?"

"I'll start with repairing the blood vessels, and then the trachea and the esophagus," she said, tugging off her jacket. "I'll work my way out from there, and once I get to the muscles we'll start the IV. You're going to assist me."

He eyed the horrific wound. "Alexandra, I do not know the first thing about surgery."

"Think of this as a crash course. Now listen." As she rolled up her sleeves she went through the instrument tray with him, naming everything on it. "When I ask for something, put it in the hand I hold out. If I tell you to do something, no matter what it is, do it." She glanced at him. "This is going to be ugly, messy, and fast. You ready?"

He nodded.

She held out her hand. "Clamp."

If anyone in medical school had ever suggested to Alex that she might someday attempt to reattach someone's head to his body, she would have laughed herself into an appendectomy. A wound as ghastly as Nottingham's would have killed any human being instantly. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">