The Last Boleyn(104)

It seemed all one tiny instant since she had seen Staff, but as she glanced up again, the scene had totally revolved. Staff’s attacker lay on the ground and he fought the other horsed man sword to sword, spurring Sanctuary forward. He wore no spurs, but he backed the robber’s mount toward the logs in the road with hard kicks of his boots on his stallion’s huge ribcage. That was all she saw: then a cruel yank threw her into the bloodied man’s arms.

“No!” she shrieked at him, “No!” She flailed out as they hit the ground together. She heard her sword thud behind her. Her hair cascaded loose over them both.

“A wench,” he grunted, “a yaller-haired wench!” His hands roughly grabbed at her breasts through her shirt while she writhed and kicked at him. He rolled her on her stomach and pinned an arm behind her. She cried out in pain as the clanging of sword on sword ceased utterly. She thought she would be trampled then, for Sanctuary’s thudding hoofs came at her. She closed her eyes as she tasted the gritty dirt of the forest floor.

The agony was suddenly gone from her arm and back. She lifted her head and pulled her hair aside in time to see a dismounted Staff swing his crimson sword at the black-bearded man. Blood spurted from his ugly neck and shoulder and the terror in his eyes imprinted itself in her mind. She half-rolled, half-crawled away from Staff’s thrusts and the man’s screams while Sanctuary stood placidly by, glad to have the weight gone from his back.

Staff was obviously in control, though he seemed to totter and weave as the man collapsed at his feet. She glanced swiftly behind her. Of the two on horseback, one had fled, charging off into the depths of the forest from which he had come, and the other lay in a dark heap over a log, one leg caught in the stirrup of his nervous horse. She ran to Staff. He leaned heavily, his back to her, against a tree. His boots nearly touched her would-be attacker, who lay face down in a cluster of squat gray mushrooms and damp leaves.

“Staff, I am sorry I did not help. I forgot I had a sword.”

He did not turn to face her, but bent over exhausted. Would he be sick to his stomach at the killing? She was the one who felt she would vomit, but she felt such relief at their deliverance from the gang, she steadied herself quickly. She reached around him and tried to turn him gently to her, but her fingers felt wet and warm. She darted around him and bent over oblivious to her sticky, red hand.

“Staff, you are wounded! Is it bad? Let me help. I did not know.”

He sank to a sitting position against the rough bark of the tree and she saw clearly the spreading black stain on his dark jerkin where his shoulder joined his massive chest. She knelt, nearly touching him.

“Thank God, it is my left side,” he said. “But it burns like the very devil and I think it is bleeding too much already, Mary. You were a hell of an asset in that fight...but then, I did not choose you to be my soldier.” He closed his eyes against a flash of pain and then opened them to stare at her frightened face.

“Do not look so awful, sweet. I can ride and you will soon be home. You must help me stop the bleeding. If I even turn my head a bit, it pulls terribly. Do exactly as I say and be fast about it. I do not think that bastard who escaped will bring aid, but I want us out of here.”

“Yes, Staff, yes. I can make a bandage.”

“No. A bandage would only soak the blood. I need all I can keep. Get some moss, damp moss with the soil still on it, a big piece. Then cut my shirt away and press it to the wound. Go on, lass.”

She scurried a little way into the gloom of the forest, keeping Staff in sight. He sat collapsed beside the body of that horrible man who had seized her. Yes, moss grew everywhere here. She dug and tore at a large round piece with her fingernails. Black wet earth clung to its underside. She dashed back to him.

“Cut the shirt and jerkin away with my sword. I cannot lift my arm.”

She shuddered as she lifted his sword from the dirt. It was encrusted with dried blood. She could not control the cut of the blade by holding it on its heavy handle, so she bit her lip and held it farther up its filthy blade as she cut away the two layers of cloth over the wound and tried to peel them off.

“Pull them, Mary. Be quicker. I am all right.”

She peeled them away from the slash mark and her eyes filled with fear and tears at the sight. His eyes watched her face steadily, and she tried not to show her revulsion. The wound, massive and twisted, grinned redly at her.

“Do not try to dab at it. The dried blood will help. Just press the moss on it, green side up.”

She did so and he grunted at the pain it caused. “Now see if you can wrap it tight with something.”

She ravaged her saddle sacks for her silk stockings, her only good pair. Why does someone not come along to help? she wondered distractedly. Please dearest God, do not let him be badly hurt. Oh dear God, do not let him die! Do not punish me again, please. I cannot help that I love him.

She tied the stockings tautly over the living bandage of moss, one reaching under his armpit, the other stretched tight around his neck on his right side. He put his good arm over her and leaned heavily on her while he stood and whistled for Sanctuary. The huge horse came obediently and stood stock-still. She tried to boost Staff up, but he mounted mostly of his own accord. Sweat dripped from his face from the pain and the exertion.

“Get both swords, Mary,” he groaned out as she put his reins in his right hand. He hunched over the horse’s neck.