Excerpt–Heartsong

HEARTSONG by Allison Knight (Medieval Romance rating R)
Available from Champagne Books in digital and trade paperback formats

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Nor could she spend more time lying abed. She gathered her courage then stumbled from the pallet. Dizziness kept her on her knees. She struggled into a standing position, fighting her weakness. Somehow, she had to find the strength to dress. After several deep breaths and with as much care as possible, she worked her chemise over her bandaged shoulder while trying to ignore the stabbing agony. She sank back to the furs in frustration.
Again she crawled to her feet and after she managed her tunic, her attempt to tie her laces brought more pain. She gave up because she could not use her injured arm. Leaning against the one chest in the tent, she rested gathering her strength.
After the dizziness passed, she took several steps toward the entrance. She fingered the canvas looking for an opening but when she found it, her hand brushed a firm, rigid object.
Startled, she drew back.
The entrance flap flew in her direction. She stared into the angry countenance of a man. No ordinary man this. Tall, handsome, a mighty warrior. Still, he was English. He was the same warrior who appeared at the entrance to their cave. He also had to know what had happened to Arthur.
She didn’t get a chance to ask.
“Wench,” he said. “I want to be on the road before the sun is full in the sky. Break your fast and prepare to leave.” He yanked the canvas aside allowing a young man, even younger than Arthur, to enter the tent. The youth held a tray with a cup and half a loaf of bread.
She had no intention of letting him walk from the tent without telling her about her brother. She grabbed his arm. “My companion. Where is he?” she demanded.
The English warrior glared at her hand and then at her.
“Arthur, what have you done with him?”
“He awaits you. Eat. We leave in minutes.”
Before she could shout that she would go nowhere with him, he was gone.
The young man who carried the tray dropped it on the furs and ran after him. She watched their departure and realized she had been holding her breath.
After they disappeared, she dragged air into starving lungs. Was this Englishman in service to deShay? Oh, nay, please St. Dafydd, nay.
She worked her fingers through her hair wondering what she could use to cover the tousled locks. Before she could decide on what to use, her stomach growled. When had she last eaten? She couldn’t remember. It mattered not that this was English food. She needed to eat. While she considered the Englishman’s word, she tore a piece of bread from the loaf and started for the canvas opening.
At least Arthur was alive. Relief coursed through her. They could escape, return home. But had he been tortured, forced to confess their identity? If he could still talk, if he’d told them nothing, then she had to warn him to keep quiet. He must talk to no one but her.
She rushed through the opening, then stopped in amazement. Arthur stood beside a wooden cart, appearing hail and hearty as he waited for her. He helped her into the fur-laden cart and she lay back exhausted with the energy she had spent.
“I’m to stay beside you this morn,” he said settling her into the furs.
“Oh, Arthur.” She managed a smile. “I am so glad to see you. I had no notion what had happened to you.”
“Can you forgive me?” When she looked confused, he pointed to her shoulder. “I meant to harm deShay.”
“Of course I forgive you. But what do you mean, you meant to harm deShay? The man in the cave…oh, nay. Do not tell me that is deShay?”
“Not so loud.” Arthur paled.
She fought a sudden dizziness.
“The keep. Did he sack the keep?” she whispered.

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