Page 19 of Castle of Refuge

As he made his way down the hill, he felt himself losing his footing, tilting precariously. But he refused to use his walking stick. He gritted his teeth and righted himself before he lost his balance completely and fell. He moved more carefully, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, holding his one arm across his chest rather than doing what he instinctively wanted to do, which was to hold his arm straight out to the side. His mind told him that his left arm was still intact, making him think the arm he knew was missing was also sticking straight out to steady him. But of course, it wasn’t. It wasn’t there. And it never would be again.

The wind continued to blow harder, turning into a real storm as it started to rain. The cold drops pelted his head and face, as he had not worn a hood, and it wasn’t long before he was wet and cold. His feet were slipping on the wet leaves, and still he refused to use his stick.

It was beginning to rain a bit harder as his toe hit a root that was sticking up. He stumbled, then slipped about a foot down the incline. When he stopped slipping, he leaned his shoulder against a tree trunk and waited to get his bearings.

He never would have thought losing an arm could cause him so much trouble. And what kind of dignity can a man have if he cannot stay on his feet? He was twenty-three years old. He should be able to walk down a hill without falling.

The horrifying part was that he could still feel his missing arm, could still feel pain in it, and . . . he missed it. He missed his hand.

He clenched his right hand into a fist. He hated this weakness. He would defy it, reject it, refuse to be weak. And yet he couldn’t quite dismiss the thought that kept repeating over and over: with only one arm, he was only half a man.

The wind and rain stung his face and clung to his beard. He slipped and nearly fell once, then again, but he did not slow down his pace. By the time he reached the bottom of the hill, the rain was pouring down so hard he could only see a few feet in front of him.

He saw the castle through the trees. He had to climb another incline to reach it, as it would take him too long to walk around to the bridge that spanned the ditch around the castle.

Finally, he reached the door at the rear near the kitchens. He stepped inside, cold and almost shivering, he was so soaked.

“Thank heaven you are home.” Mistress Wattlesbrook was hurrying toward him.

“What is the matter?”

“Philip just came in and said he found a young woman lying on the ground outside the castle.”

“He found a young woman?”

“He was afraid to touch her and see if she was alive, although he thought he saw her shivering.”

He strode toward the front entrance. “Where is she?”

“She’s somewhere out by the lane, he said.” Mistress Wattlesbrook fell in behind him as he made his way down the dark corridor toward the front of the castle.

What was a young woman doing out in this weather, especially alone?

The groundsman met him as he neared the front door. “Lord Dericott, forgive me, but there is a woman—”

“Show me.”

Philip looked as if he might object, but he turned and led the way out the front door.

Philip’s thin brown hair was quickly plastered to his head as he strode down the lane toward a nearby copse of trees. And there, on the ground, lay a bundle. And the bundle was shivering and mumbling.

The rain was coming down hard and cold, but at least the wind had died down.

“Can you hear me?” Edwin bent down, trying to see the girl’s face.

She didn’t answer or move.

Philip also bent to look at her. Edwin wanted to brush her hair away so he could see her face and hopefully get her attention, but he was already losing his balance. He knelt abruptly on the ground beside her, then reached out and gently pulled her sopping wet hair back from her face.

His gaze fastened on her ear, which was disfigured. It was as if it had partially melted away, and the abnormality extended to a bit of skin on her face, red and puckered and strangely smooth.

Philip gasped and drew back, taking hold of Edwin’s shoulder as if to pull him away as well. But Edwin leaned closer.

Her face was well-formed, and if her eyes were open, heimagined she would look quite pretty. The abnormality, to be sure, was hard to look away from, poor girl.

“My lord, she is marked!” Philip said in a hoarse voice. “Take care. She could have a demon.”

Still the girl did not respond to their voices and she had stopped shivering. He touched her forehead with the back of his hand. Her skin was burning hot.