“Yours, my lord,” Wiggins answered.
James rubbed his head. “I thought so.”
A cheerful Mort squatted down beside him. “Good to see ye, milord.”
The boyish good looks of his most deadly archer were more annoying than ever. “Where the hell have the three of you been?”
Their heads bowed in unison.
“Well?”
Wiggins coughed. “We have searched for your lordship for many an hour.”
Mort threw his arms wide. “Covered near the whole forest, we did.” His shoulders slumped. “We woulda been with ye for the attack, milord, but…Riley saw a butterfly.”
James groaned and rolled his eyes. The dark giant, Riley, held his silence as usual. One big boot scuffed lines in the dirt. Riley had never spoken while in James’s employ. But he was too good a fighter to dismiss for something as trivial as not speaking. Between Wiggins and Mort, James usually heard enough pointless blathering.
“Don’t tell me any more.” James squinted into the forest. “Do we still have enough light to make for home?”
“My lord, your head,” Wiggins reproached. “I do not believe you can ride.”
“Can we reach it before dark?”
Mort gave a sunny grin. “Aye, milord. But we must see to yer head first. Riley?”
The giant took something from his saddle pack, but James was in too much pain to care. He submitted to Riley’s examination, clenching his jaw at each probe of the massive, delicate fingers. He swayed once, and Mort caught him. The young soldier’s face had turned grim.
“Milord, ye’ve lots of blood on your shirt, and not enough in your head. Your skin’s a mite hot to the touch.”
James gritted his teeth. His skull pounded with waves of pain. But still he thought about the woman, and remembered the feel of her breasts against his chest, and the flutter of her heart. He was too affected by far.
“Riley is doing as best he can,” Mort continued, “but ye need rest and medicine. We should make camp?—”
“No,” James interrupted. “We press on to Bolton Castle for aid. The thieves must not escape.”
Riley stepped in front of him, tying a new cloth around his head to hold the bandage in place. He finished the knot, put his hand on James’s shoulder, and looked down into his eyes with a grim expression.
“Yes, I know,” James said, giving Riley’s arm a quick squeeze. “The wound must be deep—my head feels like it’s going to explode.”
Wiggins stepped closer. “Allow me to help you mount, my lord. Or perhaps I should make a litter?”
“Nonsense! I can—” But he couldn’t quite get to his feet. Wiggins offered a strong shoulder, and James stood up, then lurched into the saddle. He held his breath, praying he wouldn’t retch.
“My lord, will you be able to ride?” Wiggins asked. “Perhaps we should wait for the others.”
“The sooner I get to the castle, the sooner I can rest.”
The three men mounted in silence, eyeing James as he swayed in the saddle. For a few minutes, they trotted through the forest, two by two. His head pounded out each beat of the horse’s hooves.
“Must of been a lot of thieves, milord,” Mort ventured.
James lifted his head, giving him the blackest look he could muster. “Two.”
“Ahh.” Mort nodded thoughtfully and looked away, a shaky whistle escaping his lips.
From the rear, Wiggins called, “One must have been quite a swordsman, my lord. That slash across your face—he could easily have damaged your eye.”
“She.”
