Roar - Goldilocks Retold

Part 4

FOUR

"I'm a knight, not a nurse," Bernard heard a man grumble. He didn't recognise the voice, but then his father had many knights and Bernard had spent more time at court than under his father's roof.

His father's tone was unmistakeable, though. "You're my knight, unless you plan on breaking your oath, and I don't tolerate oathbreakers. You'll stay here with him until he recovers or he dies, and we'll return in the spring."

"The spring? My lord, your own physician said he could die before morning, and that it is unlikely he will wake at all. What if the boy's dead tomorrow?"

"Then you will see that he gets a proper Christian burial, as my son deserves. There's no one left alive in the castle, so he has already been avenged, no matter who did this to him." Father's dark tone lightened. "Or perhaps we will have a miracle, and my son will recover. When we return in the spring, I will be sure to reward you for your part in returning my son to me."

"If he survives, he will surely be a cripple. Only half a man." Whoever owned the strange voice, he didn't have any problem sneering at Bernard.

"My youngest son will never live up to his brothers. I gave up hope of that a long time ago. But his death will give us a perfectly acceptable justification when I must tell the King what happened here. They killed my son, and I merely responded to their act of war. The King might even prefer things this way."

Bernard heard the scrape of a sword sliding out of its scabbard. "Why not just kill the boy now, and say they did it? I will do the deed for you, my lord."

"If you kill my son, Gosse, it will be the last thing you ever do. Whether he lives or dies is God's will, not yours or mine. That is why you will stay to care for him, while I lead my army home before we are snowed in for the winter."

Bernard felt a surge of bitterness. He'd been the one to tell his father about the threat of being snowed in, and that the Baron of Berehaven owed fealty not to their own king and his lords, but to a king and kingdom across the mountains no one had heard of for fifty years. The same king who'd sent a trade delegation to court. For days he'd laboured in the King's dusty library, sending the monks mad looking for records related to this mysterious vanishing kingdom.

But if he hadn't, he wouldn't have had anything to offer his father, to persuade him Bernard would be more valuable to him at home than at court. But then his father had found out about Dulcinea, and summoned him home anyway.

Now it seemed he was to die in this secret, snowy valley, that no one had thought much of for fifty years, much like the kingdom it guarded, across the mountains. But if he didn't die, he would have a whole winter without his father, without the King, in another kingdom. Bliss, surely. All he had to do to enjoy this paradise was live.

Live, and prove his father wrong.

The voices had fallen silent, so Bernard dared to open his eyes. He was lying in a bed, in a round stone room that looked very much like the tower where he'd met...it must have been some sort of harpy. Because no woman he'd ever met would fight with such ferocity. Why, she'd pushed him down the stairs, and...he couldn't remember anything else, until now. Unholy strength, unheard-of ferocity...either she was a witch or some sort of demon. Or a witch who consorted with demons.

If she was so strong, then, why hadn't she finished him off?

Dread knotted in his belly. What if she'd already dealt him a killing blow, one that would kill him slowly, in agony, and his father and Sir Gosse knew, but he did not?

He lifted his arms and inspected them. They seemed well enough. He patted down his belly and chest, breathing a sigh of relief when he found no wounds or bandages. Where else could a man take a mortal wound? His head, perhaps. Gingerly, Bernard probed his scalp. Aside from one tender spot that didn't seem to be bleeding, his head was fine, too. He sifted through his father's words to the knight, and one closed its cold fist around his heart.

Cripple.

Bernard threw back the blankets and sat up. One leg was fine, sitting in all its hairy glory on the sheet. Oh, there was a bruise on his thigh where the harpy had hit him, but he'd suffered worse. It was his other leg that worried him, swathed in bandages that bound it to a plank of wood which went all the way down to his heel. He could just see his toes, peeping out at him like shy maidens. He gave them an experimental wiggle, then nearly screamed as pain shot up his leg.

He dimly remembered feeling the same pain on the stairs, before oblivion had claimed him. Passing out from the pain – if his father heard, Bernard would never hear the end of it. Half a man, indeed.

Well, no man he knew had ever died of a broken leg. Some of the King's courtiers walked with a limp – especially those who had accompanied him on his holy crusade. Bernard would say it was a war wound, and limp with pride. In fact, some of the men, himself included, had brought back some of their magical potion that was said to take away pain.

Father's physician must have already given him something, for his leg hardly hurt at all if he didn't move it. It would wear off, though, and he'd need more. Good thing he'd bought a plentiful supply of the stuff in the Holy Land, and brought it with him when he left court. But he'd left his things with the packhorses, not brought them with him. Had Father thought to...

Bernard scanned the room, hoping desperately for his things, but he saw nothing but chests and broken chairs, and a woman's shredded gown. The harpy's work, he assumed.

What if she came back to finish him off?

Bernard swallowed. He was n***d and defenceless in bed, and he could not climb out to search for a weapon, either.

But surely if she'd wanted to kill him, she'd have done so while he was unconscious, he reasoned. He could see sunlight through the window, though there was no warmth to be had from the wintry light. She'd had hours, and he was still alive.

Taking a deep breath, Bernard swore that no matter what happened, he would survive. The day, the week, the winter – whatever it took. He would build his strength, so that when his father returned, he would have the courage to be the kind of man who would make his father proud.

Not the weakling half-man his father thought he was.

He'd better not tell his father about the harpy, though. His father would laugh himself sick at that.

His belly growled, reminding him that he had yet to break his fast.

He hoped someone would bring him food soon.