“You shouldn’t waste the grain on the birds.” I twisted my hand until my satchel’s straps bit into my skin. We had drawn the attention of a few marketgoers milling near the cathedral. Cooing doves pecked the stones just beyond Cohen’s reach.
“Give me a couple more minutes.” His pleading gaze swung to mine. He jiggled a handful of grain, palm outstretched to lure in the chestnut-colored speckled fowl. None were daring enough to eat from his hand.
A nobleman cut through the crowd, scowling at me. His fur-trimmed overcoat skimmed the cobblestones. My grip on the satchel tightened, even though my fingers were already numb.
“Let’s go,” I urged. “We’ve been here too long. Papa will worry.”
Cohen sighed. His golden-brown eyes searched mine. Then he tossed the bits to the birds.
On the road that led to my cottage, Cohen looked at the bag of grain in his left arm and then turned to me. “Usually they’ve gone by now, but this year’s been warmer.”
“The birds?” I wrinkled my nose.
“They’re doves.” He shrugged. “They’re interesting. Compassionate and loyal.”
Skepticism was written across my face.
“Really,” Cohen argued. “Both male and female doves care for their young.” When I didn’t appear interested, he added, “And they mate for life. Shows they’re loyal to one another.”
A blush rose to my cheeks from his comment. “Guess they’re not just dull brown birds.”
I hoisted my satchel higher on my shoulder to take the weight off my arms. It was heavy with tubers from the market and new arrows from the fletcher.
“Not all are brown. Sometimes I’ll spot a fair one as pale as you.”
I rolled my eyes at him. How lovely to be compared to a fowl.
Without asking, Cohen tugged the bag off me and swung it onto his back.
“Didn’t ask for your help,” I said, bothered that he always felt compelled to take care of me. I may have only been fourteen, but I could manage well enough the months he wasn’t there.
“So you didn’t ask, but can you not simply accept it sometimes?” He shook his head.
I huffed. “Why accept it when I don’t need it?”
Cohen returned the satchel. With the tubers weighing down my arms again, I wished that I hadn’t thrown a fit about his help.
“Stubborn as the birds,” he muttered under his breath.
“Did you just compare me to the doves?”
He looked at me squarely. “That I did. They wouldn’t eat from my hand when I had food for the taking. Like them, you’re loyal. Compassionate. But you never want help when I offer.”
“Stop offering and I’ll stop refusing.”
He chuckled. “Whatever you say, Dove.”
That night I dream Cohen is bloody and dying in my arms, and I am choking on fear and sobs.
My throat is dry as stone when I wake flat on my front, my entire body sweating and smarting from the pain. I haven’t had the nightmare since right after the accident that gave Cohen his scar.
Trembling, I push up to sitting. Captain Omar watches me through the fire pit’s smoke.
“She’ll need food to help regain strength,” he tells Leif, who is loading a pack on the captain’s horse. “And give her more balm.”
When the captain leaves, Leif hands me a tin of food. Tomas saunters over and I turn away from Leif, who is the one ray of sunshine on this bleak excursion.
“Learned yer lesson?” Tomas’s pointy chin juts at me. “Need me to give you another?”
“Shut your gaping hole, you son of a scrant.” Leif jumps up. “Stay away from her. You couldn’t take two of those lashes.”
Tomas lunges at Leif and slams his fists into the bigger guard’s jaw. The scuffle ends before it can truly start when the captain grabs Tomas and yanks him on his rear. I watch, motionless, as Tomas scuttles backwards.
“Told you to leave her alone.” Captain Omar’s nostrils flare as he pins Tomas to the dirt.
The guard’s face purples, but he’s got the sense not to say anything.
“No lunch rations for you today and tomorrow.” Captain Omar pulls the guard off the ground and drags him to the horses. Their conversation is no longer audible, but a short while later I see pinch-faced Tomas working on grooming the horses and readying them for travel.
“Captain Omar’s not pleasant,” Leif whispers to me. “But he’s consistent and fair.”
Perhaps in Tomas’s case. Not sure I agree with Leif otherwise.
Chapter
7
CAPTAIN OMAR KEEPS THE MANACLES IN HIS satchel the next few days, since I can barely move as it is. After two nights lathered in balm and sleeping on my stomach, the pain is manageable. Leif cannot believe my speedy recovery, but I’ve always been a fast healer. Which is good, considering once we reach the main road, the captain demands we move faster.