Sybilla grabbed Guy by the shoulders and shook him. “Stop. Now!”
Before Bacchus had come to a complete halt, Sybilla jumped off his back and hurried to the colt. She lifted his head and studied the inside lining of his lower eyelid. The flesh there was pale and turning gray. She called to Guy, who was already stomping through the snow and motioning for Simon to follow.
Sybilla called out to Guy. “Mother Mary, I feared this would happen!” Panting, she scrambled to her feet and dragged the drooping Regalo toward Addy. “He needs to nurse, Sir Guy. Pray Addy has some milk.”
Guy wrapped his arms around Regalo and moved him close to Addy. He spoke softly to the colt and nudged Regalo’s muzzle to Addy’s teat. “We are not far from a place we can rest, Regalo,” he said, stroking the colt. “Drink, little one. We cannot linger here.” The colt made no effort to latch on.
Sybilla warmed her hands with her breath and reached underneath Addy’s belly to massage the old mare’s udder. The mare’s teats were flat and cold, and her bag was soft, empty.
Sybilla closed her eyes. “’Tis as I feared. She has no milk. Her udder is collapsed. She needed more than moldy hay these last few months.” Sybilla glanced at Regalo. His glazed eyes gave his face a vacant look, as though he was in another world. Sybilla lowered her head and took a deep breath. She had the heart-breaking suspicion there was more to his affliction than lack of milk.
She raised her gaze to Guy. “We need to find a nurse mare, or a cow. Even a goat would do. Regalo needs to eat and rest.”
“There’s smoke rising over the treetops ahead, a crofter’s house and a fire. We can ask if they have stock. But Hamon’s men will soon be on our trail. We must make haste.”
He cast a warning glance at Simon. Simon turned his face away from Sybilla and wrapped his fingers around his sword hilt. Etienne lowered his eyes, a tinge of pink coloring his pale cheeks.
Sybilla shot a questioning look at Guy. “What lies ahead? Whatever danger, we must risk it. Mayhap the crofter has a cow or goat. Regalo will die without sustenance.” She stood up, noting she could no longer feel her own frozen feet. “Regalo can barely walk.”
Guy knelt, gathering Regalo up in his arms. “He won’t have to, Mistress Corbuc. But you get back on Bacchus and get warm.”
With a grunt, he hefted the foal over his head, onto his shoulders. Regalo’s spindly legs dangled like broken sticks and he lowered his neck, resting his chin on Guy’s chest. Guy straightened. The muscles in his forehead and jaw tightened, yet his stance did not falter.
He gripped Regalo by the fetlocks and spoke sternly to Sybilla. “Do as I ask, Mistress Corbuc. Get on Bacchus before you freeze to death.”
Sybilla swallowed. Carrying Regalo was an act of strength and gentleness she’d not expected. The deed sparked her curiosity about the soul that made the man.
She stood unmoving, staring at the battle-hardened warrior, a man with legs like tree trunks, a narrow waist, massive shoulders, and a colt slung across his back. Good Lord, could he carry her like that if he had to?
The corners of Guy’s dark eyes creased. “Mistress Corbuc, I do not wish for you to sicken, too. Do as I ask. Hurry.”
Sybilla bit down on the inside of her cheek. He’d asked her, not ordered her to mount. Surely that meant he did not consider her his servant, or intend to hold her to the ill-thought agreement she made in the barn? She was glad to do as he asked.
Sybilla leapt on Bacchus.
As soon as she got to the cottage she and Guy of Warwick would talk.
Smoke curled from the short chimney on the crofter’s dwelling. The place was an oblong cottage with a snow-piled roof, a structure large enough for a family and their livestock. But no one came into the yard as they approached.
Guy lowered Regalo to the ground. The colt was so weak, he promptly lay down and rested his head in the snow. Sybilla dismounted and knelt beside Regalo, stroking his neck, brushing away the icicles hanging from his short mane.
“We’ll have you by a fire, in just a moment longer, and get you milk,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes, and her heart sank while she watched his breathing slow.
Simon and Etienne slid from Addy’s back. “Looks safe, Guy.” Simon stamped his feet and tucked his hands beneath his armpits. “I say we venture inside.” His breath was as thick as fog.
Guy drew his sword, his eyes wary, but before he could answer, the cottage door opened.
A woman stepped across the threshold.
Sybilla stood transfixed.
The woman wore a rich red overdress of fine damask, with dangling sleeves lined with ermine. Her sable hair, unbound, tumbled down her back, framing a regal face with smooth skin and full crimson lips. Dark, arching eyebrows swept upward over luminous brown eyes. She was no crofter’s wife, or huntsman’s woman. Her elegant bearing bore a stark contrast against the humble cottage.
Guy smiled a slow but knowing smile.
The woman held her hand up in greeting as she surveyed the rest of the traveling party. Simon craned his neck to look around her, attempting to see inside the cottage. Etienne turned pink and looked at his feet.
Sybilla endured the woman’s scrutiny. Guy was not a stranger to this woman.
Guy glanced back at Sybilla, a look of contrition on his face, almost apologetic, yet at the same time, asking for her trust.
“Greetings, Lady Morna.” He addressed the woman as though they were at high court.
Sybilla shifted on her feet. So this was the famous Lady Morna—the gifted seer, renowned for her beauty, and cast off by her noble husband? Sybilla had never dared to get this close. ’Twasn’t safe for horse midwife to be seen with a seer who lived on the edge of churchly persecution, too.
Lady Morna smiled.
Turning her gaze to meet the woman’s dark eyes, Sybilla saw the mark––the small, blackened half-moon, no bigger than a thumbprint, burned into her left cheek––the mark of a Separate.
The mark did not mar the Lady Morna’s dark beauty, but a chill rippled up Sybilla’s neck. She clenched her fist to keep from touching her own cheek.
By the saints, what had this gentlewoman done? And how had she survived? By her dress and well-kept cottage, Lady Morna lived far better than most peasants. She had some means, mayhap a wealthy patron of noble birth who did not fear the law. Common folk caught consulting, or bringing food or clothing to a Separate would face a lashing, or worse.
Sybilla shivered. She risked her life by just being in this woman’s presence. Sir Guy and Sir Simon might not be charged for consorting with her, but she doubted she or Etienne would escape punishment if they were caught.
Regalo nickered, a small nicker, so weak it was barely audible. Sybilla stroked his head, wishing he’d been born a month later, when the sun would have been warm and Addy would have had the chance to graze on green grass. He looked so frail now, and he had that distant look in his eyes, one that told her he would worsen.
Sybilla struck that thought from her head. A warm fire and a little rest and milk could save Regalo. She would take the risk and shelter with a Separate to get him what he needed if that would save his life.
Lady Morna glanced at Regalo, resting at Guy’s feet. She took a deep breath. Her voice tight, she spoke with strained calmness. “Sir Guy, I see you’ve found your horse.”
Guy nodded. “As you said I would, my lady.”
Lady Morna turned her attention abruptly to Simon. “Be at ease, Sir Simon. There’s