Margo Maguire

by The Virtuous Knight

  She reached for one of the lamps he’d brought from York and lit the candle. After she gave the light to him, he disappeared, though she could hear his footsteps in the dirt floor of the cellar. A few moments later, he reached up through the floor and handed her the lamp, then climbed up after it.

  The silver scabbard now rested in his sword belt. “There must be a place around here where no one would think to look for it.”

  Lucy frowned. She could think of no secret niches in any of the rooms. “You will have to make a secure place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You brought tools from York, did you not?” she asked.

  The glimmer of a smile crossed his face and he narrowed his eyes when he looked at her. “You are a very keen woman, Lucy of Craghaven.”

  She felt her heart flutter in her chest and stopped herself from thanking him for the compliment. Her kiss of gratitude had not been welcome, and Lucy did not think he’d appreciate her words, either.

  “Who owned the sword, Sir Alex?” she asked, standing aside when he closed the trap door.

  “I do not know.”

  “Then you know naught of the sword’s history?”

  He shook his head and walked from the kitchen to the nuns’ dormitory. “Only that I am to deliver it into the hands of a Yorkish earl for safekeeping.”

  “Why?” Lucy asked, beyond curious now that she’d gotten him to talk.

  “I can only imagine that it is a relic of untold value,” he said. “Its heft is not that of a battle sword, so it is probably an honorary weapon, given to a king of old.”

  “Do you mean Herod? Or David?”

  “I don’t know,” Alex replied and it seemed to Lucy that his curiosity was piqued as well. Standing beside a window, he pulled the scabbard from his belt and then tugged on the handle. It did not budge. Upon further examination, Alex noticed that ’twas not a sword handle at all, but a cap, a decorative cover, fastened into place over the scabbard. As he opened it, his brow furrowed and Lucy read the puzzlement on his face.

  “What is it?”

  “Not a sword,” he said, pulling something from the sheath. “’Tis soft. Cloth.”

  A long roll of stained and discolored linen slid easily out of the scabbard. Alex crouched and set the scabbard on the floor. Lucy knelt beside him and watched him unroll the linen.

  “Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto,” he whispered in awe, then made the sign of the cross.

  The image on the cloth appeared similar to a wood-cut. ’Twas brown and the lines of the image were blurred, but the cloth clearly bore the distinct imprint of a man’s face. Lucy’s mind raced with the knowledge that she was looking at something that was profoundly sacred. Was it the face of—

  “The Mandylion,” Alex whispered.

  Neither of them moved, but just looked upon the fabled cloth. “’Twas lost more than fifty years ago,” Alex said, “when the city of Constantinople was invaded.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  Bewildered, Alex spoke as if he had not heard her question. “I had no idea this was the reason we were sent to Jerusalem,” he said with awe in his voice. “I was never told what we sought. Nor do I know exactly which of the sultans gave us the scabbard.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. She had never heard of any Mandylion, but she did not need to be told what lay before her. ’Twas obvious. But she knew naught of sultans or Constantinople.

  “This is the Edessa Cloth,” he explained, sitting back on his heels. “With the face of Christ upon it.”

  Awe and wonder pulsed through her at the sight of the sacred relic. That she should be here in the same room with it—

  “Skelton’s men will kill for it,” Alex said, “and take it to the Turkish emir, Mehmet.”

  “Skelton?”

  “Lord of the black knights,” he explained.

  One more thing that Lucy did not understand. If Lord Skelton was an Englishman, why would he be dealing with a Turk? The Turks were the enemy were they not? “Why would Lord Skelton want to give such an important Christian relic to this…emir?”

  “For rewards,” Alex said. “Land and power. Riches.”

  “Oh.” She supposed these were not such unusual motives for betrayal. But this was not a common breach of faith. ’Twas sacrilege.

  Alex rolled the cloth tightly and slipped it back into the scabbard for safekeeping.

  “You must build a hiding place when you repair the wall or the floor. Mayhap you can slip it inside.”

  “The cloth was kept hidden in a wall at Edessa,” Alex said. “I might be able to do something similar here.”

  Emotion welled in Lucy’s heart. If he built a special place to hide the scabbard, he must be planning to stay.

  Alex resigned himself to passing a few days at Holywake, but no more. “I’m going to start work on the roof before it rains again,” he said. And until he had a new place to hide the scabbard, he would put it back where it had been in the cellar.

  By the time he had stowed it below the abbey and returned to the kitchen, Lucy had sliced bread and poured mugs of ale for them. She had tied the shawl so that she was modestly covered, but her hands were bare. They looked better than they had before he’d wrapped them, but not altogether healed.

  “You will keep your hands out of water today,” he said, sounding unintentionally harsh.

  She looked stunned by his words, her eyes large and blue, the gold lashes tipped by fiery red. “But there is so much to—”

  “It will get done,” he said, frowning at her stubbornness. He picked up the jar of ointment from the hearth and, as they stood before the fire, he rubbed the oily concoction into the skin of one small hand. The bones were delicate but the flesh was firm and well-seasoned by work.

  He finished with the first hand, then started to work on the second when her chest suddenly rose and a distinctly feminine sound escaped her. Her eyes were closed and she bore an expression he had not seen in years. ’Twas one of ecstasy.

  Arousal hit him like a punch.

  Her cheeks were flushed and her lips slightly parted. Her pulse beat rapidly in her throat. Still holding her hand, Alex moved closer, feeling quite certain that his very existence depended upon tasting her mouth.

  Lucy took a deep breath and when her breasts touched his chest, Alex slid one hand around her back and pulled her against him. The heat of her body washed over him. Lightning bolts of sensation flowed through him, shocking him back to reality.

  He was Alexander Breton, a man immune to the needs of the flesh. A man whose life had ended with the death of his wife and child.

  In haste, and without a word, Alex released her and took his leave. Determined to put some space between himself and Lucy, he did not bother to break his fast, but went directly to the barn. His horse nickered and snorted but he hardly heard the sounds. Placing his trembling hands on Rusa’s flank, he took a deep breath.

  No prayer came to mind.

  Work was what he needed. Hours of hard labor would wipe the memory of her scent, of her touch, from his mind. They had just spent too much time in close quarters and needed to go their own separate ways, at least for awhile.

  He patted the mare, then opened the barn door and led her out. Once he’d hobbled the horse, he let her roam free in the overgrown pasture and returned to the barn for the tools and supplies he’d purchased in York.

  An old ladder, missing a couple of rungs, hung on the wall of the barn, along with a rusty scythe which he would use to clear the yard of its weeds. Carrying the ladder to the abbey wall, he set it against the eaves and climbed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lucy sat quietly in the refectory, stitching her new chemise while Alex worked on the benches he made. Her hands had improved significantly in the two days she’d kept them out of soapy water and used Alex’s ointment on them.

  His sword lay on one of the tables nearby, but Lucy did not know where he’d hidden the scabbard with the Mandylion
. Possibly on the roof where he’d spent an entire day making repairs.

  He had naught to say as he worked, but Lucy enjoyed his company nonetheless. He was very clever with his hands, and the muscles of his shoulders and arms bulged quite pleasingly. He’d kept his beard shaved, and Lucy could not imagine a more comely face on a man. Her heart pounded just thinking about the way he’d held her, had almost kissed her.

  Months ago, Elsbeth had told Lucy a tale that made her blush even now. Whether ’twas entirely true or not, Lucy would never know. But Elsbeth had admitted to seducing a duke while she was at court.

  Her method had been simple, though Lucy had thought it crude. Elsbeth had managed to lure the duke to her chamber one night. When he’d arrived, she’d met him alone, wearing naught but a thin shift. She’d plied him with kisses and tantalized him with her nearly naked body.

  Lucy wondered what Alex would do if she kissed him. She glanced down at her chest, modestly covered by her shawl, and wondered if she could bring herself to flaunt it the way Elsbeth had done with her duke. Was that what she would have to do to gain his attention, his affection?

  Blushing at the thought, Lucy knew she could not.

  What she needed to do was to get through the next day or two, then bid farewell to Sir Alex and watch him ride away.

  “You are surprisingly good at that,” she said. Their remaining time together was so limited that Lucy did not want to spend it in silence.

  “Why surprising?” he asked, planing the wooden bench to a smooth surface.

  “Well, I just never thought of a knight with carpentry skills.” She took another stitch in the linen underkirtle. “I thought that knights wielded swords, not hammers.”

  He planed in silence for another few minutes and Lucy continued sewing.

  “I once made a cradle for my son.”

  Lucy’s breath caught. Unsure that she had heard him correctly, she put down her sewing, stood up and went to him. “Your…son?” she asked quietly.

  He nodded and continued working.

  Drawing the logical conclusion, she realized his son would have a mother. But Sir Alex intended to become a monk.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “If you take the vows of your Order, then what will happen to—”

  “He is dead,” Alex said without inflection. “Along with my wife.”

  A heartfelt sadness welled up in Lucy at his stark words. “I am so sorry. When…?”

  “Three years ago,” he replied. “There was a fever. Geoffrey became ill, then Isabella. I lost them both inside a week.”

  “How terrible for you,” she whispered, watching the muscles of his back flex as he worked. Lucy had been ogling the man and wishing for his kisses whilst he mourned his wife and child. She felt ashamed.

  “I have not been back to England since then.”

  She nodded, certain that she would also have difficulty returning to the site of a loved one’s death. She had no wish ever to see Eryngton again, not after losing everyone who was dear to her there.

  “My brother and his wife wanted me to stay….”

  “I can see how you would not.”

  He lifted the bench and turned it so that it fit under the table. Then he moved to the other side of the table and started on another of the long seats. “They’ve had two more children since I’ve been gone.”

  “Will you see them before you return to France?” she asked.

  “Mayhap, though I know all is well at Clyfton.”

  “Clyfton?” Lucy frowned. Was this not the estate mentioned by Henry Bavent?

  “Aye,” he said, answering her unasked question. “The estate lies east of York, on the coast. My brother, Philip, is earl.”

  “Then ’tis not very far from here.”

  He shook his head and applied himself once again to his work.

  “’Twould be wrong to leave England without seeing him,” she said quietly.

  He did not answer, though Lucy knew he’d heard her words.

  “Your family would wish to know how you fare,” she said. “I wondered about my brother after he went on crusade. For more than a year, we heard naught. Then there was word that he had perished when his ship sank in the Aegean Sea.”

  Alex paused to look up at her. “I knew a man whose ship sank in the Aegean…but he survived.”

  “I wonder if ’twas the same ship.”

  He shrugged. “That would have been many years ago.”

  Lucy nodded. She’d been a child when they’d learned of Roger’s death at sea. “Still, I think you should go to Clyfton before you leave England.”

  “Philip will pressure me to stay.”

  “Would that be so bad?” She spoke quietly, her heart wishing there was some way to convince him to remain in England.

  Alex lifted the bench onto the table. He took a nail from a pouch and began to pound it into one of the legs. Then he tested its sturdiness by trying to wobble it.

  “My brother would see me remarried,” he said casually, but Lucy detected a stubborn set to Alex’s jaw and knew that he felt anything but casual about it.

  She swallowed. Any dreams she might have had—no matter how foolish and impractical—were over.

  There was less than a day’s work to be done, and then Alex felt he could leave without deserting Lucy. He’d kept his distance from her for the last few days, and pretended naught had occurred when he’d touched her, when he’d rubbed her hands.

  He had come unbelievably close to kissing her. And he had not been drowsy with sleep when it had happened. He’d been fully aware of her. Painfully aware.

  He wanted her.

  His gaze followed her when she left the refectory, and he forced his attention back to his work. ’Twas a challenge, overcoming his lust, especially when Lucy was so appealing in her innocence, her artlessness.

  She could not have been more different from Isabella. Alex sat down on one of his new benches and thought of his wife, of her dark hair and teasing eyes, and remembered the way she used to manipulate him, used to entice him to her will with her feminine wiles.

  ’Twas something Lucy would never do. She was of a more honest and straightforward nature.

  He heard a door close in the distance and realized that she must have gone out. A quick glance at the window told him that dusk had fallen. Lucy had probably gone out to get fresh water to use for their supper.

  He folded his hands and bowed his head, and prayed yet again for the strength he needed to resist her charms. She was as worthy as any woman he’d known, and Alex had no doubt that she would freely give him what he craved most.

  The grief that had driven him for years had strangely abated in the days since he’d been at Holywake, and he’d not found himself seeking solace so often in prayer. But his plans hadn’t changed.

  After Lucy had been gone for quite some time, Alex began to wonder what was keeping her. He lay down his tools and went to the kitchen, thinking that perhaps he had not heard her return, but she was not there. Concerned that something was amiss, he strapped on his sword belt and went out to find her.

  The path to the river was not long. ’Twas overgrown with branches and weeds and Alex intended to trim them before he left. Sunlight was fading fast, and he hurried toward the riverbank before it became fully dark. There was no worry about her falling in and being carried away, because the river was much too shallow here. But—

  A low-pitched sound stopped him in his tracks.

  Whether ’twas a man’s voice or something else, Alex could not say. But he felt a new urgency to get to Lucy. In absolute silence, he crouched and drew his sword, then inched toward her.

  Lucy stood in the river, some distance from the bank. The water swirled around her skirts, but she managed to keep her balance on the rocky bottom. She held the wooden bucket in front of her chest like a shield against the threat of a ragged and wounded gray wolf that stood snarling on the bank.

  In the near darkness, Alex could see that the wolf had been inj
ured, probably in a fight. His coat was ragged. One ear was torn and he had a gash in one shoulder. He was so thin that he was probably starving, though Alex would not like to have to test the animal’s strength. The wolf had been large in his prime, and his wound had likely made him vicious.

  Alex said a silent prayer thanking God that Lucy had had the presence of mind to remain where she was, and to use the bucket as a weapon or a shield, as the case might be. In the meantime, he crept closer. By God’s grace, he would be able to kill the wolf before it lunged.

  The animal moved slightly, his muscles tensed in a stalking position. Alex prayed that Lucy would not move before he could get to her, or the wolf would give chase.

  He moved closer, taking care to remain perfectly quiet, though the wolf’s low growl chilled his blood. The animal was poised to leap at Lucy and though Alex could see fear on her face, ’twas clear that she was ready to fight for her life.

  The beast snarled and leapt. Alex moved at the same time, reaching Lucy just as the animal attacked.

  The wolf knocked Lucy down into the icy water. She screamed and protected herself from its jaws with the bucket, and Alex speared it with his sword. It yelped in agony and he speared it again to be certain of its death.

  Quickly sheathing his sword, Alex pushed the carcass off Lucy and lifted her into his arms. ’Twas only a few steps to the riverbank, but he carried her all the way up the path and did not stop until they’d reached the back wing of the abbey. He kicked open the door and stepped inside, then shoved the door closed again.

  Only then did he loosen his hold upon her and let her slide to the floor.

  Soaked and shaking, she held on to him, needing his warmth…and his comfort. Her head fit neatly under his chin, and he ran his hands across her back, pressing her ever closer.

  “You must now…be accustomed…” she said, her voice small and tremulous, “to dealing with all m-my mishaps, Sir Alex.” She started to move away, but he kept her in his arms in spite of her attempt at levity.