In a Glance

by Lisa Shea

  There was a soft scratching noise, almost lost in the pummeling of the rain, and Joan moved to the doorway. A pair of amber eyes glowed from the darkness.

  Her heart stopped. If the bandits saw the dogs, she had no doubt what would happen. Target practice, and a brutal death for both animals.

  She made a flicking motion with her hand. She pitched her voice low but stern. “Go!”

  The eyes blinked, then vanished.

  Michael came up to her shoulder. “What was that?”

  She looked over. “I said, we should go. Get inside out of this rain.”

  He nodded. He lifted the bowl from her saddle with an easy move, then turned. “Cecily, Elias, hurry it up.”

  In a moment the others were with them, carrying various sacks and supplies. Together the group raced through the downpour to her front door.

  Joan slipped her hand into the small leather bag at her side, running her fingers over the key for a long moment. Every instinct in her body was screaming for her to stop, to run, to keep her sanctuary safe from these bandits. But she knew she could not. She had them all gathered, now. They were neatly wrapped up with bows. Now all she had to do was keep them in place until Hugh and the others arrived. She had no doubt that it had been Jake on the horse and that he had reached Flamborough by now. Even if the men had to take the return ride at a slow pace because of the rain, they would still be here before dawn.

  And then this long nightmare would finally be drawn to a close.

  She put the key into the lock, turned it, and pressed open the door.

  With all that had happened over the past few days, she almost expected her home to be radically different. There should be overturned stools, sliced up curtains, and walls stained with who knew what. But the room looked as it had always looked – comforting, warm, and safe.

  She stepped forward to the fireplace, which was long since cold. It took her a few minutes to get a fresh fire going and to then move around with a candle to get the rest of the room lit. By then Michael had poured out mugs of mead and passed them around.

  Cecily left her cloak in a sodden puddle by the door, groaning in misery as she stood as close to the fire as she dared without setting herself alight. “One of the most miserable rides I’ve had in ages,” she grumbled.

  The Sheriff shook his head, looking at the wooden bowl which Michael had placed on the table. “All that grief for a stupid wooden bowl,” he snapped. “Surely you could have just bought another one.” He had a pair of bags draped over his shoulder, and when he eased them to the ground they echoed with a heavy, jingling noise. “At least the things I choose to carry with me have some value,” he added.

  Michael looked up at Cecily with shuttered eyes. He held her gaze for a long moment. She nodded, then turned brightly to the Sheriff.

  “Is your shoulder acting up again, you poor duck?”

  He nodded, his face easing a bit. “It is, with all this rain,” he admitted.

  Cecily came over next to him. “Let me help you out of your jerkin, and I’ll give you a proper back massage.”

  He didn’t need to be asked twice. He put his hands up in the air, giving her access to the ties and stays. In a minute she was lifting the leather up over his head and laying it on top of her cloak by the front door.

  She moved around to stand behind him. “There you go. Now just lean over a bit.” He obliged. She stood for a minute, staring at the thin white shirt he wore, as if wondering where to begin.

  The Sheriff’s look soured. “Well, then, get on with it already!”

  A grin grew across Cecily’s face. “As you wish!”

  She drew the dagger from her belt and plunged it deep into his back, the blade driving straight into his heart from behind.

  The Sheriff half-stood, turned with a gurgling noise, and then slithered to the floor. His mouth remained open as his body gave a final shake and lay still.

  Michael barely looked at the body as he went to refill his mead mug. “Push him a bit closer to the door, to help block it,” he instructed Cecily. “We’ll have a story for the others by morning, and it’ll give us some peace until then.”

  He glanced over at Joan, who was standing motionless by the fire, her mug of mead forgotten in her hand. “Well, then, don’t just stand there,” he ordered. “Surely you have some food in this place?”

  She nodded mutely, going to the cupboard in the back corner and fetching out cheese, dried apples, and some chicken jerky. She passed them around to Michael and Cecily before settling down before the fire to eat her own. She kept her gaze on the apple slices before her, blocking the sight of the pool of blood which was steadily growing by her front door.

  Her home had been violated.

  Joan wondered how much scrubbing it would take before it finally felt clean again.

  Cecily held up a piece of the jerky, wrinkling her nose. “Not quite the same as the food in that seaside keep, is it?” she sighed. “Still, I’ve had worse. Only a few more days and life will be back to normal again.”

  Michael smiled at the wooden bowl which still sat on the table. “Better than ever,” he corrected.

  Cecily raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And just what is the magic in that little piece of tree, anyway?”

  Michael looked between them, apparently relishing the attention. “Would you like to see the secret?”

  Joan found herself intrigued. “Yes,” she answered honestly.

  He grinned at that, putting down his mug and taking up the plate with two hands. He made a show of examining it from several angles, as if to demonstrate that it was just a normal wooden bowl. His brow creased as he ran his fingers over the seagull carving.

  “Hugh never knew when to leave well enough alone,” he muttered. Then he looked up at Joan. “I assume you have an axe?”

  She nodded her head. “I’ll go get it.” She moved to the back closet, grabbed the hand tool, and brought it out to him.

  He laid the bowl curved side up on the table, then took a step back from it. “Ceiling’s too low for a proper swing,” he grumbled, and positioned himself at a side angle.

  He swung the axe hard, nearly parallel with the floor, then twisted at the end to drive the blade into the bowl. The bowl shattered. The axe’s blade dug deep into the table itself, embedding there. Pieces of wood flew all over the room in a maelstrom of splinters and chunks.

  Cecily looked around the room, shaking her head in amusement. “Never could do things the simple way, could you, Michael?” she admonished. “And just what –”

  Her eyes brightened in fascination as she bent over toward a shadow, and her face suddenly shone with avarice.

  Chapter 21

  Cecily turned and held the stone up in the candlelight, cupped between her hands. It was about the size of a seagull’s egg. Its color was a translucent shade of light brown which reminded Joan of a dusting of cinnamon on a fragrant oatmeal pudding. The oval glistened with a shimmer that almost seemed to make it glow. Visible within the center of the shape lay an internal fracture of some sort – an oak-brown formation in the shape of a cross.

  Joan’s hand moved to her chest in awe. It was the stone. Michael had somehow found the ovum crux.

  Cecily was spinning around in a circle with glee, laughing, holding the stone out to Michael. “And you had it this entire time! I should have known. If anybody could get his hands on this, you could. Do you know how much this hunk of rock is worth?”

  He took it from her with a chuckle, holding it up before one of the candles to peer through it. “Absolutely,” he agreed. “Enough that those bags of gold the Sheriff was so proud of are like grains of sand in comparison. This will be enough to set up our empire for life, with an eternally renewing stock of employees.”

  He looked up to Joan, and his eyes brightened at the look on her face. “Not expecting this, were you, my sweet?” he asked as he stepped over to her. “Call it my little insurance policy.” He tucked the egg into a pouch at his side. “And with Hugh good en
ough to follow my instructions, keeping an eye on that bowl over all else, the egg is now safely ours again. Nothing will hold us back from achieving our every dream.”

  Joan nodded mutely, every ounce of her energy directed at keeping her face calm and full of admiration. Her soul screamed out for justice for all those who had died in the needless wars over that holy relic, the antipathy which even now tainted the Holy Land as a result. She pushed that down with firm resolve.

  Later. That could all be handled later.

  For now she had to simply hold out until sunrise – until Hugh and his forces could reach her. Then all would be resolved.

  Michael raised his mug of mead, Cecily and Joan brought theirs together in a toast, and Joan drained hers down. The candlelight flickered evenly across the Sheriff’s dead body, still leaking his vital fluids in a stream across her floor. It shimmered on the blade of the axe embedded in her dining table. It glistened on the shards of the beautifully carven seagull, now burst into tiny fragments all over her home.

  A deep rumble of thunder shuddered through the house, and Michael finished off his mead. “We have a long day ahead of us,” he pointed out. “We’ll need every moment of sleep we can get.”

  Joan’s eyes went to the flickering fire. “I’ll sleep out here,” she offered instantly. If she was lucky, they’d fall asleep in her room without looking closely at the tapestry. By morning, it wouldn’t matter any more.

  Michael’s smile widened into a grin. “That is what I always loved about you, Joan,” he offered. “You are so predictable. And simple. I remember how you used to sleep by the fire at the sword school while I was practicing. Haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

  She gave a wry smile. “Not one bit,” she agreed. “I like it there.”

  He stepped up to her, snagging her arm. “Well, we will break you of that childish habit soon enough,” he stated calmly. “You are with me, again, and we can’t have you sprawled on the dirt like a maid-servant. I saw a glimpse of a bed in that back room. You and I will be taking that.” He looked up at Cecily. “You’ll be fine out here on the couch, I imagine.”

  A surly look crossed Cecily’s lips, but she nodded. “Soon we won’t have need for such rough surroundings,” she murmured, half to herself.

  Michael smiled magnanimously. “Soon we will be living as kings and queens,” he promised. “Gold chased plateware and solid silver knives. All of our meals will be spiced with saffron and cloves.”

  Cecily nearly glowed. She nodded in contentment, settling down onto the couch with a sigh.

  Michael tugged at Joan, then picked up a candle in the other hand. “And now to see our room.”

  Joan forced her breathing to be even. One step at a time. One moment at a time. She could get through this. It must be – what – approaching midnight? If she could convince Michael that any amorous activities were best put off until they had the luxury of enjoying them, he might simply go to sleep and wake to his deserved justice.

  As they stepped through the doorway to her bedroom she quickly moved to the side of the bed, drawing his eyes there. “I normally sleep on the side closest to the door,” she explained. “But if you would rather –”

  He cut her off sharply, looking down at the floor. “What is this?”

  Joan glanced over. She froze as he bent down to pick up a bronze cloak clasp from the ground. She knew at an instant whose it was. Hugh must have dropped it when they were racing off to save Sarah – and she must not have seen it during her brief night home on the subsequent evening. It all seemed so long ago.

  “That is –”

  “I know whose it is,” he snapped. “And I thought we were done with reminders of that brief, meaningless dalliance of yours.” He strode over to the shuttered windows and unlocked them, flinging them open to the stormy night. He flung the clasp hard into the darkness.

  As he turned back to the room, the candle light flickered against the walls, and he drew to a stop, transfixed by the tapestry. The harsh lines on his face softened as he took a few steps to stand before it.

  “Ah, but Joan, it looks as if you did miss me after all,” he murmured. “I still remember that day when you were so foolish, so stupid to come out to see me.” He gave a wry laugh. “And yet that was always part of your charm. You simply did things because you felt strongly about them. No matter how idiotic they were.”

  He shook his head. “Even then, that dolt Hugh was entranced by you. You should have seen the look on his face. The bastard didn’t even realize that you belonged to me.” He snorted. “I bet he realizes it now. I bet tomorrow, when the knowledge hits him of how thoroughly he’s been fooled, that he rails against his misfortune for the rest of his dying days.” His eyes drew down Joan’s form, and heat grew within them. “He had you right in the palm of his hand, and he let you slip away.”

  Joan nodded encouragingly. “He is in the past,” she agreed. “Now we should get some sleep if we are going to make good our escape in the morning.”

  He put the candle down on the table by the tapestry, his eyes not leaving hers. “You are mine now, just as you always have been,” he stated with growing strength. “It’s about time you were reminded of that fact.”

  She put her hands up before her. “I know it well,” she insisted. “I am yours, and you are mine. When we are safely away, free of all this grime and blood, we can be together properly. Right now we need –”

  He slammed her into the wall, his body pressing against her. His lips were only a breath away from hers. “What I need,” he corrected, “is to feel your total submission to me. I have waited far too long for this. I will not wait another moment.”

  His lips descended on hers.

  Every cell of Joan’s body rebelled against the contact. She flung her head to the side, pushing her hands up against his chest. Not this. She was willing to pretend to be one of their group, to hold her tongue when they spoke out against those she loved – but this was too much. She would break if she allowed Michael to go any further.

  Michael’s gaze turned to steel. His fingers curled into a fist. Joan desperately sought for a way to salvage the situation.

  “It is just too soon – I thought you were dead!” she pleaded. “There have been long years since I have last felt your touch. Please offer me just a few more days, just a chance for us to reconnect at the level we once did. Then I am sure I can –”

  He snarled at her, raising the fist at his side. “Then you will be sure to finally grant to me the favors you have been throwing at Hugh these past days?” His eyes bored into hers. “Were you missing me tragically while he mounted you in this very room, while he took my property beneath the tapestry which represented your eternal vow to me?” He spat on the ground. “How long did you honor that vow, I wonder. Did you wait a whole day before you made yourself available to him?”

  The unjustness of the charge shook her to her core. “I stayed absolutely pure for you,” she shot back. “Yes, I saw Hugh that one time in the courtyard – and then I cut all contact with him. Less than thirty days later, you were dead! I still bear the scar on my leg from that day. I mourned you for months. I did not think about another man for years. It was only a few days ago that I saw Hugh again.”

  The truth of it hit her, staggering her. So few days did they have together. She could count them on two hands. And yet, their years of correspondence had drawn them so closely together that she could imagine no other in her life.

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. Then without warning he hit her soundly across the temple. She staggered back against the wall, her hand darting for her knife. He kicked at her forearm, and the blade went spinning across the room.

  “So you’re not free of him yet, are you,” he accused. “No matter. After I’m through with you, there will be no thought of any other in your brain. The only name which will be seared on your soul is mine. You belong to me!”

  Her breath caught in her throat. She looked into his eyes, desperate for even the slightest gl
impse of the boy she had once cared for, the lad who had ridden with her side by side through her father’s camps. “Michael, please, don’t do this.”

  His smile stretched into a grin. “That’s right, beg me.”

  Her stomach twisted, but she forced the words through her lips. “I beg you, Michael, let’s just get some sleep for the night. In the morning –”

  He gave a harsh, barking laugh. “What, in the morning you’ll open your legs to me like a good little girl? You’ll finally realize your proper place in life?” His hand shot out to grip her neck, squeezing. “You’ll learn it now, girl, and on my terms.”

  Her hands went to her neck, clawing at his fingers, but he had a grip of iron. She could barely draw in breath. The word came out as a soft hiss. “Michael –”

  His voice was a low growl. “Michael, what? Michael, I love you? Michael, I need you? Michael, I never should have given myself to that bastard, Hugh? Michael, I am a whore? I deserve to be put in the lowest of the stews, in with the diseased, and if I try to escape, my face will be marked, because that is all I deserve?”

  Joan tried to shake her head, but the hand at her neck grew tighter. Her throat burned.

  His other hand went to his hip, and he drew up his dagger, his eyes glittering with emotion. “You did try to escape, didn’t you?” he challenged. “You went to Hugh. I think we shall have to mark you, to parade your shame to the world. Let’s start with –”

  A clap of thunder shook the entire building, rattling the candle along the table. The simultaneous blast of lighting blinded them, and the smell of charred wood and ozone swept in through the open window. Joan blinked her eyes, frantically trying to bring them back into focus.