by Shea,Lisa
Finally, she nodded, closing her eyes for a brief prayer.
“I will make for Worcester,” she stated, giving her steed a tender rub on his neck. If ever she depended on his legendary speed, now would be the day. “Once safely there, I will send Peter with a team back to get you.”
Southerner made to interrupt, but Catherine pressed on. “Drive west until you reach the lightning-split oak tree by the pond. Peter will be able to find that easily. If you do not see Peter by nightfall, you will know that I was caught.” She turned to face Southerner. “By then, though, your trail will be cold and you should be able to make it to Worcester without being spotted.”
The man held Catherine’s eyes, his deep gaze somber with growing understanding. “You are going to draw the mercenaries off us.”
Catherine nodded in return. “It seems the only remaining solution. It gives the best chance of all four staying safe. That is the key concern here.”
Southerner paused for a moment, holding Catherine’s attention. When he spoke, his voice was low and respectful. “I have heard many stories about you, Shadow, and I had a quite different impression of your character. I am sorry to have misjudged you.” He put out his hand.
Catherine joined him in a firm clasp on the forearm. The man was sturdy, strong, and a surprising warmth flooded through her as their arms linked. She blinked in surprise at her reaction, caused so incongruently by this rogue wanderer. She pulled back quickly, staring at him, baffled.
His gaze was tense. “What is it?”
Despite all her training, she answered with the first thought on her mind. “It could be that I have misjudged you as well,” she offered in full honesty. “I have been told that you were a hostile, almost crazed loner who should be avoided. There have been several times I have happened on your campfire; each time I made substantial effort to avoid contact.” She flushed at the revelation, but found herself adding, “I wish now that I had taken the chance to talk.” She turned and quickly climbed onto her horse.
Southerner looked up into her eyes. “Good luck,” he offered solemnly.
She nodded in return, then wheeled her horse to ride out of the clearing. She pushed hard through the dark brambles and gullies, waiting until she was distant from the innocents who needed her protection. Finally she pushed her steed to clamber carefully up the slippery slope of a small hill. She stood there for a long moment, drawing in a lungful of air. She pitched her voice to carry far across the trees.
“Cry all you want, damned priest, but it is mine now!” she shouted in triumph, hoping her message reached Conrad’s crew and drew them in to her.
“You and your novices will do well to retreat home, for the prize is taken!”
She kicked her steed into a gallop, thundering down the hill, and almost instantly she heard the cries of challenge, the crashing of brush as the mercenaries gave chase.
She had certainly done it now.
She sent a fervent prayer that Southerner would get the foursome to safety, that they would find a sanctuary at the lightning-struck tree, and that she could get the message to Peter before she was slain, or worse.
Chapter 3
Catherine flew at a hard canter, the past few hours merging into a rain-streaked blur. Mouse had been the first to lag, his smaller horse unable to keep up with the thunderous pace set by the group. Catherine had twisted and turned, hurdled brooks, dodged around stone walls. One by one the other riders had faltered, losing a pace here, a length there. Still, like stubborn ticks embedded in a tasty host’s side, Conrad and Marc had obstinately remained a mere heartbeat away.
The trio moved almost in unison now, Catherine only a few strides ahead of the two flanking men. Catherine was coming to recognize their voices as if they were life-long neighbors. There, to the left, were Marc’s taunts, his running litany of curses, jeers, and insults. His imagination seemed to know no bounds.
But on the right … Catherine allowed a quick sideways glance in that direction. Conrad wasted no energy, no movement in his efforts. He guided his steed with a sure hand, his malevolent eyes focused on the black horse and rider before him. His coiled muscles seemed to ripple in the rain. If Conrad was able to catch up …
Catherine leant even lower over her horse’s neck, reseating the slippery reins in weary hands. Her stallion was reputed to be the fastest in the land, but even quick steeds could falter, could turn an ankle on an unseen rock. She had to lose the men and reach safety, both for the sake of the five men she had left behind in the woods as well as her own. If she was caught, her death would be long in coming.
A thought struck her, and she found herself shaking her head at the corkscrew twists that life presented. Here she had hidden away for four long years, respected her Council’s wishes, and allowed the world to think she was dead. Only her alter-ego Shadow had been seen outside the city walls. And now, on the cusp of finally being able to re-enter the world openly, she was about to be slain by men who would tumble her broken body in a ditch, never to be found.
An ominously dense hedge loomed before her, pulling Catherine out of her bleak musings. Catherine did not pause for an instant, desperately plunging into its depths. Perhaps this was the chance to finally scrape the wolves’ heads off, to slip unseen into the twisted woods beyond. Branches and brambles dragged long welts along her face and arms. The stabs of pain went on for many long minutes as her horse valiantly struggled through its depths.
Finally they cleared the thickets, and Catherine’s heart rose. There were no answering echoes …. they had done it …
From both sides, the sound grew. The mantra … the song … the drumming of hoofbeats. There would be no escape.
Catherine leant low, whispering a prayer, focusing on the path. Her black stallion’s flanks were heaving, and Catherine knew her steed could not hold out much longer. The day had already been a long one before this flight began. It might be that the mercenaries’ horses were fading as well, but that was a thin hope to thread a life on - never mind the lives of the four religious men.
Catherine strained through the pouring rain for a glimpse of Worcester’s spires, very aware of the pounding of hoofbeats that were following close behind. If Conrad caught her ... but that could not be allowed to happen. How far could it be? Could they be on the wrong heading?
Suddenly through the grey mists resolved the familiar shapes so long looked for - the tall, sturdy walls of the cathedral’s protective outer layer. Catherine thundered toward that defensive shield, urging her horse into a final desperate burst of speed.
Behind, Marc’s voice rang out in heated frustration. “God’s Teeth! Faster, you mangy beast!” Both men drove in hard, trying to match her move, to catch their quarry before she reached safety.
Uttering a silent prayer, Catherine flattened down completely on the neck of her horse, willing her steed to get to the gate in time. The hoofbeats of the pursuers seemed almost alongside ...
Catherine burst through the open gate in a flurry of hooves and mane, Conrad and Marc peeling off to either side of the entrance. The church’s guard would not interfere with matters outside the church walls, but they stood ready and armed at the mouth of the gate, quite able to protect the sanctity of the holy ground.
The two men wheeled about hard, drawing to a heaving stop some distance from the solid stone walls. “This is not the end, Shadow!” screamed Marc, his face flushed with fury. “We will find you, and make you pay!”
Beside him, Conrad gave a long, steady look at the row of soldiers manning the parapets, then without a word he turned his steed with a controlled movement. Together the pair streamed off at a canter toward the west. Their horses’ hoofbeats faded from hearing, and soon they were lost in the rain.
The Cathedral guard troop stood ready at the walls and gates, maintaining a keen watch for any return, any movement in the gloom of night.
Catherine finally turned from the gates and lay along her stallion’s neck, drawing in long, deep breaths. A tall, slend
er redheaded man in his early thirties came running down the steps of the cathedral into the courtyard, a young page keeping quick pace with him. The redhead wore a tan tunic and carried a sword at his side; his build indicated he knew well how to use it.
He shouted to one of the guards as he neared. “I saw it from the upstairs window. The mercenaries left? They did not linger nearby?” He drew up to the heaving horse’s side.
“Aye, Peter,” acknowledged the soldier with a grin. “They had no wish to enter into that sort of a battle. They are long gone.”
Peter nodded and stopped alongside the weary steed, taking a hold of its reins and patting its neck with fondness. He looked with concern at the rider. “Shadow, my lad. Thank goodness you are all right. You must have run into the priest, if Conrad’s men were on your heels.”
Catherine nodded, her heart twisting with fondness and regret as she glanced down at her childhood friend. She longed to talk with Peter, to take comfort in his wise advice – but she knew she could not. The charade had to be maintained for the remaining few days, until her life as she knew it came to a crashing halt.
Sadness swept through her, and she pushed it away with exhausted effort. Keeping her hood forward, she half climbed, half slid down from the horse.
Peter whispered an instruction to his page, and the freckled boy ran off to the side wall, returning quickly with a long stick. He handed it over to Catherine, who took it with a nod of thanks.
Peter spoke more slowly, taking care to enunciate clearly. “Where are the holy men now?”
In response, Catherine drew a simple image of an oak tree in the dirt with the stick. Quick movements then added a lightning bolt in the center of the tree, and drew a pond before it.
Peter nodded even before the image was complete. “I know the place well. I will leave immediately with spare horses for them all. Will you stay a while?”
Peter did not seem surprised when she wearily shook a negative and then with effort climbed back up on the tired mount. “I understand,” said Peter, giving the steed another pat. “As always, we thank you for your efforts. Your help has been invaluable.” He paused, then looked up into the hooded eyes. “Take care of yourself, Shadow.”
Catherine nodded, regret settling into all corners of her being. Shadow. The name would soon be lost to her – the name and all it stood for. She had agreed to the path now before her, but it did not make it any less hard.
Resigned, she pulled gently at the reins, turning her horse’s head, riding back out through the gates that had so recently provided a solid shield from harm.
Chapter 4
Jack looked up in alarm. From the south came the ever increasing sound of a mounted troop. He quickly gathered up the four men and had them huddle in a damp nook beneath the elderly oak tree. Drawing his sword, he stood vigil on the low, grassy rise, waiting for the forces to come in. If Shadow had failed ... well, he would hold them off for as long as he could.
To Jack’s great relief, Peter came into view at the head of a mounted group of soldiers, trailing several riderless horses behind them. Peter drew up alongside Jack and dismounted easily, coming over to clasp Jack warmly on the shoulder.
“Jack, my friend,” he greeted, his voice echoing his smile. “I am so glad to find you are all right.” He looked behind Jack as the priest and his novices climbed out of their hiding spot. They moved with weary slowness, but smiled with gratitude at the arriving soldiers.
Peter turned back to the dark-haired man. “You had no difficulties after Shadow left you?”
Jack shook his head. “None. Once Shadow drew away Conrad’s crew, we saw no one at all as we made our way here. Since then the forest has been completely quiet, if rather wet. My only worry was that he might not make it to you - but I see that he was as good as his word.”
Jack paused a minute, then added more quietly, “I had greatly misjudged him. He put himself at serious risk to save us. I am glad that I was able to talk with him before he left us. Is he at the Cathedral now? I would like to speak with him again to express my thanks.”
Peter tilted his head to one side, a confused look crossing his face. “Surely you mean he drew you symbols,” he commented, clarifying.
Jack was utterly lost. “No, I mean we spoke.”
Peter’s mouth hung open, then he winked playfully. “What, in English?” he asked in a teasing tone.
Jack nodded, thinking back. “Well yes, we talked in English first, then when he was worried about upsetting the acolytes he switched to Welsh. I am fluent in both, and found him equally facile in both languages.”
Peter’s mouth dropped open again in amazement. “Maybe we should start from the beginning, Jack. Shadow has never spoken - not even once - in the four years I have known him,” he explained. “I had decided he was mute, or had taken a vow of silence.” He paused for a moment, blushing slightly. “To be honest, I assumed he was mentally challenged as well.”
Jack scanned back over how eloquently Shadow had expressed himself. “Surely you are joking?”
Peter shook his head. “Before I came to Worcester, Shadow would provide escort occasionally for monks or nuns who were traveling in our region. I saw him a couple of times a year. He would visit for a few moments when dropping off or joining with a party, but would never agree to stay for longer. I assumed he was a private person, perhaps working off a sin of some sort. He was a great boon for our travelers; I was happy for his help.”
Peter scratched his head. “Why in the world would he refuse to speak around me, yet talk so freely with you?”
Jack thought back to the encounter. “I first heard him talking - only faintly - when he had a discussion with Conrad’s team near Wolverhampton. At the time I thought he was working with them, but I understand now that he was attempting to send them off our trail.”
His mind drifted back through the past day’s events. “Then, when Michael twisted his ankle, we were forced to stop to find a walking stick. Shadow did not seem like he wanted to talk with me. With the danger pressing in on us, perhaps he had no choice.” He thought about the stops and starts in their conversation. “He seemed angry to be drawn into it, but with Conrad drawing near ...”
At mention of the threat, Peter became serious. “There will be enough time for discussion later,” he commented quickly. “Let us get everyone mounted and back to the safety of the cathedral.”
Jack first helped the priest and lads onto their mounts, then vaulted easily onto a black stallion and pulled alongside Peter. The two men nodded to each other, and the group began moving south toward safety.
The men rode cautiously down the muddy road, the guards maintaining a watchful gaze for any sign of a threat. They moved the horses at a relatively slow pace. The elderly priest was able to keep his steed under control, but they had no wish to risk danger with a fast canter or gallop. Peter and Jack rode side by side at the head of the group, alertly scanning for danger.
Jack glanced to Peter. “Is Lord Epworth back at the cathedral yet?” he asked as they moved through the rain. “No doubt he is eager to lead the debate regarding the Pope’s anger with King John. I heard he was returning from Rome sometime this month.”
Peter shook his head “It should be another week or so before your foster father returns,” he explained. “His boat landed a few days ago and they are coming cross-country.”
Jack’s mouth turned up in a wry smile. “He loves to be the center of attention, and this political situation has given him quite a stage,” he commented. “It may have been bad luck that caused his own holdings to fail, but getting himself temporary stewardship of Worcester Cathedral while a new Bishop is appointed was a stroke of genius.”
Peter’s eyes brightened. “Yes, he certainly has his talents,” he agreed, nodding. “He has nearly converted the extensive complex into his own personal keep and gardens. I imagine he will feel regret when he has to move along to Ireland, to his secondary holdings.”
He paused a moment, then co
ntinued on another topic. “Tell me again what you learned about Shadow.”
“I am sure I saw the green leather hilt,” Jack stated, recounting the details of the courtyard meeting to Peter. “I also heard mention of the Bowyers. Given Shadow’s willingness to stand up against Conrad’s team, and their apparent respect for him, I am sure he must be one of that clan’s members.”
Peter nodded in understanding. “That makes sense, and would explain his language fluency. The Bowyers are known for their skilled swordsmen and for their talented negotiators. It is said they teach their children three languages simultaneously when they are young, so that they maintain that fluency through adulthood.”
Jack’s mind clicked back through the events of the afternoon. “It would also explain something else,” he added, his eyes brightening with insight. “When Shadow spoke to me, he called me ‘Southerner’. The Bowyers are based up in the northern woods, and in that region I am known by that nickname. He must have seen me or heard of me up there.”
Peter became lost in thought. After a while, he commented, “One of my best friends when I was growing up was a member of the Bowyers.”
Jack looked over in curiosity. “Who was he? Have I met him?”
Peter shook his head. “It was a she, and I imagine not. Her name was Catherine. She traveled a great deal and visited me often, but when I talked about a visit to Worcester, she said that she had never been there. She was quite an exceptional woman; I miss her greatly.”
“What happened to her,” asked Jack gently.
Peter looked into the distance at the memory. “She was killed in a scouting foray. The patrol was attacked by a group of wolves’ heads. That was about four years ago. It still seems like yesterday to me. She was perhaps twenty-two; she was too young to have died.”