by Shea,Lisa
That only left her with one choice; one fraught with danger, one which put her on a collision course with Jack’s blade. She had gone over the alternatives for long weeks now, had explored option after option should this situation arise. There had been none.
Her alter-ego, Shadow, would have to take the blame without providing any ethical reason for the two killings. She would have to live – forever – with the knowledge that Jack seethed with hatred for what she had done.
Even knowing she had no other choice, Catherine’s throat closed up. The world faded to grey, all color draining from the sky.
Jack’s growl burst into the silence. “Did Shadow murder Carl and Craig because they attacked you, or not?”
Catherine flushed. It would be so easy to twist the story, to tell the men what they wanted to hear. But she could not do that. The truth was too important to her to disgrace it with a lie.
“No,” she ground out, exhaustion settling over her. “Shadow was tracking them long before I was injured.”
Searing pain rippled through her shoulder, embedding into her heart. She knew that, with that statement, Jack could easily decide to seek after Shadow for vengeance. For her own protection she would have to get clear of his presence as soon as she could, to keep herself safe from his sword and fury.
A chill swept over her. It was as if the sun dimmed, as if a cloud passed, as if she had lost her chance at joy ...
The pain swelled, cascaded, and she waved the men away, wanting to be alone … alone …
Peter and Jack glanced at each other, then paused so that she could walk ahead of them. She continued forward slowly, her head down.
* * *
Jack clenched his fists as waves of anger pummeled his heart. Shadow had relentlessly pursued and slaughtered two men who had shown him nothing but kindness from when he was a boy. Not only that, but the man had also embroiled Catherine in the madness, maintaining some sort of a hold over her.
Were they lovers? The thought filled him with a sharp stab of pain. Was that why she had found a solution to her marriage with Lord Epworth? Because she could now be with Shadow?
He remembered back to when they had stood together on the cliff overlooking the cathedral, when he had asked her about Shadow. She had been upset, had said she would need to put Shadow behind her. Had she found the idea too difficult to bear?
He flinched, but looked open-eyed over the past few weeks. Had she been toying with him this entire time, a casual distraction while she planned her escape?
She had run to Shadow after their fight on the bridge. She had said, just now, that she could not leave these lands, that too much still held her to remain.
Had she already pledged herself to stay by Shadow’s side?
Hurt and fury boiled within him, and he shook it off, bringing it under tense control with an effort. He mounted his horse, forcing his eyes to look far ahead, down the curves of the road. With careful focus he began planning in detail how he could pick up Shadow’s trail, pursue the murderer, and bring him to justice.
He nodded in grim determination. He would start as soon as the priest and his novices were safely dropped off at St. Albans.
* * *
Catherine’s resignation grew, expanded, settled into every pore of her being. She had lost Jack. She would have to build a barrier to keep him out, to maintain him as only a distant companion on the road, nothing more. Once they parted ways near St. Albans, she would never be able to see him again. The danger was far too great.
Sharp longing stabbed at her heart, and she muffled it with an effort. She could not afford those feelings any longer. She had known what she risked when she accepted the role of Shadow, and now it was time for her to shoulder that responsibility. Innocent lives depended on her silence.
A deadening calm blanketed her, and she wrapped it around herself, drawing it in tightly. It was the only solution.
Michael, Walter, and John came wandering from the path to climb into the back of the wagon, looking backwards at Catherine. Their faces were furrowed with frustration.
Catherine drew in a deep breath. The young lads were on their grand adventure – she would not let her own sorrows drag them down. She made an effort to smile to lift their spirits.
“Now, my young friends, what has got you so gloomy,” she asked with forced cheer, trying to bring back their former enthusiasm. “Worn out from walking already?”
John spoke up, glancing back at Jack and Peter. “We are all over eighteen,” he huffed with a hint of petulance. “We are in fine shape. There are three of us. Yet we need nursemaids for a quite common trip to St. Albans on public roads. Surely we can take care of Father Berram and ourselves.”
Catherine’s eyes brightened. “Of course you can,” she agreed readily. “In fact, as I am a lady of fine birth now without a home, I find myself in need of bodyguards. I feel you three would be perfect!”
Walter scoffed, his pudgy face downcast. “Do not humor us,” he growled morosely. “Surely those two would do far better for you. What kind of bodyguards could we possibly be?”
Catherine put on a hurt air that her judgment would be so readily dismissed. “You know that I have trained with some of the best swordsmen in the land,” she responded archly. “I am a fine judge of character, and I see that strength within all three of you.”
She looked to John. “You are an active lad. Tell me, John, why might you feel you are not as well suited as say, Jack would be to protect me?”
John looked behind her at the two men, and she turned briefly to follow his gaze. Jack’s eyes were flat, and her anger flared. Apparently the man was openly scoffing at the idea. A blaze of anger filled her veins. No person’s value should be dismissed so callously. His clear disbelief made her even more determined to see this impetuous act through.
“Well, John?”
John’s face grew serious, and he knelt in the wagon, facing her. “Jack is spectacular with a sword. He is tall; he is much stronger than I am. He has been in combat situations many times. He could probably kill a bandit attacker with his eyes closed.”
Catherine shrugged, unimpressed. “Fine, let us say that is true. So say a bandit attacker comes and raids our camp. Who will that attacker go for first?”
Three pairs of eyes swiveled toward Jack. “Exactly,” agreed Catherine with a thin smile. “So there Jack is, involved in saving his own skin. Who will be around to protect me?”
Michael shook his head. “Bandits will never see us as a threat,” he protested. “They will think we are just monks who do not know how to fight.” Once he had said the words, his eyes gleamed as he realized the advantage.
Catherine nodded encouragingly. “You will be overlooked, and that will be your strength,” she confirmed. “When we stop for lunch, I will show you how.”
The three regained their energy and soon they were wheedling Father Berram to stop for an early lunch. At last he caved in with a wry chuckle, and the group drew aside into a clearing.
Once everyone had eaten, Catherine went over to Walter and whispered something in his ear. Then she gave Michael, Walter, and John small sticks, and took one herself. She had Michael stand in the center of the clearing, then took a position in front of him.
“Michael, you are the bandit,” she explained. “We will pretend these sticks are our daggers.”
Michael nodded with understanding. He posed menacingly, wielding his stick above his head as if he were a cobra.
Catherine smiled in appreciation. “Well done. You are so fearsome, in fact, that apparently you have scared Walter and John silly. So you two, get on his left and right, perhaps five feet away from him. Cower on the ground, put your hands over your head, and milk it for all it is worth.”
Walter and John immediately took their positions, cringing and crying in fear.
“All right, Michael the Bandit, come and threaten me,” she encouraged.
Michael took a strong step forward, and Catherine quivered in mock fear, wild
ly waving her arms. “Do not kill me!” she cried out with great emotion. “I do not want to die! I am too young! Please spare me!”
Michael moved in again, glaring at Catherine with theatrical anger. He had only taken one more step before Walter slammed his stick into the back of Michael’s knee, sending him to the ground. Walter was over him in a moment, holding the stick to his chest.
Michael looked up, baffled. “Where did you come from?” he asked in confusion.
Catherine reached down a hand to help Michael up. “You did not even see him, did you?” she asked with a smile. Michael shook his head no in disbelief. “You discounted them as soon as they curled up,” she explained. “You thought of them like rocks or tree stumps - as non-threats. You focused on me because I was active and moving. Your peripheral vision did not extend to where they were after only a step or two. All Walter had to do is take out your knee, and suddenly Michael the Bandit loses all of his advantages - his height, his mobility, his strength. Once he is down on the ground, you can either take action against him or simply run away.”
John frowned. “He still has a sword,” he pointed out, “and he will know how to use it.”
Catherine nodded. “The aim is to finish it quickly,” she replied. “This is not something that the bandit is going to learn and grow from. It is a one shot resolution. When you hit him in the back of the knee, he is going to experience a sudden, blinding pain, and he is going to go down hard. His main focus is going to be on hitting the ground softly and figuring out what happened. If you get to him while he is still trying to get his bearings, you have the advantage.” She waved over to Walter. “Here, you be the bandit now. Try to see if you sense where the danger is.”
Catherine ran them through the drill many times. She had them try different configurations, helping them learn what worked and what did not work. The three were quite surprised that even when they knew an attack would be coming, they usually could not sense from which direction it had been launched until it was too late.
“See,” explained Catherine, helping Walter up from a particularly vicious attack by John, “the bandit will be fearing an attack, too. He will be cautious. However, even if he is extremely paranoid, he cannot watch in all directions at once. He will discount your cowering forms as being beneath notice. You will not give him the chance to learn from that mistake. This means the trick should work for you over and over again on each new enemy you run into.”
The group headed out for the afternoon section of its journey, the novices once again in high spirits. Catherine tied her steed to the back of the wagon, walking instead at its front, watching the trio of youths practice mock swordplay with their sticks at the front of the group.
There was a motion to her side, and Peter came up to join her. “That was very nicely done,” he commented with quiet appreciation. “I truly think they have more chance against an attack than they might have had before.”
“Everyone deserves the chance to feel important and able to defend themselves,” replied Catherine, her voice low. “Perhaps especially those who are thought of by others as being not up to the challenge.”
The hours flew by in blue skies and drifting clouds, and it seemed all too soon before they were pulling aside for dinner. She busied herself helping Walter with the cooking of the stew. The lad was a master with the herbs, tossing in a dash of sage, a pinch of rosemary, creating a savory smell which set the whole group’s stomachs rumbling.
“You have a real talent here,” she advised him with a smile, taking a taste of his creation. “I hope your order appreciates your skills.
“Oh, they have great plans for me,” he agreed with a grin, stirring in another pinch of salt. “Perhaps someday I will become head cook at Canterbury itself!”
Father Berram tottered by, drawn by the rich fragrance. His wizened eyes scanned over Walter, and he pursed his lips for a moment. “Do not draw your pleasures from distant shores, my lad,” he advised somberly. “Every day you have is a gift. Savor the food before you. Enjoy the world around you. Do not lose track of what you have now, in your craving for future glory.”
Catherine took in another mouthful of the dinner, its warmth filling her. “The priest is quite right,” she agreed wholeheartedly. “I believe what you have created here is just as delicious as anything we enjoyed at the cathedral, and our dining hall is the best nature has to offer. You are a master cook right now, serving the best of friends.”
Walter blushed under the compliment, and as they passed around the bowls and bread, the kudos were echoed by all present. Catherine basked in the richness of the company, and in counterpoint it emphasized the loss created by her estrangement from Jack. When the others remained up to talk, she claimed fatigue, moving to her bed area as soon as the sun dipped in crimson streaks below the horizon.
When Peter awoke her for her shift, she sat by the fire without a word, knowing he patrolled the outer ring during the first half of her shift, watching as he woke Jack, the men trading places during the second half. She never saw Jack in his patrol, did not speak a word to him when her time was through, when she curled up in her corner and strove, desperately, to find some sleep.
It was no use. The scene from the afternoon replayed in her head, caught on a continual loop. It showed her speaking the words which divided them, the shuttering of his eyes, and the shutdown of his heart.
* * *
Dawn’s glow warmed her eyelids, the fluttering of birds rising to meet the new day tickled her ears, but it was a long time before she willed herself to open her eyes, before she pushed herself off the rough ground to gather her belongings. She tied her steed again to the back of the wagon, moved to the front with the lads, and willed herself to be cheerful and strong for their sake.
The moving cart with its load of supplies and elderly priest became a firewall for her, a safe buffer between her fragile heart and the man who loomed so strongly on the other side. She could feel his presence, could sense his eyes on her. She craved the warmth of his fingers, the strength of his arms. It was all gone. Her path in life had created a chasm that none could bridge.
She ran a hand distractedly through her thick hair. What if she simply told him the truth, that she was Shadow, that he should trust in her reasons for having slain the pair of criminals?
She laughed harshly, kicking at an errant rock in the road, sending it skittering across the path. He would never believe her. He had decided that she was in league with Shadow, and would simply accuse her of lying to cover for him.
After all, there was no way to prove her claim. Even if she brought up things said and done during the flight from Conrad’s men, Jack believed she had gone off to meet Shadow during her trip to retrieve the codex. He would simply say Shadow had discussed his activities with her during that time.
Her mind searched through her choices as they stopped for lunch, during their quiet dinner, through the long hours of her nighttime watch period as the clouds sent billowing shadows across the moon. There seemed no other escape. Jack simply would not believe her story. She had to get away from him, for her own safety, and for the security of those whom she had sworn to protect.
* * *
Jack watched as the sun slowly crept above the horizon, sending tendrils of orange and scarlet streaming across the sky, as the canopy above tinged from black to indigo to royal blue. This was one of his favorite parts of the day, the fresh beginning, the new start which offered hope.
He looked over the array of sleeping charges in his midst. The past few days had brought them into rural areas, only a scattering of villages interrupting their gentle voyage. There were now fewer locals for any potential troublemakers to blend in with, but also less support to call for if an issue should arise. He remained always on alert, always listening for danger, aware of his surroundings.
The group stirred to life, and soon they were eating Walter’s delicious offerings, gathering their gear, and setting into motion. Catherine tied her black stallion up beh
ind the wagon before moving out in front with Walter, Michael, and John, as she had done the past few days. A sturdy knot coiled around his heart, a coldness settled on his shoulders as he mounted and slowly rode at the back of the group alongside Peter. His friend had attempted to talk the first day or two, but had now settled into a somber quiet, which was quite to Jack’s liking. It gave him the time to plan out his search patterns to track down and slay Shadow. It had to be done methodically, with careful precision. He could not allow the assassin who had butchered his two best friends to escape from justice.
He considered, for the hundredth time, that Shadow had stood against Conrad and his crew, had risked his life to save the very men now in his care. He shook his head, putting that out of his mind. Past good deeds did not annul a heinous crime. Shadow would be made to pay for those innocent deaths.
A pair of swallows soared and raced across the open sky, but Jack barely saw their undulating flight. The light was fading from his world. Catherine alone seemed to grow more beautiful each day. Each glance reminded him that she was meant for another man, that she had toyed with his heart, had pledged herself to Shadow.
The man would pay.
Another day drained by, and then two, and the quiet villages faded into the past, the landscapes before them open, almost without farmhouse or tavern. His patrol habits drew into play, and for lunch he had them stop on a rise looking over a stream, a chance to catch fresh trout to replenish their food supplies. After lunch, the three boys ambled down to fish while Father Berram retreated to the wagon for a sun-drenched nap,
Jack and Peter were just finishing brushing down the horses when Jack heard a low call. Catherine was sitting at the edge of the rise, looking out toward the stream with a fixed expression.
Her voice was low, urgent. “Bring the bows.”
Peter raced to the horses’ gear to grab the weapons, while Jack strode over to join her, dropping to one knee alongside her.