Wildcat indeed. The Falcon of Emerald Forest, of all things. He blew out a laugh. “She would not have gotten the best of me if I hadn’t granted her the favor due her sex.”
“And she took that favor and made you eat it, ’twould seem.”
“Indeed.”
“A rather comely lass from what I saw.”
A pair of eyes the color of jade fringed in thick lashes flitted through Ronar’s mind. “Mayhap, but what good is beauty housed in lunacy?”
“Ah, but I do so like a challenge.” Jarin winked.
“Then when we pass through Emerald Forest again, may her arrow be aimed at you, my friend.” Ronar chuckled.
They rounded a corner, then ascended the hill to the castle. Lush gardens surrounded the entrance, whirling the sweet scent of lavender and roses around them and sweeping away the foul stench of the village. Ronar drew a deep breath as they halted before the gatehouse.
“Who goes there?” The shout came from above.
“Bishop Godfrey of Montruse to see Lady D’Clere,” Ronar responded.
“That should get their attention,” he said to Damien on his left. The man’s stern features seemed even harsher in the torchlight.
“’Tis rare to have the king’s special adviser at one’s door,” the knight replied, scanning the surrounding darkness. Damien, ever the staunch warrior. The best fighter Ronar ever had the fortune to battle beside.
“What is taking them so long?” the bishop spat from within the coach. “How dare they make me wait!”
Ronar exchanged a glance of disdain with Jarin. Ah, to be rid of his excellency’s company—if only for a night.
“Mayhap they—” Jarin’s reply was cut off as the gate swung open, and Ronar led them forward over a bridge into a small courtyard. Torches on posts cast flickering light over the inner bailey that was soon arush with squires, servants, and knights. Keeping his hand atop the hilt of his sword, Ronar slid from Penance and handed the reins to a stable boy. A knight started toward them. Dressed in chain mail with a sword at his side, he was a large, imposing man around whom the stench of alcohol whirled like a haunting specter.
“Walter DeGay, Captain of the Guard.” His eyes flashed upon seeing the king’s insignia on their forearms. “To what do we owe the pleasure of the King’s Guard?”
Had the man not been informed of the identity of his guest?
The knight’s hazy eyes sped to the coach where the bishop’s page assisted him down. “Your Grace.”—he stumbled toward him and then bowed clumsily— “We were not expectin—”
The bishop cut him off. “We wish to see Lady D’Clere immediately.”
“Of course.” Sir DeGay gathered himself and escorted them past the chapel and servants’ quarters, through a set of large wooden doors, into the main hall of the castle where a tall middle-aged man with a commanding stride met them. A purple tunic covered with a vermilion silk surcoat threaded with golden filigree flaunted his high status. That and a jeweled broach positioned at his throat. Graying brown hair curled around his face, matching the thick brows dipping over cold dark eyes.
A chill coursed down Ronar.
“Sir Francis LeGode at your service.” Ignoring Ronar and his men, he approached the bishop and bowed himself so far to the ground, Ronar thought he might fall. “Your Excellency. Forgive me. We did not receive word of your visit.”
“Rise.” The bishop glanced around the great hall, empty now save for a few servants. Banners bearing the heraldry of various lords and knights draped from the ceiling high above them, while tapestries lined the cold stone walls. Shields and a battered Saxon war axe hung over the high seat above an immense hearth whose flames added light to the candles perched in wall brackets.
“What brings such a fine guest to Luxley Manor, your Grace?” LeGode inquired.
“Urgent business from the King.”
“And these men are?”
“The King’s Guard. My escorts.”
Francis LeGode stared them up and down, respect and a tinge of fear in his eyes.
“We seek an audience with Lady D’Clere,” Ronar offered.
Ignoring him, LeGode faced the bishop. “I fear ’tis impossible. She is quite ill, Excellency. I am steward here and attend all matters in her stead.”
“Bah.” The bishop growled and moved to stand by the fire, rubbing his pointed gray beard. “Very well. Is there somewhere private where we may converse?”
“Of course. But if you’ll allow, Excellency. Surely you must be exhausted. I beg you to rest from your long journey.” LeGode clapped his hands and several servants came running. “Escort these men to their rooms and draw a bath for his Excellency. I will have an evening repast prepared in your honor. Then when you are refreshed, we shall discuss business.”
Ronar’s stomach growled. A feast he could handle. Getting away from his Excellency, even for a short time, sounded better still.
♥♥♥
Ronar tossed his sack onto the cot and marched to the window. Behind him, he heard Jarin say something that made the servant girl giggle as she left. Damien lay back on his cot and placed his hands behind his head.
“What is amiss, Ronar?” he asked. “We are finally free of his Grace and will soon fill our bellies with warm food.” He patted his stomach. “I, for one, could use something more solid than bird eggs and fish.”
“In addition,” Jarin added, his footsteps approaching. “We can have our pick of the pretty wenches who work in the castle. Though, I grant you”—he glanced over the room—“these humble quarters have injured my pride.”
“Would that it would never heal,” Ronar quipped, then swung about and took in the tiny room housing naught but three straw cots and a single table upon which sat a basin of water and two oil lamps. Modest, aye, but at least they’d not been put with the other knights. In addition, they were just off the great hall and had a good view of the inner courtyard, which would serve well to overhear anything that would hasten the completion of their mission. He faced the window again and watched stable boys, groomsman, knights, and all manner of servants hustling to and fro in the light of a full moon.
“And”—Jarin slapped Ronar on the back—“save for the pretty she-wolf—or rather she-falcon—who nearly killed you with her arrow, no band of brigands attacked the bishop on our journey.”
“Would there had been.” Damien groaned. “If only to stave off the boredom and drown out his relentless whine.”
Withdrawing a figure from inside his doublet pocket, Ronar rubbed his thumb over St. Jude and stared down at the smooth gray stone. “Evil lurks in this castle. I sense it. The sooner we complete our mission and make haste back to London, the better.”
“You worry overmuch, Ronar.” Jarin crossed arms over his chest and leaned against the window frame. “’Tis a simple enough quest. I pray it takes a good while to complete. I could use a relaxing stay in such a place with women aplenty to sample.”
Damien chuckled. “I hope there are enough to last our stay. For me, I could use a good fight before I grow fat and lazy. If only the king would start a war somewhere.”
Ronar turned to his friend. Fat and lazy he was not. As well muscled as the king’s destrier and nearly as tall, Damien could land a punch with the force of a trebuchet. “You should have remained in the king’s army instead of joining the Guard, Damien.”
“And miss the chance to protect the king? To be counted among his elite warriors? ’Twas a miracle a man with such base beginnings as I was ever dubbed a knight, but this…my father would be proud. Were he alive,” he added, the bitterness in his tone pricking Ronar.
Jarin stared down into the courtyard where a pretty maid passed by, a basket in her hand. “At least we shall not have to endure the bishop’s blathering.”
“He may be”—Ronar started to list a few unsavory names but caught himself—“many things, but he is still a holy man, appointed of God. He deserves our respect.”
Damien snorted. “He will ha
ve to earn mine.”
Jarin nodded his agreement.
Ronar raised a critical brow. “Have a care what you say against God’s anointed. You think the king to be a harsh taskmaster. God will not forgive such an affront when you stand before Him.”
Jarin fingered the tip of his short-clipped beard. “If God chose such a man, then I shall have a few things to say to the Almighty should He ever deem me worthy to stand before Him.” He pushed from the wall and strode to the basin of water. “As it is, I doubt I shall have the chance.”
“I do not gainsay it, and that should worry you more than it does.” Ronar watched his good friend splash water on his face and then shove fingers through his brown hair. With strong features, a perfect nose, deep-set, intense eyes and a dimple to charm the ladies, Jarin enjoyed far too much the attention he received from the fairer sex.
Grabbing a cloth, he faced Ronar. “I shall allow you to worry about my eternal fate, Ronar. Mayhap you could put in a good word for me.”
“I always do, my friend.”
Damien withdrew two knives from his belt and began sharpening them, the metallic rasp echoing through the chamber.
Ronar returned his gaze out the window and drew a deep breath. The stench of horse manure and pig slops made him instantly regret it. If only his companions would listen to him. His own lack of faith and pride had led to Ronar’s downfall. One which he still did penance for and would continue until his debt was paid. He glanced once again at St. Jude in his hand. During Ronar’s last crusade, the Archbishop of Jerusalem had given him the small statue. “Carved from Christ’s tomb and then blessed with Holy water,” he had said. No doubt ’twas true, for the saint had protected Ronar during one of the fiercest battles he’d ever encountered. He had carried it ever since. Another chill slithered down his back. He had a feeling he would need its power on this mission more than ever.
Chapter 3
Alexia slipped through the back door of the kitchen, basket of herbs in hand so as not to attract attention. Though her position in Luxley castle was minstrel for Lady D’Clere, she oft assisted with the gardening as well, in particular harvesting the herbs she loved so much. The room was abuzz with activity—pantlers, butlers, butchers, cooks, dishwashers and maids dashed to and fro or worked before tables laden with all manner of food. The kitchen clerk shouted orders above the din. Pots and kettles steamed atop flames that crackled and spit from a fireplace that took up an entire stone wall.
Alas, the King’s Guard had arrived, ’twould seem.
She was greeted by two scullery maids as she made her way through the kitchen and the pantry to the grand hall and scanned the room for her friend and confidant. With the arrival of guests, Anabelle would most likely be following Sir LeGode about as he spouted orders.
Alexia drew in a deep breath and attempted to settle nerves that always tangled into knots when she entered the castle.
You cannot discern the spirits when fear invades, the friar always told her. ’Twas true enough, but she had yet to learn how to control her rampant emotions.
There. Anabelle hurried down the grand stairs from above, a train of servants in her wake.
“Anabelle!” Alexia half-whispered, half-shouted, and upon gaining her attention, motioned her over.
Halting, the young lady gave instructions to the servants, which sent them scurrying off before she hastened to Alexia’s side.
“Mistress Bregley, I didn’t expect you till the morrow.”
“Indeed, but I heard you have visitors from the king.”
Sweeping blond hair from her face, Anabelle bit her lip. “The Bishop of Montruse requests an audience with Lady D’Clere.”
“Montruse?” Alarm prickled Alexia. “The king’s special confidant. Whatever does he want?”
“I know not, mistress. They will meet with Sir LeGode after the evening meal.”
LeGode’s harried shout blared from his study across the main hall, jarring Anabelle, who glanced his way.
Alexia gripped her friend’s arm. “Then you must find out for me, Anabelle. Please say you will.”
“I will try, mistress.” Though Alexia detected a quiver running through her, determination shone from her eyes. Brave girl.
“How fares Lady D’Clere?”
“Worse today. Mayhap you could bring her some comfort.”
Fear gnawed Alexia’s gut as she smiled at her friend and headed up the winding stairs of the keep to Lady D’Clere’s chamber. Creeping inside, she cringed at the creak of the door and set her herbs on the table, suddenly struck by the putrid order of illness, tallow, and smoke.
Something moved near the upper corner of the arched ceiling—a darkness, a shadow that disappeared before she had a chance to close her eyes and examine it. She had no need. She could sense what it was. If only she’d brought the Spear. A quick scan of the room revealed other shadows—fleeting, dark mists that shrank back and finally retreated. With their exit, the light from candles positioned about the chamber brightened, revealing two carved chests, tables and chairs set before a hearth, and the large curtained bed on the right.
Seraphina rose from her spot beside the bed, giving Alexia a curious look. “What is amiss, my lady?”
“Naught.” Alexia approached. “How is she?”
“She sleeps now, but she has been restless all day.” Seraphina glanced around as if noticing the brightness in the chamber. “I always feel better when you are here, my lady.”
“Do not address me as ‘my lady,’ Seraphina. Remember, my life depends on your discretion.”
“Yes, of course. Forgive me.”
Alexia stared down at the figure sleeping behind the gauze curtains. “I thank you nonetheless for your kindness to her.”
Seraphina adjusted her plain woolen kirtle that did naught to hide her feminine curves nor diminish the beauty of her hair, the color of snow, tumbling down to her waist. “I am but her lady’s maid and cannot offer much aid.”
“You remain by her side day and night in my stead. Truly, I deem your kindness of no small account. And God’s truth, you are so much more than a lady’s maid. You are my friend.” Alexia placed a hand on Seraphina’s arm and smiled before she returned her gaze to the bed. “Night horrors?”
“Aye, they grow worse. She wakes up screaming things no lady should say.”
Swallowing a lump of dread, Alexis swept aside the curtains and cringed at her sister’s pale face. She took her limp hand in hers. “Her skin is hot. What of the apothecary? Has he brought medicines?”
“Yes, every day, mil—mistress.”
“And Sir LeGode? What does he say?”
“He is worried…or so he appears. He has ordered the apothecary to administer new herbs.”
Alexia glanced at Seraphina. “And yet a hesitancy simmers in your voice.”
“As you know, mistress, I am not sure I trust him.”
“’Tis but that crooked smile of his.” Alexia shrugged. “Never fear. Sir LeGode was best friend to my father and mother. Faith now, he saved my father’s life in the battle of Nain. And when Father died, he brought great comfort to my mother. Then, of course, he was here with us all when she herself passed away.”
Alexia closed her eyes, forcing back the horror of that day, yet the wound still festered in her heart. “Mother wouldn’t have handed the care of the manor over to him, made him steward because my sister and I were still too young, if she did not trust him implicitly. He has been a great overseer and done well here.”
“Aye, mistress, quite well. For Luxley. And for himself.”
Alexia frowned. “He has his own estate just ten miles hence. What need has he to manage ours? Surely it must be more burden than blessing.” Alexia kissed her sister’s hand. “Cristiana is lady of the manor and whoe’er she weds will be lord. What purpose would Sir LeGode have for staying here, save loyalty to my family?”
Seraphina flattened her lips. “Then why have you not revealed to him your true identity? If he is so dear an
d trusted a friend, mayhap he could assist you in laying bare the plot to end your life.”
“’Tis my utmost desire, yet the friar has convinced me to wait. The truth would only endanger LeGode’s life, as it also endangers yours.” Alexia gazed up at her friend. “For which I am deeply sorry.”
“No need.” Seraphina’s blue eyes grew moist. “I would gladly give my life to save either of you.”
Cristiana moaned, and Alexia brushed curls from her face. Whatever illness robbed her strength, it had not stolen her beauty. Brown silken hair, streaked in gold, fanned across the white pillow in a lustrous bronze halo. High cheeks, a straight narrow nose, and well-shaped lips formed an angelic face. “Cristiana, I’m here.”
Her sister opened her eyes ever so slightly, and a smile tugged upon her lips. “You came.”
“I will always come for you.”
“’Tis not safe for you.”
“No one knows who I am.”
Her sister’s brown eyes, once so clear and sparkling, grew distant behind a haze. “I grant you, I barely recognized you when you first appeared. Seven years was far too long to believe you were dead.”
“I am here now and will never leave you again.”
The friar had caught Alexia sneaking into the castle when she was twelve, and she had suffered severely under his reprimand. “Someone at the castle wants you dead,” he had said. “And they will succeed if you play the fool.” The terror he had invoked had kept her watching her sister from afar for too many years. Until she learned that Cristiana had fallen ill on her fifteenth birthday. After that, Alexia’s persistence finally persuaded the friar, who knew the kitchen clerk, to procure Alexia a position as one of the herb gardeners. That job didn’t last long, for when Sir LeGode heard her singing as she crossed the bailey and saw its calming effects on Cristiana, he promoted her to the lady’s personal minstrel—placing her right inside her sister’s chamber. God was, indeed, amazing.
Yet now, as she gently caressed her sister’s hand, she realized that was two years ago, and her sister was still abed with some mysterious illness.
She Walks in Power Page 2