A year younger than Alexia, Cristiana had always been a timid, nervous child. While Alexia had insisted on learning to ride horses, Cristiana knitted and sewed and kept to her chamber. While Alexia sneaked out of the castle at night to fence with the squires, Cristiana cuddled beneath her quilt, jumping at every sound.
As if reading her thoughts, Cristiana said, “My brave sister. You should not risk so much for me.” She attempted to sit, but forsook the effort. “I still cannot believe anyone would want you dead. To what purpose?”
A question Alexia had been asking herself for years. At first she assumed it had something to do with her and her sister acquiring the estate after their mother died. Yet whether they married or not, they would each inherit half of Luxley. If both died, the land would return to the king. If only one died, the other would inherit all. Which would leave only her sister to profit. And with no suitors hovering about like vultures when they were but eight and nine, what would the villain have to gain by Alexia’s death?
Mayhap he was after the Spear.
If so, how did he know it was in her possession? And why were there no attempts made to find it in the past nine years?
“I do not know yet, but I will discover the villain,” she finally said to her sister. “And when I do, I will destroy him and return here to live with you.”
With all the passing years and the rumors of her death a fading memory, she prayed whoever wished her dead had long since gone. But the friar insisted the threat remained. And he was usually right about such things.
“I believe you will, Alexi—” Cristiana snapped her mouth shut. “I mean Katherine. ’Tis been two years, and I still have trouble remembering.”
“Me, as well,” Seraphina added.
Cristiana lifted a hand to the maid. “God bless you for your loyalty to us.”
Seraphina knelt before the bed. “How could I not, my lady? Your mother and father were so kind to take me in when I was but a babe—an orphan. They gave me a home, an education, and made me your companion.”
“And we gained a sister.” Cristiana smiled.
“Indeed.” Alexia laid the back of her hand on her sister’s cheek and cringed at the heat emanating from it. “What is this, dear sister? Alas, I saw you yesterday taking your supper in the hall at your proper place.”
“The healing potion robs me of all strength.” Cristiana closed her eyes. “But the apothecary insists it holds my affliction at bay.” Her eyelids fluttered and her chest rose and fell. “They frighten me, Alex—Katherine.” Her voice cracked.
“Who does?”
“The dark ones. They are everywhere. Shadows, here one minute, then gone, then reappearing again.” She opened her eyes, stark with fear. “Am I going mad?”
Alexia gripped her hands and kissed them. “Nay. Never. You are too strong for that. You are merely ill, and you will get well soon. You have my troth.”
The words seemed to calm her. But they did not have the same effect on Alexia. A storm brewed in her spirit at her sister’s words. Something evil had invaded this place. When Cristiana first fell ill two years past, Alexia assumed it was but a simple fever, especially when her sister recovered quickly and went about her normal duties. But then she would grow ill again, then well, then ill. And of late, the dreams, the shadows, the fear that plagued her…could only mean one thing.
Something tormented her from the dark side.
Alexia turned to the maid. “Pen and parchment, Seraphina, if you please.”
Rising, the lady moved to one of the chests, opened it, and returned with the items. Alexia set the parchment on a table by the bed, dipped the quill in ink, and scrolled the only thing she could think that might help her sister. Then dusting it with powder, she blew it off and handed it to her.
“What is this?”
“Read it.”
Cristiana held it up to the light of a candle. “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.” She gathered her breath and continued. “Surely he shall deliver me from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover me with his feathers, and under his wings I shall trust: his truth shall be my shield and buckler. I shall not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.”
Releasing a sigh, she sank back onto the pillows. “This is beautiful. Where is it from?”
“It is the Word of God from the book of Psalms.”
Cristiana tossed the paper aside as if it would burn her skin. “The Holy Scriptures? ’Tis heresy to read it thus.”
“’Tis heresy not to.” Alexia picked it up and forced a softer tone. “The friar has been translating it into the king’s English and allowing me to read it. ’Tis magnificent and full of wonders we are never told.” Folding the parchment, she slid it beneath the quilt. “When you see the shadows, when the night horrors come, read this aloud. I promise ’twill help.”
Cristiana gave her a skeptical look but nodded and squeezed her hand. “Prithee, sing to me before you go?”
“Of course.” Alexia drew up a chair and began the tune their mother used to sing to them when they were little.
“As I lay on yule night
Alone in my longing
I thought I saw a fair sight
A maiden rocking her child…”
It had the effect she hoped as her sister calmed and quickly dozed off. If only Alexia could stay longer, sit by her bedside and pray. But the friar would worry.
“I will return anon.” Alexia addressed Seraphina, but her gaze was on her sister’s ragged breathing. Fear rose to taunt her faith-filled words.
“Worry not. I will give her the best of care, mistress.”
Nodding, Alexia slipped out the door into the dark corridor and started down the stairs. So consumed with thoughts of her sister, she didn’t hear the footsteps behind her.
“Mistress Bregley. You are here! Excellent.”
Startled by the sound of Sir LeGode’s voice, she halted and turned, careful to keep her eyes lowered as was proper for a servant. “I sang for Lady D’Clere, Sir.”
“I am glad to hear it. She has been distressed of late.”
“If that is all, Sir.” Alexia started on her way.
“We have very important guests, and I request you sing for them at our feast tonight.”
She halted once again. “Sing?”
“Aye, the sweet sounds that come hence from your mouth?” He teased.
“Of course, but … I am no troubadour, Sir. I fear I would bring you shame.”
“Nonsense!” He started past her with a wave of his hand. “I shall expect you as soon as the meal is underway.”
Sing!? How could she sing in front of the King’s Guard? In front of the man she’d battled in the forest? Should he recognize her, her ruse would be up, the Falcon of Emerald Forest unmasked, and she’d be tossed into the dungeon to rot. Yet if she disobeyed Sir LeGode, ’twould cast equal suspicion on her that could lead to the same end. Now what was she to do?
Chapter 4
Ronar popped one last piece of cheese into his mouth, took a swig of wine, and sat back in his chair before the high table in Luxley’s grand hall. On either side of him sat Jarin and Damien, while beyond Damien perched the bishop, appearing none the worse for wear despite his long, arduous journey. In good sooth, he seemed quite in his element, surrounded by doting sycophants—Sir LeGode, chief among them. Ronar huffed. The steward fawned over every word out of the bishop’s mouth—every word he could manage in between morsels of their delicious feast—stewed pheasant, venison boiled in almond milk, onions, and wine, baked apples and pears in sugar, a variety of cheeses, and an excellent spiced red wine. Quite a repast for so late in the day.
Not that Ronar was complaining. ’Twas good to have his belly full aga
in. His soul, however, was another matter. Despite the good fare, pleasant conversation, warm fire, and festivities that surrounded him, he could not shake the foreboding that had assailed him upon entering Luxley castle. Even now, he scanned the great hall, seeking its source. If it hailed from a person, he or she would most likely be present. Nigh everyone, save the lowest of servants, were enjoying the feast—from the gardener, blacksmith, and messengers who sat toward the back of the hall, to the knights who sat before them enjoying more drink than warriors should. Why should they not when their commander, Sir DeGay, had long since dropped his head into his stew? Next came the reward table where the clerks, cofferer, marshals, and almoners sat, while the Lord’s High table, the place of greatest honor, was reserved for Bishop Montruse, Ronar and his men, Sir LeGode, and his son Cedric, a fatuous fellow with the disposition of a jester.
No ethereal figure slithered about, no black-hooded men ducked into the shadows, no evil glints in narrowed eyes or sneers upon twisted lips. All seemed to be enjoying the evening. Ronar shrugged off the sensation. Alack, if such evil existed here, the bishop would feel it as well. Yet one glance his way revealed a man eating and drinking and laughing as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Ronar sipped his wine and drew in a breath of the sweet odor of lavender and rosemary herbs scattered across the floor, tainted by the scents of meat and spices, human sweat, and tallow. Candles protruding from spikes on walls and two large chandeliers provided a warm glow that flickered over the assembly like sunlight through trees.
To Ronar’s left, Damien drank more than he ate, his listless eyes shifting over the crowd—always on the alert, always seeking the object of some ancient revenge of which the man would not speak. Ronar took no concern of his friend’s inebriation. Damien had the odd ability to sober at will should danger advance. Jarin, however, was another matter. Seated at Ronar’s right, he continued eating, drinking and flirting with the few wenches who kept his cup full of wine and his ego full of flattery. Though mostly young boys served the food, as was common, Ronar had to admit Sir LeGode’s use of a few women offered a pleasant diversion. Especially after three days and nights sleeping beside naught but snoring, foul-smelling men.
Alas, now that they were nearly finished with the meal, Ronar longed to get to the business at hand, acquire a good night’s sleep, and begin their task on the morrow.
A group of colorfully-dressed troubadours entered carrying various instruments—lyres, flutes, cymbals, and a viol—and Ronar huffed and grabbed his cup of wine. More delays. Jarin elbowed him, and pointed at a lady wearing a plain woolen kirtle walking alongside the musicians.
“Finally, some entertainment.” His brown eyes flashed.
Damien took another sip and let out a belch, mimicking Ronar’s sentiments at the interruption. Still, something about the lady caught his eye. Her back was to him, but ’twas her hair that intrigued him…the most lustrous shade of red, like fire…nay, like the color of flaming copper. The curled tip of her braid swayed over her waist as she walked. A flowered chaplet graced her head and spread a net over the lustrous strands as if it could possibly hide them. But nothing could dull their shine. She walked with grace, aye, but also with authority and power as if she were a princess and no mere peasant.
She turned, keeping her head down, and stood to the side of the musicians, who plucked and tuned their instruments, drawing the attention of the crowd.
Yet when she opened her mouth and the words to “Sing we to this Merry Company” came out in the sweetest, clearest voice Ronar had ever heard, he regretted his impatience. The song drifted through the hall on angel’s wings, stunning the company to silence and eliciting sighs of comfort from all present. And Ronar felt his own tension leeching from his body as he sat back and closed his eyes to fully enjoy the pleasing melody.
When she finished, cheers filled the air, and Ronar opened his eyes to see the lady hastily pushing her way through the crowd as a juggler took her place and a new song began.
If she had continued on her way, face down, weaving around servants and guests, Ronar wouldn’t have given her another thought. But the lady lifted her head and shifted her gaze toward him, their eyes locking for but a moment in time, ere she continued bounding forward.
And Ronar knew. He knew they’d just been serenaded by none other than the Falcon of Emerald Forest.
“Sir LeGode,” he shouted loud enough for her to hear as he leaned forward to address the steward. “Pray, tell us who is this Falcon of Emerald Forest?”
LeGode’s face twisted as if he’d bitten a lemon. “Alack, tell me she did not bother you and His Grace on your way here?”
“’Twas a minor incident with an arrow that nearly pierced my heart.” Ronar dared a glance toward the lady and found she had slowed in her exit, her ears tilted in their direction.
LeGode faced the bishop, his voice edged in panic. “I pray you were not harmed, your Grace.”
“Nay, my guards dealt with her.” The bishop tossed meat into his mouth as if the subject bored him.
The juggler dropped the apples he was tossing, and the crowd roared in laughter.
Sir LeGode addressed Ronar. “I apologize for your inconvenience, Sir Knight, and I’m glad no harm came to you.”
Damien chuckled, but Ronar elbowed him to silence.
“Pray, who is this fierce lady archer?” Jarin asked.
“A nuisance, a pest, nothing more. She hunts and provides food for the village.”
“Against the king’s command?!” The bishop sparked to life, finally pushing his trencher away and patting his belly. “’Tis the king’s forest. She should be caught and hanged.”
“Many have tried, your Grace, but she has proved”—Sir LeGode cleared his throat—“rather elusive.”
“Elusive, indeed.” Jarin smiled at the wench who filled his glass, then raised it to a toast. “Quick as a rabbit, sly as a fox, an archer with no equal, is the Falcon of Emerald Forest. But knights beware her boot!” He chuckled, his eyes glinting playfully toward Ronar.
LeGode snorted.
“Who is this rebel who dares defy her king?” The bishop wiped his mouth with the tablecloth.
“As I said, no one knows, your Grace,” LeGode replied, annoyed. “A peasant with a bloated ego, I expect. Never fear, we will catch her. And when we do, she’ll hang from the gallows.”
Ronar’s gaze found her again at the edge of the crowd. She cast him one last glance ere disappearing out the door. He couldn’t help but smile. The infamous Falcon of Emerald Forest posing as a servant girl in the midst of Luxley castle. Either she was the most courageous woman he’d ever met, or she was utterly and completely mad.
♥♥♥
“You seek what?” Sir LeGode turned from the narrow window of his study to face the bishop, who sighed and spread out the embroidered black robes of his vestment around his feet. Short-cropped gray hair circled an angular face whose lines were as harsh as the man’s squinty brown eyes. During the past three days, Ronar had sought those eyes and that face for any semblance of the grace and kindness of God, but as yet, had not found even a suggestion.
Quiet, reserved, and obedient, his page, a lad of only fifteen, shadowed the bishop, attending his every whim.
Flanked by his friends, Ronar shifted his stance impatiently behind the bishop, most anxious for news of their quest. Instead, he found his thoughts returning to the Falcon of Emerald Forest. Captivating woman. To what purpose would she risk her neck by coming to the castle? And singing before LeGode and all the knights. Ronar smiled. Intriguing! He simply must know more about her.
The bishop’s voice jerked Ronar from his thoughts. “The Spear of Destiny, Sir. Surely you have heard of it. And ’tis not I who seeks it but your king.”
Sir LeGode grimaced. “Of course. Of course. Anything for the king. ’Tis just that...” He lowered to a chair. “The Spear that stabbed Christ?” His thick brows rose in skepticism. “’Tis but a myth.”
“I
t is no myth, I assure you. ’Tis real and quite powerful, and the king has need of it to help fight his many enemies.”
Cedric, LeGode’s son, an odd-looking man in his twenties with wide eyes, a receding chin, and a face much kinder than his father’s, grunted from a chair in the corner.
Ignoring him, LeGode snapped his fingers, and a young maiden who stood to his right poured them drinks from a decanter on a side table.
Damien licked his lips, while Jarin followed her every move. Ronar kept his eyes on LeGode. Something was amiss with this one. Where most men flattered and cowered in the presence of a man who had the king’s ear—and the power of life and death that accompanied it—LeGode, contrary to his behavior at the feast, appeared suddenly annoyed with the man as if the bishop were but a servant interrupting his master. There was something else as well …something vile lurking behind his feigned smile.
The girl bowed before the bishop and handed him a drink, then served Sir LeGode, Cedric, and finally Ronar and his men. If she’d lifted her gaze, she would have seen the grin on Jarin’s face as he examined her pretty features.
“But why look for the holy relic here?” LeGode sipped his drink.
The bishop set down his cup and fingered the large gold crucifix hanging about his neck. “The king has been investigating the Spear for years. The priest who found it in Jerusalem when we took the city in the Sixth Crusade swore on his death bed that he gave it to a young girl living at a convent in the south of France.”
Candlelight flickered over the man’s age-lined face as he stared at the tomes lining the wall.
LeGode had the foresight to wait for the Bishop to continue.
“That young girl we believe to be Lady Grecia D’Clere.”
“Lady D’Clere!” LeGode balked. “Forsooth, I do not believe it.”
“You do not believe your king?” The bishop’s tone pierced.
“Nay, ’tis simply that I knew Lady D’Clere well. I was her husband’s dearest confidant ere he died and then hers, until illness took her home. Surely she would have told me.”
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