She Walks in Power

by Tyndall, MaryLu

  “I do not recall hearing your troth. Merely my threat to slit your throat.”

  “I do not gainsay it, Lady Falcon. The thought brought me great terror.” He smiled.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You are pleased to mock me, Sir Knight. But you will find that I am indeed one to fear, withal.” She clutched the arrow.

  “I have no dou—Ouch!” His flesh ripped. The bloody arrow flew past his vision and into the bushes.

  Grabbing a handful of peat and cobweb, she pressed them into the wound, a flicker of fear passing over her expression at the blood soaking his breeches.

  Pain rippled up his thigh, setting it on fire. He grimaced and took a breath. “A warning next time, if you please.”

  “It would have hurt more.” Removing the blood-soaked peats, she grabbed a wineskin from her belt and poured it over the wound.

  “Woman, cease!”

  “Do you wish it to fester?” Setting the pouch aside, she applied more peat, then fresh leaves, and tied it all in place with the vine. The smell of blood and wine mingled with her scent of pine and woman, and indeed, his head spun slightly.

  “There. The wound is shallow. That should last until you return to the castle and see the physician.” Rising, she wiped her hands on some leaves and grabbed her bow.

  But he didn’t wish to return to the castle where he would dawdle away his time with feasts, fruitless searches, and the bishop’s incessant whining. At least not yet. He longed to spend more time with this fascinating woman. He longed to discover her secrets—where she lived and with whom, was she spoken for, and most of all what madness caused her to risk her life to feed the poor, and even worse, serve in a castle at the risk of discovery? He found he must know.

  “Alack, I am loath to attempt it, lest I bleed to death on the way.” He winced at his pathetic tone.

  She gave him the look of a mother to a naughty child. “And this from a king’s man? Forsooth! ’Twould seem tales of the Guard’s bravery have been greatly exaggerated.” Planting both hands at her hips, she arched her auburn brows. “Find the courage, Sir Knight, for I bid you adieu.” She made it to the edge of the clearing ere she spun to face him again. “’Tis in your best interest not to enter Emerald Forest, or I fear your other leg may meet my arrow as well.”

  He longed to wipe the smirk off those succulent lips of hers, but instead he did the only thing he could think to do in order to keep her with him. He fainted.

  ♥♥♥

  Stooping, Alexia nudged the still body of the knight. Potz! She could not fathom how such a strong, virile man—one of the elite warriors of the kingdom—could faint at so slight a wound. He’d bled a good amount, but surely not enough to warrant swooning like a maiden. Now, what was she to do? One glance around the forest told her night was fast approaching. She couldn’t very well leave him to be devoured by foxes or wolves. Grabbing her pouch, she poured the remainder of her wine on his face. Nothing. No twitch. No wince. No movement at all. Mayhap something else plagued him. She leaned close to his nose to hear him breathe. Slow and steady. His scent of wood smoke, leather, and man rose to taunt her with memories of steely arms holding her close and hot breath wafting down her neck—both of which had caused her to feel things no lady should.

  Such a dichotomy in the limp man before her.

  Rising, she paced the carpet of leaves and needles. She could sit here until he woke, but how long would that be? The friar would be overwrought at her late return. The knight was too heavy to carry, and she’d left the cart she’d used to transport the deer at the village. Not that she could lift him into it anyway. Nor could she bring him there. An unconscious King’s Guard with an arrow wound would certainly bring a death sentence to anyone who housed him.

  “Wake up, you fool!” She nudged him with her foot.

  An owl hooted from above, mocking her predicament. Would that she could join it in flight and leave this knight to his fate. But she couldn’t. Enemy or not, he was one of God’s children. Albeit a bit of a wilted reed at the moment.

  She peered closer, examining him. A strong jaw and chin bristling with short whiskers gave the impression of nobility. His deep-set eyes seemed peaceful in repose, yet she knew they could pierce iron when opened. A thin mustache draped around either side of his mouth, forming a perpetual frown, while a red scar cut across his right eyebrow and etched down his temple. Wavy hair the color of rich earth surrounded a handsome face—if she admitted it—while a strand fluttered over his forehead in the breeze. She longed to brush it aside, all the while wondering at the odd attraction she felt. Mayhap ’twas because his biting tongue was finally still and the usual taunting smirk absent from his face.

  Ugh! Dropping to her knees, she slapped him across that face. Hard. Nothing. Very well, she had but one recourse.

  Chapter 8

  As soon as the lady darted off into the forest, Ronar rubbed his face where she’d struck him. Seemed unnecessarily cruel to strike a sleeping man that hard, but then again, he supposed she was desperate. Now, if he’d judged her correctly, she either went to get help or find something to convey him out of the dangers of the forest at night. Either way, he’d surely learn more about her. And if she didn’t return and left him to die, he would learn that he didn’t wish to learn more about her, save where she hid so he could arrest her and bring her to justice.

  He should arrest her regardless. He’d taken an oath not only to protect the king with his life but to enforce his laws across the kingdom.

  Struggling to rise, he tested his injured leg. Sore, but not enough to prevent him from walking back to where he’d left his horse. And mayhap even to the castle if need be. He glanced down at the leafy bandage. The lady had not hesitated to yank out the arrow and tend his wound, even at the sight of shredded flesh and pooling blood. So unlike most women he’d known. But she wasn’t like most women. Which is how he found himself in this predicament and, dare he admit, even considering defying the king’s orders. Begad! What was wrong with him? He rubbed the back of his neck and gazed over the shadows dropping a blanket of gray over the forest. Above him, a bird squawked as night crickets began to chirp. He’d give her an hour.

  It didn’t take that long. Several minutes later, he heard voices. Those voices grew louder as he carefully positioned himself exactly as she had left him.

  A man’s voice, an older man spoke. Her husband? “So this is your knight? Holy Saints, what have you done to him?”

  “He is not my knight, Friar, and I shot him as I told you. ’Twas but a shallow wound, which I tended, but then he swooned like a girl.”

  Ronar suppressed a groan at her comment even as surprise filtered through him. A friar? Odd company for a thief.

  “I had hoped to find him gone,” she said. “But alack, he not only swoons like a girl, he sleeps like a babe.”

  Ronar ground his fist in the dirt.

  “A rather large knight,” the friar said. “And quite handsome.”

  Ronar liked this friar.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” she said with nonchalance.

  The friar chuckled. “Alas, there’s naught to be done but build a fire, tend his wound, and keep watch over him. We cannot take him home, and as you have told me, we cannot take him to the village.”

  “There is no need for you to sit with me, Friar. I can fend off predators.”

  Shuffling sounded. “I’ve brought food, healing herbs, blankets, and a Bible. What else have we need of? Besides, you should not be with him alone.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “’Tis him I worry about.” The friar chuckled again. “What if he should awake and prick your ire once again?”

  Ronar quite enjoyed the loving tone of their banter, and he wondered if the friar were her father. His own parents had been distant, austere, believing that expressions of emotion were naught but displays of weakness.

  Within minutes, the crackling of a fire met his ears, and smoke drifted past his nose. Heat from the flames instan
tly chased the chill from his body, for darkness had long sense robbed the forest of its warmth. How difficult it was to remain still. Yet, he must keep up his charade as long as possible if he were to garner the information he sought.

  Footsteps thumped. He sensed someone hovering above him, felt his knives plucked from his belt and his sword pulled from his sheath. And it took everything within him to keep from grabbing the wrist of the offender. No one relieved Ronar LePeine of his weapons without his permission. No one but this lady, apparently, as she then laid a blanket upon him. Odd, but the sentiment warmed more than his body.

  “We should dress his wound ’ere he wakes,” Lady Falcon said.

  Ronar wished he could protest. The throbbing had finally subsided from her last ministrations. Girding himself against the pain, he remained still whilst they unwrapped the injury, peeled off the leaves and peat, and washed the gash again with wine. Relief began to take root at the hope of a conclusion to this mad intrusion upon his flesh when a cold, stinging paste was applied to his leg. It smelled of juniper, rosemary, and lavender, and once the throbbing ceased, the scent soothed him.

  Another scent soon drove him to distraction. ’Twas some kind of meat roasting on the fire. It tickled his nose and stirred his stomach into a low growl of protest. Yet he remained quiet as the dead, while the lady and friar partook of their meal with much laughter and conversation. Naught was discussed of particular interest—the summer’s progress, the abundance of deer, the friar’s chastisement of the risks Lady Falcon took—save one topic that pricked Ronar’s ears. Something about an object of great interest to them both. Lady Falcon asked if the friar had brought it, and he replied “’Tis safe where it should be.”

  Afterward, they prayed, both out loud and unashamedly. Ronar had heard many prayers before, most of them in churches and cathedrals uttered in Latin by men of the cloth, or in the whispered pleas of the devout kneeling in the pews, rosaries in hand. But these prayers were different. For one, they were not in Latin, for another, they were simple and forthright as if God Himself sat around the fire with them, conversing as a friend.

  Ronar found it both disturbing and yet, comforting.

  Finally, the friar began reciting words from a book—at least Ronar assumed ’twas a book—the most comforting, sweet words he had heard in a long while. Words that stirred something in his soul.

  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through Him, and apart from Him nothing came into being that has come into being. In Him was life, and the life was the Light of men. The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.”

  “I love that passage,” Lady Falcon said.

  “’Tis one of my favorites as well.”

  “I love that His light scatters all darkness.”

  “Aye, we need His light more and more these days for the darkness grows bold,” the friar returned. Then, he must have tossed a log on the fire, for crackling filled the air.

  “’Tis heavier than ever in the castle,” Lady Falcon added.

  “Hmm. All the more reason for you to stay away.” Shuffling sounded and another log was tossed on the fire. “Now, what of the verses you brought to memory?”

  Instead of speaking, Lady Falcon began to sing. Her voice was even more beguiling echoing through trees than it had been off stone and wood. The dulcet notes swirled about him, calming his spirit and tantalizing his soul with words that spoke of a love freely-given that had always seemed out of Ronar’s reach.

  Comfort, hope, peace—sensations so foreign to him—began to settle within the deepest parts of his soul when… alarm pinched every nerve! Heresy! ’Twas the Holy Scriptures. It took all Ronar’s strength to not leap to his feet, grab his weapons, and drag them both before the bishop to stand trial. ’Twas his duty for God and king.

  Thankfully, the lady ceased her singing, and they soon bid each other good rest. After several minutes, the deep rumbles of sleep filled the air, and Ronar remained still, contemplating his next move.

  Something dropped on his chest. A leaf? Too heavy. Acorn? Nay, it began to crawl. Terror stole his breath.

  Jerking up with a start, he batted the enormous spider away, watching it scamper under a bush. When he spun back around, it was to the tip of a knife pointed at his throat and Lady Falcon’s victorious grin beaming at the end of the handle.

  ♥♥♥

  “Afraid of a little spider, Sir Knight?” Alexia laughed but kept the blade leveled at the fiend’s throat. She’d suspected from the beginning that he feigned his benumbed state, though she’d admit to believing it for a while. What warrior takes a strike to his face without retaliation? Yet after the friar fell asleep, she’d watched the knight closely…and movement behind the lids of his eyes gave her pause. ’Twas then that a grand idea had occurred to her.

  Seemingly unmoved by the knife at his throat, he frowned. “You dropped that hideous creature on me?”

  Hideous creature? She wanted to laugh. “How else to wake you from your ruse?”

  “Ruse, what ruse?” He reached for his head as if to feign another spell.

  She released an impatient sigh. “You did not swoon, Knight. You tricked me, though I know not the reason.” Her heart tightened. Had she and the friar said anything about the Spear? She could not remember.

  “I am cut to the quick you would say so.” Mischief flashed in his eyes.

  “You will be cut, Sir Knight, if you do not tell me what you are about.” Remembering the last time he snatched a knife from her grip, she backed away.

  Confident blue eyes followed her as if he were the one holding the knife. He moved against a tree and leaned back on the trunk. “In truth, I am feeling a bit light-headed.”

  “Light-brained would be my guess.”

  He smiled, drew one knee up, and placed an arm across it. The insignia of the King’s Guard taunted her from the rerebrace.

  “What is it you want of me, Knight?” Could he possibly suspect her of harboring the Spear? Nay. There would be no reason.

  He glanced at Friar Josef, snoring on the other side of the fire. “Your father?”

  “My father is dead.”

  “We have that in common, Falcon. And your mother?”

  “The friar took me in soon after she died.” Why was she telling him this?

  “And the friar’s home is in the middle of the king’s forest?”

  She lowered to sit on a rock, keeping the knife pointed his way. “His home is with me, and I with him. That is all you need know.”

  The fire crackled and spit as he assessed her.

  “I could arrest you both for heresy.” He spoke the words as calmly as if they were merely exchanging news at market.

  “So you were awake.”

  “Enough to hear the Word of God spoken in blasphemy.” There, the first glimmer of mal-intent appeared in his eyes. Somewhere a frog croaked its displeasure.

  “Blasphemy?” She huffed. “Have a care, Knight. You call God’s Holy Word blasphemy?”

  “When it is read and interpreted by those not appointed by God.”

  “All are appointed by God. And we do not interpret it, merely read and feed on the bread that fills our soul.”

  He studied her, shifting his position. “The Scripture is so far above the mind of common man, how can we know its intent? If everyone from the lowest peasant to the highest king had access, the precious Words of God would be trodden underfoot and deprived of their holiness and power.”

  “So you have been told.”

  He cocked his head. “Do you not agree with the Church?”

  “I follow the teachings of God. You would be shocked how many edicts of the Church are not found in the Holy Scriptures.”

  “I will not hear your heresy,” he spat and tossed a pebble aside. “I follow the rules of the Church and the king.”

  “Not God’s?”

  “God has anoi
nted both.”

  “God may anoint, but man distorts and perverts, some not knowingly, others for power and wealth. You, of all people, should know that, being so close to the intrigue at court.”

  A breeze rustled the leaves and stirred the tips of his hair. He flattened his lips. “What I know is that straying from the teachings of the Church, disobeying the dictums of king and Society bring naught but tragedy.”

  Again, the same sorrow she’d sensed in him earlier reappeared—a wave of pain spilling from an ocean of agony in his eyes. He lowered his gaze.

  “Laws should be followed when civil,” she acceded.

  “And the king’s gaming laws are not?” He fingered the whiskers at his chin. “You spoke of being a protector. What are you protecting?” One brow arched.

  Alarm rang. She picked at the moss covering the rock, then rose and moved to a pot hanging over the fire. “The village, of course. I feed its starving people. Pray, do tell me kindness and mercy aren’t against the king’s law as well?”

  He offered no reply, merely dropped his eyes to her wrist where the band protected her mark. She must be careful. He was not dull-witted, this one.

  “Would you like something to quench your thirst? The friar made lemon-grass tea.” She knelt by the fire, opened the friar’s satchel to her right and rummaged until she found the vial she sought.

  “Aye, thank you.”

  Discretely slipping the contents in the pot, she stirred the tea, ladled a cup for Sir Knight, and then grabbed a hunk of meat left over from their meal. Knife still in one hand, she offered him the food and drink.

  He bit off a chunk of meat, then sipped the tea, as he studied her with those eyes of his—piercing, authoritative, yet curiously interested. And she longed to close her own eyes and seek the Spirit’s wisdom on this man. But she couldn’t risk it. Instead, she practiced what the friar had been teaching her, blinding herself to the temporary world and opening inner eyes to the real one.

  She calmed her breathing and sought the Spirit. After a few moments, the scene before her remained, but another scene took form and overlaid upon the first. Flowers spread throughout the forest in vibrant colors, sparkling in the light from a moon far larger and brighter. Colorful birds and graceful creatures meandered from behind trees and shrubs trimmed in emerald lace. Fearlessly, they grazed on grubs and moss. A glittering ribbon of silvery-blue water bubbled across the clearing, tossing diamonds in the air and laughing as it went. Butterflies, dipped in silver, fluttered above their heads.