She Walks in Power

by Tyndall, MaryLu

  Three men appeared, glowing as bright as the sun, immense in stature and armed with swords and shields. She’d seen them before—guardians sent from God. The one most familiar to her nodded her way. The other one stood by the friar as he slept. But the third took a stance beside Sir Knight, who was sipping his tea and staring at her curiously.

  Light appeared in the knight’s belly, a thin beam that shone up through his head and into to the dark sky. She scanned the area around him. No shadowy, large-eyed entities lurked among the trees. This man belonged to God, though his light was small.

  “You are a good man, Knight,” she finally said. “I see your heart.”

  He laughed. “Then why point a blade at it?”

  “Because I fear you do not yet know your own heart.”

  “I am called Ronar LePeine.” He took another sip of tea. “Since I have made the acquaintance of your arrow, mayhap that has earned me your name?”

  “You may call me Falcon.”

  He frowned. “Very well, Falcon, what else occupies your time aside from feeding the village, singing for the Lady of the castle, shooting knights, and practicing heresy?”

  “You make me sound so adventurous. Yet, I assure you, I am no one of import.”

  “And yet I have a feeling I have only scraped the surface.” He finished the tea and set down the cup, giving her that grin of his that could disarm an army.

  She looked away. “Pray, what is the punishment for my crimes, Knight? The dungeon? The stocks, or mayhap burned at the stake?”

  “I must turn you in, of course. ’Tis my sworn duty.”

  “As I feared.”

  Sweat formed on his brow. He blinked and rubbed his eyes.

  “I cannot allow that, of course,” she said.

  “If you think one little knife will stop me, you are wrong, Falcon.”

  “Knife?” She tossed it, and it stuck point first in the trunk above his head. “But that tea… well, that is another matter.”

  The briefest flash of alarm passed over his eyes, followed by a glimmer of understanding... ere he groaned and toppled to the dirt with a hearty thunk!

  Chapter 9

  “What have we here?” Jarin chuckled, gesturing toward Ronar’s leg. “Lady Falcon topples the great Knight LePeine yet again? Ha Ha, I am a poet!”

  Ignoring him, Ronar removed the leaves and peat, washed out the wound with the water the servant had brought, and upon smelling no infection, bound it with a clean cloth. “She had an advantage,” he grumbled out, his mood as dark as their gloomy chamber.

  “Yet so rarely do you give anyone such,” Damien remarked from his stance by the fire.

  Outside, thunder rumbled across the dark sky as rain pounded the courtyard. Not only had Ronar woken lying in the dirt, feeling as though he’d been trampled by horses, but rain as heavy and thick as syrup slapped his face. By the time he dragged himself to his horse and back to the castle, he was sopping wet, shivering, and angrier than he’d ever been. At the wench, aye, but more than that, at himself.

  “She used trickery. I will not be fooled again.” He stood, tested his weight and donned his breeches and boots. How could he have been so half-witted? Accepting tea from a known thief and heretic. A beautiful thief at that. Beautiful and witty and clever. And—as he remembered her tending his wound—kind and merciful.

  “At least you had an eventful night.” Damien crossed arms over his thick chest. “Boredom threatens to undo me.”

  Sitting on his cot, Jarin expertly flipped a coin betwixt his fingers. “Surely the bishop will soon forsake this futile quest. In good sooth, there is nowhere else to search.”

  But the bishop had no intention of quitting. Not yet, anyway, as Ronar discovered just minutes later when they were summoned to the great hall. There, they were forced to endure a barrage of insults from his Excellency as he paced before the huge fire.

  “The King’s Guard and not one of you can find a tiny spear! Not one of you can either induce, threaten, or bribe it out of those who possess it!” With a growl that scared a rat out from hiding, the bishop flung an arm their way. “Why, you couldn’t even frighten a crumb from a mouse!” His long black robes swirled about him like demon wings. Immediately Ronar chastised himself for the thought as another wave of dread washed over him, the second since he’d entered the hall. What was it about this place? He glanced up at the banners hanging from the tall ceiling, then to the colorful tapestries lining the walls. Thunder shook the stones, only increasing the foreboding saturating the air around him.

  Jarin and Damien stood at attention, their faces stoic masks, save for the tiny twitch on the right side of Jarin’s lips and the tight grip Damien had on the hilt of his sword.

  “We cannot produce something from nothing,” Damien said a bit too harshly, and Ronar prayed his friend’s temper would not inflame and put a quick end to all their careers.

  As it was, the bishop’s searing eyes leveled upon the knight.

  Thankfully, LeGode intervened. “Surely it is not here, Excellency.” He gripped the carved wood of a high back chair and moved to the stone hearth, his face a twist of frustration. “You have searched the castle twice, and if one of the villagers had the Spear in their possession, they would have come forth to receive such a grand reward.”

  “Silence!” Bishop Montruse roared and gripped the gold jeweled cross around his neck as if it held the answers. “It must be here.” He swallowed hard and stared into the spitting flames, and Ronar almost felt pity for the man who could not return empty-handed to the king when his position—and mayhap even his life—were at risk.

  Cedric, LeGode’s son entered the hall and bounded toward them as if he strode into a market square for a day of games. Halting, he swirled a gold-embroidered sash through the air. “Why all this pother over a spear? The king needs no talisman to win his battles.”

  Ronar cringed at the man’s foolishness even as the bishop charged him, his face mottled in red.

  Sir LeGode stepped in front of his son, and Ronar gripped the pommel of his sword, his one thought to protect the bishop, as was his duty. But a female voice hailing them from the grand stairs prevented the catastrophe.

  “Can you men not cease your fighting for a single day?”

  Every eye turned, including the servants flitting about the hall, to see a vision of beauty descending the steps, an equally-stunning vision following behind her. The first woman had brown hair dappled in honey and walked with the grace of a goddess. The second woman bore the face of an angel surrounded by lustrous hair the color of the moon. The men simply stared for a moment until LeGode approached the first lady and took her hands in his. “Lady D’Clere, you are looking well. How fare you this day?”

  “Better. So much so, I grew weary of my chamber and wished to finally greet my guests properly.” Her brown eyes scanned the group, hesitating on Jarin, ere she approached the bishop.

  “Bishop Montruse, what a pleasure to have your Excellency grace Luxley.” She bowed before him, the other lady holding her elbow lest she fall.

  The bishop extended his hand, and she kissed the jeweled ring on his finger, his anger of but a moment ago dissipating beneath her charm. “I am pleased to see you well, my lady. Word of your illness has reached the king.”

  LeGode elbowed his son and nodded toward Lady D’Clere. It took the lad a moment ere he approached her and proffered his elbow. “Pray, do not tax yourself. Come, sit by the fire, my lady.”

  Refusing his elbow, she offered Cedric a gentle smile and allowed him to lead her to a chair.

  Cedric tripped, laughed at himself, then bowed toward her. “You look lovely as ever.”

  But the lady wasn’t listening. Instead, she turned and whispered something to her companion and both of them smiled toward Ronar and his friends.

  Only then did Ronar notice that Jarin had not taken his eyes off Lady D’Clere. Tush. Could not the man seek easier—and less dangerous—prey?

  “I’m most anxious to mee
t the King’s Guard,” she said, and Jarin needed no further invitation to approach and take the lady’s hand.

  “Jarin the Just, ever your humble servant, my lady.” His lips lingered overlong upon her hand as their eyes met. ’Twas no shock at Jarin’s interest in a comely lady, but ’twas quite a shock at her response. Brown eyes, alight with flecks of gold, flitted betwixt Jarin’s for what seemed several minutes as a smile graced her lips.

  Jarin returned the smile, still clinging to the lady’s hand until the bishop cleared his throat. Releasing her fingers, Jarin dipped his head once more and moved aside, allowing Ronar and Damien to introduce themselves.

  Though comely, the lady’s thin hand and pale complexion bespoke her illness, reminding Ronar of how Lady Falcon’s singing soothed her during her feverish bouts. Not that he needed reminding of Lady Falcon. She had consumed his thoughts since he’d awoken that morn.

  “My companion, Seraphina de Mowbray,” the lady introduced her friend to the gentlemen and each dipped their head before her.

  “Now, what is this I hear of the Spear of Destiny hidden away in my castle?” Excitement tinged Lady D’Clere’s tone.

  “Aye, my lady.” The bishop folded his hands before him, his tone condescending. “Every trail the king has followed for the past several years has led us to Luxley.”

  “I am all astonishment, your Grace.”

  Sir LeGode snapped at a passing servant and ordered mead brought for his guests. “My lady, we have searched both the castle and the village and not found a trace of it, withal.”

  “You say my mother may have been in possession of this holy relic at one point?”

  The bishop gave a sickly-sweet smile. “That is what Father Aurand told the king’s messengers.”

  “Hmm.” Lady D’Clere shook her head. “If she did, she made no mention of it to me.”

  Bishop Montruse gave her a placating nod. “Hence, ’tis why I intend to search beyond the village into the Emerald Forest.”

  Damien huffed. “Unlikely you will find anything but trees and deer.”

  “And Sir LePeine’s notorious Lady Falcon.” Cedric joked.

  Ronar frowned.

  Lady D’Clere faced him, her eyes sparking interest. “Ah, Sir LePeine, pray tell, do you know this Falcon of Emerald Forest? My knights have been trying to catch her for years.”

  “I had an unfortunate encounter with her on the journey here.” Ronar gave his friends a look that told them to be silent.

  Servants returned with cups of mead set upon trays.

  “This lady thief irks me.” The bishop snorted, taking a mug. “We must catch her. Who better to know if the Spear resides within the forest? She may even possess it herself.” He lifted his chin as if such a glorious idea could only have hailed from his own brilliance.

  Cedric downed his mead, grabbed another cup and began kicking rushes across the floor.

  LeGode glowered at his son.

  Seraphina leaned to whisper in her mistress’s ear. Whatever she said caused the lady’s breath to increase, but so slight that most would not have noticed.

  “Whatever you wish, Excellency. We have naught to hide.” Turning, Lady D’Clere reached for her steward’s hand, and he immediately grasped hers as she addressed the bishop again. “You should know that Sir LeGode has been an exemplary model of Christian kindness and charity. With my sister”—she hesitated before continuing—“gone and my illness, I have been unable to manage things properly. I trust he has extended you every courtesy.”

  “Indeed, my lady”—the bishop tapped his chin—“However—”

  The great wooden door creaked open, and a boy rushed into the hall, a blast of rain-spiced wind swirling in behind him. He halted before the bishop, hair and surcoat dripping on the stone floor. “A message for Bishop Montruse from the king.”

  A momentary flicker of fear crossed the bishop’s eyes as he took the parchment, broke the seal, and waved the boy off.

  His expression softened, and he swung to face the lady. “The king sends another suitor, Lady D’Clere. The son of Lord Hadrian Falk of Kent. A good man, I make bold to say. A great benefactor of the church, wise, and lord of a substantial estate.”

  Ronar could not help but notice the alarm that rolled over Sir LeGode’s face.

  Lady D’Clere sighed and exchanged a glance with her companion. “I am surprised the king indulges me yet again and doesn’t find me accursed. Mayhap this one will survive the journey.”

  A thought galloped through Ronar’s mind, fleeting, yet as dangerous as if he’d been assaulted. Could Lady Falcon have something to do with the death of these suitors? Nay. They’d been eaten by wolves. Besides, what purpose could she have for keeping Lady D’Clere from wedding?

  From behind the lady, Sir LeGode stared intently at his son. “How difficult it must be to consider marrying a man you’ve never met.”

  Cedric rushed to a servant, grabbed a cup of mead, and brought it to her.

  Thanking him, she took it, but barely spared him a glance.

  “Whatever the king wishes. I am of age and fast becoming a spinster.” She smiled, and Ronar found he liked this lady’s devotion to the king.

  Bishop Montruse nodded his agreement. “The king will be pleased to hear of your loyalty, Lady D’Clere.”

  The pinch braiding LeGode’s lips instantly softened into a smile. “A feast! We must celebrate your renewed health and the impending arrival of Lord Falk.”

  Bishop Montruse lifted his cup in the air. “And on the morrow, we shall renew the search.”

  Ronar groaned inwardly, a battle waging within him. Should he disclose his knowledge of Lady Falcon, as was his duty? Yet, what knowledge did he possess? Merely that she was a heretic and good with the bow. Naught to aid in finding her. Nay, he would wait until their paths crossed again, gain her trust if possible, and discover for himself if she had knowledge of the Spear. Then he would arrest her for heresy and thievery. No matter how intriguing he found her, a traitor to the crown could not be tolerated.

  Chapter 10

  The feast was near to an end, and Sir LeGode’s imbecile son had not yet captured Lady D’Clere’s attention for more than a second. Aye, he’d flitted about like some deranged bird, bringing her fruit, drinks, and sweets and even telling her fanciful stories which brought naught but a placating smile from the lady.

  “You dolt!” LeGode sneered, resisting the urge to slap the boy upside the head as they stood to the side scanning the guests who were still laughing and eating. In the corner, a minstrel thrummed a happy tune. “Can you not do a single thing right?”

  Cedric pouted and fingered his fur collar. “I’ve tried everything, Father. You’ve seen. She harbors not a single shred of interest in me.”

  “Because you behave the fool! Act like a man. Quit catering to her every whim.”

  “Peace, froth! I thought you wished me to cater to her every whim.” Cedric shifted his silk shoes across the floor then examined his nails. “May I have your leave to return home, Father?”

  “So you can whittle your time away playing Skittles, Ring-Toss, and other foolish games? Nay, you may not! Look at you.” LeGode swept an arm over his son. “You are a handsome lad, well formed, with a pleasing face, and heir to a meager, but successful estate which sits beside Luxley manor. A fine catch. Any lady would be pleased.”

  “I don’t want a lady, Father. I find a serving maid on occasion is more to my taste, for I have no desire to marry.”

  “You will be married”—LeGode ground out—“and to this lady. Think, man, think! This match will triple our land and fortune. Not to mention elevate your position. Quit being so selfish and think of your family.”

  “But how to make her take note of me?” Frowning, Cedric gestured to the lady in question, who leaned her head toward the arrogant King’s Guard, Jarin the Just. More like Jarin the dust when LeGode was through with him.

  “I cannot compete with a man such as he,” Cedric whined.


  “Yes, you can and you will. He has naught but a fine physique and handsome face. No land, no title, and no brains. She will tire of him soon enough.” Or LeGode would have to intervene. “Return at once to her side. I sat you beside her for a reason. Not so you could stand here talking with me.”

  Huffing, Cedric started on his way.

  “Think of something clever to say, for God’s sake, boy,” LeGode whispered after him.

  But an hour later, as the guests dispersed and Lady D’Clere returned to her chamber, Cedric had not managed to lure more than a glance or two away from the libertine knight.

  Enraged, LeGode tore from the grand hall—ere he tore his son in two—and descended the tower stairs toward the dungeons below. Round and round he fled down the rough stone treads until he was dizzy and sweaty and madder than ever. He needed help and he needed it fast. How was he supposed to carry out his well-laid plans when the king’s bishop and his knights were right under his nose searching the entire manor, nook, cranny, and hall? Devils Blood! Lady D’Clere was finally well enough to attend a supper, and his impotent son couldn’t attract a fly if he were covered in manure. LeGode should admit it. He had an unambitious clod for a son, and there was naught to be done about it.

  Well, mayhap something.

  He reached the bottom, grabbed a candle from a post on the wall, and crept down the narrow tunnel, groping the cold, moist stones as he went. Finding the crevice he sought, he slid his fingers down the jagged rock to the latch at the bottom. Click. He shoved and the wall became a door. Slipping inside, he closed it behind him.