Grendale, the village washer woman, darted up to her just as she was finishing. “Falcon, I have a message for you.” Her eyes shifted from the crowd back to Alexia, urgency firing from her face.
That message had sent Alexia sprinting home to don her kirtle, inform the friar, and retrieve a certain item. Her sister had grown ill again, this time far worse. And regardless of whether Sir LePeine had betrayed her secret and she walked into a trap, she could not leave her sister to die alone.
Now, as Alexia made her way through the village to the castle, she patted the pocket she’d sewn into her chemise. The touch of the Spear brought her comfort. And also a twinge of guilt that she hadn’t told the friar she’d brought it with her, for he would certainly protest. He’d protested well enough at her venture to the castle. But after the evil she’d sensed upon her last visit, and now with her sister fallen ill again and the great threat to Alexia, she needed its protection more than ever.
And so did her sister.
With the friar’s protests along with his prayers still sifting through her mind, Alexia slipped through the back gate into the courtyard, careful to keep the hood of her cloak over her head and her face down. Hard to do when the yard was full of knights, bow and arrows in hand, firing at targets strung along the stable walls.
“Fire!” Sir DeGay shouted, and ten knights released their arrows. Whish! They flew through the air… some hitting the target, others striking the wood, others flying over the walls. Eek! Alexia hoped they wouldn’t find a mark in human flesh.
Regardless, she suppressed a laugh. What she wouldn’t give to teach these knights how ’twas done, to grab a bow and split one of their well-placed arrows with hers. Wouldn’t that show them? Potz! There went her pride again.
“Imbeciles!” Sir DeGay shouted. “Again!”
All this for little ol’ her? Smiling, Alexia drew her cloak further over her head and moved along the outer edge toward the kitchen. The clank clank of metal caused her to peek beyond the archers where two men fought bare-chested with swords.
Ronar LePeine and one of his men.
She should look away. She should, she should, she should! Just continue on, slip unnoticed into the kitchen, not risk revealing herself. Instead, she froze, watching, admiring the graceful yet powerful way Ronar wielding his blade, his swift, elegant moves expertly aimed, the muscles rounding his arms, rolling across his back, and rippling down his firm belly.
Hot-blooded pigs’ feet! She should not be staring at him. Though ’twould seem she wasn’t the only one, as several kitchen maids and even the old washer woman had stopped to watch. Sir LePeine’s friend was equally skilled as their blades met and rang across the yard. Shoving Ronar’s sword back, he gave a mischievous grin and motioned Ronar forward. Ronar circled him, breath heavy, sweat moistening his hair.
He swooped down upon his opponent, the hiss of steel crackling the air. His friend met his blow, and the two struggled hilt to hilt, muscles flexing, faces grimacing. Ronar jerked his blade back and brought it swiftly to bear on his friend’s leg, but the man leapt out of the way and laughed tauntingly. “I know you too well, Ronar.”
“Not well enough,” Ronar replied. Jerking hair from his face, he circled his friend once again.
Alexia shrank further into her hood, peering out from the corner.
Ronar snapped his blade to the left, luring his opponent, then spun around and caught him from behind. “Do you surrender?” He taunted.
“Never,” his friend replied, though he was clearly beaten. Leaping aside, their blades clashed yet again.
She had promised the friar she’d avoid Sir LePeine, but here she was staring at him. One glance, and he would surely recognize her. Foolish woman! Tearing herself away, she ducked into her hood and made her way to the kitchen. If only she could use the secret tunnel, but the wardrobe was too heavy for her to move by herself. As it was, cooks and serving boys greeted her with their usual nonchalance. Good so far.
Overwhelmed by scents of venison, boiled wine, onions, and stewed pheasant for the noon meal, she hurried through the pantry and buttery, then made her way up the stairs, forcing a slow pace so as not to attract attention.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she finally slipped inside her sister’s chamber. Seraphina, ever the faithful companion, sat by Cristiana’s side, while a maid hurried out with chamber pot in hand. The foul stench of sickness wafted over Alexia as the woman passed and closed the door.
Seraphina glanced up. Shadows lingered beneath her eyes. A sudden chill rippled down Alexia, twisting her insides. Attempting to calm her spirit, she searched the room, seeking the source… peering beyond the natural.
Take a deep breath, Alexia. Seek the peace.
A slithering cloud of black emerged from the corner. An elongated mouth screamed silently at her from beneath two malevolent eyes. Other shadows flitted about the room.
“Out! In the name of my Lord Christ Jesus!” Alexia shouted with authority.
She could have sworn she heard the large creature growl before it and its friends instantly disappeared.
Alexia pressed a hand on her heart to still its mad thumping. She hadn’t been completely sure what the friar had told her to say would work. But he’d been right as usual. The name of the Son of God, along with the Spear, thwarted all evil. Yet—she forced down another burst of terror—what was it about her sister’s chamber that lured such beasts from the underworld?
Seraphina approached, following Alexia’s gaze above. “What just happened?” She hugged herself.
“Naught to worry about. How is she? You poor dear, you haven’t slept.” Alexia peered into Seraphina’s red, puffy eyes.
“Do not vex yourself over me. ’Tis Cristiana who suffers. She’s worse as you can see.”
“What happened? Last I heard, she was well again.”
“I know not. She was indeed recovering, supping in the great hall, conversing with her guests. And then within days, she took back to her bed. This time with night terrors and vomiting.”
Alexia sat at her sister’s side and took her hand in hers. Cold, moist, limp.
“Cristiana, ’tis me. Prithee wake up.”
Moaning, her sister pried open her eyes for a moment. A tiny smile flitted across her lips as she squeezed Alexia’s hand, but it soon faded.
“What has changed?” Alexia asked Seraphina. “Something she’s eaten? Did she have a new visitor?”
“Nay. She hasn’t been able to eat anything in two days. Before that ’twas the same food she’s always eaten—the same food served in the great hall to everyone.” Seraphina’s expression crumpled. “Only the apothecary and the physician and Sir LeGode have been to see her. Oh”—she gestured toward a bouquet of flowers sitting in a pot on the side table. “Sir Jarin the Just sent flowers and a note that wished her well.”
“The King’s Guard?”
“Aye, very handsome,” Seraphina said. “And quite taken with your sis—Lady D’Clere.”
Alexia couldn’t help but smile. “Who wouldn’t be? Cristiana has the biggest heart of anyone I know. What of her medicine?”
“LeGode ordered a different potion be administered, and the apothecary has been mixing it up and delivering it every day.”
“Does he say what it is?”
“To me? Nay. But Lady D’Clere has not drunk her full measure this day.” She gestured toward the table where a vial sat, half full.
Alexia picked it up and sniffed. The strong scent of nutmeg, rosemary, and something else not so pleasant, burned her nose, but brought her no alarm.
“When was her medicine changed? Before or after she grew ill again?”
“After.”
Alexia drew the vial to her mouth.
Seraphina reached for her. “Pray, my lady, what do you intend?”
“I’m going to drink it. If ’tis what causes my sister’s illness, we will soon find out. If not, it will do me no harm.”
Tipping the vial to her lips, Alexia gulped
it down.
Chapter 12
Drawing water from the basin, Ronar splashed it on the back of his neck then scooped another handful onto his face and chest.
“Forsooth, I’ve never seen a more inept group of knights in my life,” Damien commented from behind him as he tore off his sweat-laden tunic.
Jarin chuckled. “More court jesters than knights, and the chief among them Sir DeGay.” He glanced out the window, folding arms over his chest. “A week of practice and most could not find a target if it were pinned to their behinds.”
Grabbing a towel, Ronar faced his friends and dried himself. “Nor would they find Lady Falcon flying through the tree tops like the bird for which she is named.”
Damien threw a fresh tunic over his head. “She was within our grasp. I cannot believe we lost her.”
“I lost her, you mean,” Ronar said as he donned a linen shirt, hearing the shame in his voice.
Jarin glanced his way and grinned. “’Twas unlike you, I’ll grant, but I believe you’ve met your match in this lady. She outwits you at every turn.”
“Tush! A woman equal to me?” Easing into his leather doublet, Ronar began tying the laces. “Never.” Then why hadn’t he told Damien that she’d disappeared behind the waterfall? If he had, they could have gone after her and mayhap be closer now to finding the Spear and leaving this cursed place—or at least relieve the king of one less thief. Ronar had cursed himself a hundred times since then. In truth, he had opened his mouth to speak the words, but his throat had closed so tight, he could barely breathe. By the time he could, his admission would have cast too much suspicion on his silence.
Alack, if he were honest, he did not wish to see the lady tossed in the dungeon, pilloried, and then hanged for her crimes. Not for merely feeding hungry villagers. Though that would surely be the punishment enacted by LeGode, as was his right.
Pulling St. Jude from his pocket, Ronar rubbed the tiny statue. If ever there was a lost cause, it was Ronar. If ever he was in need of intervention by St. Jude, ’twas now, for he feared this Lady Falcon was making him weak, luring him away from the straight path he’d vowed to take.
Nay. He would not allow her to bewitch him. Now that he knew where the lady hid, he would seek her out at the right moment, gain her trust, and discover the whereabouts of the Spear. Smiling, he slipped the statue back into his pocket. How pleased both the bishop and the king would be when he presented them with the Spear of Destiny—earning yet another notch in his belt of penance.
He sat to tug on his boots when a chill scraped his arms—a common occurrence since he’d arrived at Luxley. Still, it never failed to set him on edge. Aye, there was darkness in this keep, heavy and thick like fog made of tar. Mayhap he should seek the bishop’s advice on such spiritual matters.
His glance took in Jarin, still staring out the window, absently flipping a coin through his fingers.
“How fares your lady?” Ronar asked to lighten the mood.
Jarin gave a sad smile. “Still ill, I fear. Would that they’d allow me to see her.”
Ronar stood and strapped on his belt and short sword. “If such a visit were proper, I have no doubt you could make the lady well by your smile and flattery alone.”
“Alas, if you truly wish to see her, we could sneak you into her chamber,” Damien added. “’Twould be of no account.”
“Tempt me not, dear friends. It may come to that, withal.”
Damien sheathed a knife in his belt and laughed. “The poor lady might die of fright should she open her eyes to find your ugly face peering at her.”
Ronar chuckled. “Mayhap I should go in your stead, to ensure her heart be tuned to true love.”
Jarin snorted. “Begad! Your face, Ronar? Such a sight would surely prompt the lady to join a convent!”
Damien raised his brows, eyes full of mischief. “To his point, if your history with Lady Falcon is any indication.”
Ronar’s resolve to capture said lady only grew stronger as he and his friends endured the wrath of both the bishop and LeGode at the noonday meal. Their initial inquiries into how the training was going and what information Ronar and his men were able to glean from the villagers transformed into angry accusations the more the wine flowed. Ronar had learned to endure raging censure in silence over the years, for it seemed that those who do nothing are the angriest at those who do all. However, keeping Damien’s temper in check was quite the feat. Thankfully, Jarin had been blessed with the gift of ignoring buffoons, though his current lack of flirtations with the serving wenches gave Ronar pause.
“I assure you, your Grace, we will find this Lady Falcon and bring her in,” Ronar finally said when the bishop’s rage had run its course.
“Alack! I shall believe that when I see it, Knight. Or mark my words, the king will hear of your incompetence.”
Aye, Ronar had no doubt the king would see it as such. Regardless of his friendship with Ronar, his Majesty would believe his favored bishop.
A young boy darted into the hall, searched the crowd, then headed for LeGode.
“What is it, lad?”
“Sire, I fear the news is grave.”
The bishop bit off a piece of venison, then leaned to listen.
“’Tis Lord Hadrian Falk of Kent. He is dead.”
“Dead? How?” LeGode shouted a bit too forcefully, though neither surprise nor sorrow tightened his expression.
“Fell off his horse, Sir. Struck his head and then devoured by wolves.”
Bishop Montruse laughed. “Another dead suitor? Sir LeGode, if I didn’t know better, I’d think the lady cursed.”
“She is not cursed, your Grace.” LeGode visibly restrained himself. “’Tis simply fate or God’s intervention. Mayhap she is meant for another.”
Putting aside his shock at the bishop’s pleasure at another’s death, Ronar kept his eye on LeGode. Something was amiss with this one.
“Meant for another, you say?” The bishop tossed a cherry in his mouth. “She is meant to be taken to bed to produce heirs. Any coxcomb could do that.”
Ronar cringed at the crude remark.
Jarin, however, slowly rose, and before Ronar could stop him, he faced the bishop. “The lady deserves your apology, your Grace.”
“Apology!” The bishop sprayed wine on the table. “You dare speak thus to a man appointed of God? She is a woman and deserves naught but my pleasure in seeing her.” His eyes seethed as he stroked the red silk stole around his neck. “You do well to remember ’twas Eve who caused the fall of man. I would watch my tongue, Knight.”
“Forgive him, Excellency.” Ronar stood and bowed toward the bishop. “’Tis been a trying week full of disappointments. By your leave.” Then taking Jarin by the arm, he dragged him down from the dais and across the crowded hall, gesturing for Damien to follow.
“Becalm your temper, Jarin,” Ronar whispered as they walked. “Or ’twill be your head he’ll be tossing into his mouth next.”
“He dares insult Lady D’Clere and then blames it on God!” Jarin hissed.
“’Tis not our place to judge.” Though the bishop was making that difficult of late.
“Why do you defend him?” Damien spat.
“I defend God and the Church.”
“Are they not one and the same?”
A fortnight ago, Ronar would have said yes. Now, he was not too sure. “’Twas the wine and the bishop’s fear of our king that loosens his tongue.”
“I should run him through with my sword,” Jarin slurred.
“If you wish to lose your head, by all means.” Ronar was nearly at the door to the outer bailey when LeGode’s woman servant ran up to him. “A moment, if you please, Sir.”
He handed Jarin off to Damien. “Take him outside. Mayhap the fresh air will revive his good sense.”
After they left, the woman moved Ronar to the side, then glanced around as if expecting an army to appear.
“What is it?”
“’Tis…’Tis a frien
d in need of help.” Her eyes sparked with fear.
“What friend have I here?” Save the two who just left.
“I beg you, Sir. If you’ll follow me”—she glanced at LeGode—“but at a distance.”
Against his better judgment, Ronar nodded, his curiosity piqued. The lady left and ascended the stairs of the keep.
A group of minstrels began thrumming their instruments while a jester—bells sewn into the bright red and green fabric of his attire—sped through the hall, teasing people and playing the fool. At the command of its owner, a dog followed the jester around and leapt and danced beside him. The crowd roared in laughter.
Ronar wandered toward the pantry, keeping an eye on the bishop and LeGode. Thankfully, both men’s attention was elsewhere—the bishop’s on the entertainment and LeGode on his stew, which he stared at, sulking.
Halfway up the stairs, the woman met Ronar and then led him further up, past several halls and chambers, finally stopping before a door lit by candles on either side.
“What’s this now?” A trap? He gripped the hilt of his sword.
Opening the door, the woman urged him inside, quickly closing it behind them.
The chamber smelled of sickness, tallow, and bitter herbs. Darkness inhabited the corners as if waiting to reach out and drag a hapless victim to his death. Cold. Why was it so cold? A bed draped in gauze sat to his right, a woman lying within. But ’twas another woman who drew Ronar’s gaze, her dark shape lifeless on the floor. He took a step forward.
Lady Falcon.
♥♥♥
“You owe me.” Drogo entered the dank, misty dungeon from his chambers beyond, white robes fluttering like vaporous spirits.
“So, ’twas your doing, then?” Sir LeGode stepped back as the warlock swept past, leaving behind a trail of putrid odors and hopelessness.
“Who else? You asked me to do the deed, did you not?”
“Aye. Another eaten by wolves,” LeGode said more to himself, hiding the shudder coursing through him. “You command these barbaric animals?”
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