“Not the animals, the demons within.” Drogo stopped, started to pace again, stopped, stared at whatever brew bubbled in his pot, then glanced up at the ceiling.
“Would that you could command them to catch a certain Falcon.”
“The forest thief is naught to me.” Drogo waved him off and continued moving about the chamber as if the floor were too hot to stand upon.
“She may lead us to the Spear,” LeGode offered.
“I care not for”—his expression knotted and it almost seemed as if smoke emerged from his mouth. He fingered his gray beard and continued storming about the tiny chamber.
LeGode watched, his fear rising. Normally the warlock was calm, controlled, in command, frightening in his hatred and rage. This…this behavior bordered on hysteria.
“Obtaining the Spear will send the bishop and the King’s Guard scurrying back to where they came from, which is good for us both,” LeGode dared to say. “Can you lead us to this witch of the forest? Or better yet, to the Spear itself?”
“If she were a witch, I could find her.” Drogo’s breath came hard and fast as he increased his pace.
“What is amiss, Drogo?”
Halting, Drogo grabbed a handful of hot coals. But before he could scatter them on the table, his scream shook the very walls of the chamber—not an ordinary scream, but a shout that was sharp enough to slice steel. A row of bats above them added their own screeches to the cacophony as they flew up the cone in a mad dash to escape whatever otherworld creature made that hideous sound.
Drogo dropped the hot coals and instantly plunged his hand into a bowl of water. When he withdrew it, bubbling, red flesh covered his skin.
He lifted his face and roared into the darkness. “I cannot see! It hinders me.”
“What hinders you?”
Drogo lifted both fists to his temples and squeezed as if he could ground his head into ash. “The Spear. It’s here in the castle!”
♥♥♥
“I didn’t know who else to summon, Sir Knight.” Lady D’Clere’s companion glanced up at Ronar from her position beside Lady Falcon. The servant who had brought Ronar stood against the door as if she could keep others from entering.
Kneeling beside Lady Falcon, Ronar took her limp hand in his. “What happened?”
“She came to see her…”—the companion raised a hand to her mouth to catch a sob— “to comfort Lady D’Clere with song, and she accidentally drank her healing potion.”
“Accidentally?” Ronar huffed and pressed a hand to her cheek, feeling the rising heat of a fever. A tumble of copper-colored hair, shimmering in the firelight, spilled about her head over the white-knotted carpet. Ragged breaths tumbled from her lips, followed by a slight moan.
“I’ve tried to awaken her, Sir, but she seems to be getting worse.”
“Why summon me? Am I not her enemy?”
The woman instantly dropped her gaze.
“Come now, we both know who she is.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” The companion shared a harried glance with the servant at the door.
“She is the Falcon of Emerald Forest, is she not?”
The companion breathed out what seemed like relief. “And you have not disclosed her secret, which gave me hope that you possessed a heart of mercy.”
“True enough, I have not told anyone. Hence, she is in no danger. Why not hail the physician and have her put to bed or brought to the village? Her presence here is not uncommon.”
“But her sudden illness is, Sir Knight. It proves someone here in the castle is poisoning Lady D’Clere.”
“It could be anyone.” The woman at the door wrung her hands. “We know not. But should they discover that…that…she drank the potion to reveal the truth, they may attempt to ensure her silence.”
“Alas, ’twas no accident then?” He raised a brow toward the companion.
She glanced at Lady Falcon and shook her head.
He followed her gaze back to the woman who had caused him naught but trouble these past weeks. And now to discover she risked being poisoned merely to help another. Ronar growled and ran a hand through his hair. Why did this lady touch him so?
The companion’s blue eyes pleaded with him. “We haven’t the strength to carry her to the village where she can recover in safety.”
“Will you help us, Sir Knight? Or will you turn us in?”
Ronar rose and studied the still shape of Lady D’Clere behind the gauze curtains of her bed. Such a sharp contrast from the comely lady who’d graced them with her presence nigh a sennight ago. Could someone truly be poisoning her? And to what end? Yet the proof lay before him. The Falcon of Emerald Forest, de-fanged and de-clawed. He could easily call the guards, turn her over to the bishop and LeGode, and take full credit for her capture. Mayhap God had shown Ronar mercy for all his blunders.
He debated while gazing at the woman, so frail, so weak and helpless lying there. Not at all like the Falcon who had defeated thirty knights—the thief with a soul kinder and braver than any he’d known.
She may have the Spear. The voice was ever so slight within him. Why turn her in now when he could turn both her and the Spear over to the king and receive a much bigger reward?
“Aye, I will help you,” he said and instantly regretted it as the thump of boots thundered through the castle. Many boots.
LeGode’s servant, eyes flashing with terror, slipped out the door. Seconds ticked past like minutes as Ronar strode to the window seeking a way of escape. But they were too far up.
The door opened and the servant entered. “They search every room for the Spear. We are trapped.”
Chapter 13
Bootsteps thundered up the stairs and echoed down the corridor. Ronar grabbed the hilt of his sword, trying to come up with a plausible story should the knights burst through the door and find him where he should not be—in Lady D’Clere’s bedchamber. The truth would win out, but Lady Falcon’s life would be forfeit.
And oddly that thought disturbed him more than fear for his own fate.
Alarm screamed from the companion’s eyes. Her chest rose and fell as she glanced at her mistress, still unconscious in her bed, then to Lady Falcon and finally to Ronar.
The footsteps grew louder. Shouts ensued.
“There is a way,” she finally said. “Come.” Moving to the hearth, she pressed the side of the mantle. The creak of wood and grinding of stone echoed through the room.
Fists pounded on the door. “My lady?”
The companion pulled aside a tapestry on the wall to reveal a door, slightly ajar.
Ronar didn’t have time to ponder the secret passage. Kneeling, he scooped Lady Falcon in his arms and squeezed through the opening.
“Follow this until you can go no farther,” the woman said, her eyes darting to the chamber door where fists continued to pound. “Take the path to the right down a set of stairs. It will end in a wall with no way out. Press the stone and it will move. It opens to the maids’ quarters. From there you can exit into the courtyard. Hurry.”
The tapestry fell into place. The door closed. The last thing Ronar heard was the castle guards bursting into the chamber.
Darkness cloaked him, thick and heavy. The sound of his breathing mingled with Lady Falcon’s tortured breaths. The drip-drip of water, along with the scampering of rats, sent a chill down him as the bitter smell of mold and rot filled his lungs.
Using his shoulders, he groped his way along the moist walls, step by step, breath by breath, longing for a flicker of light, a hope that he wasn’t descending into the depths of hell. The lady in his arms moaned. Heat from her body leached through his doublet, driving him onward. He reached the end, turned right, and carefully navigated uneven stairs that led further downward. A cloud of damp, cold air chilled the perspiration on his forehead and caused his fear to rise.
His gut had said to trust the fair-haired companion. But his gut had betrayed him before.
At the bottom of the sta
irs, he pushed against what felt like solid rock. It gave way slowly, the sounds of scraping and grinding echoing into the void. A sliver of light chased away the darkness. Teeth clenched, Ronar groaned and shoved with all his might, straining against something positioned behind the door. Finally, it gave way to a gap large enough for him to squeeze through. The chamber was small and modestly furnished with several straw cots, tables with lamps and basins, and a wall filled with all manner of tunics and cloaks on hooks. A scream alerted him to a maid at the far end of the room.
“I beg your pardon, and your silence, Miss. I am on the king’s business.” Laying Lady Falcon on one of the cots, he shoved the wardrobe back in place, then hoisted her in his arms once again and rushed out the door.
Night had consumed the courtyard, empty save for a few squires and servants scurrying about. Thanking St. Jude, Ronar kept to the shadows and headed for the stables. There, a few coins in the hands of a stable boy bought him the lad’s silence, his help saddling Penance, and then assistance in lifting Lady Falcon up to Ronar once he mounted.
He settled her gently in front of him and tugged the hood of her cloak about her head as he rode through the village. She’d garnered so much love and respect from the people, he couldn’t take the chance some of them might recognize her and challenge him.
Once in the forest, he found a clearing wherein to leave Penance to graze. The destrier would stay close and come at Ronar’s whistle when he had need of him. Moments later, the lady grew heavier in his arms, her groans louder, her fever hotter, but he finally found the waterfall behind which she had disappeared. Taking care not to scratch the lady’s skin with a sharp branch, he navigated through the brush surrounding the pond and stepped onto one of the wet rocks bordering the falls. He leapt onto the next rook, slipped on the damp moss, and nearly fell into the water, but finally regained his balance long enough to duck behind the cascading water.
A magical world appeared—glistening rock, moss, and lichen covered with tiny violet flowers—all protected by a wall of water through which the world beyond seemed mystical and surreal. A fine mist coated his face as the scent of lavender, damp earth, and life brought a sense of peace over him.
Lady Falcon’s moan prompted him to the back of the small cave where he dragged his shoulder along the rocks, seeking an opening. There, hidden behind a cleft, a dark hole appeared. Without hesitation, Ronar carried the lady within and began descending yet another dark passage. This one, however, was not as long, and it soon ended at a thick wooden door. Ronar tried the handle. Locked. Breathing heavy, he hoisted the lady up and knocked.
Moments passed. He was about to heft his shoulder against the wood when a “Who goes there?” shouted from the other side.
“Sir LePeine and your Lady Falcon.”
Something banged against the thick wood, and it swung open to warmth and light and the friar’s frightened face. Ignoring Ronar, he stared at the unconscious lady, gasped, and moved to show Ronar a straw-stuffed pallet to his right.
Ronar laid her gently upon it while the friar slammed the door shut and hoisted a huge bar across it.
“You need not fear,” Ronar said. “No one followed me.”
The friar gave him a skeptical look as he moved to kneel beside the lady. After making the sign of the cross, he took her hand. “What has befallen her?”
“I’m told she drank Lady D’Clere’s healing potion.”
Oddly this information effected no surprise on the friar’s expression, only fear spiced with a hint of reprimand.
“And you know not what was in this potion?” He gazed up at Ronar, his bushy brows colliding.
“How would I? I was merely summoned by Lady D’Clere’s maid to bring her to safety.”
Rising, the friar moved to a table, dipped a cloth in a basin of water, wrung it out and returned to Lady Falcon, placing it on her head. “The fever is good. She fights the poison.” Then clutching the large cross around his neck with one hand and laying the other on Lady Falcon, he began to pray, at first in Latin but then transitioning into English.
Ronar took a moment to examine the room, which appeared like a hall in any gentleman’s home, complete with hearth, desk, pallets for sleeping, a trestle table and stools, and a wall lined with books. Tapestries decorated the walls, while tightly-woven rugs added warmth to the stone floor. Who built this place? And how had they accomplished such a task beneath the ground?
What better place to hide the Spear of Destiny?
A smile formed on his lips at the kindness of Saint Jude. If the Spear was here, Ronar would find it, for who was there to stop him save an old, meek friar and a sick lady.
When he turned to face the friar again, it was to the sharp tip of a rather long knife pointed at his gut.
“Now, Sir LePeine, tell me how you found this place before I am forced to kill you.”
♥♥♥
Alexia was having the most outlandish dream. The friar was attacking Sir LePeine with a knife—the favored long knife he kept hidden in the folds of his cowl.
Sweltering heat roasted her from within. Why was it so hot? And why did her head feel like a thousand crows pecked her brain? Her stomach fared no better, beaten, bashed, and scrubbed like a tunic on a washboard.
In her dream, she pried her eyes open again, ever so slightly, to see the knight raise his hands, wearing that cocksure grin of his.
“The Falcon led me here. I followed her a sennight ago.”
Aye, definitely a dream. Nay, she would never have allowed the pitch-kettled knight to follow her home.
“And you have not told anyone nor come here since?” The friar poked Sir LePeine with the knife, his tone one of disbelief.
“As I told you, nay,” LePeine replied sternly. “Beware, Friar, I do not relish having a blade at my belly. Nor do I wish to inflict harm on a man of the cloth.”
The friar chuckled. “’Tis fortunate for you that your wish will be granted.”
In a flash too fast to see, Sir Knight shifted aside, plucked out his own knife, and slashed at the friar’s hand. But the friar, a grin on his face, leapt out of the way in time. The two men circled one another, blades drawn.
Alexia smiled. Men always underestimated the friar. He’d been a knight himself ere he dedicated his life to the Church.
“Ah ha,” Sir Knight said. “You hide a viper’s bite beneath your lamb’s wool.”
“Be ye wise as serpents and innocent as doves,” the friar quoted from Scripture.
Sir Knight eyed him. “I mean neither you nor Lady Falcon harm. I brought her here to protect her.”
“And yet, were you not out in the forest seeking her capture merely a week past?”
“On the bishop’s orders.”
Friar Josef waved his knife before the knight. “Mayhap you are here now on the bishop’s orders.”
“If so, you both would be bound and on your way to Luxley Castle.” Sir Knight lowered his knife. “Come now, let us cease this foolishness.”
The friar charged, but the knight caught him by the wrist and spun him around, leveling the blade at his throat. “If I’d wanted to capture her, I could have done so at the castle.”
Alexia longed to see how the dream ended, but the ceiling began to spin, and her breath fled her lungs. She heard herself groan, and the hand she raised to her forehead met skin so hot and waxy, surely it did not belong to her.
In an instant two faces swirled above her. One was the friar’s, wearing his familiar look of concern, the other was Sir Knight’s handsome face bearing the oddest expression. Care?
“I’m dreaming,” she mumbled.
“Nay, you drank poison,” Sir Knight said.
Her stomach vaulted. A sour taste filled her mouth. She attempted to rise, and Sir Knight flung his arm around her back to assist her. Pushing him away, she frantically searched for the chamber pot, all the while trying to restrain the volcano erupting up her throat. Too late. She tossed the contents of her stomach onto his boots.
>
She rather enjoyed the horrified look on his face before everything faded to black.
The next time she awoke, voices, muffled and distant, floated around her too far out of reach. Sir Knight’s and the friar’s. She couldn’t make out their words, but there was neither challenge nor anger in their tones. Instead, she thought she heard laughter before she faded away again.
Alexia was in her beloved forest. Above her, a full moon laced leaves and trunks in milky white. She hurried her pace. Friar Josef would worry that she was out after dark. Leaves crunched behind her. She swung about. “Who’s there?”
An owl hooted from above. A raccoon scrambled across the path.
Alexia’s breath settled as she turned and proceeded on her way. A growl, low and deep, rumbled across her back, prickled up her neck, and buzzed over the crown of her head. Halting, she reached ever-so-slowly for her bow. It wasn’t there. Another growl, fierce and threatening…closer this time. She spun and searched the shadows. A wolf formed out of the darkness, a beast nearly half her size with malevolent red eyes and muscles that bulged across its back as it slowly approached. Fangs longer than her fingers gleamed white in the moonlight.
Alexia backed away. So this was to be her fate? Jesus, help me.
The wolf leapt.
Alexia jerked awake, breath heaving.
“Shh, shh. ’Twas but a dream, Lady Falcon.” A voice that sounded like Sir LePeine’s spoke far too soft and caringly for the gruff knight as a strong hand folded around hers.
Memories too real to be a dream rose—Sir LePeine and his friend sword fighting in the courtyard, her sister feverish in bed, the new potion. She’d drunk it! ’Twas the last thing she remembered, save the nightmare that Sir Knight was in her home.
In her home? She pried her eyes open to see the man in question holding her hand and leaning his forehead against it, lips moving as if he were praying.
She jerked from his grip. “What are you doing here? How?” She tried to sit, but her head felt as heavy as armor.
She Walks in Power Page 10