“Never fear, Lady Falcon. You are safe.”
Had his voice always been that deep and soothing? His scent so intoxicating?
She tried to regain her breath. “’Tis true then. You followed me here. Potz, how did I not sense you?” She could hit a target at forty yards with her eyes closed, but whenever Sir LePeine was around, her senses spun into mayhem.
Grabbing a nearby mug, he eased an arm behind her back and helped her sit. She barely tasted the warm wine for the strange sensations rippling through her at his touch.
Pushing the cup away, she sank back onto her pillow and rubbed her aching head. “Are you not afraid I will lose what you offer me on your boots again?” She should be ashamed at the memory and even more mortified at mentioning it to this man, this knight. But at the moment, she’d say anything to replace the look of admiration in his eyes with disgust.
“I have recovered from the incident.” Oddly the admiration remained as he set the mug down. “Now, pray tell, Falcon, why did you drink Lady D’Clere’s potion when you knew it might be poisoned?”
Poisoned, aye. No doubt remained that someone wanted her sister dead. Or at the very least weak and bedridden. She returned her gaze to the knight. Light from a candle enhanced the scar running from his forehead through his right eyebrow, making her wonder how he’d received it. “’Tis my duty to serve the lady of the manor,” she finally answered.
“To your death?” That scarred eyebrow rose.
“If need be.”
“I’ve rarely seen such devotion among nobility, let alone a peas—”
“A peasant? You may call me so. I find no dishonor in the title.”
He gazed at her as if he found her a curiously delightful creature.
She closed her eyes to erase the vision and relished in the crackle of the fire and rush of the waterfall in the distance—familiar, soothing sounds. “Why did you bring me here? ’Twould have been easier to simply turn me over to LeGode.”
He leaned toward her so close she smelled the friar’s special ale on his breath, all spice and honey. “I’ll admit to a weakness for a lady in distress.”
She pushed him back. “I am no longer in distress; hence you may leave.”
“The friar refuses to let me go until he decides whether to trust me.” His shrug reminded her of a little boy’s, but his smile was so alluring, so full of mischief, it did strange things to her insides. ’Twas the fever, no doubt.
“We both know you can leave any time you wish. Even now, whilst he sleeps.” The friar’s snoring could be heard across the chamber as Alexia’s words muffled in her ears and her head grew heavy.
The Spear. He must be searching for the Spear! Desperation set in, and she fought to stay awake. Wait. She had it in the pocket of her chemise. Didn’t she?
“I wished to see you well, ’tis all,” he said. “Do you find me such a brute as to not have a care for a lady’s welfare?” Firelight lit those blue eyes of his as they searched hers so intensely, she feared he’d uncover her secrets.
“Your charm has no effect on me, Sir Knight.” She managed to mumble out, perceiving darkness creeping across her vision. “And as soon as I am well, I shall …I shall reacquaint you with the tip of my arrow.”
She saw him smile before oblivion once again took hold.
Chapter 14
After Lady Falcon drifted off to sleep, Ronar spent hours searching for the Spear. The strange underground home consisted of three chambers—one that must be Lady Falcon’s dressing room, full of her clothing, comb, soap, lotions, and other womanly-items; the other was a small chapel, complete with a candle-lit altar positioned beneath a crucifix hanging on the wall; and the third was the main living hall. Whilst the lady and her friar slept, Ronar peered beneath rugs, behind tapestries, shuffled through chests, searched under trestle tables, on the mantel, and even rifled through each drawer in the friar’s desk. He opened up every book on the shelves, carefully flipping through hand-written pages, amazed at the friar’s collection. He even scanned through the parchment atop the friar’s desk, but as soon as he saw that the man was copying the Holy Scriptures, Ronar backed away. He would take no part in heresy.
Now, as he knelt before the fire and gazed at the simmering coals, he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. These two may be heretics and the lady a thief, but they were not in possession of the Spear of Destiny. And that was the only reason the king had sent him and his men to Luxley. Not to punish a lady who fed a village from the king’s forest or sang to comfort the lady of the manor.
Or who drank the lady’s healing potion for no other reason than to prove it to be poison.
Why take the risk? For a liege who would barely take note of her were she well. Besides, what would the knowledge gain Lady Falcon? No one would listen to a servant, and it could only put her in danger from the one who wished Lady D’Clere harm.
Which was another matter altogether. Evil was afoot in that castle. Could Ronar trust anyone with the information that someone was poisoning Lady D’Clere? And how to prove it without involving Lady Falcon?
He moved to sit on a chair beside her and laid the back of his hand atop her cheek. ’Twas warm but not fiery hot as before. Her breathing had settled as well, and she appeared to be sleeping soundly. He should leave and not sit staring at her like a besotted fool. He’d finished what he’d come here to do. But…candlelight flickered over the lady’s face, casting shadows from her thick lashes over flawless skin. Her full lips, that normally bore a rosy color, were slightly parted and looked so soft, he licked his own in a desire to kiss them. Coppery hair as fiery as the lady herself, haloed her head, while her tunic clung alluringly to feminine curves. Long slender arms lay by her side—strong, firm arms.
The arms of an archer.
His gaze drifted to her wrist where a scar marred her creamy skin. Careful not to disturb her, he picked up her hand and brought it into the light. Not a scar—a mark of some sort. The same one he’d seen before. Odd, but it appeared to be a…
“Did you find what you were looking for?” The friar’s voice caused Ronar’s heart to vault, though his training forbade him to jerk in surprise. Slowly, he lowered the lady’s hand.
“I did not,” he answered without emotion ere he glanced at the man.
“Humph.” The friar folded hands over his brown cowl. “Unfortunate.”
“For you or me?”
He smiled. “Come, sit, I want to read you something.”
Reluctantly, Ronar left the lady and sat on a stool before the fire while the friar took the high back chair, a book in his hands.
He opened it and began to read. “If thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved. For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation. For the scripture saith, Whosoever believeth on him shall not be ashamed.”
Ronar took in the strange words, allowing them to penetrate his soul, wisp through the dark places, and dare to strike a spark—Wait.
He leapt from his seat. “Silence!”
Unmoved, the friar looked up. “I have read this entire book. ’Tis magnificent, holy, and full of life and wisdom. Its words tell the sad tale of mankind, how we came to this earth, why we are here, our fall, and God’s plan of redemption and rescue from our enemy, the evil one. I have not found any of it too complex to understand nor have I been struck down by lightning for reading it.”
Ronar huffed. “Give the Almighty time.”
“In truth, I haven’t found so much as a word or phrase about such things as penance and indulgences and the worship of saints. Nor that the Pope is divine and speaks for God.”
“Blasphemy!” Ronar backed away and glanced at the door. He should leave before God smote him dead for listening to such lies.
Closing the book, the friar caressed it lovingly. “God’s word tells of salvation through faith alone, faith in the Son
of God and His sacrifice on the cross. It says naught about works, save those which we perform to please Him and help our fellow man, those which prove a changed heart within.”
Ronar shifted his gaze to the hot coals, trying to scatter the heresy from his mind and send it to hell where it belonged. Yet…he swallowed a burst of longing…salvation through faith alone? It could not be, for that was too simple, too wonderful to believe.
“There will come a day,” the friar continued, following Ronar’s gaze to the fire, “when this book will be made available to all, from the lowliest peasant to the king himself.” He brought it near to his chest in an embrace that bespoke of adoration. “At first people will delight in it, reading and cherishing every word. Its truth will set many free and bring many to salvation.” Sorrow claimed his features, and Ronar could swear he saw tears moisten the friar’s eyes. “But afterward, man’s religion will rise yet again, and though this great book will be available to all, people will not read it and will instead listen only to those who claim to speak in God’s name. Then great deception will once again entrap the multitudes.”
Ronar gaped. Either the man was unbalanced in the head or he believed every word he said. “How do you know this?”
“God reveals things to me,” the friar said as if it were an everyday occurrence.
“I pray to Saint Jude.” Ronar retrieved the tiny statue from his pocket, unsure why he disclosed such a thing, save he suddenly felt the need to justify his own spirituality. “Given to me by the Bishop of Jerusalem, hewn from our Lord’s sepulcher.”
“The saint of hopeless causes.” The friar’s eyes glittered. “Is that what you think of yourself?”
Ronar frowned.
“And has Saint Jude answered your prayers, young man?”
“Aye.”
“Or mayhap ’twas God.” The friar patted the book in his lap. “God’s Word says those of us who follow Christ are all saints. It also tells us to pray only to God, for there is one God and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.”
Shoving Saint Jude back in his pocket, Ronar grimaced. “Enough of this. I must go.”
“And yet I sense you want to hear more.” The friar clutched the crucifix hanging at his belly.
“Do not pretend to know me, Friar.”
“I know you are a man of conviction, a man of strong faith. And”—he studied him until Ronar felt so uncomfortable, he turned to leave—“a man loaded down with a burden of guilt.”
The words sliced across Ronar’s back. Bad cess to the man! How could he know such a thing?
“Will you betray us, Sir LePeine?” The friar’s voice followed him to the door.
Halting, Ronar glanced at Lady Falcon, so peaceful in her sleep. “She steals the king’s game. My duty is”—Ronar faced him—“You must make her stop, Friar. Ensure me she will no longer hunt game in this forest.”
“That I cannot do.” The friar chuckled. “As you are aware, the lady has a mind of her own.”
Aye, so he’d noticed. A foolish, stubborn mind.
“If the lady ceases hunting, you have my troth I will keep silent. But if I find she has filled the villagers’ bellies yet again, I fear I will have no choice but to capture her and turn her over to Sir LeGode to receive her just punishment.”
♥♥♥
Sir Walter LeGode stood before the narrow window of the treasury and gazed down upon the gardens outside the castle wall. There, Lady D’Clere—much improved since he’d withheld Drogo’s potion—strolled on the arm of his son, Cedric. The numb-brained oaf finally managed to entice the lady out for a walk through the gardens on this fine spring day. Now, if he wouldn’t muck up the conversation and instead shower her with the flatteries and witty remarks as LeGode had instructed him, the lady might show some interest. Yet, as he watched them weave around a stone statue of the Virgin Mary, the lady looked terribly bored. Cedric, himself, gazed about as if he wished he were anywhere else.
Mayhap the distraction LeGode had arranged would give the couple a little shove in the right direction.
Activity drew his attention down to the inner courtyard where several knights removed their armor, chainmail, and leg chausses and then donned the common tunics of peasants and farmers, hiding swords and blades beneath their cloaks. ’Twas the bishop’s latest plan to capture Lady Falcon and hopefully the Spear, since Sir DeGay’s incompetent knights could not master archery in time. If only LeGode had been able to infiltrate more of his own knights among Luxley’s guard, but thus far, he’d only managed to bring a few from his own estate. More, however, were on their way.
He swept his gaze back to his son as the couple passed a flowering bush of pink primroses.
“Pick her a flower, you imbecile!” LeGode seethed.
Instead, Cedric leaned over and said something to the lady which bore no effect on her languid expression. LeGode clamped his hands into fists and directed his gaze to the village. There. Finally. A horse-drawn wagon raced down the center of town, spitting up mud and stirring screams from villagers who leapt out of the way.
One quick glance back to Cedric brought a smile to LeGode’s lips. At least the lad had directed Lady D’Clere back onto the main path. Now, for the gallant rescue that would win fair lady’s heart. Or at the very least, soften it a bit toward his son.
The wagon tore out of the village and careened over the wooden bridge, bouncing so high, hay, fruit, and pottery leapt from the back and landed splat in the mud.
“Out of the way!” the driver shouted. People, chickens, and pigs scattered before him. The wagon whisked around a corner. One side tipped and wheels flung mud and manure into the air. Still, the horse galloped onward, wide-eyed and nostrils flaring.
As planned, Cedric left the lady’s side for but a moment to pick her a flower. Hearing the approaching danger, she glanced up just as the horse dashed around the corner and headed straight for her. She had but moments to leap out of the way, moments in which Cedric was supposed to hoist her in his arms and bring her to safety. Instead, he stared dumbfounded at the wagon as if it were an advancing army.
Lady D’Clere did the same. When the driver finally realized the plan had gone awry, he attempted to slow the horse as LeGode had instructed, should his son fail—yet again.
Out of nowhere, Jarin the Just darted to the lady, swept her up in his arms and leapt to the side of the path just as the wagon sped past… finally stopping mere yards away.
Jarin set the lady down. She began to falter, and he held her close, wiping wayward curls from her face and gazing down at her as if she were the queen herself.
She smiled and must have thanked him, for he dipped his head, then lifted her back in his arms and carried her over the bridge, past the gatehouse, and into the inner bailey.
All while Cedric stood there staring after them like a gorbellied donkey whose last meal had just been stolen.
LeGode growled. “Idiot!” He marched from the treasury, stormed down the stairs, and finally slammed into his private study where Annabelle was laying out his afternoon tea.
“Tell me, how can such a prominent man as myself have such a pribbling puttock for a son?”
The pretty little thing gulped and stared down at the floor. “I know not what you mean, Sir.”
Such lovely hair, a dark golden shade that shimmered like silk. LeGode swept his gaze over her and licked his lips, then approached slowly so as not to frighten the timid fawn. He ran a finger down her neck.
She jerked from him. “I have brought your tea, Sir. Will there be anything else?”
Grabbing her by the waist, he pressed her curves against him. “What else are you offering?”
“Not what you think.” Blue eyes, stark with fear, met his as she pushed from him. “You have a wife.”
“She’s an old hag, Anabelle, not young and fresh like you. When will you give yourself to me? I can make your life very comfortable.”
He leaned down to kiss her, but she jerked from his grasp
and fled out the door.
LeGode slammed his fist on the table.
Chapter 15
His mind awhirl with the friar’s words, Ronar left Penance with the stable boy and headed across the courtyard just as Jarin entered through the main gate, Lady D’Clere in his arms. The sight would have shocked Ronar if it had been anyone else, but when it came to the ladies, Jarin possessed a special gift. The evidence of which was written all over Lady D’Clere’s expression—one of thankfulness and admiration, not horror at being carried so intimately by a common knight.
Ronar met them at the entrance to the grand hall. Acknowledging Ronar with a smile, Jarin set the lady down at the foot of the stairs per her request, just as the lady’s companion descended to greet them.
Though flushed, Lady D’Clere fared much better since the last time Ronar had seen her—abed with nary a breath to stir the air about her. Poisoned. Should he tell her? Inform his friends? Nay. Not until he gathered more proof and sought out who might wish her harm. He had to be sure before sending his men on a quest that would no doubt cause the villain to withdraw. Or worse.
Lady D’Clere spared a glance toward Ronar ere her focus returned to Jarin. “How can I ever thank you, Sir? You saved my life.”
“’Twas nothing, my lady. It pleases me I was close at hand.”
“I don’t know what came over me. I found my feet unable to move.”
“’Tis no doubt caused by your recent illness which has drained you of your strength.”
“Then I thank you for lending me your rather impressive strength, Sir.”
Ronar coughed to squelch a chuckle at the ridiculous dalliance.
“Come, my lady, you must rest.” The lovely companion pleaded, while her questioning eyes bore into Ronar. He nodded in the affirmative in reply to her unspoken question of Lady Falcon’s safety. Still, he must seek the companion in private, ensure that she prevented Lady D’Clere from drinking any more potions. Surely she knew that already.
Lady D’Clere offered her hand, and Jarin placed a kiss upon it, then gazed up at her as adoring as any gallant. “You may call upon me whene’er you have need of my strength again, my lady.”
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