She Walks in Power

by Tyndall, MaryLu

  “You poor dear.” LeGode had leaned over to peer at her, and all she remembered were those eyes, dark and cold as coals not lit for years, swirling in her vision. “You are not in your right mind. Best leave these things to me.” And she knew that neither her knights nor the bishop would believe her.

  Seraphina reappeared and closed the door behind her, moving quickly to Cristiana’s bed, a new sparkle in her eyes.

  “What is it, dear friend?”

  “’Twas a squire with a message from Jarin.”

  “The knight?”

  “Aye, my lady. He wishes to arrange a meeting as soon as you are well. He has urgent information he must relay to you at once.”

  Two days later, when Cristiana’s mind finally started to clear and her strength returned, she was able to rise from her bed, get dressed, and meet Sir Jarin at the secret spot he had requested—the chapel, vacant now for two years, ever since their chaplain had abandoned them without a word. ’Twas the perfect place to meet, for anyone seeing her enter would assume she went to pray. Not that many would be wandering about the castle at well past the midnight hour.

  Arm in arm with Seraphina, Cristiana leaned on her friend more than she wanted as they made their way down the winding stairs through the great hall, and out into the front courtyard. A quarter moon greeted them from above as a dog lifted his head to watch them pass. Movement at the gatehouse shifted her gaze to a guard, who, upon seeing them, turned back to his post.

  The chapel door squealed on its hinges, and they were met with a rush of chilled air that smelled of aged scrolls, mold, and tallow. A single candle sat upon the altar flickering in the breeze that swept past them through the door.

  It had been a while since Cristiana had been in the chapel, due both to her illness and the missing chaplain. Yet she wondered at the chill that suddenly gripped her, causing her heart to tighten. She’d always felt at peace here, as if God Himself passed through on occasion and left some of His love behind. But that sensation had been replaced by one that made her skin crawl.

  Clinging to each other, the two ladies approached the altar, searching the shadows for any sign of Sir Jarin the Just.

  One of the shadows moved, and out stepped the figure of a man, a large man, who instantly held up his hand. “’Tis me, Jarin, my lady.”

  Another shadow emerged and Sir Damien LaRage appeared, his dark eyes drifting over her and landing on Seraphina.

  Finding her breath again, Cristiana released Seraphina and bade her remain as she drew closer to Jarin.

  “Lady D’Clere.” Removing his hat, he dipped his head. “Thank you for meeting me.” Deep brown eyes assessed her with care, sparkling in the candlelight. He shifted boots over the stone floor and scanned the room once again. What was it about this knight that made her feel safe? Mayhap ’twas his broad shoulders, the knives lining his belt, or the sword at his side? Nay, ’twas his very presence, a strength, a commanding power which made her feel as though he’d protect her at all costs.

  Foolish woman. What silly romantic dreams were these? She hardly knew the man.

  “Tell me, Sir Jarin, have you word of my sister?” she finally asked, unable to wait another moment.

  “Aye, I have. But I must first tell you that you are in danger,” he said bluntly.

  “Me? What of Alexia? She is no witch!”

  He nodded, set his hat on the altar, and took her hands. “I know. Never fear. She is well. Safe.”

  “Where is she?”

  “With Ronar…Sir LePeine.”

  Finally, she was able to breathe. “Thank our Holy Father in Heaven.”

  “My lady, someone is poisoning you.”

  “I know.” Cristiana glanced over her shoulder at her friend. “Seraphina told me what happened when Alexia drank the elixir.” She swallowed. “I have not drunk it since, and yet I am still ill.” As if confirming her words, the room began to spin, and she closed her eyes.

  Flinging an arm around her waist, Jarin led her to sit on a bench. The strength and power of his touch, along with his masculine scent, both settled her mind and excited her heart.

  “Mayhap the poison takes some time to leave your body,” he offered.

  Damien moved to stand beside Seraphina.

  “I hope you are right.” Cristiana offered him a smile, then drew a deep breath. “’Tis our steward, LeGode. I could not force myself to believe it at first. But alas, I am sure of it now.”

  “Aye,” Jarin said. “Alexia believes so as well.”

  She stared up at him, his eyes so full of wisdom and kindness. “I know not why. He is not in line to inherit.” She rubbed her temples. “None of this makes sense. What am I to do?” She watched as his hands swallowed hers in a bastion of warmth and strength. “I should dismiss him at once,” she added in haste.

  Damien groaned and crossed arms over his chest. “Nay. He has too many of his own knights here. He will declare you mad and have you imprisoned in the tower.”

  Seraphina gasped.

  Jarin gripped the hilt of his sword. “He’s right. Your best course of action is to remain abed and feign your continued illness.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until we discover the truth and bring the villain to justice. In the meantime, I will gather as many knights as I can on our side.”

  “And what if my sister returns? I fear for her.”

  Jarin exchanged a look with Damien, a slight smile on his lips. “Ronar can handle her.”

  “You do not know my sister.” She huffed.

  “You do not know Ronar.”

  Jarin continued to hold her hands, his thumb caressing her skin in a gesture that would have been far too forward under any other circumstances. As it was, she needed his comfort and strength. All the years of fear, uncertainty, and illness had finally taken their toll, and she longed to fall into this knight’s arms and never leave. But that wouldn’t be proper. Besides, he was merely being kind, performing his duty to God and King. Wasn’t he?

  “I’m so frightened, Sir Jarin,” she whispered.

  He brought her hands to his lips for a kiss. “Never fear, my lady. I will protect you.” The care in his tone brought her gaze up to his, and she found him looking at her as if he would ransom a kingdom to keep her safe.

  ♥♥♥

  Killed his sister? The words echoed through the chamber, bounced off stone walls, careened off the vaulted ceilings, and fluttered the tapestry of a pastoral scene hanging just outside the Great Hall.

  The Great Hall Alexia was forbidden to enter.

  The Great Hall where a tragedy occurred—one that shadowed Ronar’s face so deeply, it seemed he’d fade into the darkness beyond.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, fear rising at the look of utter despair in his eyes and the rage brewing just beneath the surface.

  She took a step back. Her injured foot struck the floor, and she whimpered. Ronar had her in his arms within seconds.

  “Put me down at once!”

  He said naught, just carried her into the lesser hall and set her on a cushioned chair before a crackling fire.

  The steward must have stoked the coals and left a tray of food and wine on the table, for she could smell the scent of roasted pork, garlic, boiled apples, and cinnamon.

  Ronar, silent, solemn, poured himself a mug of wine and gulped it down, then poured two more, bringing them with him. He handed her a cup, which she took, suddenly uncomfortable in this man’s presence.

  Elbows on his knees, Ronar stared into the flames, gripping his cup as if it held the answer to the tormenting questions lining his face.

  Alexia waited, sipping the spiced wine, trying not to stare at the man, but wanting so much to understand his pain, help him if she could. Doing her best to quiet her soul, she shifted to the Spirit within and prayed for sight, then waited, keeping her eyes open this time, her mind still. The swarm of dark shadows slinking and hovering around Ronar startled her at first. Her fear returned and she lost
the sight.

  There is no fear in perfect love, the friar had said.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried again. No fear. Not when one existed in the perfect love of God.

  The shadows arose again, specters from the underworld, formless, empty beings whose only goal was the destruction of man—to destroy his life and drag him into the dark prison in which they lived. The shadows spun around Ronar’s head in a wild demonic dance—round and round until she grew dizzy watching them.

  He gulped down his wine, then rose and poured more. The shadows followed him, braiding and coiling about him, attempting to bind him with invisible chains. Lifeless yellow eyes narrowed upon her, challenging her to intervene.

  A brilliant flash drew her gaze beyond them where she spotted the light-beings, one by the window, the other by the door. Swords hung at their side.

  She placed a hand on the Spear, snug in her pocket. Then swallowing the last traces of her fear, she waved her hand over the specters and whispered the name of Christ.

  They vanished like the wisps of smoke they were.

  “Did you say something?” Ronar took his seat again, shifting his shoulders as if a weight had suddenly been lifted.

  “Simply that I wish you would tell me about your sister.”

  He took another gulp of wine. “’Tis a long, horrid tale.”

  “One which I wish to hear.”

  “You would not wish so if you knew…”

  She waited. “Knew?”

  “Knew that I am a vile wretch of the worst kind.”

  She wanted to say she could never think that of him, that he’d proven to be an honorable, godly man, but one didn’t say that to their captor. Not when one intended to escape at the first opportunity.

  He stood and waved his cup through the air, spilling wine over the side. “I grew up here at Rivenhall. In the castle you saw today. With my mother and father, the earl and countess of Rivenhall—Simon Meschin and his wife Madeline.” He snapped his gaze to her, awaiting her reaction.

  Meschin. Simon Meschin. The familiar name ricocheted through her mind. “Meschin is your family name, not LePeine?” Though he’d said it before, she hadn’t made the connection.

  “Aye. I changed it for obvious reasons.”

  Obvious, indeed. Everyone in the realm had heard of Simon Meschin. He and the king had grown up together at court. When the king took the crown, he kept Simon by his side as a confidant, gave him an estate, and found him a bride.

  She studied Ronar as he stared at the flames, the regal cut of his nose, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and his eyes so filled with fury and sorrow—this man she’d once deemed a mere knight who she’d then discovered was an earl, but who now, she learned, was one of the king’s inner circle. “That makes you a very powerful man, Ronar.”

  He laughed bitterly. “Does it?”

  “Your father died saving the king. If naught else, that means you have His Majesty’s ear.”

  “Mayhap his ear, but not his loyalty. Not since Bishop Montruse arrived.”

  Several moments passed in silence before Alexia dared say, “I heard your mother died soon after your father.”

  “Six years ago.” Ronar stared down at his drink, locks of hair falling in his face. “Some say ’twas a fever. I say ’twas a broken heart.”

  “They loved each other very much.”

  “Aye.”

  Rising, Ronar poured himself more wine and then sank back into his chair.

  “I was eighteen, my sister fourteen, and we suddenly found ourselves with a vast estate to run, knights to command, and overflowing wealth sifting through our fingertips. To avoid painful memories, we moved here to the manor house, but instead of following my father’s good example and becoming the man he taught me to be, instead of caring for my sister and being a godly and moral influence, I became a dissolute wastrel, drunkard, and scoundrel of the worst kind.”

  Alexia would not have believed it, save for Ronar’s tone and the look of anguish on his face.

  “How did I spend my time with my newfound responsibility and wealth? I hosted banquet after banquet, inviting all the local nobility and their fresh young daughters. As if that weren’t enough debauchery, I attended the king’s grand affairs in London, spent days, even weeks, at court in reveling and dissipation with no awareness of where I was or what I was doing.”

  Alexia swallowed. She had heard of many a young noble who behaved thus—had been vehemently warned of such by the friar. But she could not find it in her heart to associate such a libertine with the man who sat before her now—this King’s Guard who held truth and honor above all else.

  “Do I shock you, Alexia? Do you wish to hear more?”

  “I am not easily shocked, Sir Knight.” Though in truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know more. Even so, she said, “Pray, continue.”

  “I ruined many a young maiden.” He stared at her, assessing her reaction, his eyes glazed with wine. “It may surprise you the number of ladies willing to lose their maidenhead in the hopes of marrying an earl.”

  Alexia tried to hide her disgust, but some must have leaked onto her expression.

  He huffed. “Forsooth, at last I see the disdain in your eyes.” He rose and wavered slightly. “I will bore you no longer.”

  Rising, Alexia halted him with a touch. “Forgive me, Ronar. I have no right to judge you. I have many mistakes in my past as well.”

  He studied her. “I doubt that.”

  She pressed him to sit again, and when he did, she knelt at his feet. “God’s forgiveness is not partial.”

  He rubbed his temples. “Just hard won, ’twould seem.”

  “What happened to your sister?”

  “Do you truly wish to hear what a beast I am?”

  Chapter 23

  Ronar knew he’d consumed too much wine. His head felt as heavy as iron, whilst thoughts whipped this way and that through his mind like trees in a storm. Worst of all, the shield he’d carefully forged around his heart was starting to crack.

  All due to this beautiful lady who sat at his feet, gazing up at him as if he were a king and not the dissolute cullion he was.

  Why would she not leave? Any decent lady would have stomped away in disgust when he’d first disclosed his true nature.

  But she stayed, her initial disgust transforming into forgiveness, her revulsion into care.

  Must be the wine. He rubbed his eyes. Or a wonderful dream.

  That dream would definitely shatter when he continued.

  “There was a man, a good friend who oft joined me in my celebrations. Lord Bromley.” Ronar shifted his gaze to the fire, unable to look Alexia in the eyes. “He became infatuated with my sister, Idonea. Who wouldn’t? She was not only lovely to look upon, but innocent and pure of heart. I forbade him, of course, to pursue her. Alack, I knew his motives were impure. He wished merely to bed her, get her out of his thoughts, and then move on to the next conquest.”

  Alexia lowered her gaze, as any decent lady would hearing such talk.

  “One night I had another one of my lavish affairs here at the manor, and”—Ronar could barely say his name— “Brom and I were well into our cups. After everyone left, I must have fallen asleep in my bed, for I woke suddenly in the middle of the night and went looking for Idonea. I always ensured she was well and safe ere I retired.” One thing he had done right. “I found Brom in her bedchamber.”

  Alexia looked up at him, her eyes moistening.

  “I dragged him off my sister—much to her dismay—and challenged him to a duel. He had dishonored her and betrayed my trust. My good friend.”

  Alexia grabbed one of his hands. Her fingers were small, but their strength and warmth comforted him.

  “We fought in the Great Hall you nearly entered, sword to sword. Through the entire battle, my sister watched from the side, screaming and begging me to stop.”

  Alexia ran a finger down the scar on his forehead. “’Tis how you got this.”

  He nodde
d. “A reminder of my foolishness. How could I expect my sister to behave any differently than what she had witnessed her brother doing for years?” He sighed. “I merely wanted to teach him a lesson. I wanted…I wanted… to hurt him as he had hurt me and my sister.”

  “And did you?”

  “Aye. I sliced him up fairly well ere he ran off, bloodied and beaten, cursing both me and Idonea.”

  Silence invaded, save the crackle of flames and shift of fabric as Alexia moved slightly. “’Twas a fair duel, Ronar. Naught to be ashamed of.”

  Moments passed before he found enough of his voice to continue. Yet how could he even say the words? His eyes blurred, and he dropped his head into his hands. “She killed herself.” There. He’d said it. Now the pain rose, the pain he’d so desperately tried to drown for four years—an agony that clawed his soul and threatened to grind it into dust.

  She squeezed his hand. “What are you saying?”

  “My sister. She swore she loved Brom and could not live without him, nor live with the man who had driven him away.” He swallowed a burst of agony. “She jumped off a cliff.”

  Alexia’s hand grew cold against his skin.

  Surely now she would leave him to drown in his own despair and shame. Instead, she tightened her grip on his hand and laid her head on his thigh. No words were spoken. She merely remained, offering him the comfort of her presence.

  He rubbed his eyes, suddenly ashamed of tears no knight should shed. Pushing her away, he stood and planted a boot on the hearth and an arm on the mantel. “So you see, my lady, I am no hero, no man of honor, as I pretend.”

  He heard her rise and stand beside him. “I’m sorry, Ronar. ’Twas an unfathomable betrayal from one so close.” She touched his arm. “But you cannot take the blame upon yourself for your sister’s death.”

  “Can I not?” He blustered back. “When I am the one who taught her to be immoral? Who placed no boundaries around her? Who left her alone with a man I knew to be a libertine? Why? Because I was besotted.” Growling, he tore from her and walked away. He didn’t deserve the woman’s sympathy. Nor the look of care in her eyes. “I am pathetic.”