The Protector

by Becca St. John

  “Did her ladyship tell you of the snake?”

  “A snake?”

  “It came out of Lady Veri’s sewing basket yesterday afternoon.”

  “Good Lord! And no one thought to inform me?”

  “The castle guard took care of it, but it has created talk.”

  Roland looked to the closed portal. “Veri did not tell me of this.”

  “It was a viper.”

  Roland nodded, rubbing his hand down the length of his face. Harold continued. “She could not have placed the poison. Nor would it make sense to put a viper in her own sewing basket.”

  “Cwen would not either. The girl is loyal to Veri.”

  “But who?” Harold wondered aloud.

  “Yes,” Roland questioned, “who would wish Veri ill? Who is it that plants these lies?”

  “The guard should have told us of the snake earlier.” Harold argued.

  Aye, Roland thought, and so should my wife have told me, but she didn’t.

  “Harold,” Roland looked at the fire and stood. Veri would need wood in her room if she were to stay there for any length of time. “There is work we can be doing. Send men out, in all directions, to find Father Kenneth. Then see to it that a taster is available at meals. No one is to eat before the food has been tested.”

  “Aye.”

  Roland paced, “Do others know of the dogs?”

  “Within the castle? Nay. Only your guard. They removed the dogs as though they were a nuisance, and not sick.”

  “See that word is not spread.”

  “Some of the castle guard were involved. ‘Tis best you have another order their silence. They will not take kindly to one of yours commanding them.”

  “You are all sworn to me.”

  “Aye, but they do not consider themselves of the same order.”

  Roland grunted. “I will see to it personally.”

  When Harold left, Roland went back to the door that separated him from his wife.

  She was better kept within. Though he hated to admit it, she was better locked within.

  Her prison had become her Godsend.

  Once more, he had failed to protect her.

  CHAPTER 12 ~ TAKING A STAND

  Three days, since she’d locked herself within her chamber. Three days.

  Veri wandered the room, touched the stone mantel over the fireplace, brushed the bed curtain. Her finger trailed along the dresser to the silver pitcher full of beer, the decanter with wine. She’d drunk neither, sipping instead, from the pitcher of water by her bed. The water was near gone. If the wine and beer didn’t last, if she became desperate, there was always her basin of wash water. Her situation not so grave. Not just yet.

  As for food, she would not starve. She could pick and nibble in the morning, at night. There was enough food for that. Besides, to go without food was not the first threat to life. No. To run dry of drink would be. The Healers had taught her that much, how to survive on little when the land had no bounty to offer.

  Idleness tempted her to eat and drink, the only activity available. A dangerous lure. No telling how long she would be held up in this room, with naught but the meager source of food meant to last two people for one day.

  “Veri?” Roland called from the other side of the portal, bringing her quickly back from her musings, as though they had not spoken for days on end.

  In truth, he had been gone no longer than it took for the noontide meal. She wondered if he had eaten. Cwen claimed he didn’t, that he sat at table to discuss the needs of the castle, to meet with his sergeant at arms, his steward, but never touched his own food. She worried he would lose weight, that he would not be fit to meet the demands upon him as ruler of Oakland.

  She did not wish to be one of those demands. She would rather be a helpmate or nothing. The matter had to be settled.

  “I am here,” she leaned, full body against the door, her cheek pressed to the wood as though oak could translate the feel of Roland, the breadth of his chest, the strength of his arms. Her memory intensified, until she missed those things she had not even been aware of before, like the scratch of his beard, when he would rub his chin along the crown of her head.

  Gently, Veri laid her hand upon the wooden door, a touch, a yearning to caress him through the wood.

  “They have yet to find Father Kenneth,” he told her. The weight of him against the door, pushed the oak mass hard against the latch. It was the same movement of wood every time he came to her. “We have sent out messengers, but none have returned with word.”

  “The bishop should know where he is,” she offered.

  “Aye, but there has been no response.”

  “Then perhaps he is near. Near enough that the messenger did not return, preferring to follow his scent.”

  “Aye,” Roland answered wearily. The door rattled, as he slid his body down to sit, back against the portal. Veri knew the signs, had learned them well in the past three days. He often sat thus, as they would talk.

  She matched his movement, sitting with her back to the oak.

  “I am sorry to be a trial to you, Roland.”

  “Then come out of there.”

  She leaned her head back, her face up, wondering what would happen if she did open the door. Was she foolish to make such a stand, was she being more stubborn than the situation merited?

  “Veri, I know this is my fault, not yours.” He hesitated. His next words no surprise. “I know of my faults, Veri, you need not stay within your chamber. I promise I will try not to let . . .”

  She shook her head against his words.

  “No, Roland. Do not say more.” Neither of them could solve this, not on their own. “It is a problem we share, not your’s alone. Father Kenneth will guide us through.”

  The door banged with his movement. His voice, still heard loudly as he strode away, lost its clarity with the distance. “Father Kenneth will come, some day he will arrive here, in Oakland. Until then, why must you wait locked within your room? Why could we not speak with another priest? Lord knows there are enough of them about.”

  He was back, his voice more easily heard. His breathing, heavy with anger, brushed through Veri. She knew of his frustration, understood his reasoning. How foolish her actions must seem to him. Yet she could not waiver. Dared not. To give in now was to lose any chance of change. If her stand were so easily displaced, it would easily be forgotten.

  “Another priest will not do, Roland.” She stood firm, allowing, “but I beg of you. Do not trouble yourself on my account. It is not such a challenge we face. As you have spoken, Father Kenneth will arrive. As lord of this domicile, you have other burdens upon your shoulders. Do not bother yourself with me.”

  “Devil take it!” his fist beat against the door, jarring her, “Do you think you are less important than this domain?” He chastened. “You are Lady here. What happens to you is important to all!”

  “But there is naught you can do until Father Kenneth comes.”

  There was a silence, broodingly calm.

  “Veri,” Roland whispered, “Father Kenneth may never come.”

  “He will come,” she told him.

  “You don’t know that!” She heard him stomp away, angry, lost, not knowing what to do.

  The friar would arrive and all would be well. The knowledge was inside her as surely as the sense that she would not die within these walls.

  Tansy had taught her to trust such instincts. They had to be true, for there were no other options.

  **********

  Hannah watched Roland upon the battlements, his stillness a mirrored image of the evening. His thoughts too deep. He didn’t know she stood nearby. This was unusual. The girl, his wife, put him in danger. Gave the advantage to others. Hannah stowed the thought.

  She shifted her slippered foot, slid it softly across the stone. He turned, quickly, catching her in his vision.

  “Hannah?” She’d startled him, ‘twas obvious.

  She did not move to him.
She did not care for the heights of the castle, would go no closer to the wall. He would not expect it, did not for he moved to her, instead.

  “What brings you up here?” He gestured to the doorway that led below stairs.

  “Word has come,” she told him, “Father Ignacious should be here within a day, two at the most.”

  She watched him as she said. “Your lady wife will be pleased to be rescued.”

  “Do not tell her, Hannah. I do not want her to know that it is Father Ignacious who is coming.”

  “She is as familiar with Father Ignacious as Father Kenneth,” Hannah offered, “Father Ignacious will know how to handle her.”

  “Do you think?” Roland asked, still not sure. Perhaps another priest would do, any priest but Ignacious. In his mind he could still picture Veri cringing from the man. Ignacious, with his quivering beard, his cross thrust out before him, a thing to be frightened of. The priest who condemned her as a child, declared the devil held her.

  Had the relationship between child and priest changed so much?

  “He was our priest, Roland,” Hannah urged, “Where else would she have learned the faith, enough that she would seek a convent for a home?”

  “She asks for Father Kenneth and no other.”

  “Father Kenneth!” Hannah sneered, as close to emotion as Roland ever saw. “What does he know? He travels, for no decent church will have him. Besides,” she regained her neutrality, “he cannot be found.”

  “Aye, that is true,” Roland sighed, “And I will not allow her to stay within that chamber.” He took Hannah’s arm, “come, let us get you from these battlements. I know of your dislike for such high places.”

  He led her to the winding stairwell, cautioned her to watch her step, to take care lest her dress tangle with her footing.

  “I will go first,” he told her, “Just put one hand upon my shoulder. . . Aye, now hold your skirt with your other hand. That’s it.” He preceded her, to act as a barrier should she falter. Designed for defense, the stairway was narrow and steep, circling around the wall of the tower, no handholds or railings. Veri scaled them with the agility of a mountain goat.

  He moved slowly, Hannah’s right hand upon his shoulder for support, her other pressed to the wall.

  “Hold your skirts,” he warned again, too late.

  The hand upon his shoulder shoved, pushing, propelling him toward the dark, spiraling center of the stairwell. Her body’s forward fall, wedged between Roland and the wall, forced him away. He teetered, no handhold to grasp but air, his weight followed the force of Hannah’s body, which pushed him against the chasm. Like a dancer he swiveled, followed through with the momentum of his fall, but not downward into the empty darkness. He followed the force full circle, to fall against Hannah, against the wall, pressing her into safety. Surrounding her.

  In her panic, she bucked and kicked at the weight of him.

  “Hold!” He bellowed. She stilled.

  They both stood unmoving for a moment, her body trembling, Roland’s demanding deep draughts of air, when she bucked, once more, against him, nearly pushing them both off the stairway once more.

  “Hannah!” He bellowed, stilling her once more.

  Gently he eased away.

  “I do not like anyone near me,” she explained, with a ragged breath.

  “No,” Roland remembered, “you do not.” He steadied her upon the stairs.

  She shook violently.

  “Can you walk the rest of the way or shall I carry you?”

  “No.” She patted at her dress, smoothed it with trembling hands. “No.”

  “You do not want to be carried?” he asked.

  “Nay,” she offered, more lamely.

  “Take care, then,” he steadied her before turning to continue down, making sure to keep his body braced, prepared, should she tumble again. All the while he wondered at her first fall. For one so fearful of high places, her carelessness seemed more foolish than fitting.

  CHAPTER 13 ~ DREAMS

  “Roland!”

  He shot up, sweating, the dream a haunting hum within his mind. Veri pounded on the door that connected their rooms, her shouts having penetrated his sleep.

  “Roland! What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Milord?” Ieuan stood in the doorway, his sword at the ready.

  “Nothing, Ieuan.” Roland swung his legs over the side of the bed, hunched into the memory of his dream.

  “Are you certain?” Ieuan moved further into the chamber, his gaze searching corners.

  “Aye, man,” Roland snapped, “I am certain. ‘Twas just a dream.” He shouted the last, for Veri to hear.

  “Milord,” Ieuan bowed low as he backed out of the room.

  “A dream?” Veri quizzed.

  “A dream, Veri,” Roland barked, “go back to sleep.”

  She didn’t respond.

  He thought of the images from his sleep.

  Ignorant of danger, Father Kenneth led him to a meadow. The same one where his brothers met their deaths. He lay there, abandoned to die.

  Trained to danger, he had not seen it until too late. Just like his brothers, the best of knights, caught unguarded in this pleasant meadow.

  The one Kenneth led Roland to.

  His dream mirrored memory.

  He checked the meadow, the cliff that ran straight up from where their horses grazed. He saw the figure upon a ledge. Watched it dart into a fissure in the rock high above him. A guard, the one who would set assailants upon him.

  Roland sent the Friar on, to get help, while he sat upon his mount, facing the mountain, braced for attack from that angle, crazy forewarning freezing him even when elated, certain he was prepared.

  The first arrow hit from behind, from so close its momentum pierced his chain mail, his leather jerkin, lodging in his shoulder.

  He had not been prepared.

  There had been no more time.

  Another arrow pierced his chain mail, from behind. Young and naive, he imagined he could stay and fight to end a fool trapped by stupid arrogance. More arrows rained at him, lodged in his side, his back, until a mace unseated him.

  Dream and memory divided except the foggy, illusive picture rang of truth, an awakened remembrance.

  A child wailed, rending the air as she charged from the trees, like an avenging fairy or sprite, her companion a ferocious bear. Death descending in ludicrous form.

  Only it wasn’t death, nor was it ludicrous.

  It had been Veri.

  Roland sat up.

  Why, until now, had he failed to remember that moment? Only able to recall the attack, the unnerving high-pitched squeal of his mount? It mingled with the cries of a child, bounced off the mountainside, went on forever, as if the earth stilled.

  Then the horse had fallen on top of him.

  Until this evening, his memory never evoked the image of the child or her bear. That it did so now, was not a question of authenticity. No, the picture was too detailed, to true to life to be a dream.

  She had been there from the instant of attack. She had done more than heal him, she had faced his opponents.

  Shaken, Roland rose from the bed, crossed to Veri’s door.

  “It was you, up on that ledge, it was you.”

  She did not answer. He didn’t know if she had gone back to sleep or just plain refused to respond.

  “How did you frighten them off, Veri? You were no more than a child? What hold did you have over those men?”

  The silence hung heavy with questions.

  **********

  Gelda huddled within the dark corner of the cell, shivering with the damp, rigid with fright. Someone was coming. The hollow corridor of the dungeon echoed with the ring of the jailor’s keys, the sound of footsteps against the dank floor. Heavy trod and a light, slippered step. Two people approached, not one.

  Was one the witch? The woman she’d so foolishly confronted before the smithy’s? The soldiers grabbed her before she could reach the castle,
tossed her down, deep inside the belly of this cavernous place.

  Just as she sent the child here so many years ago. The witch child.

  That had earned Roland’s wrath.

  Had he come for Gelda now, as he had then, to punish her?

  She could die here and naught would know.

  The key twisted and clicked within the lock. As the door creaked, a wedge of torch lit the cell. Gelda shrank from the unfamiliar brightness.

  “Get up, old woman,” the cultured softness of the voice did not hide the sting of cold command.

  Startled, surprised beyond belief, Gelda blinked at the silhouette, a tall, stately silhouette. A woman. The figure turned, whispered to the guard, who left. She’d allowed herself to be closed inside with Gelda. The torch shoved into a bracket on the wall.

  “Oh! Milady, ‘tis you, ‘tis you . . . “ Gelda scurried over, like a remorseful puppy, dropping prostrate before the woman, “you have found me here. You will save me from this place.”

  “They wanted to hang you,” the voice hissed in response.

  “Aye,” Gelda whimpered.

  “I should have let them, for you claim no followers, defying her in public like that,” the voice admonished.

  “But all seemed so simple.”

  “‘Tis you who are simple! Do you think to outwit one such as her? Do you expect her to fall into your hands? Why do you think I ask you to speak in whispers? In the quiet of the night? In the hours of superstition? That,” the hiss pounced on the last word, “is when others will listen, when they are frightened. Not when they are seeking her powers.”

  “I will do better next time,” Gelda whined, “I promise. Only don’t leave me here. ‘Tis dark and full of vermin. Remember your old Gelda. How I rocked you on my knee, thought of you when all else forgot.”

  “ ‘Twas your responsibility.”

  “Nay. ‘Twas my heart. No one else cared for you as I did. No other loved you.”

  “You have become a nuisance,” a slippered foot tapped against the rank rushes, “but I have no wish to see you die in this place.”

  “I will be of great service to you.”