The Protector

by Becca St. John

  He would release her to Sister Rose and her gaggle of nuns. He’d give her back the life she sought. Anger and hatred festered within for too long. He would only taint her with it. She deserved better.

  But he would not stop protecting her. He would use his well-honed wiles and savagery, to crush those who would try to crush his Veri.

  She was no witch but soon, very soon, others would find that Roland was the devil himself.

  **********

  Roland looked up from the chessboard. Father Ignacious pulled free of the support of a young priest, to cross the great hall in hurried, reckless strides. He toppled a chair, careened off the corner of a table, propelled by agitation rather than stamina.

  Always angular and overly pale, his complexion now a waxy yellow, skin oversized for his skeletal frame.

  Word reached Oakland that Ignacious was not well, but this was worse than that. By all appearances, he’d already lost his fight with the grim reaper. He should have declined Roland’s request. Why he didn’t provoked curiosity. Perhaps he sought to right a wrong before facing his end. He wouldn’t be the first to do so.

  Roland didn’t care. Whatever Ignacious hoped to gain from this situation, he would not be allowed to touch Veri.

  Kenneth could not be found. Ignacious would be used.

  “Where is she?”

  Yes, very agitated. Roland leaned back away from the smell of decay, and studied this fanatical priest who once wielded great power in the name of the Lord. Though his beady eyes lost their zealot’s light, they still managed to pierce through a man from the depths of a protruding brow.

  No one doubted he wore a bloody, maggot infested hair shirt beneath his robe, as well as whip welts. The man believed pain and suffering the only true path to heaven.

  “It was not you she asked for,” Roland announced bluntly.

  Ignacious wiped the thought away with a weak brush of his hand. “That does not matter.”

  His fevered gaze shot to the stairs; he pivoted, moved toward them, as though pulled by a specter’s hand. Roland stayed him. Ignacious looked over his shoulder, rigid, eyes wide, filled with a self- loathing that rocked Roland.

  Reports were true, he’d become another man, personality invaded. He stilled his agitation to the mere rubbing of thumb across his fingers. Then spoiled it, blundering, “I was summoned. . . ah . . . with great urgency.”

  He closed his eyes, swallowed. “It was said that . . . uh . . . time was of importance.” He then smoothed his robe. “I am as prepared as any other priest to hear her confession.”

  Silence hung between the two men, more poignant for the moments wasted.

  “Her confession?” Roland stood, changed the tact of confrontation, to goad the priest into revealing his true agenda. “Has no one told you? It is not her confession that concerns my wife, but marital advice.”

  Ignacious stilled, warily, expressions shifting; hope, terror, fear, joy. Each passion succinct and clear. As good as a confession, but confession of what?

  “She is not on her death bed?”

  “No,” Roland admitted, “or, at least she won’t be if we can oust her from that bloody room.”

  Ignacious sank onto the chair facing Roland. Defeated or relieved, Roland could not tell. A man of monumental self-importance and rigid self-containment, losing control. His hand trembled as he ran it over his head, leaving tufts of hair askew. His beard quivered, as his palm covered his eyes.

  “Come,” Roland told the priest, and led him to the stairs, where his young attendant took over. Three men-at-arms fell into form behind them as they mounted the stairway.

  Roland entered his chamber. Ignacious stood apart, centered within the room, rubbing his hands together, eyes glazed and feverish, lips pressed closely together.

  With a flick of his wrist, Roland urged Ignacious forward as he called to Veri through the portal.

  The door shimmied with the force of her reaching it. “Roland?” She asked, breathlessly.

  “Your man of cloth is here.”

  “Father Kenneth?”

  “ ‘Tis a priest, Veri.” He clasped Ignacious shoulder, bent to his ear.

  “Keep her talking,” he told the man, his words low and urgent, the weight of his hand, the strength of his grasp a warning. “I don’t care if you frighten her into listening, just keep her speaking.”

  Shoving Ignacious closer to the door, Roland pivoted, and strode from the room with long purposeful steps.

  He didn’t wait to hear Veri’s gasp of fury. He didn’t need to. He expected it. Bringing in the hunter of the Healers tantamount to a flood of vipers. The greatest weapon at Roland’s disposal. A brutal attack when no other would do.

  With Ignacious at hand, Veri would be too fraught with emotion to think or hear or sense any change in her surroundings.

  Thoughts of strategy occupied Roland’s mind, as he pushed through the gathering crowd outside his chamber. Imperiously, he ignored the rest, as he signaled to Harold. Without hesitation, the knight shoved away from his lazy stance against the wall, to match Roland’s hurried stride. As they moved down the hall, they pulled leather gloves from their waistbands. As they strode along the gallery, they stuffed their hands into the heavy gauntlets.

  Grabbing the frame of the tower doorway, Roland swung around to the stairs, taking them two, three, at a time. Harold followed close behind.

  Quickly, they reached the battlements. Without breaking stride, Roland crossed to the crenellated edge, reached down for the rope he’d secured that afternoon. He grabbed the twisted hemp, gained his hold and threw himself off the battlements, swinging into the dark of night. He flew through the air before he came back, feet first, to land hard against the stone wall.

  With a powerful kick, he shoved away from the wall, as he eased his hold, to slide down the rope before returning once more. Graceful movements, so smooth and assured none could tell the strength and timing demanded. Down, down he went. One final push off from the wall, swinging out, returning, aimed to land within Veri’s window.

  The rope snapped, tautness gone limp, abandoning Roland just short of solid purchase. His foot scraped the rock as it slid past the window ledge.

  Harold’s cry of alarm billowed into the night, as Roland lunged, fruitlessly trying to reach the swirling line of rope. It fell, like a gentle snake, sailing through the air, gliding down toward the river below.

  Roland’s plummet held no grace as he scrambled for a hold, clawing for a solid grasp. His palms caught the sill, hit, gripped. He hung there, for a moment, stretched out full length. Veri’s hands clamped onto his arms, steadied, offering her arms for support. He shook his head, heaved with a grunt, hoisted himself up, levering his body on the wide window’s edge.

  He rose, like the great phoenix, to his knees, to his feet, finally to stand within the opening, hands braced against the casement, heart thudding wildly. Chest heaving, he glared defiantly at the room.

  Shouts came from the outer chamber. Fists pounded upon the door. Harold’s bellow could be heard from above. All of it, the noise, the confusion, the focus of Roland’s glare, centered on the young woman poised within the chamber. She stood, silent, still as a doe in the wood, frozen with alarm. Thinner, wild with alarm, and beautiful. So beautiful.

  “If,” Roland stated between deep draughts of air, “you attempt to jump, I promise you I will follow.”

  “I will not jump.” She promised.

  “No,” he shook his head, his tension easing. He stepped down from his perch at the window. “I did not think you would. You have been trained to save life, not take it.”

  “And what is it you’ve been trained for?” She asked, her voice quivering as she pointed an accusing finger toward her door, an angry blush mounting her cheeks. “Why is it you bring me the one man who would condemn me to death?”

  She took a deep, steady drink of air, as she warded off Roland’s intended approach with a hand held up. “He sought out the Healers. Wished them burned. S
pecifically asked for me. The child.”

  She stormed away, paced. Arms crossed stiffly at her chest, she spun to face Roland. “The three who ambushed you within the woods were three of the same men who attacked the women in the woods. He could be your undoing as well as my own!” She shouted, glaring at him, shaking with fury.

  “Veri!” He reached out, moved closer.

  “Don’t!” She warned, her own composure too close to breaking.

  “He was the only one . . .”

  “I don’t want to hear!” She cried, covering her ears, crumbling onto the floor, into a heap.

  Roland was there, in three strides, tearing off the gauntlets, hunkering down, pulling Veri onto his lap, curling around the ball she had formed, rocking, holding her. She didn’t shove him away.

  “I would have sent the devil himself, if it would save you from death within these walls,” he whispered.

  Eyes filled with tears, she repeated, “All I asked for was Kenneth. Was that such a terrible request?”

  “Nay,” Roland promised, “I would have brought the whole of Rome if it would have helped, but Kenneth is nowhere to be found.”

  “I do not trust Ignacious.”

  “Nay, nor do I.”

  “He is a danger to you as well as me.” She told him, running her hand along his cheek, ensuring his safety.

  He brought her archenemy to distract, and still she reached with caring. He blinked away tears, intent on seeing her with clear vision.

  They stared at each other, studying, yearning, as fists pounded upon the door, voices shouted from without. None mattered but the two, together, alone.

  Roland started to rise but Veri stayed him. “Do not leave me.”

  “I will send them away.”

  “Nay, they cannot touch us.”

  “You need food.”

  “Please,” she pressed, “I need you. Just you, to hold me, to keep me close for these moments.”

  He settled back, pulled her closer, as close as he could without crushing her. “At ease,” he shouted to the fury beyond the door, “she is fine, I am fine.”

  With the sudden silence he admitted, “I do not deserve you, Veri,” but she put her fingers to his lips.

  “I want no other.”

  “I cannot forget that night, how I took you. It haunts me.”

  “And yet, my body wants yours.”

  He shook his head against temptation. His hunger a greedy, grasping lust.

  “You don’t know what you want.”

  Her head, tucked under his chin, turned back and forth, negating his words. She eased away, looked up at him, clasped his face between her hands. “Please.” She whispered as she raised her lips to his.

  “Oh, my little one,” Roland moaned. “On the night of our bedding, I was brutal,” his eyes darkened with the memory. “I vowed never to take you again.”

  “No, not like that.” She clarified.

  “Never like that!”

  She leaned against him. “You vowed of taking. Could you not give.”

  He lifted his head.

  “With gentleness?”

  He could not move.

  “You were angry then. If you felt caring?

  “Love,” he amended. “I could give love. But my heart, it is so full, I am afraid, afraid of the power of my feelings.”

  “‘Tis a matter of words,” she whispered.

  “Nay,” he shook his head, “' ‘tis more than words, ‘tis action. You take me past control. Hunger can be greedy, beastly.”

  “Then I will meet you in that.”

  “You could not,” he bowed his head.

  “Please, can you trust yourself to stop if I call foul?”

  As they spoke, his hands roamed along her back, up to cup her head, tilt her face to his, her neck open and free for the soft brush of his lips. “Stop me now.” He moaned.

  “Trust my love.” She whispered, gripping his shoulders

  “Your love?” She loved him. Him. Hunger overrode all other feelings, “Your love.” He whispered, easing her onto her back, leaning over her, seeing the truth in her eyes, her smile.

  “Please,” She pulled him to her, her body yielding to his, her eager touch robbing him of choice. He eased his leg between hers, his tongue between her lips. She tasted of ale and almonds. The welcome softness of her lips, breasts, hips receiving the rigid heat of him.

  Heaven, he found heaven, a siren’s call filled with promises. She was his.

  The pounding at the door began anew.

  He pulled away, resting his forehead on hers before turning to shout. “Go away!”

  Margaret’s frantic cry,“Veri, you must come at once! It is the bear, it is your bear. He’s been hurt, badly. There is no one who can tend to him but you.”

  CHAPTER 15 ~ BEAR

  “Cin,” Veri cried, fighting against him, as he always thought she should. “Roland, Cin is out there and hurt. Let me go.”

  He rolled from her, stood, holding out a hand to still her as he caught his breath. “Wait!” He crossed to the beam that had been his nemesis for the past five days and removed it. “Just wait,” he told her more calmly.

  When he finally opened the door, he saw Margaret. His guards stood at the entrance to his chamber.

  “Roland,” Margaret pleaded, “it is the bear and two women who claim to be friends of Veri’s from the convent.”

  “The women brought the bear?”

  “In a cart,” Margaret looked about, as if she preferred to be alone. “They do not look like nuns to me.”

  “Who?” Roland stopped, to block Veri moving around him. “Enough!”

  “Roland,” Veri grit out. She managed to wedge herself between Roland and the doorjamb. He glanced down at her, surprised by the goal she’d gained. “Let me lose!”

  But there was danger out there, so much danger.

  He saw Cynthia and Cwen beyond Margaret. Days ago, he’d had his fireplace implemented for cooking, everything at the ready should Veri free herself. Cwen bent over a kettle while Cynthia filled a bowl from a steaming pitcher.

  Food, there, in the open, for any to taint.

  Who could he trust?

  Veri pushed free.

  “Wait!” He shouted, too late. Cynthia, whom he suspected wanted Oakland for her son, stepped in front of Veri.

  “Here,” she thrust the bowl forward, “you, of all people, know you will need sustenance. You will need your strength.”

  Impatient, but no fool, Veri drank, shoving the bowl into Roland’s hands when she was done.“Lady Veri!” Cynthia fretted as Veri turned away. “It will make you sick.” “Make her sick?” He shouted.

  Cynthia brushed him off. “Because she drank too much, too quickly.”

  But Veri had already reached the door. This time, Father Ignacious blocked her path. Like a specter of death, hands like crow’s claws landed on her shoulders.

  She recoiled.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Roland slammed Ignacious against the wall. Veri skirted around them and out of the room.

  Would nothing go right? Roland nodded for a soldier to grab hold of Ignacious who wilted, dazed, to the floor.

  Roland shouted to his guards pointing, “follow her!” He needed to check the ramparts, see what could have happened to the rope.

  Harold stepped up to his side, but rather than ask the chief of his personal guard to join him, Roland forced the empty bowl on Sir Harold. “Stay clear of Lady Cynthia!” He warned.

  Harold’s defiant “No” reached him in the hallway.

  So Cynthia had got to one of his best knights and closest friends, adding depth to Roland’s resentment of the woman.

  A favored knight, twisted to the call of a black widow of a woman. A troubling distraction, while his Veri, true and pure, out meeting women of the convent who did not look like women of the convent, to see to her pet, her great hulking bear who could scare off men focused on attack.

  If Roland’s suspicions were correct, a hopef
ul assassin watched it all.

  **********

  There was enough deceit in the castle, Roland would need Harold’s loyalty. Determined to prove it was there, Harold caught up with Roland and matched his stride as though nothing were wrong.

  They had followed the crusades together, fought back to back. Three times Roland had saved his life, and had the scars to prove the effort it had cost him. Now Roland asked Harold to prove allegiance by staying clear of Lady Cynthia, and Harold had refused.

  Devil take it! Satan always had a hand on him when Lady Cynthia was around. Their sin had a simple name with complex repercussions, betrayal. Yet Harold could stay away from her no more than she could keep clear of him. They were meant to be together. Somehow, he had to convince Roland of the innocence in her motives. In doing that, he would have to admit his own complicity in her lack of honor.

  But first, there were far greater concerns.

  As sharply as the two men strode through the castle, he told Roland, “the rope had been tampered with.”

  The revelation earned no more than a curt glance.

  Harold hesitated, furtively assessing Roland’s mood. The hard look, the absence of shared understanding, told its own tale. Harold would have to argue his case concerning the lady before Roland would listen to anything else, even matters of his own safety.

  He tried to stop Roland, to make amends. “Milord, ‘tis not my wish to defy you.”

  “Then don’t!” Roland rounded a corner, to stand at the top of the stairs. Below, the entrance doors stood propped open.

  An ominous hush hung in the air.

  “I care for Lady Cynthia,” Harold argued, only to be silenced by Roland’s raised hand.

  Silently, they moved down the stairway to stand on the threshold of the entrance. Below them, at the base of the outer steps, was a cart. Upon the cart lay the bear, covered with wide damp streaks evident in the torchlight. Blood. Beside Cin, her arms circling his neck, her head upon his shoulder, was Veri.

  Jeffery moved from the shadow of the doorway, toward Roland. His voice no more than a whisper. “She’s just checked his wounds. The animal had been set upon with knives or swords, possibly both. I doubt the beast will live.”