The Protector

by Becca St. John

  Harold cleared his throat, gently placing his lips to her ear. “He does not want us together.” He confessed, not having to tell her it was Roland he referred to. “Although I sent the others out, he will hear of this meeting.”

  She moved away just enough to look up into her beloved’s eyes, while remaining within his arms, before turning to see that the guards, the servants, who usually stayed within the chapel were gone. “Will he for certain? Could it not pass by him?”

  Harold shook his head. “Nay, he asked me to stay away and I defied him. He will have me watched.”

  “He is a wretch! An ogre! What harm have I caused him that he should distrust me so?”

  “Your son,” Harold told her succinctly, “our son.”

  Their son, the threat to Oakland’s heritage. She had come to put Roland’s mind at ease, only to find his problems scored greater than her own. And so, her secret, Harold’s secret, remained a burden. One they shared.

  There was no gain to come with honesty. Harold had cuckolded Oakland’s heir, Cynthia’s loyalty cast in doubt. No easy choice in that. At the least, both hoped to ease Roland’s suspicions toward Cynthia. Then they would be free to marry. If Roland knew of Harold’s role in Cynthia’s ‘indiscretion’ everything would be lost. Harold would be seen as a traitor.

  “I will join the nunnery,” Cynthia whispered.

  “Nay,” Harold denied her that peace. As though to prove the impossibility of celibacy, he swooped down for a hungry kiss. “It need not turn to that. I will find a way. Just trust me. For just a little longer, trust me.”

  The large entrance opened. The lovers sprang apart.

  “Cynthia?” Veri whispered.

  Cynthia hurried to the doorway, where Veri stood outlined by the brightening day. Harold shifted deeper into the shadows, but for no purpose. Veri studied the darkness where he stood and he sensed she knew him to be there.

  “The bear is well,” Cynthia whispered.

  Veri nodded, her gaze then intent on Cin, who lifted his head with a snort. He knew she was there. Without looking at Cynthia, she shooed her off toward Sir Harold, “go back to him. Be glad that he wants you.” She flinched with the pain of what that meant to her. “I will see to Cin myself.”

  Jasmine and Angelica stirred. The end of Cin’s nose, held high in the air, twitched with the scents it caught. His head lolled over toward his approaching mistress, as a mournful keen rose from his depths.

  “Ah, pet,” Veri soothed in voice and touch. His nose burned as though on fire, dry and rough.

  “Give him this,” Jasmine shoved a bowl and a funnel between Veri and the bear.

  Veri understood, nodding toward her elder to hold the animal’s head. Messy and cumbersome, they managed to get enough down his throat.

  “He took that well,” Angelica said in surprise.

  “He has seen enough others treated. Perhaps he understands.”

  “Perhaps,” Jasmine clipped.

  Veri put her hand to his fur, stroked gently as she watched his breathing deepen. Her breath not so steady. “My husband is sending me away.”

  Jasmine sputtered. “When you are in the middle of tending to a patient?”

  “He trusts you to see the job well in hand.”

  “He knows nothing!”

  Startled, Veri looked to Jasmine. “You are the Healer, are you not?”

  “And you aren’t?” Jasmine countered, as she fussed with Cin’s bandages.

  Veri stilled Jasmine’s hands. “Not as you are, we both know that.”

  “Perhaps not,” the other woman conceded, with a lift of her shoulders, “but you were trained not to leave a patient unless there was another more needy.”

  “True,” Veri nodded thoughtfully.

  “A bear is not so different from a human, you know.”

  Veri shook her head.

  “Veri?” Angelica interrupted, “we cannot stay. I cannot stay. We must go.”

  Ignacious.

  “Where will you go? To the convent?”

  Jasmine shushed Angelica, as Cynthia approached quietly.

  “Are you going to the convent?” Veri quizzed them again.

  It was Angelica who relented, “aye, we will be there for a short while.”

  “Does Roland know?”

  “Why would he?” Jasmine assessed Veri. “Our business is not his, nor does it belong to any but those we give it to.”

  “He has no idea that you are thinking to go there?”

  “Of course not!” Jasmine snapped.

  A smile, smug and mischievous, played upon Veri’s lips.

  “You are going to the convent.” Slowly she circled Angelica. “And it would be better to ride than walk.”

  “Veri?” Cynthia fretted, “what is it that you are thinking?”

  Veri didn’t answer. As she had done to Angelica, she took a turn around Jasmine.

  “Who do you think is a better match to me? Jasmine or Angelica? Equal in height anyway?”

  “Veri,” Cynthia warned, for they had been through this once already. One success did not preclude another.

  “I think Angelica,” Veri answered herself smartly, taking her traveling cloak from her shoulders and placing it upon Angelica’s. She studied the face of her sister, then lifted up the hood, casting her features deep into shadow.

  “Veri, you can’t,” Cynthia reasoned, “he knows you too well.”

  “Pah!” Veri brushed away the argument. “I think it will work. One request that he not see me off . . . “Her smile triumphant, as she brushed the worry from her hands.

  “It might have worked,” a deep lazy voice sounded from behind her, “if I did not know of it.”

  Roland lent against a front pew, arms crossed at his chest. “Besides, Cynthia is correct, I know you too well.”

  “I cannot go,” Veri informed him.

  “I’m pleased you do not want to, for I do not want you to go.” Veri snorted, Roland stood up. “But you will.”

  Eyes narrowed, Veri lifted her chin. “I don’t want to go because of Cin.”

  “Cinnamon,” he emphasized the name, “will be well looked after by the ladies here.”

  “They are leaving.”

  “They cannot.”

  “Hmph!” As a chorus, Jasmine grunted, Angelica whimpered, and Cynthia groaned.

  Roland frowned.

  Veri explained. “These women are not yours to bid as you will.”

  “No?” He raised an eyebrow, just a little too cocky for Veri’s comfort.

  “They are not your subjects. They are under no rule but God’s.”

  Roland laughed.

  “You can’t keep them here Roland.” She snipped.

  He looked over his shoulder at the guards who stood at the back of the chapel.

  “You can’t mean to keep us prisoners?” Jasmine interjected.

  Roland merely shrugged. “I mean to keep you as my guests,” he assured. “You are the closest thing to blood relatives that my wife has. It would be rude of me to cast you off so quickly.”

  Jasmine’s nose flared, as she held her head high. “I see.”

  “Perhaps you don’t,” Roland explained, walking up to the woman, “but I will help you understand. You see, my wife has urgent business to conduct at the convent. Unfortunately her,” he looked to Cin and smiled affectionately, “her pet,” he continued, “is not well and I will allow only the best to care for anything that my wife is fond of.”

  “Prisoners,” Jasmine stated succinctly.

  Angelica moved up close to Jasmine and, though trembling, she held herself erect, stating defiantly, “Prisoners.”

  “As you will,” Roland bowed, holding a hand out to his wife. “Veri.” It was a command. “It is time to leave.”

  She didn’t move.

  He shook his head, as though to warn her that he was very serious about her departure.

  She moved to Cin’s back, settled herself upon the pallet, her arm across the neck of the s
lumbering beast. “I will not cause you any concern. I promise to stay clear of you, but I do not want to leave Cinnamon.”

  “Veri,” Roland sighed deeply, “either you remove yourself from the beast or he will join you on your journey. It is your choice.”

  “Go, Veri,” Jasmine commanded briskly, “Get yourself gone from this wretched man. You will do better without him!”

  No love for men in Jasmine’s heart, but Roland had deepened a lack of fondness to hatred. Jasmine judged quickly and would not change.

  “Roland?” Veri questioned, looking to her husband, wondering if he knew where he was sending her, what chances he took. The sisters would be no different than Jasmine. Once at the convent, Veri would not be encouraged to return to Oakland.

  She searched his features, the tight set of his jaw, the gleam of returned animosity set on Jasmine. Abruptly, he turned his back.

  “It is time to leave, Veri.” He barked, as he strode to the doors of the chapel. “With Cinnamon or without. It is time to leave.”

  “Will they be safe from Ignacious?” She called after him.

  She caught his attention with that. He nodded, once, succinctly. “They will be safe. I swear on it.”

  “You will go to the convent,” He told her firmly, “but remember this,” Afraid of how they might play out, “you are only going there until I can be assured you are in no danger. Do you understand?”

  He was sending her away to protect her. Numbly she nodded her assent.

  “You will listen to no one who tells you to stay away from me.” He continued sternly, his touch a lie to the harshness in his voice, as he stroked her arms, lifting them until her hands settled on either side of his waist. He caressed her shoulders. “You are my wife. Do you understand this?”

  Mutely, she nodded once more.

  “You are my wife. My seed is in your belly. Keep both safe, for no other but me.”

  “Don’t send me,” she heard herself tell him. But he did not listen. He merely looked to her before moving off to see if the entourage was ready to leave. “Maida has packed your clothing and needlework,” his only response.

  Fury billowed within her that he would take such a risk, that he would not trust her to know what was best for her.

  Needlework, pah! If she was to leave Oakland at least that was one thing she could toss aside. She had no interest in the fanciful overcoats and gowns she was meant to wear within this place. At the convent, such excess would not be expected of her.

  However, she would not tell him. She would say nothing at all. If he refused to listen to her, then she would go. And perhaps she would stay gone. Her petite jaw held high, she moved regally past him to the litter waiting for her. Cwen was there, aiding her mistress as she took the steps up to their seats.

  So Cwen was banished as well then, to attend her mistress in isolation.

  Veri would have argued against Cwen’s eviction, against taking the girl from her family and home, but perhaps it was best. This could prove to be the one good thing that would come of her exile. Cwen was not a part of this castle. She was smart, too smart to be accepted. The convent would welcome one such as she.

  The entourage was ready, the litter shifted as the load bearing horses sidestepped in anticipation of departure. Roland mounted as well, rode up beside Veri.

  “Are you ready, wife?”

  She refused to acknowledge him.

  “Veri,” he commanded her attention.

  She turned to Cwen, placed her hands over those of the younger girl. Cwen’s threaded fingers trembled in her lap, fearfully cold.

  She was frightened.

  “Veri!”

  She offered him a withering glare. Cwen needed her now. And, as Roland did not seem to need Veri there with him, then he should not need her to wish him good day.

  Leaning over, she whispered to Cwen, “it will not be a hard journey. You will find it invigorating.”

  Roland’s hand clamped around Veri’s arm. Again, she deigned him a look, though not one of kindness. She ignored the pressure of his grasp, as she focused on Cwen once more, “Do not fear. You will find Our Lady’s a welcoming home.”

  “ ‘Tis not your home, wife!” Roland informed her.

  She pulled free of his hold, sat ramrod straight and looked toward the opposite wall of the litter. It was not a good time to comfort Cwen. There would be time aplenty once they were on their way.

  The horses twitched and shifted, the men sat patiently astride, despite the air of tension surrounding everyone. Roland looked down at Veri, glared at her, willed her to look his way, to assure him that she would be true to him, to their vows, to the child she carried in her womb. He had no doubt that the force of his passion had met a fertile home. He was certain of it.

  She would come back. She would have to. A mother did not keep a child from its father, especially when the child was a boy. It could be none other. So much power, so much passion, could form nothing but a man. Women were made of lazier, sweeter loving. Their loving, his and Veri’s, had not been lazy or sweet.

  Those nights would come later, when she returned.

  If she returned.

  He didn’t look to her, as he signaled the caravan to proceed. He kept his attention on the front of the line as he rode beside his wife’s litter, wondering, ever wondering, if he truly was doing the right thing. She was not forgiving him for his decision. She was making no attempt to understand his position. This did not matter. She was his wife and he would see to her needs, especially if she refused to see to them herself.

  How would she try to defend herself? Lock herself in her room? He snorted.

  Or would she escape through the tunnel?

  She was a wily one, she was. He smiled, pleased that she would do her part in remaining free from injury. Now, if she would only allow him to do his part.

  They passed through the main gate. Roland continued to ride with them through the village, past the fields, beyond the orchard. As they entered the forest, he halted the riders. It was too narrow for him to continue by her side.

  Fist in the air, he addressed his soldiers, his outriders.

  “This is my wife. As you protect me you shall protect her! See to her safety above all else or deal with my vengeance!”

  With a magnificent show he spun his horse, to ride hard, following once again the road they’d just taken.

  He had not said good-bye to his wife. He had not taken the chance that she refuse to say good-bye to him.

  It would have broken his heart.

  He charged across open land, his cloak a crimson and gold banner that twisted in his wake. He willed the hard press of the wind and the wild ride to extinguish the flame of fury that burned within, but the fickle currents worked against him to fan the blaze instead.

  Veri was gone, possibly for good and all for the best. He had not been able to protect her, to keep her safe.

  He ignored the gentle curves of the road that led to the castle, as he pushed his steed upward, toward higher rugged ground. Harold and Jeffrey followed, though they gave him his lead. He knew they would, knew that they sensed the violence within him. Soon enough he would be forced to slow for his stallion’s sake, if not his own. He’d not damage his horse with his own foolishness. And he knew himself to be foolish.

  Foolish to run away from his own convictions. Foolish to run off, back to the castle, as though the loss he felt with Veri’s departure would ease once he was within the same walls that drove him to send her away.

  He slowed his pace, brushed the lather from his horse’s neck, as he commended the animal with soft soothing words. Upon the rise, he halted, the whole of Oakland spread out below him. His domain.

  This was what he was fought for. This was Oakland, his land, his people. He had a responsibility to them as much as he had a responsibility to his life. Should he be lost, should his enemies overcome him before he found them out, more would be lost than his lifeblood. These people, these lands, would be left in the hands of
sinister minds. Minds where evil lay so close to the surface that, after ten years, it could shift into action as subtly and deceptively as a small spider slipping across its web to confront its prey.

  Veri was caught within that web.

  “It is a fine land, milord,” Harold stated, as he pulled his horse alongside Roland’s left. Jeffrey approached to flank his Lord’s right.

  “Aye,” Roland agreed thoughtfully, knowing, now, he’d done the right thing.

  If Veri had been with him, if she still resided within Oakland’s walls, he’d be obsessed with her safety, forgetting all else.

  Slowly, his gaze swept along the horizon, narrowing in, further and further before something stopped him. A movement, out along the western edge of the farmland, where forest met tilled earth, with a meager strip of pasture between. Leaning forward in his seat, he discerned what caught his eye.

  “It’s a man,” he stated quietly, studying the figure more intently, “and he’s having difficulty.”

  “Injured,” Jeffery stated.

  “Nay,” Harold countered, “furtive. He does not wish to be seen. Look how he’s bent.”

  “Harold, ride into the woods and Jeffery go toward the village.” Roland watched, waited, as they took their positions.

  “Come,” Roland spoke to his stallion, “we will see what this stranger is about.”

  They rode swiftly through the fields, forded a stream that pierced his property, breached its bank. Thunderously, he bore down on the figure, with no fear of detection.

  The intruder turned, stumbled.

  It was not deceit that caused the irregular gait. Having fallen, the man could not rise properly, remained bent over, broken. His clothes caked with mud, his hair a matted jumble with flecks of blood streaking the grayness of it. Only a glimmer of color escaped the mass of filth. Color enough to prove him to be one of Roland’s own men.

  The stallion reared, as Roland brought it to a halt. Its front legs striking the air over the fallen man before Roland urged it ‘round on its dancing hind legs.