The Protector

by Becca St. John

  “Albert?” Roland whispered the name, needing little more for the assurance that this was indeed, one of his best, one of his most faithful retainers.

  “Lord Roland,” Albert called hoarsely, no more than a heap upon the ground.

  In a flash of glinting metal, Roland was there, jumping to the ground, lifting Albert, cradling him against his chest.

  “Where are the men I sent with you? What has happened? Who has done this to you?”

  Albert’s eyes fluttered shut, yet he remained conscious. He licked at dry, bleeding lips, prepared to speak. His fevered brow burned through Roland’s hauberk. Jeffrey and Harold’s horses shook the ground, as they joined the pair with a swift leap from the backs of their steeds.

  Roland turned to them, his eyes wild with fury, grief. “Harold, go now, bring her ladyship back! She will tend to Albert!” He then turned to Jeffery. “Water!” He commanded, without waiting to see the others do his bidding.

  Jeffery shoved a canteen into Roland’s hand. The liquid pooled, half of it trickling down the man’s beard, as his tongue lapped at what remained.

  “Not too much,” Roland cautioned, as he poured more.

  “Aye,” Albert croaked.

  It only took a taste of the liquid for his eyes to open. He looked straight at Roland.

  “There’s danger, lad,” the knight whispered, “danger aplenty. Watch your back, watch her Ladyship’s back.”

  “Who has done this?”

  Albert offered a weak smile. “They thought to leave me dead, they did,” he told Roland, “but I’m as tough as an old saddle.”

  “Speak no more,” Roland advised, worried that he’d wear the life out of Albert if he asked any more of him. But Albert was not to be deterred.

  “It is only Jeffery here,” Albert argued, “the pup’s not the danger, lad, ‘tis someone else.”

  “Who?”

  Albert’s grizzled, matted head moved slowly back then forth. “That I don’t know, but they trailed us . . .” He shut his eyes, as thought that would give him strength. “From the moment we left that pile of boulders you call home.” He coughed, racking his body as it curled in on itself.

  “Careful, old man,” Roland taunted, “we don’t want you dead yet.”

  “Nay, not before I do my telling.”

  “Nay, yourself,” Roland admonished. “Not before my wife can look to your ease.” Roland nodded at Jeffrey, signaling the man to get a litter. “‘Tis my job as husband,” Roland distracted Albert, “to offer My Lady wife a steady supply of miracles to work upon.”

  Albert chuckled. “I’ll do my telling then, before she tries to put me out of my misery with her bloody potions,” he grumbled, “strong enough to slumber an ox.”

  “Perhaps she has grown more subtle with age.” Roland wondered, pouring more water upon Albert’s lips.

  “Pah!” Albert spit out his drink. “If we could get her measure, we’d have a fine weapon against our enemies.”

  “Our enemies?”

  “Aye, the ones who trailed us.” Albert’s eyes darkened with vengeful anger, “the ones who killed off every man, one by one.”

  “You made it through.”

  “They thought me dead.”

  “Did you ever reach Kenneth?”

  “Nay. But I’ve followed the bastards back to these woods. I thought they were returning to Oakland but this morn, at dawn, a signal light flashed from the battlements. The men pulled camp, faster than a husband from a whore when his wife’s approaching.” He stopped to take a deep, rattling breath. “They went east.” The words barely escaped before Albert lost what strength he’d gained.

  “Don’t die on me, man!” Roland commanded, as Albert’s fury seeped into his own blood, “don’t die on me,” he whispered, all the while remembering how, at dawn, when the signal had been flashed from his battlements, by one of his own people, he’d been arranging Veri’s departure. He’d set the whole of the castle into motion for the preparations, hiding the fact from no one.

  She was to travel east.

  It was the wrong decision. He knew it now. He’d not sent Veri away from danger. He’d sent her straight into it.

  CHAPTER 18 ~ TWO PRIESTS

  Father Kenneth nudged his donkey, Homer, one more time, urging him forward, a few more steps at the least. Faster if it be God’s will. Gut instinct, or divine inspiration, he knew he had to reach Oakland, soon.

  Homer took a step forward, then two, then stopped to bray.

  In the biblical tale of the prophet Balaam and his beast of burden, a heavenly angel halted the ride. Homer was more likely to be in line with Lucifer than celestial beings.

  Just three paces out of the woods and they would see their destination. Oats for Homer, if he would move. Why would the Lord bring him this far and no further? He kicked at the donkey once more, braced himself in the saddle, leaned forward and waited for a galloping ride.

  Nothing happened.

  “Please,” Kenneth prayed, “if ‘tis Your message that has sent me forth, see to it that this beast cooperates.”

  They sat there. Light filtered through, a breeze ruffled the leaves overhead. Small, woodland flowers could be seen poking through the grass. A bee buzzed lazily nearby.

  Still, they sat.

  A bee landed on Homer’s haunch. The animal’s flesh twitched, his tail swished.

  Take care in what you pray for.

  Kenneth squeezed his eyes shut, waited for the animal to kick and bolt, certain this was God’s answer to his prayer. Certain, also, that it had not been His intent that Kenneth be killed in the process.

  The bee landed, took flight, buzzed, then landed again.

  Nothing happened.

  Kenneth popped one eye open to focus on the point where the winged creature settled.

  The Lord often offered opportunity alone, leaving it in the hands of men to accept or dismiss the opening. This was more than Kenneth could dismiss.

  With a quick prayer for forgiveness, Kenneth grabbed his bible, put his trust in God, and slapped the bee upon Homer’s haunch. Homer bucked, Kenneth hung on, they bolted out of the forest. With a mad, plunging race they charged along the road leading north toward the brilliant castle on the far horizon.

  Oakland.

  An army of men filtered out of the woods from the east. Another, with a man upon a litter, came from the west. Homer headed straight for the center of them all, leaving Kenneth with naught to do but hang on, eyes closed, prayer on his lips that everyone move out of his way, as Homer was too stubborn to give ground.

  Cries of alarm, exclamations shouted, filtered through his death grip, as Kenneth felt his beast cover ground, the animal’s body twisting and flailing as it went.

  Veri’s voice could be heard above the others.

  “Kenneth?” She shouted. “Kenneth!” She shrieked with true concern, “hold on!” She ordered, her lyrical voice a prayer on the wind. Not so Roland, who swore and cursed, and bellowed, “Damn you, priest! Stop that bloody donkey before it kills you!”

  Whether by affront at Roland’s words, or in deference to the authority in his voice, Homer halted. Instantly. Kenneth did not. His rounded form flew over the beast’s head, straight between the tall ears, performing a perfect, airborne somersault before landing ignobly on his well-padded backside to sit, stunned, upon the ground between the lead horses of each procession.

  “Kenneth,” Veri whispered his name. “Kenneth,” she crooned, as she slid from her mount, rushing to his aide.

  “Oh my,” the friar announced, as she knelt beside him.

  “Kenneth!” Veri pulled him to her, hugging him to her breast, pressing kisses to his bald pate. “Are you hurt badly?” She pulled back enough to see his chagrined expression, relieved to find no more than a slight tremor of surprise.

  “Veri.” Roland’s shadow fell over the two before he lowered himself to the ground, resting upon one knee. He didn’t acknowledge the priest, pressing his attention, instead, on his w
ife. Fingers rough and callused, so large against her chin, tempted her to focus but she refrained from looking anywhere but at the friar.

  “Veri,” his voice nudged while, with little pressure, his hold urged her to face him.

  “Where is your litter, the rest of your retinue?”

  “Will I have need of them?”

  Ever so slightly he shook his head, giving nothing away to contemplate.

  “They are going on to Our Lady’s. I would like Cwen to chance life within the convent.”

  Roland nodded.

  “Are you fit, Kenneth?” He asked.

  Leaning heavily against Roland, Kenneth slowly rose. “Aye, fit enough.”

  “Good.” Roland offered Veri his hand as he spoke to her. “You can tend to the priest later. I have more serious ills for you to minister.”

  “Kenneth?” She questioned, intent to get the measure of his well-being.

  “Go with your husband,” the friar patted Veri’s shoulder, “I am merely bruised and it is more to my pride than my body.” He acknowledged.

  Veri barely nodded, studying the friar instead, afraid that she might be missing something, afraid her skills were lacking.

  “Veri, there is another who needs your attention,” Roland reminded, and suddenly his earlier words came to mind, that there was another more in need of her than Kenneth.

  “Who is it Roland?”

  “Albert.”

  “He has returned?”

  “Come,” Roland turned from her, she followed.

  Albert, gruff old Albert, lay unconscious upon a litter, as fragile as a babe.

  She’d not let him down. Not with the help of Jasmine and Angelica. Even Cynthia could be of service. The best of the Healers were here, at Oakland, to see to Albert.

  Quickly, efficiently, Veri checked his breathing, the beat of the blood at his neck. She scanned the length of him, assessing wounds, knowing what she would need to do, but no longer confident of her skills. She was too easily drawn from her intent, but not so Jasmine.

  “Get him to the castle,” she commanded, not surprised to see the alacrity with which the soldiers attended her words.

  “Will he live?” Roland asked her. She nodded curtly.

  “Aye, he will live if I have my say to it.”

  “They tried to kill him, managed to get every last man who traveled with him.”

  Alarmed, Veri looked to Roland. “Who?”

  “The same ones who tried to see you hung as a witch. The same who tried to have me fall to the depths of the moat instead of jumping through your window.” He confessed. “The same who I’d hoped to save you from by sending you to the convent.”

  “Is that why you had me return, because of Albert?”

  “Albert has been following his attackers. They’ve just turned east.”

  “East? Will they attack Cwen? Will they harm the procession that is going that way?”

  “My knights will protect Cwen, though it is you they want. They will not find you. It will do them no good to hurt the others.”

  “What shall we do?”

  Roland smiled at this, reaching up to trace the line of her cheek. “You, wife, will tend to Albert. I will tend to you.”

  She did not soften to his touch, refusing to give in to the distraction of it. “Do you know who is responsible?”

  With a shake of his head, Roland gave her his answer, “we will find out soon enough.”

  “Aye,” Veri nodded, “Aye, I trust you will.” And she did.

  A feast in preparation, Hannah surveyed the hubbub as she walked past tables, eyed chores accomplished at each. A young lad plucked quail, a maid chopped herbs at the long bleach table, the pastry cook, new to the position, ground precious sugar, as a large lamb roasted upon the spit in the huge fireplace.

  “The sugar, make it finer. Grind it like this.” She took the pestle in hand, worked at the mound of sugar that had been chiseled from a huge lump. “There,” she smiled smugly at sugar fine as soft sand, “like that.” She brushed her hands, drawn to Maida, standing by the outside doorway.

  Forlorn and frightened, no longer the one chopping herbs or basting meat, the young maid obviously missed her corner of the castle. The comraderie.

  Hannah raised an eyebrow but said nothing before she turned and left the kitchen.

  Maida stepped into the room. The cook, without looking up from the bowl where she whipped her eggs, asked, “So, what has Lady Hannah in such a snit? I would think she’d be pleased to have the woman gone.”

  Maida should have known it would come then, the pinning glance, direct from the cook, slipped in cautiously from the others.

  “Why are you still here?” quizzed a young boy busy dumping a load of sticks and branches into a basket by the small oven, “I mean, now that you’re one with his lordship’s wife and too good for the likes of us.”

  “I ain’t one with her!” Maida stepped further into the room, her chin defiantly in the air. Only her hands, their trembling, hinted of her fears.

  Her defiance earned her a quick second glance but no more. No one paid her any heed, as though she did not exist. She passed by the tables, crossing to the hearth, gaining no notice except when she moved close. Anyone she neared sidled away.

  “I ain’t one with her!” She blurted out again, her head turning, her eyes searching for someone to notice, some gleam of sympathy. “I ain’t like Cwen who listens and talks with her. I ain’t one with her. I only do what I am told to do. ‘Twas Lady Hannah, herself, who sent me to work with her.”

  “And I suppose,” the dairy maid teased, as she churned the butter, her head tilted to the ceiling, mocking Maida’s chin-up bluster, “that ‘twas Lady Hannah who taught you such airs?”

  “I ain’t got no airs!” Maida stormed.

  “I don’t remember Cwen ever coming in here as though we had the plague, do you?” asked another kitchen maid.

  “I don’t!” Maida stamped her foot, “I don’t have any airs. I ain’t one with her. Ain’t!”

  Cook tsked and shook her head. “Shame that, for her ladyship doesn’t put on airs when she’s with us. And as me sister . . . .” abruptly she stopped her tale, as bony fingers wrapped around Maida’s arm.

  Despite the tap of her cane, her wobbled step, Gelda had come into the room, with none to notice.

  “Aye, child,” she chuckled, “We knows you aren’t one with the witch, or you would have gone with them. Especial like, because Lady Hannah did ask you to go. But you didn’t go, did you, because they was going to a convent and you are afraid of the sisters.”

  “They’re her friends,” Maida begged for understanding, “they’re all like her. And besides, I did what . . .” The gnarled hands tightened into a bruising pinch, as rheumy eyes cast about.

  The kitchen was full of diligent workers, each studiously concentrating on their tasks.

  “Come,” Gelda prodded, pulling on the arm she held with such surprising force, “be a good girl, go to her Ladyship’s room and see that it is cleared of her things. She says she won’t be back.”

  “Won’t be back?” Maida’s eyes bugged out. “No!” She implored, “No, I can’t go up there. Please, don’t send me up there by meself! I don’t want to touch her things.”

  “Don’t be foolish!” Cook snapped, before pinching her lips shut, as she brushed egg white over her bread dough.

  Gelda smiled, “you will fare fine, me lass, I promise you. Just do as old Gelda tells you.”

  Maida shook her head back and forth, “but I did do what you told me and . . .” The claw like hands squeezed tighter, as they pulled Maida from the ears of the others. Beyond the kitchen, the withered face neared the younger’s.

  “You may have done as you were told,” she hissed, “but you’ve not been shy of telling one and all of your doings. Close your lips or I’ll have to sew them shut, if you ken my meaning.”

  “I’ll go upstairs,” Maida demurred, “I’ll take care of her Ladyship’s things. I�
�ll do it now.”

  “And you’ll not speak of it again?”

  “Nay,” Maida shook her head vehemently, “Not to me Billy or anyone! Cross me heart!”

  “‘Twas Billy you told before.”

  “Aye, but only ‘cause I need him to help me. He’ll tell nobody.”

  “’‘Tis too late, he’s already told a body. He can’t be doing that, Maida.”

  “I won’t, I won’t tell and Billy won’t tell another. I promise.”

  Gelda said no more, just shoved Maida off, toward the stairs.

  The lass moved slowly, to follow the orders. Every few steps, she would cast a sour look over her shoulder, back at the place where Gelda had been standing. The gnarled old hag could move faster than the young ones.

  “I do everything she asks. ‘Tain’t fair,” Maida murmured.

  Like stepping through molasses, she approached Lord Roland and Lady Veri’s rooms, though in truth, she was not so afraid of Lady Veri anymore. As mistresses go, Lady Veri had done nothing unusual. She’d actually been kinder to Maida than Gelda had ever thought to be. Maida just didn’t want to mess with Veri’s belongings. If anything was amiss, his Lordship would not be pleased, inordinately fond of his wife as he was.

  Fear of his anger slowed Maida’s steps even more, until she heard the harsh thump of Gelda’s cane upon the floor. Scowling, Maida looked behind her. The hag was back in her place, watching every step Maida wasn’t taking.

  Belligerently, Maida scuffed up the stairs, across the open balcony and on to his Lordship’s room. Angrily she shoved the door open, stepping inside.

  Her scream shattered the air. The sound of her body thumping upon the floor echoed throughout the castle. A deathlike stillness settled within the stone walls. Then, like magic, the quiet, frozen moment shattered, the storm hit as everybody came to life at once. All rushed toward the source of fear.

  Everybody, except Maida’s Billy. The great hulking form of her beloved beau, who knew too much, lay twisted and contorted on the floor of his Lordship’s chamber, still with death, never to run to her aid again.

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