Her Dark Knight

by Sharon Cullen

  He leaned over her as if to shield her from what was to come. “You are my treasure, Madelaine.”

  She fumbled for his hand and grasped his fingers. “Find her,” she breathed. “Protect her.”

  He didn’t have to ask who she was talking about. He didn’t want to protect her sister. He wanted to protect her.

  “Promise,” she whispered.

  “I promise,” he said brokenly, his body shaking with the tears he was holding back.

  He lay down beside her, unable to hold himself up any longer, and draped his arm around her, willing her lungs to heal, her blood to stop draining from her. Damn it! This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to grow old and only after decades of being together was he to lose her.

  “Don’t leave me,” he whispered, his voice ragged, choked with the tears falling down his face. “Don’t leave me,” he repeated.

  “It’s best…this way. One less…key.” Her eyes closed. “Je t’aime, Christien.”

  An anguished moan tore through him. “Je t’aime, Madelaine. Je t’aime.” He kissed her temple, cupped her face in his hands. “Je t’aime,” he kept repeating, almost frantically now, as if the words could stop the inevitable.

  Her lips curled in a smile. And she stopped breathing.

  Christien wept, his sobs shaking his body. He cried out, the pain so intense he didn’t think he could possibly live through it. He prayed to a God he was furious with to let him die with her. But God didn’t listen and Christien had to wonder if he ever had. He struggled to sit up, falling back a few times before he managed to get upright. He gathered Madelaine’s body to his chest, rocking her.

  Someone crouched beside him and through his tears, Christien recognized Michael. The archangel’s eyes were full of sorrow and regret. He laid a hand on Christien’s shoulder. Christien wanted to shake the hand away, to curse and spit on the angel who brought him to this point, but his energy was nearly spent.

  “You can’t die. You know that,” Michael said softly.

  A weariness weighed upon Christien. No, he couldn’t die. Neither could Giselle nor Lucheux. They all would awaken and heal and go about their lives as they had before. For the other two the key was gone, but they’d continue looking into Madelaine’s past and soon discover she had a sister and all of this would begin again.

  For seven hundred years he’d guarded that damn treasure. He’d lost everything in those seven centuries. The brothers he fought alongside, his family, everything he’d known and loved including Madelaine.

  Most of all Madelaine.

  There was only so much one could ask of a man and Christien had reached his limit. “I’m finished.”

  Michael’s eyebrows went up. “Finished with what?”

  Christien listed to the side. The only thing keeping him upright was Michael’s hand on his shoulder. “Everything. Your bloody treasure. Them. You.”

  “You can’t be finished.”

  “Find some other…fool to protect it. I don’t…care anymore.” What did it matter if the end of the world came? He could finally rest if it did. Rest. A concept he’d never before contemplated but one that felt so bloody right. His eyes drifted closed. He forced them open. He didn’t want to pass out while holding Madelaine. This would be the last time he’d be able to touch her.

  “You would turn your back on what your brothers died for?” Michael asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You would turn your back on Madelaine’s sister?”

  Christien wanted to say yes. He wanted to deny it all, but he’d promised Madelaine, so instead he said nothing.

  Michael squeezed his shoulder. “Your anger is understandable.”

  “Don’t,” Christien said harshly. “You have…no idea.”

  “I have a very good idea.”

  Nothing Michael said would make a difference. Madelaine was gone and Christien’s life was destroyed. He had no wish to live centuries more, protecting something he no longer cared about.

  “They will be punished,” Michael said.

  Christien’s head snapped up, but the effort cost him. Pain exploded throughout his body and he groaned. “Will they burn in the…pit of hell? Will they suffer for…eternity?”

  Michael didn’t answer.

  “I don’t want to hear about punishment. Let them loose on this earth. I don’t care…anymore.”

  “You made a vow.”

  Christien gently picked up Madelaine’s limp hand and kissed her fingers. Already her skin was turning cold.

  “This is not God’s will,” Michael said.

  Christian was furious that Michael would harass him now, when all he wanted to do was hold Madelaine for the remaining minutes he had with her. “God? God? You speak of God to me now? I care not—” But it was all too much and the darkness he’d been fighting finally overtook him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Christien blinked up at the blue sky peeking through the dense leaves of the trees looming over him. For several long moments he did nothing but breathe. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. By the slant of the sun, it appeared to be early morning. That wasn’t right because the fight in the clearing had taken place in late afternoon. Unless he’d been unconscious that long.

  He pushed himself up and frantically looked around. Madelaine was gone along with Giselle and Lucheux. In fact, this wasn’t the same clearing at all. Confused, disoriented and sore, but not from the knife wound—this was more a dull throb from lying too long on the hard ground—he rubbed his aching head. His chain mail clanked with the movement and he froze, his hand buried in his hair.

  What the hell is this?

  In disbelief he plucked at the tunic covering him and stared at the breeches encasing his legs. Tunic? Breeches? Chain mail?

  He jumped to his feet, his hand automatically going to the sword at his side. A sword that shouldn’t be there. Like the clothes he was wearing.

  Where was Madelaine’s body? The last he remembered was lying beside her in the woods of his home in France. Twenty-first-century France where he’d been wearing jeans and a buttoned-down shirt.

  Not…this.

  A snort and a shuffle had him spinning around and crouching into a fighting stance, sword raised. A few yards from him a horse grazed peacefully. A horse.

  Dumbfounded, he turned in a circle and discovered Michael sitting beside a crackling fire, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them. The angel was dressed as a… Christien swallowed. As a Knight Templar.

  Just like he was dressed.

  “What the hell is going on?” he managed to ask.

  “Something you said right before Madelaine died got me thinking,” Michael said in modern English which made the clothes they were wearing that much more…strange.

  Pain pierced Christien’s chest at the mention of Madelaine, dead again. He wanted to rage to the heavens, to scream, to kill Lucheux all over again. She was gone. Here too short of a time. Any length of time would have been too short.

  The dull throb in his body moved to his heart where it lodged and probably would reside there for the rest of eternity. How was he supposed to move on when for him, everything was over? When all he wanted was to close his eyes and shut out the world forever?

  “What did I say?” he asked.

  “You said you wished you had killed Lucien before he turned immortal.”

  Christien’s gaze darted around the clearing. A light fog floated a foot above the ground, giving the area an eerie feeling that had the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He quickly assessed the possible dangers, but he and Michael—and the horse—seemed to be the only ones around. Where had Madelaine, Lucheux and Giselle gone?

  Did Lucheux have Madelaine’s body? Had he discovered Madelaine’s sister?

  Promise.

  He closed his eyes, Madelaine’s plea whispering inside him. He promised he’d protect her sister.

  Christien focused on Michael, anything to alleviate the crushing heartbreak inside him. “Where ar
e we?” he asked.

  “France.”

  “When are we?”

  “Fourteenth century.”

  “You sent me back seven hundred years?”

  “You can’t kill Lucien after he’s turned immortal. So why not try before?”

  Christien’s heart thundered. Could he do it? Would it work? And if it did, would he be able to save Madelaine before Giselle killed her the first time?

  “We’re at the edge of Count Flandres’s property,” Michael said. “A day or so ride will get you to the castle.”

  “Then what?” he asked.

  “This is new territory for me, Christien. God has made it very clear that we are forbidden to alter past or future events. What I did, what we’re doing, is very much taboo. If discovered, God’s wrath will be immense.”

  Christien had never seen Michael scared and he wouldn’t exactly say the angel was scared now, but he was nervous which made Christien nervous.

  “How immense?”

  Michael shrugged. “I know not. No one has ever defied God in this way.”

  “Then why are you doing it now?”

  Michael threw a stick into the fire and watched it burn. “Because something needs to be done about this. Because I’ve watched you and Madelaine struggle for centuries. Because some good must come of this.”

  The enormity of what Michael had done weighed heavily on Christien’s shoulders. But he was also extremely grateful to be given yet one more chance.

  “Thank you, brother.”

  Michael looked up at him and grinned. “I thought you had no brothers.”

  “I will gladly call you my brother for all that you have risked for me this day. My hope is that God’s wrath isn’t too massive.”

  “Mine too, brother. Mine too. Let us hope you can kill Giselle and Lucheux and I can get you back to the twenty-first century before God realizes what we have done.”

  Christien drew a deep breath, surprisingly comfortable in his old clothes with his old sword clutched in his hand. He settled beside the warm fire. For the first time since learning Giselle had left the States and come to France, he felt hope.

  “Am I still immortal?” ’Twas a good thing to know before going into battle.

  Michael looked at him sharply, as if reading his emotions. “Aye.”

  Christien nodded, fighting the surprising disappointment. Had he wanted to be mortal again? Vulnerable?

  If you are vulnerable, you can die a noble death and join Madelaine in heaven. He picked up a stick and snapped it in half, feeling a coward for wanting to give up. Was it cowardly to wish for this pain to end? Or was it smart? There was only so much a mind could take, mortal or immortal. He threw the two halves of the stick into the fire. He couldn’t think like that. He had to pray that Michael brought him back here in time to save Madelaine. And then what? You bring her to the twenty-first century?

  He pushed the questions away. He’d come to that when the time was right. For now he had to concentrate on getting there and killing Giselle and Lucien.

  “By killing Lucheux and Giselle we are altering history, but hopefully God won’t be too angry for obliterating an evil that should have been obliterated hundreds of years ago.” Michael’s look was grim but determined.

  Christien grinned. “Two wrongs equal a right?”

  “Something like that.”

  They fell into an easy silence, the fire crackling before them. Comrades-at-arms though this battle had far more consequences than any other battle Christien had been involved in.

  “Tell me something, Michael.”

  The angel grunted, his gaze glued to the fire.

  “Why did you reincarnate Madelaine?”

  Michael’s gaze flew to Christien. “I didn’t.”

  “Then who?”

  “It is her destiny.”

  “I dislike it when you speak in riddles,” Christien muttered.

  Michael grinned. “Her destiny is tied to the treasure. If she fails in one life, she must come back in another.”

  “So I am fated to meet her and fall in love with her over and over?” Hope and despair combined inside him. Mon Dieu, he couldn’t keep reliving this intense love and the inevitable grief that followed it.

  “Until those seals are broken, yes, I’m afraid so.”

  And Christien’s job was to make sure those seals were never broken.

  Michael was right. The castle was a day’s ride from the campsite—and what a long, monotonous day it had been. Christien ran a weary hand through his hair. It’d been a while since he’d ridden a horse and his muscles were cramping. He had a whole new appreciation for the power and speed of his Italian sports car and a little less nostalgia for the good old days.

  The horse plodded on, giving his mind free rein that he didn’t appreciate. He thought of Madelaine, grief giving way to hope and circling back around to grief. The hope was almost as bad as the grief. The knowledge that he would see her again gave him the strength he needed to go on. The thought of losing her yet again pitched him into the deepest despair.

  He wanted a life with her. A life without danger stalking them. A life of peace. But that was impossible. He knew that, but it didn’t stop him from yearning for it.

  People’s voices pulled him from his dreary thoughts. He drew back on the reins and cocked his head to listen. It’d been such a long time since he’d been a soldier. Could he do this? Would he be able to slip back into the soldier he’d been so long ago? So much had happened since then.

  A few minutes more of riding and he glimpsed the castle walls, the lowered portcullis and the soldiers walking the battlements.

  For a few crazy seconds he stared, disoriented, at the swords swinging from soldiers’ hips and the occasional archer with his bow.

  Slowly he slid off his horse and observed carts loaded with grain and produce rumble across the wooden bridge. Men called to each other, waved and stopped to pass a few words. Men he’d walked beside seven hundred years ago. Men he’d broken bread with and trained with. Men who had been dead seven centuries. Except, now they were very much alive and very real.

  The stench surprised him. He’d forgotten the smell of the fourteenth century. No bathrooms, no running water. Filthy people living in filthy circumstances and not knowing any differently. The castle was rich, yet had an air of squalor about it. He didn’t need to come close to know most people didn’t have a full set of teeth, their skin was pockmarked, but their bodies strong from years of hard labor or fighting. The majority couldn’t read, yet they were smart in ways the twenty-first-century man wouldn’t be, nor would he want to be.

  Survival was the name of the game in this time. It was an elemental way of living and yet their worries and heartaches were eerily similar to the men of the twenty-first century.

  He led his horse forward. The time for questioning was long gone. And Madelaine could very well be within those walls.

  He waved to the sentry on duty, as he always did when entering. The man, Petrus was his name—Christien was shocked he remembered—waved back with a half-hearted effort, his expression grim.

  Christien led his horse to the stables where a boy, no more than ten years of age, took it from him. Ten years old. In modern days that would equate to child labor and the parents would be hauled in front of a judge to answer to their neglect. In this day, the child was paying his own way through servitude. Probably had been for a few years and would for the rest of his life.

  As he passed through the bailey, Christien recognized and waved to different people, feeling as if he were having an out-of-body experience. There were few smiles and almost no laughter. It’d been that way at the castle because the count made it that way, but today seemed a little more somber than most. A feeling of foreboding overcame him but he shoved it away, not willing to acknowledge what his mind was trying to tell him.

  Christien wanted to stop someone and ask them what day it was but that would lead to questions he couldn’t answer so he kept moving toward
the castle doors. Was Madelaine on the other side of those doors?

  If she was, he had to remember she wasn’t the same Madelaine of modern day, but the scared girl she’d become from living with her husband and fighting off Lucien.

  Women gathered at the well, dipping buckets in while children chased each other around their legs. A piglet squealed and took off running, its eyes rounded in terror. The women didn’t laugh, didn’t linger to pass on the latest gossip. Their looks were dispirited, their eyes darting around as if they were afraid.

  Christien pulled open the front door and strode into the dark hall where silence hung heavy.

  The count stood at the cold hearth, head bent, shoulders bowed. Lucien stood beside him, leaning close, speaking to him in earnest whispers.

  Christien stepped up and cleared his throat, searching for the appropriate words. It’d been a long time since he’d had to show obeisance to anyone and he found the act grating.

  Lucien’s head jerked up, his eyes flaring in panic before narrowing in hatred. ’Twas the panic that interested Christien the most.

  “My lord,” Christien said in Norman French, the words flowing from his lips as if he hadn’t spent the past few hundred years speaking modern English. He bowed to the count, despising every minute of it.

  The count’s eyes were red-rimmed and watery. “Sir Knight,” he said softly. The stench of alcohol rose off him and Christien stepped back.

  He was uncertain of what to say, how to ask what was wrong. Except he knew. In his heart he knew what had put the grief on the man’s face. He was too late to save Madelaine.

  Lucien moved toward Christien. It took everything in Christien not to step away from the foul smell of the priest.

  “Her ladyship is dead.” His eyes shone with an unholy light as he watched Christien closely, waiting for a reaction.

  But Christien had been prepared and he carefully schooled his expression while inside he was screaming in agony.

  “My condolences to my lordship. May I ask how she died?”