Was he casting her out? Without Thebe! Her heart sped to near bursting. ’Twas true she had no home to return to. Not unless Alexia could overcome and defeat Sir Walter and the bishop. But how could her sister accomplish such a feat—even with Sir Ronar’s help—when she was accused of witchcraft by the king himself? Nay, her sister and her knight friends were no doubt long gone to another land or in hiding somewhere. Tears filled Cristiana’s eyes at the thought she would never see her sister again. But what could she do? Even should she find Alexia, she had naught to offer to aid her cause.
Minutes passed…long minutes… during which the wind whistled against the stone walls and the setting sun withdrew its glittering rays from the window. She longed to respond to Lord Braewood’s question but found her throat had closed.
“I will expect your answer anon, my lady. Otherwise, I fear, though it greatly pains me to say so, you will have to leave Braewood.”
Terror threatened to choke the life from her. How could she give up a home, security, stability, and safety? Mayhap Lord Braewood didn’t love her. Mayhap he merely wanted the money she made him. But he had never done her harm. Hadn’t she always dreamt of marriage and children someday? Confusion spun her thoughts into a whirlwind. Surely, if he was willing to cast her off, he wasn’t interested in the money after all.
As if to belie that last thought, he gave a greedy smile. “I will send Muriel to aid you in preparing for this evening’s healing. There are many who await even now at the gate.”
Three hours later, Cristiana sat on a cushioned chair in the great hall of Braewood Castle, Spear safely strapped to her thigh, ready to receive those who’d traveled from near and far in hopes of being healed. ’Twas truly an event she looked forward to every month, not to show off the power of the Spear nor to even bring praise upon herself but to watch the joy on people’s faces when their pain left or their limbs straightened, or even on one rare occasion, they saw the world for the first time.
A fire crackled brightly in the giant hearth while minstrels played a soothing tune in the corner. By the large oak door, Lord Braewood’s steward, Sir Caldwell, collected coins from those waiting in line. That part she hated, charging money for healing. But Lord Braewood insisted that a workman deserves his wage, or something like that, which he claimed was from the Bible. Cristiana couldn’t say, for she’d not read the Holy Scriptures and knew of only a few verses Alexia had told her.
“Now, now, dear, see how they come for your power!” Lady Demia Braewood sat on a chair beside Cristiana like a queen on her throne. She clapped her hands together in glee.
“’Tis not my power, my lady. I am merely happy to help those in need.”
“Faith now, of course. I make no doubt.” She acted indignant.
Lord Braewood’s mother had always been kind to Cristiana, had welcomed her into her home as a woman would her own daughter. But there was something about the lady that sent a spike of unease through Cristiana. She had longed for a mother figure since her own had died, but the woman hid behind a shield of ice. Now that Lord Braewood had proposed, that ice seemed to harden even more. As if one wrong word from Cristiana would make it crack.
“Master John Vottler!” A herald announced the first of the sick, diverting Cristiana’s attention to the man in common threadbare attire hobbling up to her chair.
“Greetings, Master Vottler.” She smiled and bade him sit on the stool before her.
He did, his eyes pools of hope and also anguish. “Good eve to you, my lady.”
“What ails you this day?”
“’Tis my foot. I am a farmer, my lady, an’ I broke it o’er two months past, but it didn’t heal proper an’ as you can see, remains crooked. I cannot till my land an’ will soon be forced off by my lord. I ‘ave a wife an’ three wee ones to feed.”
Cristiana glanced at the foot which arched at an angle away from the leg. Indeed. ’Twould be hard even to walk, let alone work his farm. Her heart ached for the man, and a love borne out of sympathy and care spilled out from her until she could barely contain it—as it always did when the Spear was about to heal. Tears filled her eyes as she rose from her chair and knelt by the man, placing her hands on his filthy foot.
The action caused a moan of disdain from Lady Braewood.
Ignoring her, Cristiana glanced up at him. “Never fear. You shall walk home this day.”
Tears streamed down the man’s dirty face.
“Do you believe that God can heal?” she asked.
“I do.”
Then closing her eyes, Cristiana bowed her head and said, “Be straightened and healed by our Lord Christ Jesus and the power of His blood.”
She felt the muscle and bone moving beneath her hand ere the man even realized what was happening. When he did, he leapt up, crying and laughing and hopping from foot to foot. “Glory to God! Thank you! Thank you, my lady!”
Gasps of shock and joy emanated from those waiting at the doorway, but not from those within. Servants of Braewood had grown accustomed to the miracles.
Lady Braewood covered her mouth in a yawn, then leaned toward Cristiana as a servant led the man away. “’Twould do you well to not waste so much time with each one. That way we can see more of them ere the night wanes.”
Cristiana’s jaw tightened, but she ignored the woman’s greedy comment. She enjoyed the human touch, the hope and love she gave these people, even more than the healing. And she would not be put off.
Hence, the ill were led to her, one after the other, some with naught more than a persistent cough, others with gout, the flux, sweating sickness, others with bent spines, boils, withered arms, and general weakness. Cristiana took time with each one, expressing her love and care—something most were as deprived of as their health—ere she touched their maladies and watched them flee beneath the power of the Spear.
Lady Braewood grew bored and removed herself to stand on the other side of the hall, where she played the coquette with one of the young knights.
“Sir Mecum Effugium,” the steward announced.
Odd name. The sound of it sent a cold wave over Cristiana, for she’d been tutored in Latin. “With me escape” was its meaning. Yet no one else seemed to notice.
The elderly man approached her, his back hunched over, his gray hair long, straggly, and embedded with twigs and God knew what else. He dragged his foot behind him.
Cristiana smiled as he approached and directed him to the stool. “God bless you, good sir,” she said, seeking to look in his eyes.
But the man kept his face turned and hidden beneath a curtain of tangled hair.
“Have you come a long way?” she asked.
“Indeed, my lady.” The voice was scratchy and deep, and oddly…comforting. “I come from afar.”
“I welcome you from your journey then. What ails you?” Though she could determine he had many ailments, she wondered which one he needed help with first.
Slowly…slowly, he turned his face toward her, a face oddly smudged with white powder.
At last his eyes met hers—the color of strong oak, deep, impenetrable, but with an impish sparkle. “I fear ’tis my heart, my lady. It has been broken these past eleven months.”
Cristiana inhaled a sharp breath.
Chapter 6
Jarin the Just? Swinging about, hands gripping her skirts, Cristiana paced before the hearth in her chamber. She would not believe it if her heart had not swelled to twice its size with the joy of seeing him again. Even now, it thumped against her ribs as if it could burst free and run into his arms.
Muriel stood to the side, hands clasped before her and eyes skittering about in uncertainty. “Was it truly him, my lady?” she said, her tone filled with skepticism.
“Sweet angels, I have no doubt! That voice…those eyes…though I grant you his disguise had me quite fooled.”
“What else did he say?”
“Only that if I wish to escape, I should meet him in the stables at dawn.” Tearing the circlet from her
head, she dropped into a chair and drew a hand to her chest in an attempt to calm herself.
Muriel approached and knelt before her, her voice etched in terror. “Tell me you are not thinking of doing so?”
Grabbing her long braid of hair, Cristiana clung to it as if it would give her strength. “’Tis my chance to escape, don’t you see?”
“I marvel you would say so, my lady. Not after what you have told me about this…this knight.”
Cristiana sank back into the chair, sudden tears burning her eyes. “I make no doubt he is a great trifler of women, but he has never behaved such with me.”
“Mayhap he has you fooled?” Muriel’s eyes searched Cristiana’s, and though she knew the maid meant well, the insult pricked her ire.
“You make too free, Muriel. You do not know him.”
Muriel rose and backed away, her face lowered. “I beg your forgiveness, my lady.”
“Nay, ’tis I who am sorry.” Cristiana stood and rubbed her temples. “Alack! I don’t know what to do.”
“Forgive me yet again, my lady, but did he not abandon you once before?”
The words pierced Cristiana’s heart, deflating it. She released a heavy sigh and turned to stare at the simmering coals. Aye, he had. At least ’twould seem he’d never searched for her until now. What did he truly want from her? Could she trust him at all? And where was her sister? She’d had no time to ask him ere Lady Braewood approached and once again sat beside her.
Run away with an untrustworthy libertine into a world fraught with danger or remain in a place where she could have security, safety, and stability, though not love.
Her head told her to stay, but her heart—that fickle, capricious and all-controlling organ—told her to run into this man’s arms and follow him anywhere.
She moved to the window where the slightest hint of gray lined the horizon beyond the forest. She must make a decision. Fast. Heart or head…heart or head. A vision of Lord Braewood approaching her bed on their wedding night was all it took for her to rush through the room, gather a few articles of clothing and stuff them in a bag, ere grabbing her cloak from a hook.
“My lady?” Muriel’s agonizing wail turned her around.
“In truth, there is no choice, Muriel. I must go with him. No doubt he knows where my sister is and will take me to her. That alone is worth the risk.”
Gathering what little courage she possessed, she grabbed the door latch, swung it open, and charged from the chamber—Right into a fully-armored guard, lance in hand.
♥♥♥
Jarin the Just leaned against the wooden walls of the stables and gazed across the outer bailey toward Braewood Hall. Night hid most of the courtyard from his view and encased the large home in shadows. Though his eyelids were as heavy as anvils, he’d been unable to rest them for a moment as he waited for a glimpse of Cristiana D’Clere. He had found her! She looked well and even more beautiful than he remembered. Back at Luxley, she’d always been ill and bedridden—due to Sir Walter’s poisoning. Even then, she’d been a picture of beauty. But now, with her fawn-colored hair, dappled in glittering honey, her chestnut eyes surrounded by thick lashes, and her full rosy cheeks, she was a vision well worth the wait of these past eleven months. And it had taken every ounce of his strength to wait his turn to approach her. While he did, he found himself spellbound at the kind and loving way she dealt with each person, her smiles, her kind gestures, her gentle touch, even on those covered with pustulant sores. Why had he not realized the lady also possessed the heart of a saint?
She could heal! Jarin rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. In truth, he had not believed Seraphina’s tale in that regard. But he had seen it with his own eyes and now could not deny that Lady Cristiana possessed the Spear and its otherworldly powers.
He also had difficulty believing her reaction at seeing him—one of shock as he’d expected, but also such delight sparkling from her eyes, it made him wonder whether her affection matched his own.
And now the waiting…the night passing like a lame mare limping to her paddock, with naught but the snort of horses, snore of stable boys, and wisps of wind stirring up dust in the courtyard for company. The smell of horse flesh and dung bit his nose, along with a stench of rotted meat emanating from the butcher next door.
He angled his neck and blinked his eyes in an effort to keep them open.
His plan? To disguise Cristiana as a commoner and walk out the front gate with the other servants who left at dawn every morning to hunt, gather food from those who farmed the surrounding land, or travel into the village for supplies. Alas, in order for that to work, she had to be here soon so they could easily blend in with the crowd.
A half-moon dipped behind the wall to Jarin’s left just as the faintest gray appeared beyond the towers on his right.
Where was she? Mayhap she decided not to come, preferred to stay in this prison of safety rather than trust him to protect her. How could he blame her? She hardly knew him, and aside from a brief dalliance at Luxley, she knew him only by his reputation as Jarin the womanizer. Frowning, he scanned the bailey for her once again. Could she have affection for this Lord Braewood? Nay. Seraphina labeled him a blackguard, and from what Jarin had heard in the village, the man’s proclivities leaned more toward tavern wenches and milkmaids.
Regardless, Jarin had not had time to tell her that Sir Walter and the bishop’s men searched for her as well, that ’twould only be a matter of time ere they discovered her whereabouts.
Enough! Jarin would wait no longer. Bosh, either something was amiss, or he must convince her of the danger in staying here. Flinging off his peasant robe, he added a leather doublet, a belt, and several weapons, along with a helmet he’d stolen from a sleeping soldier. ’Twould be far easier to dismiss a soldier wandering about at dawn than a peasant.
Now to find the lady’s chamber.
With all the authority of a King’s Guard, Jarin entered the stone house through the door to the main hall and began his trek up the winding stairs. The only sounds came from the kitchen where scullery maids were setting out the bread and ale to break the fast of the morning. The master’s solar would be at the very top, while those of lower station would be chambered below… but not too far away for someone the lord would wish to keep watch over.
Hence, Jarin wandered down the hall on the second floor, following the few lights remaining from lanthorns perched along the way. ’Twas easy to find Lady Cristiana’s chamber. It was the one with the massive guard standing out front.
♥♥♥
Cristiana sank to her bed in defeat and lowered her gaze. “Lord Braewood knows. Begad! He must know.”
Muriel moved to stand beside her. “I am truly sorry, my lady. Surely he only means to protect you.”
“Protect?” Cristiana glanced up at her maid, her ire rising. “From whom? Nay!” She leapt to her feet and hugged herself. “He keeps me prisoner. Says one thing but means quite another. He would ne’er release such a great source of income.” Hugging herself, she moved to the window. “Alas, mayhap he has discovered I am heir to Luxley.”
The gray beyond the treetops transformed to gold as the sun prepared for its royal entrance. Beneath her in the bailey, servants stirred, going about their tasks. She wondered if Sir Jarin still awaited her at the stables. If so, how long would he remain ere he assumed she preferred to stay—ere he abandoned her once again.
“Did you not say, my lady, that the steward of Luxley intends to trick you into marrying his son?”
Cristiana nodded. Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath of fresh morning air, crisp and laden with scents of rosemary and lavender from the herb garden below.
Muriel approached. “What would happen should you bring back a husband? Would that not solve your problems and enable you to return home?”
Cristiana huffed. “He would have to bring an army with him.”
“Then marry Lord Braewood, my lady. He is—”
“Nay!” She open
ed her eyes and faced her maid. “He is a viper. I will marry a good man, honorable, faithful, and strong.” She glanced back out the window, her thoughts drifting to Sir Jarin. Then defying those thoughts, she added, “And loyal. He must be loyal, a man who would never stray or leave me for another.”
A thunk sounded outside the door. Cristiana crept toward it and leaned her ear against the thick oak. Whack. Groan. Thud.
After casting a glance at Muriel, who was shaking her head in warning, Cristiana gripped the metal latch and slowly pried the door open.
There stood Sir Jarin the Just, looking like the knight she remembered, dressed in leather and metal, and sheathing a blade. The guard lay in a lump by his feet. “Never fear, my lady. He will live.” Then removing his helmet, he effected a courtly bow, his dark hair scattered in every direction, his smile one to melt a dozen maidens’ hearts. “At your service, my lady.” Before she could respond, he straightened and held out a hand. “Shall we?”
So mesmerized at the sight of him, at his brazen courage to come to her chamber door, all Cristiana could do was stare, wondering if she was having a marvelous dream.
She started toward him, but then turned toward her maid. “Muriel, come with us.”
The poor girl backed away, wringing her hands, her eyes alight with fear. “I cannot. I cannot,” she repeated o’er and o’er, and Cristiana couldn’t help but realize how much the girl and she were of similar temperament—terrified of everything, even good things.
“Hurry, my lady,” Jarin said.
Cristiana held a hand toward the maid. “Prithee, Muriel. You can have a better life.”
But the woman retreated even further. “God speed to you, my lady.”
Jarin took her arm and pulled her through the door. “We have no time to waste.” His normal cavalier demeanor was replaced by one of urgency.
She Walks in Love (Protectors of the Spear Book 2) Page 5