“Is Lord Braewood in residence?”
Jarin nodded and sat waiting for them to ask his name, demand he show his face, or examine the contents of the wagon.
Instead, Sir DeGay made the motion to advance, and the troop of warriors stampeded past them. Smiling, Jarin proceeded on his way.
Not a peep was heard from Lady Cristiana or the babe, which worried him. Once safely inside the forest that circled part of Braewood, Jarin stopped the wagon before a fork in the road, leapt from the seat, quickly removed the cover, and then hoisted aside the small deer he’d lain over Cristiana.
No movement came from the cloth under which they lay. “My lady?”
She tossed the cover aside and turned ever so slowly, her brown eyes wide with fear. “Thank God ’tis you, Sir Jarin. I feared the worst.”
“We are safe. Come.” He jumped onto the side of the wagon and hefted two deer carcasses aside, whilst she retrieved the little girl and handed her to him. The child had fallen asleep clutching a stuffed doll to her chest.
Jarin had not held a babe since—a vision of the lifeless infant flashed before his eyes, nearly causing him to drop the child in his arms. He clung all the tighter, shaking off the image that followed—one of his mother lying on a pallet, soaked in her own blood.
The girl moaned, and he lowered to the ground. Then pressing her to his chest with one arm, he assisted Cristiana down with the other. The child’s little hands gripped his cloak as she attempted to nestle into its warmth. He thrust her at Cristiana.
“She’s a child, not a disease, Sir Jarin.” Lady Cristiana smiled up at him with a look filled with fear and wonder at the same time. It suddenly transformed into concern as she studied him further. “Are you ill?”
“Nay.” He swiped at the blood and powder, oddly wishing he could improve his appearance for this lady. But a sense of unease trickled through him—as it usually did ere disaster followed. He glanced in the direction they had traveled, then deep into the forest. Nothing. Tearing off his woolen cloak, he reached beneath the wagon seat and grabbed his weapons, strapping them on one by one.
All the while Cristiana followed him with eyes wide in concern.
Finally the pound of horse hooves shook the ground.
“Who is it?” she asked, shifting her gaze in the direction they’d come.
“Sir Walter’s and the bishop’s men.”
“We should hide again.” Terror ran from her voice as she began to climb back in the wagon.
Jarin grabbed her arm. “Nay. ’Tis too late for that. They have figured us out.”
Chapter 8
Cristiana could not find her voice. Nor could she move. All she could do was clutch a sleeping Thebe and watch Jarin the Just shed his disguise, gather all his weapons, and tie the reins of the horse to the wagon’s seat. All this he did with a calmness and assurance of someone performing a daily task. Once done, he slapped the horse on the rear and uttered a shout, and the animal galloped down the left fork of the road, the wagon bouncing and trailing a putrid stench in its wake.
Why he’d released their only means of transport, she could not fathom. He faced her and smiled. Aye, smiled…his wild dark hair falling to his collar, the trimmed beard on his chin and jaw matching his thin mustache. Dressed in leather from his thick doublet to his knee-high boots, and strapped with all manner of weapons and belts, he was as handsome and charming as she remembered, save for the red stains beneath his eyes and traces of white powder on his face.
Why she was admiring him now, she had no idea. Mayhap because she saw their future quickly fading away as the horses’ hooves grew louder behind them and the very ground beneath their feet began to tremble. She wanted to remember him thus, strong and in command, ere the men who pursued them took him away.
“What are you doing? They are nearly upon us!” She attempted to temper the fear in her voice for the child’s sake, but it shot forth like a trumpet in war. Moaning, Thebe shifted slightly in her arms as Cristiana glanced behind them down the road. No sign of the evil hoard yet. “How did they discover our ruse?” Clutching the girl tightly with one hand, she grabbed her bag and started for the trees lining the road.
“No doubt they spoke to Lord Braewood and heard of our escape. ’Twas an easy deduction from there.”
“But…” She turned to glance toward the place that had been her home for nearly a year. “Will they return to do him harm?”
Sir Jarin, who remained on the road as if he hadn’t a care in the world, gave her the oddest look ere he answered. “I would not gainsay it. The bishop’s men are brutal.”
The thought saddened her. Not that Lord Braewood didn’t deserve punishment for his greedy lies, but no more than a good castigation.
“Where are you off to, my lady?” Sir Jarin asked.
Swallowing her fear, she faced him. “I realize you are a King’s Guard, but mayhap your arrogance does you a disservice in the belief you can defeat fifty warriors. Should we not at least hide in the brush?” Though she knew that would only delay their capture. “Or do you wish to die in front of me and this innocent child?”
“Your confidence in my abilities overwhelms me, my lady. Besides, there were only thirty.” Raising two fingers to his mouth, he blew out a shrill whistle. Within seconds, a clomping sound preceded a mighty destrier plunging through the thick brush on their right. She recognized the war horse immediately as Sir Jarin’s.
“Hold the child,” was all he said before lifting them both atop the horse as if they weighed no more than a feather. Then leaping behind them, he grabbed the reins with one hand and wrapped his other arm around her, ere he nudged the horse and uttered a command that sent the animal into a full gallop down the right fork of the road.
For such a huge steed and at such a fast pace, Cristiana found the ride amazingly smooth. Or mayhap ’twas the mighty arm holding her and Thebe tight that kept them from bouncing hither and thither. Either way, Sir Jarin kept the pace for what seemed like an hour, past grasslands, forest and farm, past villages and manor homes perched on hills. Thankfully, Thebe remained asleep, even on those few occasions when Sir Jarin stopped to glance behind him for enemies and then inquire as to Cristiana’s wellbeing.
Each time she answered that she was well, though in truth, her entire body still thrummed with fear and uncertainty. Had she really escaped Lord Braewood? Was she really with Sir Jarin the Just, the powerful knight who had haunted her dreams this past year? Perchance ’twas all a dream—a frightening, yet lovely dream.
The feel of his strong arm around her was most certainly not a dream, the warmth of his body so close, his scent of leather and man, and the scratch of his beard on her cheek when she turned to glance up at him. Nay. Not a dream at all. She’d never been this close to a man, and it was doing odd things to her insides. Odd things she must ignore.
By noonday, Thebe awoke, whimpering at first when she didn’t know where she was. But upon seeing that she rode on a horse, she giggled and laughed and kept repeating, “Horsey ride!”
Even Jarin chuckled. He had slowed the horse to a walk, though she sensed he remained tense and alert. Surely they had outrun Sir Walter and the bishop’s men by now.
The sun, which had warmed them all morning, suddenly dove into hiding behind a bank of dark clouds, sending a chill over Cristiana. “Thebe will need food and water soon. And I must change her swaddling.”
“Aye,” was all Sir Jarin said, but she sensed his frustration at having to care for a child.
“I thank you, Sir Jarin, for your kindness in bringing the girl along.”
He snorted. “Did I have a choice?”
“I suppose not.” Cristiana smiled. “But I thank you nonetheless, and for rescuing me.”
He merely grunted, and she wondered if he regretted it. Of course he did. He was a warrior, a knight, a man who lived his life from one battle to the next, from one conquest to the next. The last thing he wanted was to be burdened with a woman and child. She had learned that much about him bac
k at Luxley.
Drawing a deep breath, Cristiana glanced to her left where crop-laden fields flowed toward the horizon like emerald waves at sea. A group of peasants, sickles in hand, harvested wheat in the distance. Cows wandered about in another field, chomping on grass, while various trees dotted the landscape. She’d not left Braewood Castle in so long, she’d forgotten how beautiful the countryside was. Even the thick clouds rumbling toward them across the sky had a beauty all their own
Thebe whimpered. Jarin shifted in the saddle, but finally halted the horse off the side of the road before a group of trees. After dismounting, he took Thebe from Cristiana’s arms and assisted her down as well.
“We can’t stay long,” he said, handing the child back to her.
Kneeling on the ground, she opened her bag and pulled out a small blanket and a strip of clean linen and attempted to lay Thebe down to change her soiled cloth. “Do you believe they still follow us, Sir Jarin?”
Whining and wiggling at once again being confined, Thebe squirmed from beneath Cristiana’s ministrations, leapt up, and darted to a tree. “Tree, Cristi, tree.”
“Aye.” Sir Jarin led the destrier to a patch of grass before taking a protective stance, staring down the road. “And they won’t give up easily.”
Cristiana smiled at the little girl. “Aye,’tis a tree, darling. Now come here and allow Cristi to clean you.”
Thebe giggled and gave her the most precious smile—before turning and charging down the road as fast as her little legs could carry her.
“Thebe!” Gathering her skirts, Cristiana chased the girl, but Sir Jarin got to her first. Hoisting her up in his arms, he tossed her over his shoulder. “I see this little one is going to be trouble.”
“I assure you, she’s well-behaved. ’Tis merely that she’s been sitting too long.”
He gave her a look of disbelief ere picking a handful of blueberries from a shrub. Giving them to the child, he placed her back on the blanket and returned to his vigilance over the road. While Thebe plopped berries into her mouth, Cristiana took the opportunity to remove the soiled cloths on her bottom and replace them with fresh ones. ’Twas not as easy a task as ’twould seem, and Cristiana’s appreciation for nursemaids rose. Finally, she set the little girl on her feet.
“More?” She held out her hand, and Cristiana led her to the shrub where, together, they consumed blueberries faster than they could pick them.
A burst of wind brought the sweet sting of rain. Jarin retrieved his horse, checked all the tack, and caressed the destrier’s face.
Thunder rumbled, low and distant. Nay, not thunder. For it did not cease but grew louder.
Jarin looked up, his keen eyes searching the road. “Time to go.” Plucking a cloak out of a bag strapped to the horse, he hefted Cristiana up, handed her Thebe, and swung behind them. He covered them with the cloak, then looped his arm around them and shouted, “Run Liberty!”
The powerful war horse took off so fast Cristiana slammed backward into Sir Jarin’s chest. Thebe’s chubby little fingers gripped her arm tightly, but the child uttered not a peep.
Rain pelted the cloak and began to soak through in wet splotches that dripped down Cristiana’s face. She bowed her head against the onslaught in an attempt to keep Thebe dry. The steed turned this way and that, galloping down paths now transformed to mud, splashing through puddles, thumping on grassy ground and leaping over rushing creeks.
Where were they going? Did Sir Jarin have a plan, or were they to be chased all over the countryside for days? Hours passed. Her bottom grew sore. Thebe’s cries turned to whimpers,
“Hush, little one. ’Twill be all right.” She spoke the words but hated the lie, for she knew not the outcome of this frightening day.
Finally Sir Jarin reined in the horse and halted. Cristiana lifted the cloak to see a large wooden gate spread between two stone towers from which lanterns blazed. Thick iron crosses were embedded in the wood on both doors. Though the rain had lessened to a drizzle, it quickly saturated her face, and an unavoidable shiver carved down her body.
Sir Jarin leaned to whisper in her ear. “You’ll be warm soon enough, my lady.”
“Who goes there?” A voice rang down from above.
“Sir Jarin the Just!”
Liberty snorted and pawed the ground.
The eerie howls of wolves turned Cristiana’s blood to ice. Where had they come from? She glanced behind them but saw naught but trees.
“Make haste!” Jarin shouted.
No further inquiries were required, apparently, for two men attired in the brown robes of monks swung open the gate.
Sir Jarin urged his horse through and commanded the men to close it immediately. It slammed shut with a solid thud, and the heavy latch was put in place just as a hundred paws pounded it from the other side. Ferocious growls and snarls filled the air.
“Sweet angels, what is that?” Cristiana asked, clutching Thebe to her chest.
“Naught to do with angels, I fear.” Though his tone was unruffled, she felt Sir Jarin stiffen behind her as he turned Liberty to the right. He halted before a large wooden building from which two men emerged, also dressed in robes, and took the reins. Cristiana shivered as he dismounted and helped her and Thebe down. Wrapping an arm around them, he hurried to a nearby building, pushed open the creaking door, and entered a large room. It slammed behind them, the sound echoing through the vaulted ceiling.
Cristiana removed her cloak and was instantly rewarded by warmth wafting from a nearby hearth. Benches and chairs with red velvet covering were spread about the room, while a long trestle table stood toward the back. One wall was lined with shelves of books of every color and size. Tapestries depicting the life of Christ decorated the other walls, while hanging above the fireplace was a massive painting depicting warring angels battling a red dragon. In the corner, a monk sitting at a desk looked up from his work, but quickly glanced down again.
A boy no older than thirteen, also dressed in brown, dashed up to them, head bowed.
“Please tell the abbot that Sir Jarin is here.”
Nodding, he skittered away as Jarin took the cloak from Cristiana and flung it on a hook by the door. Only then did she notice rain dripping from his doublet and breeches, forming puddles on the stone tiles. He’d used his only cloak to protect them, and now he was soaked to the bone. He shook water from his hair and raked a hand through it, making him look even handsomer, if that were possible.
She snapped her gaze back to the incredible chamber, so warm and inviting. Not something she expected to find in a monastery. But neither had she expected to find herself in such a holy place, nor especially Sir Jarin.
Before she could ask him why he brought them here, Thebe wiggled to be let down, and she set the little girl on her feet, took her hand, and proceeded to the hearth to get warm. Jarin followed, his wet boots sloshing on the floor.
The warmth of the fire felt too good to be true, and she released a deep breath and held out her hands to the flames when a “Jarin, my boy!” rang through the room.
An aged man dressed in a gray wool robe entered from a door at the other end and all but ran up to Jarin, arms extended. Despite the knight’s drenched attire, he hugged Jarin so tight it left the front of his robe wet. Then taking Jarin’s head in his hands, he kissed him on each cheek.
Kissed him! As if they were the best of friends. Jarin and an abbot? Cristiana could make no sense of it. Yet Jarin’s smile couldn’t be wider as he stared at the man with an affection she hadn’t realized the knight possessed.
Thebe picked a reed off the floor and began playing with it.
The aged monk faced Cristiana, his eyes shifting from her to Thebe, delight brimming from them. “Faith now, lad. I see you have finally got a wife and quit your roistering!”
“Nay, nay...” Cristiana said as a tide of blood infused her face.
Jarin scratched his beard and shot her an awkward glance. “Sorry to disappoint, Father Godwin, but she is m
erely a lady I am rescuing from danger. The child is not hers but her ward.”
“How now? If that is the tale you must tell.” The abbot turned to her and smiled. “You are most welcome here, my lady. No doubt this ruffian is the cause of the danger in which you find yourself.” He winked at Jarin. “My guards inform me you were in the escort of a pack of wolves?”
Jarin rubbed the back of his neck. “Indeed. Yet I had no knowledge of it till we stood at your gate.”
“Hmm.” Father Godwin clasped his hands together. “’Twould seem you are stirring up the dark forces, my son.” He gripped Sir Jarin’s arm. “And you, my lady.” He faced her with a smile that gleamed from his eyes. “There is a brightness in you. I hope you shall grace an old man with your tale.”
“I should love to, Reverend Father.”
“But first.” He knelt to look at Thebe. “I see you have need of dry attire and a warm meal.”
Thebe smiled up at him. “Cheese?”
He chuckled. “Of course, little one.” With a groan, he rose and clapped his hands. Two young men scurried into the room.
“Brother Silas and Brother Wayne will show you to your lodging and provide you with dry clothing. I do hope you’ll join us for our evening repast. ’Tisn’t much, but we gladly share what we have.”
“Thank you, Father,” Jarin said. “I am in your debt.”
“Nay, charge it to the Almighty’s account, lad. For I know He has a purpose for your returning to the order.”
Cristiana blinked. The order? Jarin was a monk?
Chapter 9
Dungeon, Luxley Castle
Sir Walter LeGode suppressed a shudder at the cold look in Drago’s lifeless eyes. ’Twould not be to his advantage to show fear before this powerful warlock. Thus far, he’d been able to hide both his terror and disdain for the…what was he? Man? Nay. Beast? Quite possibly. Monster? Aye, monster suited him. But the warlock’s power had grown stronger, his evil intent more palpable, if ’twas possible.
“They hide in a monastery.” He spat the last word out as if it burned his tongue.
She Walks in Love (Protectors of the Spear Book 2) Page 7