She Walks in Love (Protectors of the Spear Book 2)

by Marylu Tyndall

  Cedric, Sir Walter’s son and apprentice of Drago, stepped from the shadows, his eyes riveted to the hot coals scattered over an iron table. “They can’t stay there forever.”

  A chill scraped over Sir Walter. He hardly recognized his son. His light hair had darkened to a musty, dismal color. His eyes, once so full of frivolity, now were cold stones floating in stagnant waters. Instead of colorful, ostentatious attire, he wore a hooded black robe. Shadows drooped beneath his eyes over pale skin that had once been golden. Even his voice had changed. No longer gay with the excitement of life, it harbored an animosity and hatred that never failed to prick Sir Walter with guilt.

  Why had he promised his son as apprentice to this… creature? How could any father do such a thing? Alas, he’d only wanted Cedric to grow up, quit his giddy reveling and gain the power due his station.

  Drago faced Cedric. “The storm you created was not strong enough.”

  Cedric lowered his head. “I will do better next time, my master.”

  The way Drago snarled at Cedric, Sir Walter feared he’d spit on him and turn him into a snake. Instead, the warlock whirled about, his white robe fluttering about him, and walked to a shelf, from which he pulled an ancient tome.

  Swallowing down his fear, Sir Walter drew a breath to steady his nerves, but a stench akin to sulfur and vinegar caused him to cough instead. He’d come down to the warlock’s lair for news of their hunt for Lady Cristiana D’Clere in order to appease the bishop with some smidgen of hope. And indeed, they had found her—by following that peckish primcock, Sir Jarin.

  An icy chill cut through him as he glanced about the familiar chamber. Steam that smelled fouler than an overused chamber pot rose from an iron cauldron hung over hot coals in the center of the room. The carcasses of bats and rodents swung from the rim of a ceiling that extended up into a dark tower. A table to the left housed mortars, alembics, braziers, sieves, and bowls, while shelves lining the wall contained bottles and jars of all sizes and colors. Candles dotted the room, offering light that never seemed to dispel the shadows hovering all around.

  “Regardless, we have them!” Sir Walter dared announce. “The moment they step from the protection of that monastery.”

  Slamming the book shut, Drago whirled and stormed toward Sir Walter, eyes aflame. “She has the Spear, imbecile!”

  Though he longed to back away from the monster, he remained steadfast, finally shifting his gaze from the hatred in his eyes to the animal feet, bird wings, amulets, and trinkets decorating the black band wrapped around the warlock’s head. Long white hair as dry as hay matched a frizzled beard which Sir Walter could swear was alive with vermin.

  The Spear, the infamous Spear. How had he let it, along with Lady Cristiana, slip from his grasp? He had need of them both. The Spear to give to the bishop so he would quit Luxley and leave Sir Walter in peace. The lady, however, would be presented with a choice—die or marry Cedric. Mayhap, now that he looked at his son, the lady would wisely choose death. Alas, to rid himself of the only heir to Luxley and her witch sister for good would be the best choice, but only if Montruse could secure Luxley for Sir Walter from the king.

  So many unknowns. Yet, if all went according to plan, Sir Walter would be master of both his own estate and Luxley, more than tripling his holdings. In addition, he’d gain a greater title and the respect of his peers. He would smile at the thought save the warlock remained snarling before him.

  With a foul huff, Drago backed away and returned to his simmering pot. “White livered cur! Why do I waste time helping you? Do you think I want the Spear returned?”

  Sir Walter suppressed a grunt of frustration. “You know full well that with Montruse—and the Spear—gone and Luxley in my hands, you will not only continue to have Cedric as your apprentice but my protection to continue doing whatever”—Sir Walter wrinkled his nose—“evil it is you do down here. Would you rather have Luxley in the hands of those Christ followers?”

  Cedric froze, his eyes streaked with terror.

  Drago leapt back from the table as if he’d been punched. Indeed, he pressed a hand over his belly as if he had. “Never utter that name! Never speak of it!” His roar nearly shook the chamber.

  Sir Walter hid a smile. He always loved to see the creature’s reaction to the Holy One’s title.

  The room began to spin, and he closed his eyes and leaned upon the cold stone wall, suddenly fearing the warlock had cast a spell on him. But nay, Drago needed him.

  “Are you ill, Father?” ’Twas his son, the barest hint of concern in a voice that had long since been stained with harsh indifference.

  “Nay. Merely tired.” He wouldn’t tell them he’d been seeing things, hearing things that weren’t there. ’Twas merely the stress, naught more.

  Drago turned to Cedric. “Add a pinch of snake venom, the feather of a raven, and choose well the third ingredient. As I taught you.”

  Cedric stepped back into the shadows.

  Shoving down his guilt, Sir Walter drew a deep breath. He still needed more information for the bishop. “What are your plans?”

  Drago folded his hands before him and hid them beneath the sleeves of his robe. “Ere they step one foot out of that vile place, my wolves will devour them.” His tone was devoid of emotion.

  “Won’t the Spear prevent such a fortuitous event?”

  “As long as Lady Cristiana is ignorant of the power she holds, she cannot use it against them.”

  Sir Walter huffed. “Her sister well understood its power.”

  “She is not her sister.” Drago spat, his eyes pinpoints of malice. “The woman is a sniveling goose.”

  After retrieving a vial from a shelf, Cedric poured it into the pot. Hissing and—dare Sir Walter say—shrieking emanated from the bubbling liquid. The sound prickled the hair on the back of his neck.

  Drago stared into the pot and nodded. “You are learning well, Cedric.”

  Cedric’s head shot up, his eyes focused above. Drago did the same, albeit much more slowly and precisely.

  “They are here,” he said, seething.

  Sir Walter shook his head. “Who?”

  “Those vexing Knights of the Eternal Realm.”

  “Bah! Here at Luxley?” Sir Walter would not believe it. His guards were instructed to capture them on sight.

  Drago hissed, smoke slithering from his mouth. “They are here more than you are aware, fool! Cease questioning my work and tend your task of keeping these loathsome aberrations out of Luxley. Their very presence interferes with my work!”

  Wheeling about, Sir Walter grabbed a candle, shoved open the stone door, and made his way up the winding stairway of the main tower ere he said something that would end his life prematurely.

  “You, there!” He shouted to a knight standing guard at the door to the main hall. “Gather all the guards and search every inch of Luxley immediately. Arrest anyone you don’t recognize. Do it, now!”

  With a nod, the man rushed away.

  Now, to inform the bishop of their progress in finding Lady Cristiana. But the man was not in his chamber. The lad who served him informed Sir Walter that the bishop had gone out for a ride through the countryside.

  Finally, with the chink of armor and stomp of boots echoing through the castle, Sir Walter entered his study and plopped down in his chair. Anabelle knocked and entered, cup in hand.

  “Your medicament from the apothecary, my lord.” She set it on his desk and backed away. Smart girl. And lovely as a spring flower. Sir Walter allowed his gaze to rake over her curves and his thoughts to take license. He marveled that she continually denied him when he could do much to improve her station. But no matter. He had more important affairs to deal with at the moment.

  “You may leave,” he said, waving her away. Then, lifting the cup to his mouth, his lips twisted at the bitter taste ere he sat back to ponder his next move.

  ♥♥♥

  Alexia D’Clere knelt to move aside branches and leaves from the grating
that hid the tunnel they’d recently discovered—the one that led directly to a storage room at the back of Luxley Castle. Ronar stooped to give her a hand, whilst Damien stood guard. In truth they hadn’t so much as discovered this tunnel as Friar Josef finally disclosed its location. When Alexia chastised him for the secret, he merely shrugged and said, “I didn’t wish to encourage your trips to Luxley, for you try me sorely with your disobedience.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “’Twas far more dangerous for me to enter through the bailey in plain sight of all!”

  “Alas, I thought the danger would dissuade you, foolish old man that I am.”

  “You are far from a fool.” Alexia kissed his cheek and enjoyed the red flooding the wrinkled skin of his face.

  Yet she had to admit the tunnel made it quite easy to enter the castle unnoticed. Apparently her parents had built it as a means of escape should they come under siege.

  Ronar brushed aside the last of the branches, then hefted the iron grating and laid it to the side ere helping Alexia to her feet. “Have I told you what a lovely peasant you make.” His eyes scanned her with desire.

  “Once or twice, Sir Knight.” She smiled. “Though I feel rather unclad without my bow and quiver.” Beneath her peasant tunic, she hid two small knives and a dagger, but she still felt like a lame deer facing an army of hunters.

  Ronar winked. “Never fear, my lady, you have my troth I will protect you.”

  Swinging her tumble of red hair over her shoulder, she arched a brow. “Mayhap ’tis I who will protect you.”

  He laid a hand on his chest. “Only from a broken heart.”

  “I beseech you both,” Damien huffed as he approached. “Wed at once and quit this irksome dalliance. You drive me to my cups.”

  “Tush, you need no excuse there, my friend.” Ronar slapped him on the back. “Why so dour a mood? Come now, you must agree ’tis a great satisfaction to supply the hungry villagers with meat. Especially since Sir Walter forbids them to hunt unless they betray us.”

  Damien grunted. “I’ll grant a small moment of pleasure, but even that would be of no avail should one of the villagers come to his senses and decide the favor of a bishop surpasses that of renegades of the crown.”

  “Alas, you are a grim soul, Damien.”

  “Not so grim when he entertains Seraphina’s company.” Alexia put a hand on her hip and smiled at the large knight.

  Damien cleared his throat. “Are we to stand here all day blathering, or do we have a steward to haunt?” He struck flint to steel and lit a torch, then leapt into the hole. Alexia followed, while Ronar took up the rear.

  She’d been in this tunnel o’er a dozen times, but something was different this time…a feeling, a heaviness that hadn’t been there before. She longed to close her eyes and seek the Spirit, but she must follow Damien’s light as it flickered over rock, dirt, and the wooden buttresses holding up the walls. God’s truth, she’d been learning how to see in the Spirit with her eyes open, and thus, she now focused her thoughts on the real world beyond this one.

  Sharp-clawed hands reached for them through the dirt on all sides as if they walked through a graveyard and had awoken the dead—filthy hands, covered in rotting flesh that hung in tatters from yellowed bones. Fingers stretched to grip them, wound them, or drag them into the underworld. Alexia suppressed the urge to shriek, for she knew they could do them no harm. Instead, one quick glance behind and then before her revealed mighty warrior angels, glowing like the sun with swords in hand.

  “I sense it as well,” Ronar whispered as they reached the end of the tunnel, though she had made no mention of the darkness she felt nor the vision she saw.

  Damien handed him the torch ere lifting a wooden plank from the floor of Luxley’s root cellar. With effort, the knight hoisted himself up, followed by Ronar, who extended his hand to her.

  She smiled as he helped her up onto the dirt floor. Ronar had come far under the tutelage of Friar Josef. Though he did not possess her gift of seer, he was beginning to sense things in the Spirit.

  “Aye, the evil in this place grows. But we are not alone.” She glanced toward one of the warrior angels whose eyes met hers ere he vanished, leaving naught but casks, crates, and barrels full of fruits, grain, and herbs surrounding them.

  “Never alone.” Ronar agreed.

  Damien only huffed and proceeded toward the stairs.

  “I should take the lead.” Alexia pushed past the large knight, ignoring his protests. He was unaccustomed to a lady taking charge, but with her gift of sight, she could see things he could not. No doubt his excessive ego would recover.

  The stairs led to a narrow hallway through which only servants traveled. They had merely to make their way to the end, take another circular set of stairs to another corridor where they could finally enter the maze of secret tunnels that webbed throughout Luxley.

  But shouts and the thud of marching feet halted Alexia in her tracks. She glanced down the long passageway as Ronar came up beside her.

  “They hunt for us,” was all he said. “Make haste.” Grabbing her hand, he dashed down the hall, lit only by a single lantern perched on the wall.

  The footsteps grew louder.

  One man shouted. “Have you searched the cellar?”

  Alexia’s throat closed.

  Ronar halted, tossing out an arm to stop her from charging into—

  “Vak! What?” Damien bumped into Ronar, nearly knocking him down.

  Not willing to believe her eyes, Alexia grabbed the lantern from its hook and held it up. A stone wall stood before them from floor to ceiling.

  A wall that had not been there before.

  Chapter 10

  Jarin hadn’t planned on taking Lady Cristiana to Tegimen Abbey, but circumstances had become dire. He accepted the dry attire from the boy and shut the door to the small chamber, which contained only a cot, table, chamber pot, and hook on the wall—bare-bones necessities with which he should be well accustomed after having spent three years in such a room. Three happy years, if he were forced to admit it. Ere he realized ’twas all a farce. But he’d had a warm place to sleep and plenty of food, and he’d not only learned to read and write but also the value of a hard day’s work. The abbot had been a second father to Jarin, teaching him honor, chivalry, and the love of God and king. Everything but how to fight. Which was the most important thing if one were to survive this world.

  Removing his weapons, he stripped off his wet attire, then hung them up to dry and quickly donned the simple linen shirt, tunic, trousers, and belt. After he dried his hair with a cloth, he sat to put on his shoes, longing to strap on his weapons again, but knowing the abbot frowned on such devices of violence.

  Jarin had taught himself to fight, then joined the war and learned the hard way. People who relied on God for help in this world were naught but fools. If one were to survive, gain success and fortune, and find some measure of happiness, they had to do it for themselves. And not allow anything or anyone to waylay their plans.

  Which brought his thoughts to Lady Cristiana. He couldn’t help but smile. “Lovely Cristiana,” he dared whisper her Christian name. She was everything he remembered, and much more. Not only a picture of grace and beauty, but possessing a heart filled with deep and precious treasures. Forsooth, the lady had even feared for the wellbeing of the man who had held her captive! He’d ne’er seen such a thing. And she was brave as well, though the lady would not agree. Yet he’d learned long ago that bravery was not bravado but rather the courage to embark on a task that brought one naught but terror.

  Alas, the child. Jarin moaned and ran a hand through his damp hair. The girl was sweet and innocent, to be sure, but he had not planned on the extra burden. She would not only slow them down but keep them distracted, and quite possibly alert their enemies with her cries. ’Twas a most dangerous situation and not one Jarin would have willingly agreed to. Alas, he’d forgotten how stubborn Lady Cristiana could be.

  Pushing to h
is feet, he opened the door and started down the long hall, making his way to the chamber he’d seen the lady and child enter. The guest rooms sat atop the stables and the distinct bite of horseflesh and hay pinched his nose. But the lady did not answer his knock. Had she fallen asleep with the babe ere they had a chance to fill their bellies? Nay. He dared to crack the door and found the small chamber empty.

  Thunder rumbled through the stone building as Jarin descended the steps and emerged onto the courtyard to a blast of chilled wind. He glanced up, but a helmet of dark clouds sat atop the monastery, obscuring the moon and stars. He’d thought the rain had ended, but this was different. Not a storm at all. Yanking on the iron door handles, he cast one last glance above ere quickly entering the receiving hall of the abbot’s residence. Immediately, he was rewarded with a child’s laughter and the vision of Lady Cristiana, dressed in a tunic of a commoner, her honey-brown hair tumbling like a waterfall below her waist. He swallowed down a burst of longing to run his fingers through the silken strands. But this was no strumpet whom he could easily charm into his bed. Cristiana was a true lady who deserved a far more honorable man than he.

  The thought disturbed him. Her smile as she turned to face him sent such a thrill through him, he’d gladly fall on his knees and swear his fealty to her then and there. A groan escaped his lips at the ludicrous notion.

  Father Godwin’s eyes lit and he leaned to whisper something in her ear that made her laugh.

  Jarin ground his teeth. Whate’er stories his friend had to tell, ’twould do no benefit to Jarin’s reputation.

  “I see you two have become acquainted.” He gave a tight smile as he approached them.

  Cristiana laughed and glanced at the little girl playing with a doll on the couch. “The abbot has told me such tales, I can hardly believe them.”

  Father Godwin winked at him. “I find your lady quite charming, Jarin.”

  “She’s not—”

  “And you, Sir Jarin,” Lady Cristiana said, lantern light bringing forth the gold flecks in her brown eyes. “I must say, I hardly recognized you in a common tunic devoid of the myriad blades you enjoy brandishing about.”