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

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Those blades, my lady, have saved many lives, including my own.” He dipped his head before her, taking in her feminine form, so evident beneath the simple chemise and cote she wore. Nay, he would not tell her how lovely he thought her. Instead, he faced his old friend. “Prithee, grant me at least one knife. There is evil afoot this night.”

  The abbot nodded. “I sense it as well. Yet we are safe in God’s house. Come now, I have prepared a repast.” He gestured toward the trestle table near the hearth, where young monks placed steaming trenchers and pitchers of ale.

  He wanted to tell his friend that neither God nor fifty monks could stop the bishop’s and Sir Walter’s army, but he kept his tongue. The last thing he needed was a religious debate.

  Cristiana moved to pick up Thebe. Nestling her close, she kissed the child, and for the briefest of moments, Jarin stared at them, a strange longing he could not identify welling inside him. Being in this place, he was growing weak again. And he could not allow that to happen. He had a mission to complete, and no feminine beauty, innocent child, or fable-believing monk would stop him.

  ♥♥♥

  Cristiana slipped a piece of warm bread into Thebe’s mouth. The girl refused to sit on the bench by herself, so Cristiana held her in her lap and helped her eat the delicious repast set before them. Though but a simple meal of pottage and bread, it tasted better than the finest fare she could remember at Luxley. Mayhap due to her fierce hunger. And her fearful day.

  Sir Jarin, the abbot, and one other monk, Brother Peter, sat across from her. The rest of the monks had already finished their nightly service and retired. Sleep. Precious sleep. She knew it would elude her until she had a chance to ask Sir Jarin the dozen questions spinning in her mind. How did her sister fare? What of Ronar and Damien? What was happening at Luxley? And how did Sir Jarin find her? She’d had little time to ask on their harrowing journey here, and now she’d be forced to wait until they were alone.

  Alas, she still found it difficult to believe Sir Jarin had been a monk, or at least a novitiate. He’d left the order one year before taking his final vows. For what reason, Father Godwin would not say, though he had told Cristiana of a few of Sir Jarin’s rebellious antics whilst he’d been here.

  That part she had no trouble believing.

  Now, as she watched the two of them eat and laugh together, she could make no sense of it. Sir Jarin, a libertine and a warrior, yet a man who had been so close to taking vows of chastity, humility, and nonviolence. That he’d left so suddenly should certainly warrant anger on the part of the abbot, at the very least displeasure, yet the monk gazed at Jarin with as much affection as any father would a son.

  “More, more.” Thebe pointed toward the pottage, and Cristiana gathered a spoonful and put it in her mouth. When she glanced up, Sir Jarin was looking at her with the strangest look—somewhat admiring, yet with a pinch of confusion and sorrow.

  He glanced away and the loss swept over her as uncomfortable as any chill.

  “Is it true, Sir Jarin, that you put fire pepper in Brother James’s stew?” she said by way of gaining back his gaze.

  Instead of answering her, he sighed and cast an incriminating look at the abbot.

  Father Godwin shrugged. “The lady asked if I had any tales to tell. I cannot lie.” He smiled at her with eyes kinder than she’d seen in a long while. Short gray hair sat full upon his chin and the sides of his head but grew thin above his forehead. A gold cross hung brightly against his dark robes.

  Sir Jarin shook his head. “As you so oft told me, Father, silence is a neglected virtue.”

  Father Godwin laughed, joined by Brother Peter, who leaned forward to address Jarin. “In truth, we have missed your antics, Bro…forgive me…Jarin. ’Twas much livelier around here when you were present.”

  Cristiana drew a spoonful of pottage toward her mouth. “And what of the wild shrew you caught and released during Vespers?”

  Jarin finally faced her, fingering his beard, his dark eyes full of pluck. “You are pleased to mock me, my lady.”

  “Nay. I am pleased to hear of the enjoyment you brought your brothers.” She smiled sweetly as Thebe grabbed a strand of her hair. Tugging it from her chubby fingers, Cristiana continued. “Why leave such a comfortable life?”

  Father Godwin grabbed his mug of ale and sat back in his chair. “He wanted his freedom, my lady. Saints preserve us, he was, is far too restless to be a monk or to stay in one place for too long, even should that life lead to a blissful eternity.”

  Sir Jarin frowned. “I choose to live the life I have here and now, not hope for something I cannot see or touch.”

  Cristiana had known this about him, but the truth brought a pain to her heart, withal.

  “Alas, ’tis far too late, regardless.” Jarin shrugged. “I have killed too many men. I have bed”—he glanced at Cristiana and then Thebe and halted. Alas, that he’d bedded too many women made the food in her stomach suddenly sour.

  Father Godwin sipped his ale. “There is always forgiveness with God, Jarin.”

  Sir Jarin released a heavy sigh and stared at his food. “Mayhap, for He is far better than I, for I cannot bring myself to forgive Him.”

  Silence invaded the table. Cristiana stopped chewing and forced the bread down her throat. The words bordered on blasphemous.

  Yet, the abbot merely smiled and said, “When you do, He will welcome you back.”

  What had happened to Sir Jarin to make him so angry at God? Alack, would the Almighty forgive such an affront? Oddly, Cristiana began to fear for Sir Jarin’s soul, though, in truth, she should worry more about her own. Breaking off another piece of bread, she gave it to Thebe, but the child closed her lips, and instead, leaned her head on Cristiana’s shoulder. The poor babe was beyond exhausted.

  “If you will pardon me.” Clutching the girl, Cristiana stood, and the three men also rose as she made her way to the warm fire and laid the child on a couch.

  Brother Peter rushed over with a quilt, and Cristiana thanked him and placed it over the girl. Within minutes, her eyes closed, and she drifted off to sleep.

  Thank God. Cristiana brushed curls from the little girl’s face and sat beside her. Now that the babe was asleep, she could wait no longer to inquire after her sister’s welfare. She glanced toward Sir Jarin and was happy to see him heading her way. He stopped by the mantel, leaned an arm on top, and smiled at her.

  Sweet angels, but the man cut a fine figure no matter what he wore. ’Twas no wonder he left a trail of broken hearts behind him.

  She glanced away, determined not to become one of them. “What news of Alexia, Sir Jarin? I am desperate to hear.”

  “She is well, my lady. Safe, strong, and, along with Ronar, thwarting Sir Walter at every turn.”

  ’Twas as if a heavy weight broke free from her heart and scattered into dust. “Gramercy, that is most pleasing to hear. But, pray, how did you find me? How did you know…?”

  “Mistress de Mowbray,” he replied with a grin.

  Cristiana leapt to her feet. “Seraphina! You have seen her?”

  “Aye.” He approached, gently gripped her arms, then leaned toward her, smelling of damp wool and fire smoke and Jarin, a scent more pleasant than she cared to admit. “She found us and told us your situation.”

  Tears burned in her eyes as she dared glance up at him. He was so close she could see the concern brimming in his eyes. “I thought she’d abandoned me.”

  “Nay.” He lifted his hand as if to stroke her cheek, but Father Godwin and Brother Peter drew near, and Jarin took a step back.

  “I fear I must retire.” Brother Peter nodded to them both. “I am to arise at dawn for my duties.”

  After saying their farewells, Father Godwin took a seat across from her, adjusting his black robe. “I understand you were chased here by wolves.” His glance took in Thebe, and Cristiana realized he’d delayed the question on the child’s behalf.

  Jarin stooped by the fire and stared into the
flames. “So ’twould seem. Though I cannot imagine an entire pack would be so famished as to chase us across the countryside.”

  Indeed. Most peculiar. Yet something pricked Cristiana’s memory. “Did not a similar event befall my sister? I recall her telling the tale of her and Sir Ronar surrounded by wolves.”

  Jarin glanced her way. “Aye, I recall some fanciful tale, though in good sooth, I gave it little credit.”

  Nor had she. “If I remember, Alexia said they disappeared in whiffs of black smoke when she”—Cristiana lowered her gaze—“what did she do? I cannot recall.”

  Father Godwin grew pensive, listening to the tale, a thousand thoughts evident behind his deep eyes. “’Twould seem these wolves are not flesh and blood.”

  Sir Jarin huffed and rose to his feet. “Nonsense.”

  Father Godwin merely smiled and folded hands over his lap. “Is it? The devil would only send this kind of evil upon someone who is doing good for God’s kingdom or presenting a great threat. Which are you, my lady?”

  Cristiana eyed him. “Neither, Father. I am naught but an orphaned lady cast from my home and inheritance.”

  Sir Jarin pierced her with a gaze, and she knew he thought of the Spear. Absently, she rubbed the mark on the inside of her wrist.

  Father Godwin leaned forward. “I sense good in you, my lady. Power, light, I cannot gainsay it. Though I grant you, I do not know from whence it hails.” Leaning back, he stared at the high ceiling for several moments. “Evil is astir this night. It begs entrance to this holy place.”

  As if to confirm the abbot’s statement, loud knocks on the door preceded the entrance of two monks, night cloaks over their brown robes. They bowed before the abbot.

  “Father, there are more than thirty armed soldiers at our gate demanding entrance.”

  Chapter 11

  “Potz!” Alexia blinked back her sudden fear. A stone wall as solid as any other stood before her, blocking the way—the only way at the moment—to the secret passages snaking through Luxley Castle. Behind her and her friends, shouts and the stomp of boots grew louder. The guards would be upon them in moments.

  Groaning, Damien drew a knife from his boot and wheeled to face them.

  Ronar glanced at her, his blue eyes searching hers, wise and knowing. “Walls do not appear out of nowhere.” He laid palms on the stone and pushed with all his might, growling.

  She nodded. But what to do? She’d never encountered so solid an obstacle. So large an obstacle.

  “This way!” one of the guards shouted. “I hear something.”

  Footsteps thundered.

  Damien snapped his gaze to Ronar. “At least turn and fight!”

  Closing her eyes, Alexia attempted to still her heartbeat. She could never see the spirit realm when she was anxious. The friar’s gentle words filled her mind. Faith not fear. Calm not calamity. She released a breath and sought the Spirit.

  In her mind, she saw the wall begin to move as if it were alive. Like a river of mud, it oozed and bubbled before her. Eyes still closed, she drew a blade from inside her tunic and held it against the sludge.

  “Any moment now, my love.” Ronar’s anxious words resounded from beside her.

  “Are you both mad?” Damien barked.

  The head of a large viper shot from the mud, fangs bared.

  Alexia leapt back with a shriek and opened her eyes, breath heaving.

  Ronar grabbed her arm. “What is it?”

  “Naught to concern us.” She smiled. Then holding her knife to the wall, she drew a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and uttered the words. “No weapon formed against us shall prosper. ’Tis the heritage of the servants of the Lord! Begone!”

  The tip of the blade she pressed to the wall fell forward, along with her arm as they both swept through air.

  Ronar’s shocked expression transformed into a wide grin.

  “Shall we?” Alexia started forward

  “Come, Damien. Make haste!” Ronar slugged the knight on the arm, who remained rigid, his blade pointed toward the oncoming guards.

  “Huh?” Damien whirled, knife in hand, and gaped down the hallway, his face pinched in disbelief ere he followed on their heels.

  Down the passage, up another spiral of stairs, Alexia shoved aside a wooden cabinet and knelt, feeling along the stone wall. There. She pressed the latch and drew out a rope from behind it. One tug and the stone moved aside. Ronar shoved it further, and the three of them squeezed into the tunnel.

  Grabbing the cabinet’s legs, Ronar pulled it back in place, then yanked on the rope to secure the stone.

  Just as they heard the march of boots speed past.

  Darkness surrounded them. Naught could be heard save the distant drip of water and their harried breathing. A musty smell of age and decay filled Alexia’s nose as Ronar struck flint to steel and lit one of many torches laid near the entrance.

  “I dare not ask what became of that wall,” Damien muttered.

  “God’s truth, you wouldn’t believe it,” Alexia said. “Let us be about our haunting, shall we?”

  Rising, she led the way through the narrow passageway, turned left, and then rounded a corner that descended to the right and then veered left again. She knew these passages as well as she knew Emerald Forest. Cristiana and she had discovered them after their mother died, and together, they had spent hours exploring the castle and spying on the servants. They’d never told anyone, which she was thankful for now, or Sir Walter would surely have had them guarded.

  Torch light glistened over moist stone, and a chill invaded Alexia’s tunic, piercing her skin and seeping into her bones. Whether from the damp air or what had just occurred, she didn’t know.

  The wall had disappeared! Though she should not be surprised, still her mind reeled at the miracle. She knew not from whence the dark powers in this castle hailed, but they were growing stronger and more powerful every day. Which meant she and Ronar must grow stronger in their faith, must learn more of the Sacred Words of Scripture in order to do battle. For the friar had told her that they did not battle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, powers and rulers of darkness—entities that could not be defeated by sword or arrow, but only by the Word of God and the name of Jesus.

  Ronar and Damien were silent behind her as the tunnel narrowed and they dropped to their knees to crawl the final distance to Sir Walter’s study.

  If Anabelle had done her part, which she always did, then Sir Walter should be quite befuddled by now.

  Alexia halted before the hole which led into the vile steward’s room. Rummaging through her pack, she found the jar, opened the cork, and smeared the white paste all over her face, neck, and the exposed skin of her arms, then handed it to Ronar and Damien, who did the same.

  After tying a white cloth over her hair, she suppressed a chuckle at how ridiculous the mighty knights looked, and crawled from the tunnel to an area beneath a sideboard. There, peering from behind the cloth that covered the table, she spotted Sir Walter at his desk, his vacant eyes staring into space. Good.

  “Put out the torch and allow the smoke to enter his chamber,” she whispered as Ronar and Damien crawled in behind her.

  Ronar gripped her arm. “Be careful.”

  “When am I not?”

  He sighed. “Always.”

  ♥♥♥

  Sir Walter, quill pen in hand, stared at the parchments spread over his desk. Why would they not cease floating back and forth like wheat before the wind? Blinking, he drew a deep breath and attempted to focus yet again. His stomach rebelled, and a foul smell emerged from his mouth. Tossing down his pen, he slammed his fists on the desk, yet even that action caused him pain.

  What was amiss with him these days? What illness had overtaken him? He’d always been virile and strong. Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his eyes. Whate’er the apothecary was giving him, ’twas of no effect. He would run to the man’s chamber and curse him for a fool. If he but had the strength. Instead, fear of
his own mortality clamped onto him like a vice.

  “Devil’s blood!” He cursed out loud. He was far too young, had far too many plans to be thinking thus. ’Twas merely a mild case of ague, and soon he’d be back to his lusty, devious self!

  A scuffing sound, like wood on stone, reached his ears. The candle on his desk fluttered, though his shutters were closed. Smoke filled the room. He coughed and shook his head.

  Hearing things again. Seeing things again. Sitting up, he reached for a flask of wine and attempted to pour it into a cup, but his hand shook, and it spilled, dripping from his desk onto the floor…plop…plop…plop…like fresh drops of blood.

  He pushed his chair back in horror and looked up to see three beings moving to and fro before his desk. The room spun and cloudiness cloaked his vision. Their faces were as pale as death, and their bodies oscillated as if they were made of water. A memory taunted him. Had he not seen these three before in his bed chamber?

  “Who are you?” He shriveled further into his chair, heart thundering, longing to run, but unable to find the strength.

  One of the beings floated toward him and placed a parchment on his desk. “Sign this, and seal it with your ring.” The voice was familiar yet muffled as if it echoed down a long corridor.

  Sir Walter dropped his gaze to the paper, but the words chased each other around like children at play.

  The tip of a knife appeared in his vision, pointing to a space on the bottom. “Here.” The being dipped his pen in the inkwell and handed it to him.

  “What is it? What does it say?”

  A thousand horses’ hooves pounded across his brain, and he reached up with both hands to squeeze his head. “Cease this madness, I beseech you!”

  “’Twill cease when you sign this missive.”

  Pain spiked through his head, down his neck, and spread across his back. His breath came hard and raspy, and it took all his strength to remain upright.

  He took the quill, the feather trembling in his vision, for he’d do anything to stop this pain, even cater to spirits. “Alas, I beg you, what does it say?”