“’Tis the parchment which will clear your conscience and grant you a chance for redemption,” the spirit before him said, though when he glanced at it, the apparition appeared to be naught but an undulating cloud.
“Redemption! Beshrew me. What need have I of that?” He dropped the pen.
“You will have great need of it when you face hellfire,” one of the spirits in the distance remarked.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” He’d posted a guard at his door. Hadn’t he? Breath coming hard, Sir Walter struggled to rise. Finally teetering on his feet, he stumbled backward and struck the wall. Hard.
“In truth, we are secret messengers from the otherworld.”
“Secret messengers, forsooth!” His belly ached, and he forced down vomit rising to his throat. “You are not here. ’Tis but a nightmare.”
“I’ll show you how real we are!” One of the spirits started forward—the largest one—but the one in front raised a hand to stop him.
“I assure you, you vile miscreant. We are quite able to slit your throat in your sleep.”
Sir Walter clutched his neck, doing his best to focus on the spirits, attempting to make out their features, but they remained twisted and malformed.
“Ergo, you will sign this parchment, or you’ll meet the devil himself.”
Huffing, Sir Walter’s thoughts drifted to Drago. “I have already met him. Now, leave me be! I beseech you. Leave me be!”
Yet the spirits remained.
Clutching a vase from the table beside him, he hurled it at the first apparition. It ducked and the vase crashed to the floor, breaking into a dozen pieces.
The sound of the bishop’s voice rang from outside the door.
Sir Walter’s legs gave out, and he slid against the wall to the floor. Just what he needed. A visit from his excellent nimbycock.
More scuffling sounded, and the door swung open, slamming against the stone wall behind it.
The sound rang pain through Sir Walter’s head.
“What mischief is afoot in here?” ’Twas the bishop’s annoying voice. Nightmare, indeed.
Nay, no nightmare, for the real bishop circled Sir Walter’s desk in a swirl of black robes and stared at him as if he would rather step on him like a bug than speak with him.
“Get up, you dizzard! Why are you sitting on the floor, curled in the corner like a whimpering tosspot?”
Pressing his hands against the wall, Sir Walter pushed himself up, held his stomach against his rising nausea, and approached his desk. One glance over the chamber revealed the spirits had gone.
“Nay. I...I...”
“Oh, do shut it, you buffoon. I hear you have good news.”
Dropping into his chair, Sir Walter swallowed and studied the parchments across his desk. The one from the spirits was gone. “They have found Lady Cristiana,” he moaned.
“Indeed!” The wavering form of the bishop slapped his hands together. “When will they arrive?”
Sir Walter coughed. “They do not have her in hand as of yet. But they have her surrounded.”
“Surrounded! God’s blood! Can you do naught right?”
“’Tis only a matter of time, Your Grace.” Sir Walter muttered, though his words sounded jumbled to his ears.
“Very well. I shall expect to see the shrew back here at Luxley within a sennight.” The bishop’s distorted face, far too large and grotesque, appeared in Sir Walter’s vision.
“Beware your drink, sir. If you can’t control yourself and find the Spear, I’ll seek out someone who can and give Luxley to them!”
Spinning around, the bishop stormed out, and Sir Walter dropped his head onto his desk and drifted into a tormented oblivion.
Chapter 12
Jarin cursed himself beneath his breath. Sir Walter’s knights had found them, and now the entire monastery was in danger.
Father Godwin rose to address the two monks who’d just told him an army demanded entrance at the gate. “Inform them that men of violence are not permitted to enter this sacred place. Should they wish to risk eternal damnation, they may by all means force their way inside, but only at the cost of murdering holy men of God.”
Though Jarin spotted fear tighten the expressions of the two men, to their credit, they dipped their heads and sped off.
“Forgive me, Father,” Jarin said. “We have brought trouble to your gate. ’Twas not my intent.” Though, beshrew it, he should have considered the possibility.
Alarm skittered about Lady Cristiana’s brown eyes, but she said not a word.
Father Godwin, however, waved a hand through the air. “Do you think my faith so weak that an army disturbs me? That all the armies in the world would e’er disturb God?”
Jarin stared at him, unsure whether the old man had lost his reason. “Should this particular army break through your walls, I doubt even God could save you from their cruelty.” He regretted the words ere they left his lips for Lady Cristiana threw a hand to her throat and rose.
“What are we to do?” She glanced down at the babe.
“There, there, my lady, I see your faith is as feeble as Jarin’s.” Though reproof fired in the abbot’s gaze, his tone was jovial. He closed his eyes for a moment and drew a deep breath.
Jarin knew from experience he was praying.
Whilst an army pounded on his door! And the only weapons they had were the ones Jarin had brought with him. Alas, they had but one option. They must leave lest they endanger the monks further. But how, when an army of well-trained knights surrounded them?
Lady Cristiana bit her lip and then began whispering numbers, “One, two, three…”
Was Jarin the only one here not addlebrained?
Father Godwin opened his eyes and smiled. “Nay, they will not enter Tegimen Abbey this night, I make bold to declare. And when they do on the morrow, they will not find you here.”
Jarin had never known his friend to lie nor to proclaim something based purely on hope. That the man heard from God never failed to irk Jarin, for the Almighty had not graced him with such a privilege.
“Not find us here! Forsooth!” Lady Cristiana wrung her hands and approached the hearth. “I fail to understand how we are not to be found here when there is no escape.”
Father Godwin followed her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Never fear. Only believe, my lady. God always provides a way.”
Jarin ground his teeth. ’Twas man, by his wit and brawn alone, who escaped danger. “Father, do grace us, I beg you, with knowledge of this way God will provide.”
Godwin faced him, that irritating, all-knowing smile on his face. “There is more than one way into and out of the abbey, my son. Now, I am off to bed.” He gestured toward a young lad standing at attention in the corner, and the boy started toward them, hobbling on one foot, whilst dragging the other.
“Brother Jeffrey will bring you more food and drink should you desire. However, I suggest you both attend to your rest, for the morrow promises to be full of adventure.” He winked at Lady Cristiana, but her attention was on the crippled lad who was tossing wood onto the fire.
Jarin took a determined step forward. “Father, please. Show us how to leave anon, lest we endanger you further.”
“There is naught to fear this night. Rest well, Jarin.” Turning, he made his way to the door and disappeared in a mist of undying faith.
Jarin fisted his hands, shoving down his anger. If the man were a warrior, Jarin would force him to disclose what he knew. Alas, he had no idea what to do with a man of God, an abbot. And a friend. Trust was not something that came natural to Jarin. Not when he’d been so oft betrayed.
“You allow him to walk away?”
The angry tone turned Jarin about to Lady Cristiana, her hair glistening like amber in the firelight. “What would you have me do, threaten an abbot? Or mayhap draw my blade to his throat, bind him, and toss him into a pot of boiling water?” He regretted his insolence when a tear appeared at the corner of her eye.
Sniffing, she drew the back of her hand to her nose. “’Tis I who should beg your forgiveness. And the abbot’s. I have brought this danger down upon us all.”
“Nay.” He knelt before her and took her hand in his. “None of this falls on you, my lady.” He rubbed her fingers, relishing their softness. “’Tis Sir Walter, the bishop, and the malice and avarice of man that arms this threat. You…we have merely been caught in the middle.”
“And you because of me.”
“I am a warrior, my lady. I go where e’re a battle brews.”
She gave him a tender smile that spoke of disbelief. But how could he blame her? What elite knight of the King’s Guard would forsake such a prestigious post and become an enemy of the king merely to see justice served in the greedy seizure of one lowly estate?
He would, apparently. Mayhap he was the addlebrained one, after all. But he’d done it for Ronar and Damien at first—the only two people he trusted in the world, his friends and fellow King’s Guard. But now, as he stared into Lady Cristiana’s tender eyes, longing to brush the tear from her cheek…
Nay. Releasing her hand, he rose and shook off her bewitching spell. “Since we can do naught until morning, we’d best retire.”
“I cannot.” She glanced toward the child. “She sleeps so soundly, I dare not move her. Besides, I doubt I shall find sleep this night.” She looked up at him. “Quit us and make to your chamber, Sir Jarin. I shall remain here with Thebe.”
“I will not leave you, my lady.”
She glanced at him in wonder
Ere he betrayed his feelings, he added, “I gave my troth to your sister, and I dare not anger the Falcon of Emerald Forest. I’ve witnessed the effects of her arrow.”
The lady smiled. “She is truly a formidable enemy, I’ll not gainsay it. Yet she is also an inspiration to many.”
Jarin longed to remark that he found Cristiana an inspiration as well but held his tongue. ’Twould do no good to give voice to the peculiar sensations spiraling through him when e’er she was near. For that would give life to something he dared not admit.
♥♥♥
Cristiana would be loath to admit her joy when Sir Jarin announced he would stay with her and Thebe. The prospect of sitting alone without benefit of guard or locked door—even in a monastery—unsettled her nerves.
And they were already quite unsettled enough.
That she felt utterly and completely safe all alone at night with the libertine knight made her doubt her own mind. But then again, ’twas not her mind that was overjoyed.
Still, she felt uncomfortable, even indecent, lying down on the sofa beside Thebe—like a naughty girl revealing her leg to a boy for a favor. Sir Jarin had seen her oft enough in her bed at Luxley, but only when she’d been unable to receive guests any other way. Lying down to sleep in the same room as a man, ’twas simply not done. She pushed herself to sit, but Sir Jarin approached with a blanket he must have gotten from the young crippled lad, draped it over her shoulders, and forced her back down.
“You’ll be no good to the girl tomorrow if you don’t get your rest.”
She laid her head on the pillow, feeling its softness lure her to relax.
Sir Jarin took a seat by the fire, withdrew a coin from inside his surcote and began flipping it among his fingers. Back and forth, in and out, with such speed and accuracy, Cristiana could only stare. Firelight glittered over the gold, flashing bright and dark, mesmerizing her as easily as the man so oft did himself.
“Tell me tales of your youth, Sir Jarin.”
He briefly glanced her way. “I assure you, my lady, there is naught to tell.”
“I do not believe you. I am sure there are many adventures that formed the man I see now.”
He flipped the coin in the air and caught it, then leaned back in his chair and stared at the fire. “I grew up in a small village. My father was the town blacksmith, though in truth”—he chuckled—“he would have made a better priest for all the time he spent assisting the vicar in the local church.”
“A priest?”
“Aye, a dream of his which could ne’er come true after he married young.”
Apparently, she failed to hide her shock, for Sir Jarin snorted and continued, “That surprises you? With such a pious father and training as a monk, how did I become…hmm, how should I put it… a libertine and a man of violence?” His smile faded as soon as it had appeared.
She could not deny either of those charges, though she desperately longed to know what had led to them. “A very pungent question, Sir Jarin. Pray tell?”
But he did not answer. Instead, naught but the crackle of flames and whisper of wind against the stone walls filled the chamber. “Have you any siblings?” ’Twas a less intrusive question, for she merely wished to hear his voice—that deep, soothing, timbre that had the odd effect of making her feel safe in the midst of danger.
’Twas a long time ere he finally answered… and a heart full of emotions filled his simple, “Nay.”
Her throat burned. Why, she could not say. Nor could she close her eyes, though they grew heavy, for she could not tear her gaze from him. Who was this knight, this adventurer and wooer of maidens? This warrior-monk with a wounded heart? Firelight accentuated the strong lines of his jaw, glistened over his dark hair, and ran along the firm muscles in his arms so evident beneath his simple linen shirt. Yet a sadness held his gaze captive to the flames, as if he were reliving some tragedy.
Moments later, the cloud of despair moved aside, and he continued flipping his coin. “What of you, my lady? Growing up the daughter of a baron in such an estate as Luxley must have been agreeable. Before Sir Walter took over.”
Cristiana recalled so few happy memories, she hesitated to answer. Surely being raised in luxury would forbid her to complain to a commoner. Nor did she wish to speak of her life. For the most part, ’twas not a happy tale to tell. She closed her eyes beneath their weight, then forced them open. None other had ever asked of her childhood. Ergo, at the least, she owed him an answer.
“My father died in war when I was but five years of age. I barely remember him, though I am told I was his favorite.” She smiled. “Ofttimes, after he was long gone, I used to hear his voice echoing through Luxley, his hearty chuckle, see visions of his smile when he saw me and opened his arms to receive my embrace. Alas, the memories fade with each year.” Cristiana drew a breath lest she break out in tears in front of this knight. Fire smoke, ale, and a musty scent filled her nose. “My mother died two years later, leaving Alexia and me at the mercy of Sir Walter, our steward. Alack, I am told he is responsible for her death, though I can hardly believe it. Mother trusted him, leaned on him for help running the estate after Father died.” She forced down her fury. How could her mother have been that naïve, that bird-witted? Yet…how could Cristiana have?
“He is a snake of the worst kind, preying on the innocent. A man devoid of conscience. I have met many like him in my travels.” Jarin leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, still moving the coin between his fingers. But his jaw had grown tight. “I’d love nothing more than to wrap my hands around his neck and—” He glanced her way, but the look in his eyes was lost to her in the shadows.
“A year later, Alexia abandoned me,” Cristiana continued, revealing the one wound on her heart that was still raw and festering. Why she was telling him these things, she couldn’t say, save he was listening and seemed to care. Or mayhap she was still the fool she’d always been to think…to hope…that anyone cared. “I never knew what happened to her or if she was even alive. Sir Walter told me she wasn’t, though he had no proof. I was only eight.”
Jarin released an angry sigh. “A mere child. Left alone with a monster. And he poisoned you.” He rose, slipped the coin in his pocket, and gripped the place where his sword would hang. Upon finding it empty, he crossed arms over his chest.
“Not until I became
of age to take over the running of Luxley.” But she didn’t want to talk about it. Those two years were naught but a blur of poking and prodding by physicians and apothecaries, tossing her accounts into foul-smelling pots, spinning rooms, and horrifying visions. If not for Seraphina’s constant companionship and her sister reappearing from the dead, Cristiana doubted she would have survived.
“’Tis over now, and you are well.” Jarin’s tone had turned soft, comforting. “We will return, regain Luxley, and punish that mewling muckrake, Sir Walter.”
No longer able to stop them, her eyes closed. “First, we must escape…this…”
But her thoughts abandoned her to the blissfulness of sleep.
♥♥♥
Jarin started to tell the lady they would find a way out of the abbey, that he’d defend her with his life. But when he glanced her way, her eyes were shut, and her chest rose and fell with deep breaths. He waited a moment, then crept closer and slipped into a chair beside where she lay. The child uttered a whimper, then turned on her side ere settling back to sleep. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, Jarin moved his gaze back to Cristiana. Lashes as thick and dark as any forest fluttered over milky cheeks that appeared as soft as velvet. A wisp of honey-brown hair lay gently on her forehead, whilst the remainder cascaded over her shoulder and onto the sofa in a blanket of silk.
What was it about this lady that enraptured him so? In good sooth, she was extraordinarily lovely, but he’d charmed others just as comely. She was witty, intelligent, and well-bred. But ’twas more than that. A sudden longing to protect her and the babe at all costs grew to near bursting inside of him. He could hardly credit it. He’d never felt so strong a need to care for another, even above his own needs. Alas, even above his own need to survive.
And that frightened him most of all. He had plans for his life, battles to win, adventures to enjoy, women to sample. Being burdened with a lady—let alone a child—would put a halt to all of that.
Drawing a deep breath, he glanced at the lad standing by the door, wishing he could dismiss him to his rest, but knowing he would never disobey the abbot’s orders. Settling back in his chair, Jarin determined to stay awake, to keep watch over this precious lady and her child. At least for now.
She Walks in Love (Protectors of the Spear Book 2) Page 10