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

by Marylu Tyndall

  Alexia could only smile at the fear in the large knight’s eyes, enhanced by the torches they held as they made their way to Sir Walter’s chamber.

  Seraphina halted and faced him. “I shall be fine, Sir Damien. Was I not perfectly safe in the great hall?”

  Ronar, who brought up the rear, exchanged a look of annoyance with Alexia, for Damien’s infatuation drove him to distraction. Alas, how soon he forgot love’s blind obsession! Had his passions for her cooled so quickly? Nay. Not from the love she saw in his eyes.

  Damien frowned. “Aye, but in Sir Walter’s chamber? Where you could be trapped?” He glanced at Ronar. “Put by this mad scheme.”

  Seraphina arched a delicate brow. “How could I be in any danger with you right on the other side of the wall?”

  “Indeed, Damien. Sir Walter will be in no condition to do anything save sign this document.” Alexia patted the pocket of her tunic. She’d discarded her green cloak, revealing a white gown beneath, covered in a layer of shimmering gauze. With her hair braided and drawn back, she’d once been told by a servant that she was the exact image of her mother. If so, their ploy this night would bring success.

  A damp chill drew a shiver from her as the scent of mold and age and stagnant air surrounded her.

  “’Tis not in my nature to send women to battle,” Damien grumbled. “But to fight for them instead.”

  “I am not going into battle,” Seraphina announced with nary a speck of fear in her voice. “I am merely pleased to finally be of service.”

  “My friend.” Ronar clutched Damien’s arm. “We shall be but a step away should our plans go awry.”

  Thunder shook the tunnel walls, sending down a spray of dust and pebbles.

  “Are we quite safe in here?” Seraphina’s bravery fled her as she gazed up.

  “Aye.” Alexia pressed a hand to the stone surrounding them. “These tunnels have been here since Luxley was first built. Come, let us make haste. Our presence in the hall, along with the potion in his food, has sent Sir Walter straight to his bed. Right where we want him.”

  Ronar brushed past Damien and Seraphina and took Alexia’s hand in his. “You make no doubt that you can be heard clearly through the wall?”

  “Aye, you worry overmuch, Sir Knight. My sister and I oft listened through this very wall to my mother and father arguing in their chamber.”

  He chuckled. “Little imps, the both of ye.”

  Smiling, Alexia led the way around another corner, then up a steep ascent that grew narrower with each step. Finally, they halted before a stone wall.

  “Here we are.” Alexia slipped a gauze veil over her face and patted her pocket to ensure the document, quill pen, and ink were inside. Seraphina pushed past Ronar and drew a deep breath.

  Thunder growled its displeasure once again.

  Alexia handed the torch to Ronar. “We cannot open this door from inside the chamber without great difficulty. Ergo, should trouble befall us, I will utter the word, Penance.”

  “My destrier’s name?” Ronar laughed.

  “Aye. When you hear it, push on this wall, as we do now.”

  “I don’t like it.” Damien growled.

  Taking the torch from her, Ronar kissed her cheek, the stubble on his chin tickling her skin. “I beg you to take care, though I know ’tis not in your nature.”

  “I am pleased to see you finally know me, my love.”

  “You as well, dear lady.” Damien took Seraphina’s hand and placed a kiss upon it.

  Smiling, she exchanged a glance with Alexia and nodded for her to proceed.

  Ronar pushed the stone door, and a blast of air smelling of tallow and something quite foul struck them as Alexia and Seraphina squeezed into Sir Walter’s chamber.

  Chapter 20

  Sir Walter’s world became a spiraling throng of scenes, voices, and sounds—flickering candlelight; faces, some familiar, some not, some twisted into demented shapes; horses in full armor clanging and thundering across a field; a thousand swords flung at him; his shrewish wife shouting insults; Cedric’s innocent smile when he was a lad; and wolves.

  Black wolves.

  Every time he crept closer to the bliss of slumber, his stomach revolted, and he leaned over the side of his mattress to cast his accounts into his chamber pot.

  Thunder shook his four-poster bed, quivering sheets and pillows alike. Devil’s blood! He would call the castle physician into his study on the morrow and dismiss him at once! Then send out his steward to seek another more capable one.

  Lightning flashed silver behind his eyelids, and he rubbed them, hoping to wipe away the torturing visions. The sound of scraping stone, the rustle of fabric, and the patter of rain outside his window added to the mad cacophony.

  Rustle of fabric? Blinking, he pushed himself to sit, regretting the action immediately as it forced more food from his stomach, this time onto the floor. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and glanced over his chamber. Two shapes danced across his vision, fuzzy, billowing, like clouds driven before a winter wind.

  He shook his head and swallowed, trying to focus on the closer of the two. Behind a veil, red hair streaked in gold, framed a female face, a familiar face, as the lady drifted through the chamber as if ’twas hers. Hers. Indeed, Sir Walter had moved into the solar, the chamber for the lord and lady, and made it his own.

  “You!” He pointed a quivering finger at the woman.

  The lady approached, a stinging smile curving her lips. “Aye, Sir Walter, ’tis I, Lady Grecia D’Clere.”

  “But…” Sir Walter had trouble breathing. The lady grew small, then large again, ere she split into five images that spun like a child’s top. “You are not here. You died.”

  “How now?” Her voice sparked with sarcasm. “’Tis my chamber is it not? Where else would I be but the place where you”— the woman suddenly dashed for him, her face shoved large against his—“murdered me!”

  Thunder bellowed. Her scent of lavender filled his nose as her hot breath slapped his face. Sir Walter tried to scream, but terror strangled him. He pressed a hand on his stomach and watched in horror as the woman retreated, floating about his bed.

  “Nay. I did not murder you!” he shouted. “In truth, I was nowhere near you when you died.”

  “But you were the cause of it, withal, dear sir.” The voice was poison.

  Lightning set the chamber ablaze in ghostly white.

  The other woman drew near, swirling in a haze of gleaming candlelight. Hair the color of ivory dangled like jewels from her head. Seraphina? Sir Walter fell back on his pillow, breath careening in his chest. The maid had disappeared the day Lady Cristiana escaped. “You both are not here!”

  “But we are, good sir.” Thunder shook the chamber as Seraphina whirled about the room in a dance of death.

  Dread consumed Sir Walter. How did one argue with spirits? Especially since he could not gainsay their accusations.

  Lady Grecia pounced on his bed to the right, while Seraphina stood like a statue of ice to his left. “We demand reparation,” they both said in unison.

  “Forsooth! Is that what all this is about—my nightmares, my visions?” If only the chamber would stop spinning!

  “A mere prelude to your eternity in hell,” came his answer from Lady Grecia.

  “Hell! I cannot go to hell.” He struggled to sit, then leaned back against his headboard. “I am to be lord of Luxley!”

  Lady Grecia shrugged and blew out a sigh. “You make too free, I think.”

  “What can I do?” He shifted his gaze between them, making himself dizzier than ever. “What reparation can I possibly make now?”

  Lady Grecia withdrew a document, pen, and ink from her tunic and held it out to him. “You may sign this.”

  “Sign…” A foul smell emerged from his lips, followed by food clambering up his throat. He pressed a hand over his stomach and searched for a breath. He remembered now. Others had sought his signature, other visions, other apparitions. His suspic
ions rose. “What is this document?”

  “Naught but your confession, Sir,” Seraphina said. “Sign it and you are well on your way to making amends.”

  Closing his eyes, if only to stop the walls from gyrating, he hesitated, thinking…searching for some logic, some meaning to this lunacy.

  “Sign it, or you will go to hell this night!”

  “Nay, nay!” He shook off the fog in his head and gestured for the lady to come forward. “Anything to stop this madness.”

  The lady spread the parchment before him and handed him the pen. He rubbed his eyes, squinted, held it up to the candle beside his bed. But the words skittered over the page like mice before a cat on the prowl.

  Grabbing the pen, he dipped it in ink and held it over the page. His hand trembled. A drop of ink spilled onto his sheets. Lightning turned the parchment white.

  A rap-rap pounded on his door.

  “Sir Walter, is all well?” Though the words were hollow and surreal, it sounded like his guard. “Voices hail from within.”

  The parchment fled his sight, the pen snatched away, and the two ladies withdrew into the shadows.

  The word “Penance” echoed through the room ere Sir Walter bade his guard enter.

  ♥♥♥

  Ronar wasn’t good at waiting. And never when his lady love was in danger. Still, he leaned against the stone door of the tunnel and did his best not to betray his own agitation whilst at the same time calm his friend’s. To no avail, he might add, for Damien continued to pace back and forth over the four-foot width of the tunnel.

  Pushing from the wall, Ronar gripped Damien’s arm, halting him. “They are safe, my friend. And if they are not, we are but one push of this stone away from their rescue.”

  Damien nodded, though the look in his eyes bespoke of anything but agreement.

  A voice, a word came through the stones, dampened and hushed, as if ’twere spoken through a wall of liquid. Ronar had no doubt ’twas the word they’d dreaded to hear, Penance.

  Which meant the ladies were in trouble.

  With one nod at Damien, he gripped the pommel of his sword, and turned to push against the stones.

  A thousand tiny legs skittered over his hands. The door didn’t move. Yet, it was moving.

  “Don’t touch it!” Ronar all but shoved Damien behind him and grabbed the torch from its hook. Then holding it aloft, his worst nightmare appeared.

  Spiders.

  Hundreds of them, as big as his fist with thick, hairy legs, crawled over the stones and spread over the walls, ceiling, and floor of the tunnel.

  He leapt back while Damien hacked at them with his blade. “Judas! From whence did these hail?”

  “Penance!” came louder through the wall.

  Ronar knew he must rush forward, knew he must push against the door and save the ladies, but despite his efforts, his feet moved in only one direction—backward. Horror buzzed in his mind, scrambling his thoughts, razored through his veins until they ached in pain. Horror like he’d never known. They cannot be real. He knew that. Yet…

  “Ronar!” Gripping his arms so tight, pain spiraled down to his fingers, Damien shook him. “What ails you, man? They are mere bugs. We must away!”

  Spiders. It had to be spiders. The one thing that frightened Ronar the most.

  “The women need us! Come!” Damien jerked him forward.

  The black horde was nearly upon them…a flood of biting, clawing, deadly ink that would soon swallow them alive.

  “Spiders,” was all he could say.

  “Aye, spiders.” Damien released him with a curse, then with sword drawn, charged into the nest. The creatures leapt on him, covering his body within seconds.

  “Damien!” Ronar started toward him but then halted. This was not real. Like the solid wall that had transformed into snakes the last time they’d been here, this was but a trick of the enemy. An enemy that knew Ronar’s biggest fear.

  But he needed Alexia. He hadn’t the faith to battle this on his own. He could fight a dozen warriors and put them to flight. But this? This attack came from beyond this world, beyond the reach of a sword, arrow, or dagger. He had to believe, but his faith was so new, so young.

  Yet hadn’t he seen greater things than most ever would?

  Damien fell to the ground, overwhelmed by the spiders.

  Nay! Ronar’s anger surged, scattering his fear. “In the name of my Lord Jesus, the one and only Son of God, I command you to cease and give way!”

  Instantly the spiders vanished. They did not scurry away, did not retreat, but simply disappeared as if they had never been there.

  Faith and love swelled within his heart, but he had no time to consider what had happened nor worship the One who had saved them. Extending his hand to Damien, he helped the knight to his feet, ignored the look of shock on his face, and charged the stone door. He only hoped that his delay had not cost Alexia and Seraphina their lives.

  Chapter 21

  Jarin, a sleeping babe curled in his arms, kicked open the broken gate and started down the path to the manor house of his friend, Quinn of Savoy. At least he hoped ’twas his friend’s abode, for those in the village had told him so. Albeit with much contempt in their voices, he would add. Which gave him pause. Quinn had always been a jovial sort, full of life, lust, and vigor. There was not a monk at Tegimen Abbey who was not fond of him, though they oft found his antics irreverent. As well as Jarin’s. Hence, Jarin had not been surprised to learn Quinn had left shortly after he had. Word was Quinn’s father, the wealthy lord of a manor, had died, leaving his holdings to Quinn.

  ’Twas a fortified manor home, more akin to a small castle, and in quite a state of dilapidation, from what Jarin could see in the dim light of early evening. Broken gate, crumbling walls, a hole in one side of the roof. But he had nowhere else to go. Surely his friend would welcome them, give them a meal and place to sleep for a night or two until Jarin could procure a horse. Mayhap Quinn had a palfrey or even an old nag Jarin could borrow. The smell of horseflesh riding on the wind gave him hope.

  The sound of Lady Cristiana’s dragging footsteps beside him deflated it. They’d been walking for twelve hours with nary a break, and she and the babe were beyond exhausted. Alas, they’d not even had a morsel of food save some berries Jarin found on the side of the road. If he’d had time, he could have hunted and given them a meal of rabbit or pheasant, but after the incident with the wolves—be they demons or not—he’d wanted naught but to get the lady and the child to safety.

  A quarter moon frowned down upon them from a sky where stars began to pop through the velvet blackness. A breeze whipped dust around his boots as he halted before a large wooden door with an iron knocker bearing, of all things, a wolf’s face.

  After several interminable minutes, the door creaked open to reveal an aged man sprouting more gray hair upon his chin than his head. Bags hung beneath his eyes to match his swinging jowls, and he wore attire far too large for his bony frame. He held a candle up to them and squinted. “And who be ye?”

  “Sir Jarin the Just to see Lord Quinn of Savoy, if you please.”

  The candle came closer, the eyes squinted further as they wandered from Jarin to Lady Cristiana and then to Thebe in his arms. “My master gives no charity. Begone.” Then retreating, he slammed the door with a thud.

  Lady Cristiana sighed and would have sunk to the stone steps had not Jarin reached out to bear her up.

  He rapped the knocker again. The same man appeared, held up his candle, and was about to slam the door yet again, when Jarin poked his boot through the opening. “I demand you announce Sir Jarin the Just to your master at once. Or, good fellow, you may lose your position forthwith.”

  The man snorted but withdrew and stomped away with a curse. Sir Jarin ushered Cristiana inside the receiving room and shut the door behind him. Thebe made a gurgling noise and shifted in his arms.

  “I will take her, Sir Jarin.” Cristiana reached for the babe. “You’ve been carrying
her overlong.”

  “I have not minded, my lady. Yet, ’tis amazing how much the wee one weighs after a few hours.” He could barely see Cristiana in the shadows cast by a single rushlight perched on a wall as he placed Thebe in her arms.

  “I do hope this Quinn—” she began, but a man’s heavy steps echoed down the hall, ere Quinn of Savoy emerged from the shadows, his servant behind him.

  “Jarin!” He opened his arms and pulled Jarin into a tight embrace. The sting of strong spirits flooded Jarin’s nose as his friend drew back and examined him. Eyes that had once been clear and lively wandered over him in a haze of emptiness ere shifting to Lady Cristiana. “Forsooth! Sir Jarin the Just with a wife and child. I ne’er thought to see the day!” He bowed before the lady.

  “Nay. We are not…” she began in a stutter. “We are not wed.”

  “Not wed!” He winked at Jarin. “In good sooth, the same old rogue you’ve always been.”

  “Nay!” Cristiana protested yet again, but Jarin interrupted. “She is but a lady I am escorting home, naught more.” He gestured toward her. “Lady Cristiana, may I present Lord Quinn of Savoy. Quinn, may I introduce Lady Cristiana D’Clere and her young ward, Thebe.”

  “A lady?” Quinn’s eyes glittered as he took her hand and placed a kiss upon it. Then, giving Jarin another sly wink, he gestured down a dark hall behind him. “Prithee, come. You must be tired and hungry.”

  “We do not wish to trouble you, Quinn,” Sir Jarin said, not willing to go a step farther until he was assured of his friend’s willingness to help. “We lost our horse and food, and I dared to presume you might lend us some supplies for the rest of our journey. Father Godwin told me where to find you.”

  “Father Godwin!” Quinn smiled. “How fares the old monk?”

  “He is well. The same,” Jarin said. “As for us, I do not wish to impose upon your kindness. I know we come unannounced.”

  “I cry pardon. You insult me, friend. I bid you be my guests!”

  Relief forced back Jarin’s odd sense of discomfort as Quinn and his man led the way into the main hall where a fire blazed in a large hearth. Taking Lady Cristiana’s arm, he led her to one of only two cushioned chairs perched before it and helped her to sit. The gentle smile she lifted his way did even more to improve his good humor than seeing his old friend.