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

by Marylu Tyndall

  Jarin strode forward. “First the lady and child need food and water. We have traveled a long way.”

  “Cristi!” Thebe reached for her, and she took her in her arms.

  “Of course!” the man exclaimed. “You are welcome. Come in, come in.” He started through the door, beckoning them to follow.

  Save for a few lanterns, shadows consumed the main room of the inn where empty tables and chairs were strewn about, littered with mugs and fly-infested plates. Barrels and sacks filled the corners whilst dark chandeliers hung lifeless from the rafters. The smell of dust, mold, and stale spirits pinched her nose from a long bar covered with crusty food and half-full mugs as if the plague had caught them all off guard. A dog roused from his sleep on the cold hearth and whimpered.

  “Prithee, have a seat.” The innkeeper hurried toward the back.

  She set Thebe down on a chair. “Stay here with Jarn, little one. I’ll return anon.”

  “My tummy growls.” Thebe rubbed her eyes.

  “Aye, dear. You will eat soon.” Cristiana faced Jarin. “Will you tend to her for me?”

  Jarin crossed arms over his chest. “I beseech you, my lady, wait until you partake of nourishment and regain your strength.”

  “How can I eat when so many suffer?” Even as she said the words, her head grew light, and a sound akin to a bear growling emanated from her stomach. “What if some should die whilst I am thinking only of myself.”

  “How can you heal if you fall ill or faint?” He grabbed her arm.

  “When that happens, I will eat.”

  Shaking his head, he released her.

  Ere she changed her mind, she pushed open the front door and stepped from the porch to a scene that made her long to run back inside, to hide from such human misery and torment, to pretend that this world could never be this cruel.

  Covering the street before her like scabs on putrefied flesh were at least one hundred people, some barely standing, others sitting, a few lying in the mud. All in various stages of a plague that could end in death…would end in death…

  If Cristiana didn’t do something.

  She glanced down at the mark of the Spear on her wrist. ’Twas all up to her and the Spear. And that frightened her most of all.

  Chapter 30

  After ensuring Thebe had consumed her fill of the bread, cheese, and plums the innkeeper had given them, Jarin broke off a piece of bread, grabbed Thebe, and headed outside. There, he found what he’d seen so clearly from glances out the open window—Lady Cristiana passing through the massive crowd of diseased and dying people. Not just passing, stopping at each person, speaking to them in kind tones ere laying her hands on them and praying. Joyful shouts and cries of praise followed her from those whose bodies were restored to health. The more people she healed, the more the crowd pressed in, arms and hands reaching for her, desperate for her touch.

  “Cristi!” The child reached out from Jarin’s arms as he stood on the porch, but he clung to her tightly, not wanting her anywhere near whate’er disease plagued these poor people.

  The woman never failed to astound him. Sleep deprived and starving, she put the needs of complete strangers ahead of her own. Not only that, she risked getting the same disease, for who knew how long the power of the Spear would last?

  He watched, longing to stop her and give her the bread, but knowing she would not be put off. Bosh! She was as pigheaded as she was kindhearted. Still, she’d barely made it through twenty of the sick when she halted and reached up to touch her forehead, swaying on her feet.

  Enough! Setting Thebe down in a chair on the porch—with an order for her to remain—he made his way toward Cristiana, nudging people aside, trying to avoid touching their open sores. He found the lady lying on the dirt, face pale and breath heaving. Pushing away the people, who continued to grope her with withered hands, he swept her in his arms and carried her back to the porch where he set her down in a chair.

  The crowd followed.

  “Back! Give her room!” he shouted from the top of the stairs, gripping the pommel of his blade, willing to use it if need be.

  Thebe crawled into Cristiana’s lap.

  The mob halted, a mass of grimy rags, bones, and bloody sores. A stench that assaulted his nose swamped him until he could hardly breath.

  “Allow her to eat, and I will permit one at a time to see her.”

  This seemed to appease them for the time being. Turning, Jarin kneeled before Cristiana and handed her the bread. She took it, offering him a slight smile. “I must have fainted.”

  “Cristi sick?” Thebe snuggled against her.

  “Aye, but she will get well,” Jarin answered. “Because she’s going to eat and rest, aren’t you, my lady?” He raised a brow.

  To which she sighed, her gaze roving over the throng of death gathered before the inn. Obligingly she bit into the bread and chewed.

  “That’s it, my lady.” Jarin, still stooped before her, studied this enigma before him—a mixture of heavenly angel, timid lamb, and stubborn mule. He wanted to lock her up for her own protection, this sweet woman who defied all sense, who both warmed and tore at his heart, who infuriated as well as enchanted him. Shadows hung beneath chestnut-colored eyes that still sparkled with life and love, despite her exhaustion. Even the dirt smudging her face could not hide the creamy smoothness. Wisps of tawny hair danced around her face in the breeze, making him long to reach up and brush one aside.

  Wrapping an arm around Thebe, she drew her close while she continued eating the bread. The innkeeper emerged with a tankard of wine and handed it to Jarin. “All we ’ave, sire. We fear the water’s been tainted.”

  “Thank you.” Jarin lifted it to her lips, and she gulped it down.

  The innkeeper remained, shifting from foot to foot. “When the lady regains ’er strength, sire, me wife an’ babe are upstairs, as ill as any.”

  Cristiana glanced up at him and smiled. “I must beg your patience and plead fatigue, sir. But I will see to them soon.”

  He nodded.

  Finishing her bread, Cristiana handed Thebe to Jarin. “Sit with Jarn, dear one. I must help these people.” Then with a nod toward him, she drew a deep breath and indicated she was ready.

  One by one, the ill mounted the steps of the inn, some walking on their own, some carried by others, all in various stages of the horrid disease. Jarin watched with bewilderment as Lady Cristiana addressed each one as if they were long lost friends ere she healed them with a touch and a word. The day waned into evening, the sun relinquishing its reign to the moon.

  And still they came.

  The innkeeper lit torches and lanterns, casting flickering golden light over the porch and out into the street. Jarin had long since released Thebe to run in front of the inn with several of the children her age who had been healed, dancing, and singing, and chasing each other as children do. He doubted she’d had much exposure to other children, and her innocent laughter did much to put Jarin at ease, at least for the moment, at least until he remembered they were being chased by several well-trained soldiers.

  And they were wasting precious time in this place.

  How long before news of these miraculous healings reached other villages and drew the interest of their pursuers? Not long, he imagined. Hence, they mustn’t stay more than this night.

  A night that was nearly half over by the time the lady had healed all who’d come to her. Healed! Forsooth, the Spear must truly bear the blood of Christ. He’d seen too much to deny it. Or to deny that Christ, the Son of God, cared for people, dare he say, even loved them, even peasants such as these. Bidding the crowd—which continued to celebrate through the streets with shouts, music, and laughter—good eve, Sir Jarin insisted Cristiana retire for the night.

  But when the innkeeper’s worried face appeared before the lady, she pressed a hand on his. “Show me to your wife and babe.”

  One arm carrying Thebe, one arm wrapped around Cristiana’s waist, Jarin assisted the weak lady up
the stairs, down a hall, and into a chamber at the far end. A single candle sitting upon a table beside the bed provided the only light in a room so clouded with misery, it nearly choked him. The still form of a woman lay on the bed, a babe swaddled in her arms.

  Jarin halted in the doorway. Blood raced through his veins, gathering up memories and pain from a time long ago and forcing them into his thoughts, blurring his vision.

  The innkeeper gazed upon them with both fear and love ere he faced Cristiana. “She ’asn’t eaten for days, mistress. ’Ad a fever this morn, both of them.”

  Kneeling beside the bed, Cristiana laid one hand on the babe and one on the lady’s arm. Immediately, she drew back and lowered her head, her breathing heightened.

  “Alas, what is it?”

  Cristiana glanced up at the man, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, good sir, but they are both dead.”

  ♥♥♥

  Cristiana hadn’t slept in nearly two days, and still sleep outran her every attempt to catch it. ’Twas no wonder, really. With all she’d witnessed that day. Both the delight of watching people set free from the bondage of death, and then the despair of watching the innkeeper crumble into a pile of agony from which she doubted he’d ever recover. Shock, disbelief, and then desperation had claimed his features ere he demanded she pray for them. Could she not raise them from the dead with whate’er power she possessed? He had begged.

  So, she had prayed, but to no avail. Mother and child had already passed into eternity and would not be called back.

  Yet ’twas Sir Jarin’s reaction that had Cristiana most baffled. No sooner had she pronounced the mother and babe dead than he’d dashed from the chamber and flew down the stairs. At first she’d thought he was protecting Thebe from the sight of a dead child, but he remained distant, distracted, and tormented long after she’d descended to the main room of the inn.

  Now he sat before the crackling fire, flipping a coin through his fingers and staring at the flames as if he wished to toss himself into them.

  Refusing to leave his family’s side, the innkeeper remained above, though his sobs poured down the stairs in a river of misery, a portent of doom and gloom that erased the joy and victory of earlier in the day. Each wail sent a shiver of guilt over Cristiana that she’d not gotten to the woman soon enough, that she’d not been able to help them at all.

  Thankfully, Thebe had fallen asleep before the fire, wrapped in blankets Cristiana had found in one of the chambers above, a chamber the child refused to sleep in without Sir Jarin. Hence the reason she was curled up on the hard floor, thumb in her mouth, beside the knight. Still, she slept peacefully, for which Cristiana was grateful.

  Grabbing a blanket for herself, she rose and handed one to Sir Jarin, but he waved her off.

  “Nay. Thank you, my lady. Prithee, lie down with the babe and rest. We must needs leave first thing in the morning.” He said all this without looking her way, his jaw tight, and his tone devoid of emotion.

  “I will rest when you rest, Sir Jarin.” Cristiana lowered to sit on the warm stones of the hearth and glanced up at him. “When you tell me what has you in such ill humor.”

  The fire crackled and spit behind her, its flames reflecting in his brown eyes as he stared at it. Moments passed. He swallowed, sighed, and then flattened his lips.

  Cristiana dared intrude on his thoughts. “Was it the sight of the dead child?”

  He glanced her way, continuing to flip the coin between his fingers. Finally, he caught it and slid it inside his pocket ere leaning forward, arms crossed on his knees and staring at the dirty floor. “Merely bad memories, my lady. Naught to concern you.”

  “But it does concern me, Sir Jarin. If you’ll allow, we are friends, and what saddens you, also saddens me.”

  He rubbed his eyes, glanced at her, and sighed once again. “I had a sister once.”

  Cristiana waited, already knowing what was coming.

  “She died in my arms. Not yet a day old.”

  Sorrow clamped hard on Cristiana’s heart, squeezing the lifeblood from it. She said naught, merely allowed him to continue.

  He looked her way, his eyes moist and full of agony. “My mother died ere I arrived home. In childbirth, the midwife said. She handed me my sister. So tiny…” He looked back at the fire. “So innocent, gasping for a breath, any breath that would keep her among the living. I held her tight, longing to breathe my life into her, would have given her my last breath, if I could.” He dropped his head into his hands. “But her whimpers soon ceased, her tiny breaths halted, and she grew cold and stiff.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jarin.” Cristiana longed to reach out to him, to comfort him in some way, but she sensed an anger rising in him that kept her at bay. “And your father? Where was he?”

  “Dead.” His tone had indeed turned bitter. He lifted his head. “Roving outlaws attacked our village while I was at Tegimen Abbey. My father was run through with the sword.”

  Cristiana’s eyes flooded with tears.

  “’Tis why I was called from the abbey to return home. To bury him and comfort my mother.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Sixteen. The dirt on my father’s grave was still fresh when Mother started her pains. Early, they said. Far too early. ’Twas the agony of losing my father which caused it.”

  Cristiana looked down, swiping tears from her face. “So you were abandoned, as was I.”

  The fire crackled as wind whooshed past shutters now closed for the night.

  “I returned to the abbey, for I knew not where else to go. But things were different.” He picked up a twig and tossed it into the fire. “The God I once believed in had proven Himself untrustworthy.” He fisted his hands. “My father was a man of faith! He revered the church and faithfully tithed his earnings in its support! If God would not protect those who dedicated their lives to Him, then what good did it do to follow Him at all?”

  “So you left the abbey.”

  “Aye, without saying a word. Since then, I’ve seen many good people die and many evil people succeed. This proves that either God distances Himself from the affairs of men, or He is not worthy of following.”

  Now Cristiana understood. She understood this man’s anger toward God, his quick dismissal of anything good that might come from Him. His yearning to live a full, unrestricted life, taunting death at every turn, and ultimately his terror at the idea of tying himself to a woman and child, of loving anyone enough to put his heart at risk again.

  Overcome with despair for this wonderful man, Cristiana allowed the silence to stretch between them. For what could she say to make any of this aright? After several moments, she inched closer to him and reached out for his hand.

  He gave it to her, enfolding hers within his warmth.

  Thebe’s light snoring joined with the hiss and snap of the fire, and creak of aged floor timbers, providing the only sounds in the room. Thankfully the innkeeper’s wailing had ceased.

  “Who is to understand God’s ways?” she finally said. “We are but to trust.” She cringed at her own words, for had she abided by them herself? Hadn’t she thought God had abandoned her as well? If not for the Spear, would He give her a second thought?

  “You trust Him, my lady. I will trust in myself.” He lifted her hand and placed a kiss upon it. “Now, will you rest?” He gave her a look of censure.

  Nodding, Cristiana took her blanket and curled up beside Thebe, her heart and thoughts spinning in confusion and despair at Jarin’s sad tale.

  Sunlight and screeches of horror woke Cristiana with a start. She pushed from the floor, noting Thebe remained deep in sleep by her side. Rubbing her eyes, she glanced around and spotted Sir Jarin, also asleep, still sitting in the chair in which she’d left him.

  Cries of sorrow penetrated the gray mist seeping in through the shutter slats of the windows. Tossing aside the blanket, and ensuring it remained around Thebe, Cristiana rose and moved to look outside.

  Horror jol
ted through her.

  A group of villagers assembled before the inn, several of whom she recognized from the day before as having been healed.

  Only now, the same sores once again covered their bodies. How? Grabbing her skirts, she flung open the door and stepped onto the porch, blinking her eyes and hoping ’twas but a nightmare.

  “She’s a witch!” one of them shouted.

  “Our illness has returned! What devilment is this?”

  “Burn her! Burn her! Burn her!”

  Chapter 31

  Cristiana’s shriek brought Jarin instantly to his feet, blade drawn faster than he could blink. By the time his eyes focused, he saw Thebe still sleeping by the hearth, but Cristiana was nowhere in sight. She screamed again, and he darted for the open door to find her standing on the front porch, an angry mob of villagers hobbling toward her, knives and ropes in their hands.

  “Halt at once if you wish to live!” Jarin moved to stand before her, brandishing his sword before him.

  They stopped, eyeing him with disdain.

  ’Twas then that he noticed the sores had returned on their skin, along with the stench and shadow of death that hovered over them like a relentless storm from hell.

  “Thank you,” Cristiana breathed out.

  “What goes on here?” He rubbed his eyes.

  “She’s a witch!” one of the ailing people shouted. “She must be burned!”

  A witch? Jarin wondered if he was still asleep and a nightmare had invaded his thoughts.

  Footsteps behind him swung him about, knife plucked from his belt toward the intruder, whilst he kept his sword forward.

  The innkeeper raised his hands, his eyes red and swollen, but no malicious intent resided within them.

  “Burn her! Burn her! Burn her!” the crowd chanted, spinning Jarin back around. From beyond the angry throng, other villagers emerged from homes, these in perfect health and approaching the commotion with confused looks on their faces.

  The innkeeper brushed past Jarin and perched on the bottom step of the porch. “Silence, I beg ye!” He held up his palms.