Chapter 5

 

Braewood Castle, Gavinshire

 

“You must woo her, Robin. You must compliment her, offer her gifts, promise your devotion and protection.” Lord Robin Braewood’s mother, the matriarch of Braewood Castle, spread out the folds of her silk cote as she stared into the hearth, where recently-stoked flames danced like evil druids. She spun to face him, that all-too-familiar castigating frown upon her thin lips.

Robin sank to the bed with a huff. “I have tried, Mother. But you know I have no interest in the lady. She is far too refined, too prudish.”

She let out a groan of disgust. “Peace froth! I will have no more of your insolent disregard! Your father would disavow you and cast you hence from Braewood.”

“As well I know, Mother.” But his father had taken to an early grave, a fact Robin thanked the stars for every day. At least his mother had need of him for support and mayhap bore some affection for him as her only son.

Demia Praxis, Lady Braewood approached him. The lines on her plump face and the silver in her hair did naught to distract from both the finery and fripperies of her attire, nor the authority with which she sent the staunchest servant scurrying with but one look.

The same look now scoured over Robin. “As I have informed you, my spies have returned with good news. The lady is heir to Luxley Castle in Northland Goodryke, an esteemed holding! When you marry her, ’twill be ours. Then with her power of healing, think of the wealth and status we will achieve. In good sooth, we may even be called to court.” She smiled and dipped in the courtliest curtsy. “Friends of the king, can you imagine?”

But Robin saw no such glorious future. At least not for him. He swallowed down a lump of dread. “You sentence me to a life devoid of love.”

Raising her hand, she slapped him hard across the face.

His head jerked to the right, and he pressed a palm over the sting radiating across his cheek into his jaw and down his neck. Alas, the sting of her callous regard hurt even more.

“Love! Bah!” she raged, waving her arm through the air. “You may have all the mistresses you wish when we are swimming in riches. Just marry the wench!”

Rising, Robin nodded, then rushed from his mother’s solar and down the dank hall, swiping away the tears spilling down his cheeks. He had no choice, and he knew it. If he was ever going to gain his mother’s love and approval, if he was ever going to secure their future—as was his duty—he must marry Lady Cristiana D’Clere. Whether she agreed to the match or not.

♥♥♥

Tunic spread around her, Cristiana sat upon the woven wool rug in her chamber, Thebe by her side and two stuffed dolls in their hands. ’Twas Cristiana’s favorite time of day—afternoons she spent with the little girl, playing, laughing, instructing. After Seraphina had abandoned her, Lord Braewood had punished Cristiana by not allowing her to see Thebe. It had been torture of the worst kind, and she’d quickly begged his forgiveness and his mercy in order to see the girl. His lordship had been more than kind to grant both.

Thebe giggled. “Sing, dance!”

Smiling, Cristiana began singing a song her mother used to hum throughout Luxley castle… at least what she remembered of it since she was but seven when Mother died. Taking her doll, she moved her in a jovial dance over the carpet while Thebe did the same. Together they laughed and sang until the girl grew tired. Then hugging her doll to her chest, she crawled into Cristiana’s arms.

“Story,” she said, as afternoon sunlight speared the colorful rug, transforming dust into diamonds in the air.

Cristiana wrapped both arms around the girl and leaned her chin on her head, pondering what tale to tell this time. ’Twas a practice they’d both embraced whene’er Thebe grew weary. A story always aided the child to fall asleep while at the same time gave Cristiana a chance to dream of lands and adventures beyond Braewood Manor, of places where life was happy and safe and nary a trouble dared tread.

She began a tale of a beautiful and powerful princess who ruled her people with goodness and love. A lady who was braver than a knight and wiser than a sage—all the things Cristiana was not but yearned so badly to be. She was halfway through the story when she felt Thebe grow heavy in her arms and heard the door to her chamber creak open.

In sauntered Lord Braewood, Muriel on his heels. With a snap of his fingers and a gesture to Thebe, Muriel reached down for the girl, giving Cristiana a reassuring smile that indicated she would take good care of the babe. A slight moan was all Thebe uttered as Muriel drew her into her arms and left the chamber.

Lord Braewood, dressed in a fine woolen surcote, trimmed in fur and clasped with an emerald brooch, smiled and extended his ringed hand. Taking it, she rose to her feet, quick in her attempt to retrieve her hand. But he refused, and instead lifted it to his lips for a kiss. The odd look in his eyes—one of a wolf toward its prey—alarmed her, and she took a step back and shifted her gaze away. Was the man still angry at her attempted escape nigh a month past? He’d informed her that his anger stemmed merely from the pain her mistrust had caused him, that she was free to leave Braewood at any time. Simply not with the babe. Thebe would not be thrust out into the cold world to starve, he had said, feigning an affection for the little girl which ne’er revealed itself in his actions.

Ergo, she was as much a prisoner in Braewood as if there were iron bars on her door. For how could she subject such an innocent babe to the cruel, frightening world when the child had her every need met here? Nor would she abandon her as everyone had done to Cristiana.

Thus the iron bars, though unseen, were there nonetheless. And Cristiana had forced herself to be kind and compliant to the man she now knew was the monster Seraphina had believed him to be.

“Give ear a moment, my lady,” he said, brushing a curl of his light hair from his face. “To the point, I fear your reputation is in danger. There is much talk amongst the townsfolk that you live at Braewood Castle without benefit of marriage.”

Marriage? Cristiana attempted to hide her shock even as she wondered from whence came this sudden interest. “Surely they know I am your ward and here to heal those who are ill.”

Shrugging, he raised his brows and flourished one hand through the air. “One would assume thus. But alas, people oft think the worst, as you know.” He moved to the window where sunlight sparkled on the gold embroidery on the sleeves of his tunic. “Indeed, it does not bode well for me to be considered such a reprobate.”

“I marvel anyone would think so, my lord.”

At this, he smiled, a tight smile, which seemed forced, and she began to fear he might cast her out. Without Thebe.

“I care not for my reputation, my Lord,” she continued, “but I am troubled yours is affected. What can I do?”

“Why, marry me, of course.” He rushed to her and took her hands in his. “I love you, Cristiana. I have loved you from the first moment I saw you in town. You have my troth that I will cherish and protect you always.” His tone was rote, almost as if he’d practiced what to say. And there was no love in his eyes, nor even desire. Merely a hard sheen and desperation that bespoke a disconnect betwixt his heart and his words.

“I am taken aback, my lord. I had no idea.” She tugged her hands from his.

He lowered his gaze to stare at his shoes. “I cry pardon! Surely I have hinted at my affections for you.”

“In good sooth, you have not, my lord.” Although he had been offering her more compliments than usual, he’d made no such indication of anything but friendship, if that. She could make no sense of this sudden change in the man.

He turned his back to her. “Begad, you must pardon me there. I have been afraid of your reaction, afraid you would not return my affections.”

A shiver of disgust ran through her at the thought of anything beyond a mere acquaintance with this man. Yet, how could she risk being tossed into the cold, heartless world?

Grabbing a strand of her hair, she tangled it betwixt two fingers. “My lord, I am flattered. But is this not rather rash? I fear I cannot at this time agree to marriage.”

His posture slumped, and he hung his head. “You wound me deeply, my lady.” Releasing a deep sigh, he faced her. A harshness had taken over his expression. “Tell me then, where are you to go? I know you run from something…or someone. Yet here you have all you need, every luxury, a home, protection, and of course, my love.” His eyes lit as if he’d just had a thought. “And the love of Thebe. What more could a lady want?”

Was he casting her out? Without Thebe! Her heart sped to near bursting. ’Twas true she had no home to return to. Not unless Alexia could overcome and defeat Sir Walter and the bishop. But how could her sister accomplish such a feat—even with Sir Ronar’s help—when she was accused of witchcraft by the king himself? Nay, her sister and her knight friends were no doubt long gone to another land or in hiding somewhere. Tears filled Cristiana’s eyes at the thought she would never see her sister again. But what could she do? Even should she find Alexia, she had naught to offer to aid her cause.

Minutes passed…long minutes… during which the wind whistled against the stone walls and the setting sun withdrew its glittering rays from the window. She longed to respond to Lord Braewood’s question but found her throat had closed.

“I will expect your answer anon, my lady. Otherwise, I fear, though it greatly pains me to say so, you will have to leave Braewood.”

Terror threatened to choke the life from her. How could she give up a home, security, stability, and safety? Mayhap Lord Braewood didn’t love her. Mayhap he merely wanted the money she made him. But he had never done her harm. Hadn’t she always dreamt of marriage and children someday? Confusion spun her thoughts into a whirlwind. Surely, if he was willing to cast her off, he wasn’t interested in the money after all.

As if to belie that last thought, he gave a greedy smile. “I will send Muriel to aid you in preparing for this evening’s healing. There are many who await even now at the gate.”

 

Three hours later, Cristiana sat on a cushioned chair in the great hall of Braewood Castle, Spear safely strapped to her thigh, ready to receive those who’d traveled from near and far in hopes of being healed. ’Twas truly an event she looked forward to every month, not to show off the power of the Spear nor to even bring praise upon herself but to watch the joy on people’s faces when their pain left or their limbs straightened, or even on one rare occasion, they saw the world for the first time.

A fire crackled brightly in the giant hearth while minstrels played a soothing tune in the corner. By the large oak door, Lord Braewood’s steward, Sir Caldwell, collected coins from those waiting in line. That part she hated, charging money for healing. But Lord Braewood insisted that a workman deserves his wage, or something like that, which he claimed was from the Bible. Cristiana couldn’t say, for she’d not read the Holy Scriptures and knew of only a few verses Alexia had told her.

“Now, now, dear, see how they come for your power!” Lady Demia Braewood sat on a chair beside Cristiana like a queen on her throne. She clapped her hands together in glee.

“’Tis not my power, my lady. I am merely happy to help those in need.”

“Faith now, of course. I make no doubt.” She acted indignant.

Lord Braewood’s mother had always been kind to Cristiana, had welcomed her into her home as a woman would her own daughter. But there was something about the lady that sent a spike of unease through Cristiana. She had longed for a mother figure since her own had died, but the woman hid behind a shield of ice. Now that Lord Braewood had proposed, that ice seemed to harden even more. As if one wrong word from Cristiana would make it crack.

“Master John Vottler!” A herald announced the first of the sick, diverting Cristiana’s attention to the man in common threadbare attire hobbling up to her chair.

“Greetings, Master Vottler.” She smiled and bade him sit on the stool before her.

He did, his eyes pools of hope and also anguish. “Good eve to you, my lady.”

“What ails you this day?”

“’Tis my foot. I am a farmer, my lady, an’ I broke it o’er two months past, but it didn’t heal proper an’ as you can see, remains crooked. I cannot till my land an’ will soon be forced off by my lord. I ‘ave a wife an’ three wee ones to feed.”

Cristiana glanced at the foot which arched at an angle away from the leg. Indeed. ’Twould be hard even to walk, let alone work his farm. Her heart ached for the man, and a love borne out of sympathy and care spilled out from her until she could barely contain it—as it always did when the Spear was about to heal. Tears filled her eyes as she rose from her chair and knelt by the man, placing her hands on his filthy foot.

The action caused a moan of disdain from Lady Braewood.

Ignoring her, Cristiana glanced up at him. “Never fear. You shall walk home this day.”

Tears streamed down the man’s dirty face.

“Do you believe that God can heal?” she asked.

“I do.”

Then closing her eyes, Cristiana bowed her head and said, “Be straightened and healed by our Lord Christ Jesus and the power of His blood.”

She felt the muscle and bone moving beneath her hand ere the man even realized what was happening. When he did, he leapt up, crying and laughing and hopping from foot to foot. “Glory to God! Thank you! Thank you, my lady!”

Gasps of shock and joy emanated from those waiting at the doorway, but not from those within. Servants of Braewood had grown accustomed to the miracles.

Lady Braewood covered her mouth in a yawn, then leaned toward Cristiana as a servant led the man away. “’Twould do you well to not waste so much time with each one. That way we can see more of them ere the night wanes.”

Cristiana’s jaw tightened, but she ignored the woman’s greedy comment. She enjoyed the human touch, the hope and love she gave these people, even more than the healing. And she would not be put off.

Hence, the ill were led to her, one after the other, some with naught more than a persistent cough, others with gout, the flux, sweating sickness, others with bent spines, boils, withered arms, and general weakness. Cristiana took time with each one, expressing her love and care—something most were as deprived of as their health—ere she touched their maladies and watched them flee beneath the power of the Spear.

Lady Braewood grew bored and removed herself to stand on the other side of the hall, where she played the coquette with one of the young knights.

“Sir Mecum Effugium,” the steward announced.

Odd name. The sound of it sent a cold wave over Cristiana, for she’d been tutored in Latin. “With me escape” was its meaning. Yet no one else seemed to notice.

The elderly man approached her, his back hunched over, his gray hair long, straggly, and embedded with twigs and God knew what else. He dragged his foot behind him.

Cristiana smiled as he approached and directed him to the stool. “God bless you, good sir,” she said, seeking to look in his eyes.

But the man kept his face turned and hidden beneath a curtain of tangled hair.

“Have you come a long way?” she asked.

“Indeed, my lady.” The voice was scratchy and deep, and oddly…comforting. “I come from afar.”

“I welcome you from your journey then. What ails you?” Though she could determine he had many ailments, she wondered which one he needed help with first.

Slowly…slowly, he turned his face toward her, a face oddly smudged with white powder.

At last his eyes met hers—the color of strong oak, deep, impenetrable, but with an impish sparkle. “I fear ’tis my heart, my lady. It has been broken these past eleven months.”

Cristiana inhaled a sharp breath.