Chapter 10

 

Jarin hadn’t planned on taking Lady Cristiana to Tegimen Abbey, but circumstances had become dire. He accepted the dry attire from the boy and shut the door to the small chamber, which contained only a cot, table, chamber pot, and hook on the wall—bare-bones necessities with which he should be well accustomed after having spent three years in such a room. Three happy years, if he were forced to admit it. Ere he realized ’twas all a farce. But he’d had a warm place to sleep and plenty of food, and he’d not only learned to read and write but also the value of a hard day’s work. The abbot had been a second father to Jarin, teaching him honor, chivalry, and the love of God and king. Everything but how to fight. Which was the most important thing if one were to survive this world.

Removing his weapons, he stripped off his wet attire, then hung them up to dry and quickly donned the simple linen shirt, tunic, trousers, and belt. After he dried his hair with a cloth, he sat to put on his shoes, longing to strap on his weapons again, but knowing the abbot frowned on such devices of violence.

Jarin had taught himself to fight, then joined the war and learned the hard way. People who relied on God for help in this world were naught but fools. If one were to survive, gain success and fortune, and find some measure of happiness, they had to do it for themselves. And not allow anything or anyone to waylay their plans.

Which brought his thoughts to Lady Cristiana. He couldn’t help but smile. “Lovely Cristiana,” he dared whisper her Christian name. She was everything he remembered, and much more. Not only a picture of grace and beauty, but possessing a heart filled with deep and precious treasures. Forsooth, the lady had even feared for the wellbeing of the man who had held her captive! He’d ne’er seen such a thing. And she was brave as well, though the lady would not agree. Yet he’d learned long ago that bravery was not bravado but rather the courage to embark on a task that brought one naught but terror.

Alas, the child. Jarin moaned and ran a hand through his damp hair. The girl was sweet and innocent, to be sure, but he had not planned on the extra burden. She would not only slow them down but keep them distracted, and quite possibly alert their enemies with her cries. ’Twas a most dangerous situation and not one Jarin would have willingly agreed to. Alas, he’d forgotten how stubborn Lady Cristiana could be.

Pushing to his feet, he opened the door and started down the long hall, making his way to the chamber he’d seen the lady and child enter. The guest rooms sat atop the stables and the distinct bite of horseflesh and hay pinched his nose. But the lady did not answer his knock. Had she fallen asleep with the babe ere they had a chance to fill their bellies? Nay. He dared to crack the door and found the small chamber empty.

Thunder rumbled through the stone building as Jarin descended the steps and emerged onto the courtyard to a blast of chilled wind. He glanced up, but a helmet of dark clouds sat atop the monastery, obscuring the moon and stars. He’d thought the rain had ended, but this was different. Not a storm at all. Yanking on the iron door handles, he cast one last glance above ere quickly entering the receiving hall of the abbot’s residence. Immediately, he was rewarded with a child’s laughter and the vision of Lady Cristiana, dressed in a tunic of a commoner, her honey-brown hair tumbling like a waterfall below her waist. He swallowed down a burst of longing to run his fingers through the silken strands. But this was no strumpet whom he could easily charm into his bed. Cristiana was a true lady who deserved a far more honorable man than he.

The thought disturbed him. Her smile as she turned to face him sent such a thrill through him, he’d gladly fall on his knees and swear his fealty to her then and there. A groan escaped his lips at the ludicrous notion.

Father Godwin’s eyes lit and he leaned to whisper something in her ear that made her laugh.

Jarin ground his teeth. Whate’er stories his friend had to tell, ’twould do no benefit to Jarin’s reputation.

“I see you two have become acquainted.” He gave a tight smile as he approached them.

Cristiana laughed and glanced at the little girl playing with a doll on the couch. “The abbot has told me such tales, I can hardly believe them.”

Father Godwin winked at him. “I find your lady quite charming, Jarin.”

“She’s not—”

“And you, Sir Jarin,” Lady Cristiana said, lantern light bringing forth the gold flecks in her brown eyes. “I must say, I hardly recognized you in a common tunic devoid of the myriad blades you enjoy brandishing about.”

“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.”