Chapter 17

 

Life transformed into a mirage of greens, browns, and blues that swept past Cristiana as fast as the wind striking her face. That wind oft stole her breath, forcing her to lower her chin and cover Thebe with her cloak merely to catch a breath. All while trying to balance atop the rolling muscles of a speeding horse. In good sooth, it helped that Sir Jarin kept a thick arm wrapped around them, fastening them against his broad chest. It aided in their safety, not in her determination to resist the knight’s charms—to not feel safe within his arms, to not grow to depend upon him, to not feel her insides melt at his touch.

Childish woman! Of all the men to direct her gaze upon, a philandering knight with the charm of a page and the looks of a god. When all she ever wanted was stability—to be loved and never abandoned again.

When the sun stretched high above them, they stopped in a copse of firs bordering a small pond. Thebe had begun to cry, though Cristiana was not sure ’twas the reason the knight ceased his mad pace.

“I give you but a few moments to tend the child.” He grabbed her waist and lowered her and Thebe to the ground with ease ere leading Challenger to the water. Fear surrounded him. Nay, not fear. Not in this warrior. ’Twas tension…as one might feel in the silence before battle…a keen awareness of everything around them, a readiness to fight at a moment’s notice.

“Have we not outrun them?” Cristiana followed him and set Thebe down on the bank.

Challenger lowered his head to slurp the water. Only then did she notice the horse’s hard breathing and the foam around his mouth.

Thebe splashed her hand in the pond.

“Nay, my lady. I fear they are close behind.” Sir Jarin pulled a cup from his sack and lowered to scoop up water ere handing it to her. “I haven’t the time to erase our tracks.” He scanned the surroundings like a hawk seeking prey, his ears tuned, his eyes taking in every detail. They finally found hers, and despite the tension emanating from him, a gentle look peered out from hiding. Sweet angels, if she didn’t have her wits about her, she’d collapse against him, longing for his arms to wrap around her yet again.

“Drink, Cristi.” Thebe tugged on her cloak, and Jarin frowned.

“Ensure she gets enough to drink, for we cannot stop again. Her needs kept us overlong in Sancreet, and we were nearly caught.” Though his tone was not harsh, neither was it accommodating.

Anger stole Cristiana’s sudden need for an embrace from this man. “Her name is Thebe, Sir Jarin.” She drained the cup and stooped to fill it for the babe. Whilst the girl drank, Cristiana retrieved a clean cloth from her sack and knelt to change Thebe’s soiled garment. She knew Sir Jarin never wanted the child to come along. She knew the babe slowed their progress, but she was with them now. At the very least he could speak her name, treat her kindly and not like she was a mere burden.

Turning away, Sir Jarin lowered to his haunches and drew water to his mouth.

Thankfully, Thebe’s cloth wasn’t too soiled. Hence, Cristiana washed it in the pond, intending to let it dry in the wind as they rode. Having completed her task, she set Thebe on her feet and took her chubby hand in hers. “She’ll need to eat.”

Though Sir Jarin gave not the expected groan, the news—which he should have already assumed—caused him to rub the beard on his chin and look around. Rising, he rummaged through the sack Father Godwin had given him and pulled out a small loaf of bread. “This will have to do. We must leave. Now.”

She didn’t argue. Thebe did, however. The poor child wished to run and play and not be once again confined to the back of a horse. But there was naught to be done for it.

Seated on Challenger yet again, Cristiana broke off a piece of bread and handed it to her. Jarin swung on behind, grabbed the reins with one hand, and wrapped the other around her, pushing her back against him. His unique scent, all man and earth and leather, filled her senses, as he prodded the horse out of the trees and down the dirt road.

Hours passed, darkness fell, and still they rode on. Thebe had long since cried herself to sleep. At least one of them rested in bliss, for though Cristiana’s eyes grew heavy, and she leaned back against Sir Jarin, her slumber was chased by a thousand terrifying thoughts of her present predicament—pursued by both Luxley and the bishop’s soldiers, no shelter or food to be found, outnumbered in every way, Luxley in the hands of the man who had murdered her mother, and her sister wanted for witchcraft. How would God see them out of all of this? Or would He even bother?

Finally, Sir Jarin slowed Challenger, turned off the road, and plunged into a thick forest. He dismounted and with only a “Stay here” directed at her, walked back the way they’d come, returning within minutes. Then taking the horse by the reins, he led them forward.

Clutching the sleeping babe close, Cristiana could see naught but spindly branches reaching for her like boney fingers of the night as the wind laughed through the leaves and the barest hint of a moon peeked through treetops. The chirp of night insects, croak of frogs, and the hoot of an owl accompanied them as scents of pine and hickory swirled about her.

“Why did you go back?” she asked him.

“To erase our tracks.” He stopped at a small clearing and reached up to take Thebe from her, then assisted her down with his other hand. She could barely see him in the darkness as he handed the child back to her and said, “I’ll make a fire.”

This he did more swiftly than she could have imagined, and soon a crackling blaze centered their camp. The warmth and light drew Cristiana close as Sir Jarin disappeared into the dark forest yet again. Removing her cloak, she gently wrapped Thebe within its warm folds, adjusted the doll gripped in her arms, and laid her on a patch of soft moss by the fire.

Jarin returned with more wood and an armful of ferns, which he quickly formed into a small bed for Thebe and a pillow for Cristiana. She watched as he tirelessly performed these tasks, knowing he had to be as exhausted as she. Yet this fierce knight, this warrior, took extra measure to ensure their comfort.

“’Tis all I can do for now, my lady. If I had time, I could make a shelter should it rain.” He glanced upward. “But we won’t be here long enough to warrant it.”

“Thank you, Sir Jarin. You have risked all to protect Thebe and me.” Cristiana transferred the child onto the soft bed. Thebe made a gurgling sound but was soon fast asleep again.

When Cristiana looked up, she found Sir Jarin staring at Thebe with an odd look, which quickly dissolved when his gaze met hers. He smiled. “My pleasure, my lady. ’Tis my oath as a knight to protect those in need.”

She shook off the sudden longing that ’twas more than that. “You are a worthy knight,” was all she said as she settled as modestly as possible on the ground beside Thebe.

“We shall see. We are not at Luxley yet.”

“How much further is it?”

“Four, mayhap five days at the most.” Grabbing his sack, he pulled out some bread, salted meat, a wineskin and two cups. Breaking the bread, he handed her a chunk, along with some meat, then poured wine into her cup. “God bless Father Godwin.” He arched a brow.

“Indeed.” Cristiana suddenly realized how hungry she was. “Thank Thee, God, for this food,” she said before biting off a piece of bread. She glanced down at Thebe, longing to give her some, but ’twas best she got her rest for now.

“I will provide a feast for her in the morn,” Sir Jarin announced with as much confidence as if he had a kitchen, cook, and bevy of serving maids at his command. Yet, ’twas not that which shocked her, but that he thought of the child.

Sipping the spiced wine, she gazed at the leaping flames, praying both would help her nerves settle from the harrowing day. “We have escaped them?” She needed to hear Sir Jarin’s confident tone, his assurance they were well past danger.

“For now.” Unbuckling his belt, he took off his sword strapped to it and laid it within reach ere he sat beside her. Drawing up his knees, he leaned his arms on them and gave her that grin of his that could melt a fortress of ice. It had the effect of warming her insides to near searing. Alas, not simply his grin, but ’twas the look in his eyes—one of tender regard—that stole her senses.

She moved away slightly, pulled off another piece of bread, and popped it in her mouth. ’Twas most unseemly to be spending the night alone with him. Mayhap a reminder of his near-vows of celibacy would douse the flame of passion in his gaze, as well as the heat running rampant through her veins.

“I still cannot fathom it. You a monk!”

He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “A lifetime ago.”

“I see why a man like you would find no favor in it.”

“How now? A man like me?” Playfulness in his eyes teased her as he bit off a chunk of meat.

“Aye, a wanderer, an adventurer, a fighter…” She wanted to say lover but didn’t. “A life of prayer, tedious work, and devotion, not to mention being sequestered behind walls, would not suit you, Sir Jarin.”

He sipped his wine. “Nay. Though none of those reasons were the cause of my leaving.” He stared at the ground as if his jovial mood had suddenly fallen there among the moss and dirt.

She waited, longing to hear more, wanting more than anything to understand this man. The fire crackled and spit sparks high into the air, and she glanced up to see stars flickering between branches. She also longed to hear from God, to understand Him as well. But she found Him as elusive as this man beside her.

Sir Jarin bit off another piece of salted meat. “’Twas Who I prayed to, Who I devoted my life to that made the sacrifice of no avail.”

“Forsooth! You do not mean God Himself?” Cristiana did not know whether to rebuke the near blasphemy or hasten away, lest lightning strike him where he sat.

Sir Jarin picked up a twig and tossed it in the fire. “He was not who I thought He was. I found Him untrustworthy when it mattered.”

For some reason, this saddened her, though she oft thought God had abandoned her as well. For most of her life, if she were honest. The early death of her father, then her mother, and her sister abandoning her. Then being drugged by the one man she trusted most. Where was God in all of that? Yet, by all accounts, Sir Jarin was a prosperous and successful knight with everything to his credit—intelligence, brawn, bravery, skill, and good friends. Not to mention the ear of the king. What possibly could have happened to make him turn against the Almighty?

Mayhap he had as sad a tale as she.

“If you found Him so unfaithful, what made you join the monastery in the first place?”

He poured her more wine. “In truth, ’twas my father. He wanted a life of devotion in the church for me.”

“Why? Did he not know his own son?”

“He loved God and received much joy from serving Him. He thought I would benefit from the same.”

“And where is he now?”

“In the ground.” He shrugged as if it meant naught, but his smile vanished. “’Tis for the best, I suppose, for he did not have to witness my fall from grace.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No more than I am for your loss. Both your parents left you at a young age.”

The reminder soured the food in her stomach, and she set aside the meat, opting for more wine instead, along with a change of topic. “Surely you believe that God is with us after what happened this morning?” She sipped her wine.

“I grant you, I can make no sense of that fog, my lady.” He shook his head and blew out a sigh.

“’Twas the Spear. God is with the Spear, and the Spear is with me.” ’Twas the only sense she could make out of such a miraculous rescue.

“I hope you are right.” He glanced her way. “If so, we shall be safe the rest of our journey.”

But she could see from his tight expression he believed not his own words.

He tossed another log onto the fire, then removed his leather coat. A red splotch stained his shirt, and Cristiana set down her cup and dashed to kneel before him.

“You’re injured.”

He said naught, merely smiled and looked at her, their faces so close, she could see the firelight flickering in his brown eyes.

“You were hurt in the fight.” She loosened the ties at his collar and peered beneath, knowing all the while a maiden should do no such thing.

A cut the length of a finger sliced across the rounded muscles of his chest.

“’Tis nothing, my lady, I assure you. ’Twill heal on its own.” His breath wafted over her, all spiced wine and cinnamon, making her catch her own as her heart raced within her.

The memory of how bravely and expertly he had defeated those two soldiers made her shamelessly glance once again at the strength in his chest and the firm roundness of his arms.

Sweet angels! What was she doing? “It must needs be…It must…” Averting her gaze to the ground, she started to rise. “Cleaned. I will get a cloth.”

His hand wrapped around her wrist and pulled her gently back to the ground. “No need, my lady. Prithee, do not leave. Your close presence brings healing, for I can no longer feel the pain.”

She had no doubt of that for she could no longer feel anything but the need to be in his arms.

Reaching up slowly, he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, his eyes taking her in as if he wished to drink of her.

Her weak attempt to pull away did naught to dissuade him from continuing to caress her with both eyes and hand. She could leave if she wanted. She knew he would not keep her there by force. But she didn’t want to leave. God forgive her. She didn’t want to. “Alas, you tempt me overmuch, sir.” Her chest rose and fell, her breaths filling the space betwixt them.

Blast him! He knew the effect he had on her, for one side of his mouth curved upward in a grin so charming and full of promise it suffocated sense and senses.

He leaned closer. She shouldn’t. Nay! She shouldn’t. She a maiden, and he a libertine knight. With nary a promise spoken between them.

Before she could convince herself to flee, his lips met hers.