Chapter 29

 

Cedric flung his black robe behind him and dismounted his steed, Demon. The horse panted, foam cresting around his mouth from the mad pace Cedric had maintained all day. He patted the animal’s neck and led him to the stream trickling past the narrow road.

“Drink, my vile one. Rest awhile, but not for long.”

Nay, not for long. For Cedric could smell Lady Cristiana’s innocence polluting the air like an insidious disease. The odor nauseated him, but it meant they were not far. His elixir and a still pond had shown him they were in a manor house. He’d sent his ravens to discover which one.

Kneeling, he cupped water to his mouth, then wiped his chin with his sleeve. Devil’s worts! By the time the birds had returned and led him to Savoy Manor, Jarin and the lady were gone. Just left, that nimbycock Lord Quinn had said. ’Twas the last thing he’d said, for Cedric had cast a spell upon him which stole his voice. He smiled at the memory of the man holding his throat and attempting to speak, but no sound emerged.

Why had Cedric done it? Merely for the enjoyment, for he found this current quest rather dull and tedious.

Demon finished drinking, shook his head, and walked to a spot to eat some grass. Meanwhile, Cedric examined the creek for any areas of still water in which he could spread his elixir. He found naught but a bubbling happy creek, which only increased his anger.

There had been one moment of amusement in the otherwise tiresome chase. The last time he’d stared into the water in search of Lady Cristiana, he’d seen the bishop and his father’s men at Savoy Manor questioning that dolt Lord Quinn. When the man had been unable to answer them, an old woman appeared and sent them down the road in the opposite direction from where Sir Jarin and Lady Cristiana had gone. Pribbling puttocks! To think these were trained soldiers!

Cedric uttered a foul curse and laughed. No matter. He would be the one to capture the loathsome knight and his fair lady. He would be the one to bring them back to Drago and Father. He would be the one to win his master’s favor and another rodent tongue to add to his badge.

Sir Jarin the Dust—as Cedric liked to call him—had ridden the lady and child all night and all day. Surely his chivalry would not allow him to continue but would force him to seek out shelter and food for his weaker travelers. “Chivalry, pish!” A waste of time if you asked him.

Rising, he walked to Demon and drew his wolf pouch from his pack. He untied it and peered inside, reaching in for a few specks of dark dust. He could not afford to waste it, but two would do nicely.

Flinging them into the air, he uttered the ancient words Drago had taught him. The specks of dust drifted down, slowly growing and gyrating, twisting and turning, taking shape and form and substance. By the time they hit the dirt, two black wolves stared at Cedric, baring sharp fangs and growling with an anger he knew not from whence it originated. No doubt the dark pit from which they came.

“Go, my pets! Go find Jarin the Dust and his lady. But do them no harm. Leave that to me.”

♥♥♥

Sir Jarin was right about one thing. The stench of death and decay clung to the deserted village like mold on a damp stone. ’Twas not entirely deserted, for as they rode through the front gate and down the center of town, eyes appeared in windows behind parted curtains, and the cries of more than one babe rang through the air like a dismal ballad. Aside from that, the only other sign of life was the smoke curling from chimneys and the snort of a large pig wallowing in the mud.

“What happened here?” Cristiana lowered her shoulders beneath the thick weight of despair in the air.

“Naught good, I assure you.” Jarin shifted in his saddle and halted his horse before a two-story brick building announcing itself with a sign that said Inn. Still, no stable hand sped out to tend their horses, no laughter or music hailed from within. No savory scents of roasted meat wafted on the breeze, but rather the smell of rot and disease.

“We should leave.” He jerked the reins to lead his horse away.

“Nay. I cannot go on another moment,” Cristiana said. And ’twas true. If she didn’t get some food and rest soon, she’d grow weak and ill. As would Thebe. She glanced down at the sleeping babe, her long lashes spread over her chubby cheeks and a look of complete trust on her face. Cristiana would ne’er betray that trust. She would ne’er abandon this child as she herself had been abandoned.

Jarin frowned, his jaw stiffening as he glanced from her back to the inn. “I fear ’tis the plague, my lady. If so, we should quit this place at once.”

Mayhap he was right. Cristiana could not deny she had the same thought. Yet even as she pondered it, the Spear seemed to warm on her thigh. Was she imagining it? Or was it—and the God behind it—reminding her of its power? “We have the Spear,” she announced with more authority than she felt.

Jarin’s eyes narrowed. “Does the holy relic also protect from foolishness?”

She smiled. “Has it not kept fools like us safe thus far?”

Humor appeared in his eyes as he shook his head. “Indeed. But I’ve no doubt even God has His limits.” He dismounted. “Regardless, I will discover what ails these people and search out some food. Stay here.”

No sooner had Jarin ascended the first step of the inn than a man slipped out the front door, holding up a hand to halt the knight, whilst he glanced back and forth up the muddy street.

“Good day sire. Be fellow or friend, I bid you caution.” His voice emerged scratchy and breathless, and only then did Cristiana note the sores pustulating on his neck and face and how his clothes hung on him as if they were too large for his emaciated frame. Thin, light-colored hair hung to his ears and framed cheeks that sunk into his face as if afraid to meet the light. He could be no older than forty, but he looked as near to death as any aged man.

“I urge you, good sire, mount your horse and leave this place at once.”

“What ails you, sir?” Cristiana asked from her horse, unable to dismount with Thebe in her arms.

“’Tis the plague, mistress.” The man shuddered. “Already killed five. Prithee, leave ere it infects you as well.”

Jarin slowly backed away from the man and swung about, apparently with every intention of obeying his advice.

“Here, take Thebe,” Cristiana ordered.

“Why? We’re leaving.” Jarin was about to brush past her to mount his horse when she all but dropped the babe in his arms, giving him no choice but to cling to the girl.

Swinging her leg over the saddle, she slid down the other side, nearly falling, but managed to maintain her dignity.

“My lady.” Jarin leapt in her path. “We are but a day’s travel from Luxley. You risk too much. What of Thebe?”

The man coughed and leaned on the side of the door for support. “Prithee, leave at once. There is naught but death here.”

Hesitating, Cristiana brushed a lock of Thebe’s hair from her face and lifted her gaze to Jarin’s. Unusual fear shouted from his brown eyes. “People are dying, Sir Jarin. ’Tis within my power to possibly cure them. How can I leave?”

He huffed, looked away for a moment, then back at her, shaking his head. “You would risk us all?”

Reaching up, she dared to run fingers over his jaw in an intimate gesture that surprised even her. “The Spear protects us. We must have faith.”

One side of his lips quirked. “I don’t suppose I can stop you, save for tying you and the child up and making you my prisoners.” He released a heavy sigh, still blocking her path. “Which I may still do, withal.”

She attempted to push past him, but ’twas like trying to shove aside a brick wall. “By all means, Sir Jarin, if it pleases you to do so. Only allow me to save lives whilst you decide.”

To her delight, and surprise, he stepped aside, though he uttered a growl that followed her as she approached the man.

The innkeeper shrank back and held up a hand to stop her. She took that hand in hers, amazed at how thin and cold it was. Sores scratched and dampened her palms, causing bile to rise in her throat. Forcing it down, she focused on his eyes, bloodshot and yellow. “Do you wish to be healed, sir?”

Confusion furrowed his sweaty brow. “Aye, mistress, but what can ye…” He halted to catch his breath.

The Spear warmed her thigh. Cristiana closed her eyes, fighting both exhaustion and fear, fear that this time the Spear wouldn’t work, fear that this time her foolishness would cause all their deaths. “Holy Father, in the name of your Christ and the power of His Blood on the Spear, I command all sickness to depart from this man and his full health to return.”

Keeping her eyes shut, she felt the warmth of the Spear travel up her leg, into her belly, through her chest, and down her arm, spreading into the man’s hand.

He uttered a faint squeal of surprise as Cristiana kept her grip firm, allowing the healing power to fully penetrate his body. Sores withered and disappeared beneath her touch as warmth returned to his flesh.

“Holy Moses!” the man exclaimed, his voice strong and full of life.

Cristiana opened her eyes to see shock and joy beaming from features no longer tainted by death, skin no longer marred by disease.

“How?” Eyes, clear and bright searched hers. “How?” He fell to his knees, took her hands in his and kissed them over and over.

“The Lord has healed you, sir, not me. Get up.”

Rising, he dashed into the street, raising his hands to heaven. “I am healed! I am healed!”

Cristiana smiled, her gaze meeting Jarin’s and finding therein both astonishment and admiration. And something else, something permanent and deep. She could bask in that look forever, but Thebe stirred and opened her eyes, drawing Jarin’s gaze to her.

The man’s shouting did more than wake Thebe. It drew citizens from their homes, at least those who could walk. Out from their hovels they staggered like the blind seeing their first speck of light. A few of them crawled, some clung to each other for support. Women bore feverish children in their arms.

Sorrow threatened to crush Cristiana to the mud at the sight of so many, of so much misery. The crowd circled the man, who continued rejoicing and pointing in Cristiana’s direction. Finally, pushing past them, he darted toward her.

“Can ye save them, mistress? Can ye save them all?” His gaze darted over Cristiana’s shoulder to the inn. “And my family.”

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.