Chapter 2

 

Ronar LePeine adjusted his position in the saddle in the hopes of alleviating the pain still throbbing through his groin. Dastardly woman! He’d never seen the likes of such a lady, wearing men’s attire and traipsing through the forest shooting arrows at passersby! Tush! And at the king’s men! She was obviously mad, depraved, mayhap even demon possessed. He shuddered at the last thought and shifted again as they made their way to the walled entrance of Luxley village, past an empty gallows, and over a bridge leading to the main gate. Torches perched on either side provided light enough to see the brook sludging beneath them, while an indescribable stench caused Ronar to cough and hurry forward.

A simple announcement of whom they were escorting quickly opened the gates. Children wearing more dirt than clothing emerged from the shadows shouting, “Sir, do you want a room, a bed? Sir, where are you from?” They reached to touch the horses, alarming the beasts, and Ronar had to rein in Penance to keep him from trampling them.

“Nay, little ones. Begone. We are on the king’s business.” Ronar waved them away while Jarin flipped a few coins in the air, sending them fighting like chickens for a scrap of seed. Behind them, the little urchins crowded the bishop’s carriage, and Ronar turned to see the holy man drop the curtains to his windows with an annoyed groan.

Beyond the beggars, lights from the town square lured them past a row of houses and inns with steeply angled roofs and then past several merchant homes, their shops closed for the night. Citizens poked heads from windows to see what was astir, and Ronar could hear their gasps and whispers. No doubt they weren’t accustomed to receiving such an important visitor as Bishop Godfrey of Montruse.

Ahead, lights from within the Church of the Holy Trinity lit the stained glass windows in a collage of dancing colors while the bell rang in the steeple and a town crier sang his mournful report in the distance. Pigs and chickens darted across the street. An old woman, carrying a bucket of water, froze at the sight of them and ducked into the shadows. Those citizens still out after dark stopped their tasks to stare at the newcomers. Others, upon spotting the insignia of the King, ducked into homes and alleyways, while still others bowed toward the bishop’s royal coach.

The bishop seemed to perk up at the attention, lifting the curtain and waving his jeweled hand out the window toward the peasants. Ronar huffed. The man had done naught but complain since they’d left the palace in London three days prior. Word was he was out of favor with the king who had sent him on this quest—one at which he must succeed or face banishment. Or worse. Alas, the poor man had been forced to sleep on the ground with the rest of them and eat whate’er the forest provided like a mere commoner.

And Ronar and his men had heard about the indignity—vehemently and relentlessly.

Flaming torches lit their way past simple homes made of wattle and daub. Smoke puffed from chimneys as the smell of sour pottage joined other unsavory scents that stung Ronar’s nose.

He didn’t much care for villages. Or for larger towns. Even in London, too much poverty and misery existed alongside wealth and excess. That excess now loomed above them from a hill in the distance. Luxley Castle—a dark, cruel master keeping an eye on its subjects.

A sense of dread rolled over him, heavy and ominous. Why? This mission was not unlike many he and his men had performed for the king. Save on one point, he suddenly realized—one very important point that gave him pause.

“Recovered from your joust with the wildcat?” Jarin, riding beside him, gave him a mocking grin.

Wildcat indeed. The Falcon of Emerald Forest, of all things. He blew out a laugh. “She would not have gotten the best of me if I hadn’t granted her the favor due her sex.”

“And she took that favor and made you eat it, ’twould seem.”

“Indeed.”

“A rather comely lass from what I saw.”

A pair of eyes the color of jade fringed in thick lashes flitted through Ronar’s mind. “Mayhap, but what good is beauty housed in lunacy?”

“Ah, but I do so like a challenge.” Jarin winked.

“Then when we pass through Emerald Forest again, may her arrow be aimed at you, my friend.” Ronar chuckled.

They rounded a corner, then ascended the hill to the castle. Lush gardens surrounded the entrance, whirling the sweet scent of lavender and roses around them and sweeping away the foul stench of the village. Ronar drew a deep breath as they halted before the gatehouse.

“Who goes there?” The shout came from above.

“Bishop Godfrey of Montruse to see Lady D’Clere,” Ronar responded.

“That should get their attention,” he said to Damien on his left. The man’s stern features seemed even harsher in the torchlight.

“’Tis rare to have the king’s special adviser at one’s door,” the knight replied, scanning the surrounding darkness. Damien, ever the staunch warrior. The best fighter Ronar ever had the fortune to battle beside.

“What is taking them so long?” the bishop spat from within the coach. “How dare they make me wait!”

Ronar exchanged a glance of disdain with Jarin. Ah, to be rid of his excellency’s company—if only for a night.

“Mayhap they—” Jarin’s reply was cut off as the gate swung open, and Ronar led them forward over a bridge into a small courtyard. Torches on posts cast flickering light over the inner bailey that was soon arush with squires, servants, and knights. Keeping his hand atop the hilt of his sword, Ronar slid from Penance and handed the reins to a stable boy. A knight started toward them. Dressed in chain mail with a sword at his side, he was a large, imposing man around whom the stench of alcohol whirled like a haunting specter.

“Walter DeGay, Captain of the Guard.” His eyes flashed upon seeing the king’s insignia on their forearms. “To what do we owe the pleasure of the King’s Guard?”

Had the man not been informed of the identity of his guest?

The knight’s hazy eyes sped to the coach where the bishop’s page assisted him down. “Your Grace.”—he stumbled toward him and then bowed clumsily— “We were not expectin—”

The bishop cut him off. “We wish to see Lady D’Clere immediately.”

“Of course.” Sir DeGay gathered himself and escorted them past the chapel and servants’ quarters, through a set of large wooden doors, into the main hall of the castle where a tall middle-aged man with a commanding stride met them. A purple tunic covered with a vermilion silk surcoat threaded with golden filigree flaunted his high status. That and a jeweled broach positioned at his throat. Graying brown hair curled around his face, matching the thick brows dipping over cold dark eyes.

A chill coursed down Ronar.

“Sir Francis LeGode at your service.” Ignoring Ronar and his men, he approached the bishop and bowed himself so far to the ground, Ronar thought he might fall. “Your Excellency. Forgive me. We did not receive word of your visit.”

“Rise.” The bishop glanced around the great hall, empty now save for a few servants. Banners bearing the heraldry of various lords and knights draped from the ceiling high above them, while tapestries lined the cold stone walls. Shields and a battered Saxon war axe hung over the high seat above an immense hearth whose flames added light to the candles perched in wall brackets.

“What brings such a fine guest to Luxley Manor, your Grace?” LeGode inquired.

“Urgent business from the King.”

“And these men are?”

“The King’s Guard. My escorts.”

Francis LeGode stared them up and down, respect and a tinge of fear in his eyes.

“We seek an audience with Lady D’Clere,” Ronar offered.

Ignoring him, LeGode faced the bishop. “I fear ’tis impossible. She is quite ill, Excellency. I am steward here and attend all matters in her stead.”

“Bah.” The bishop growled and moved to stand by the fire, rubbing his pointed gray beard. “Very well. Is there somewhere private where we may converse?”

“Of course. But if you’ll allow, Excellency. Surely you must be exhausted. I beg you to rest from your long journey.” LeGode clapped his hands and several servants came running. “Escort these men to their rooms and draw a bath for his Excellency. I will have an evening repast prepared in your honor. Then when you are refreshed, we shall discuss business.”

Ronar’s stomach growled. A feast he could handle. Getting away from his Excellency, even for a short time, sounded better still.

 

♥♥♥

 

Ronar tossed his sack onto the cot and marched to the window. Behind him, he heard Jarin say something that made the servant girl giggle as she left. Damien lay back on his cot and placed his hands behind his head.

“What is amiss, Ronar?” he asked. “We are finally free of his Grace and will soon fill our bellies with warm food.” He patted his stomach. “I, for one, could use something more solid than bird eggs and fish.”

“In addition,” Jarin added, his footsteps approaching. “We can have our pick of the pretty wenches who work in the castle. Though, I grant you”—he glanced over the room—“these humble quarters have injured my pride.”

“Would that it would never heal,” Ronar quipped, then swung about and took in the tiny room housing naught but three straw cots and a single table upon which sat a basin of water and two oil lamps. Modest, aye, but at least they’d not been put with the other knights. In addition, they were just off the great hall and had a good view of the inner courtyard, which would serve well to overhear anything that would hasten the completion of their mission. He faced the window again and watched stable boys, groomsman, knights, and all manner of servants hustling to and fro in the light of a full moon.

“And”—Jarin slapped Ronar on the back—“save for the pretty she-wolf—or rather she-falcon—who nearly killed you with her arrow, no band of brigands attacked the bishop on our journey.”

“Would there had been.” Damien groaned. “If only to stave off the boredom and drown out his relentless whine.”

Withdrawing a figure from inside his doublet pocket, Ronar rubbed his thumb over St. Jude and stared down at the smooth gray stone. “Evil lurks in this castle. I sense it. The sooner we complete our mission and make haste back to London, the better.”

“You worry overmuch, Ronar.” Jarin crossed arms over his chest and leaned against the window frame. “’Tis a simple enough quest. I pray it takes a good while to complete. I could use a relaxing stay in such a place with women aplenty to sample.”

Damien chuckled. “I hope there are enough to last our stay. For me, I could use a good fight before I grow fat and lazy. If only the king would start a war somewhere.”

Ronar turned to his friend. Fat and lazy he was not. As well muscled as the king’s destrier and nearly as tall, Damien could land a punch with the force of a trebuchet. “You should have remained in the king’s army instead of joining the Guard, Damien.”

“And miss the chance to protect the king? To be counted among his elite warriors? ’Twas a miracle a man with such base beginnings as I was ever dubbed a knight, but this…my father would be proud. Were he alive,” he added, the bitterness in his tone pricking Ronar.

Jarin stared down into the courtyard where a pretty maid passed by, a basket in her hand. “At least we shall not have to endure the bishop’s blathering.”

“He may be”—Ronar started to list a few unsavory names but caught himself—“many things, but he is still a holy man, appointed of God. He deserves our respect.”

Damien snorted. “He will have to earn mine.”

Jarin nodded his agreement.

Ronar raised a critical brow. “Have a care what you say against God’s anointed. You think the king to be a harsh taskmaster. God will not forgive such an affront when you stand before Him.”

Jarin fingered the tip of his short-clipped beard. “If God chose such a man, then I shall have a few things to say to the Almighty should He ever deem me worthy to stand before Him.” He pushed from the wall and strode to the basin of water. “As it is, I doubt I shall have the chance.”

“I do not gainsay it, and that should worry you more than it does.” Ronar watched his good friend splash water on his face and then shove fingers through his brown hair. With strong features, a perfect nose, deep-set, intense eyes and a dimple to charm the ladies, Jarin enjoyed far too much the attention he received from the fairer sex.

Grabbing a cloth, he faced Ronar. “I shall allow you to worry about my eternal fate, Ronar. Mayhap you could put in a good word for me.”

“I always do, my friend.”

Damien withdrew two knives from his belt and began sharpening them, the metallic rasp echoing through the chamber.

Ronar returned his gaze out the window and drew a deep breath. The stench of horse manure and pig slops made him instantly regret it. If only his companions would listen to him. His own lack of faith and pride had led to Ronar’s downfall. One which he still did penance for and would continue until his debt was paid. He glanced once again at St. Jude in his hand. During Ronar’s last crusade, the Archbishop of Jerusalem had given him the small statue. “Carved from Christ’s tomb and then blessed with Holy water,” he had said. No doubt ’twas true, for the saint had protected Ronar during one of the fiercest battles he’d ever encountered. He had carried it ever since. Another chill slithered down his back. He had a feeling he would need its power on this mission more than ever.