Chapter 4

 

Ronar popped one last piece of cheese into his mouth, took a swig of wine, and sat back in his chair before the high table in Luxley’s grand hall. On either side of him sat Jarin and Damien, while beyond Damien perched the bishop, appearing none the worse for wear despite his long, arduous journey. In good sooth, he seemed quite in his element, surrounded by doting sycophants—Sir LeGode, chief among them. Ronar huffed. The steward fawned over every word out of the bishop’s mouth—every word he could manage in between morsels of their delicious feast—stewed pheasant, venison boiled in almond milk, onions, and wine, baked apples and pears in sugar, a variety of cheeses, and an excellent spiced red wine. Quite a repast for so late in the day.

Not that Ronar was complaining. ’Twas good to have his belly full again. His soul, however, was another matter. Despite the good fare, pleasant conversation, warm fire, and festivities that surrounded him, he could not shake the foreboding that had assailed him upon entering Luxley castle. Even now, he scanned the great hall, seeking its source. If it hailed from a person, he or she would most likely be present. Nigh everyone, save the lowest of servants, were enjoying the feast—from the gardener, blacksmith, and messengers who sat toward the back of the hall, to the knights who sat before them enjoying more drink than warriors should. Why should they not when their commander, Sir DeGay, had long since dropped his head into his stew? Next came the reward table where the clerks, cofferer, marshals, and almoners sat, while the Lord’s High table, the place of greatest honor, was reserved for Bishop Montruse, Ronar and his men, Sir LeGode, and his son Cedric, a fatuous fellow with the disposition of a jester.

No ethereal figure slithered about, no black-hooded men ducked into the shadows, no evil glints in narrowed eyes or sneers upon twisted lips. All seemed to be enjoying the evening. Ronar shrugged off the sensation. Alack, if such evil existed here, the bishop would feel it as well. Yet one glance his way revealed a man eating and drinking and laughing as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Ronar sipped his wine and drew in a breath of the sweet odor of lavender and rosemary herbs scattered across the floor, tainted by the scents of meat and spices, human sweat, and tallow. Candles protruding from spikes on walls and two large chandeliers provided a warm glow that flickered over the assembly like sunlight through trees.

To Ronar’s left, Damien drank more than he ate, his listless eyes shifting over the crowd—always on the alert, always seeking the object of some ancient revenge of which the man would not speak. Ronar took no concern of his friend’s inebriation. Damien had the odd ability to sober at will should danger advance. Jarin, however, was another matter. Seated at Ronar’s right, he continued eating, drinking and flirting with the few wenches who kept his cup full of wine and his ego full of flattery. Though mostly young boys served the food, as was common, Ronar had to admit Sir LeGode’s use of a few women offered a pleasant diversion. Especially after three days and nights sleeping beside naught but snoring, foul-smelling men.

Alas, now that they were nearly finished with the meal, Ronar longed to get to the business at hand, acquire a good night’s sleep, and begin their task on the morrow.

A group of colorfully-dressed troubadours entered carrying various instruments—lyres, flutes, cymbals, and a viol—and Ronar huffed and grabbed his cup of wine. More delays. Jarin elbowed him, and pointed at a lady wearing a plain woolen kirtle walking alongside the musicians.

“Finally, some entertainment.” His brown eyes flashed.

Damien took another sip and let out a belch, mimicking Ronar’s sentiments at the interruption. Still, something about the lady caught his eye. Her back was to him, but ’twas her hair that intrigued him…the most lustrous shade of red, like fire…nay, like the color of flaming copper. The curled tip of her braid swayed over her waist as she walked. A flowered chaplet graced her head and spread a net over the lustrous strands as if it could possibly hide them. But nothing could dull their shine. She walked with grace, aye, but also with authority and power as if she were a princess and no mere peasant.

She turned, keeping her head down, and stood to the side of the musicians, who plucked and tuned their instruments, drawing the attention of the crowd.

Yet when she opened her mouth and the words to “Sing we to this Merry Company” came out in the sweetest, clearest voice Ronar had ever heard, he regretted his impatience. The song drifted through the hall on angel’s wings, stunning the company to silence and eliciting sighs of comfort from all present. And Ronar felt his own tension leeching from his body as he sat back and closed his eyes to fully enjoy the pleasing melody.

When she finished, cheers filled the air, and Ronar opened his eyes to see the lady hastily pushing her way through the crowd as a juggler took her place and a new song began.

If she had continued on her way, face down, weaving around servants and guests, Ronar wouldn’t have given her another thought. But the lady lifted her head and shifted her gaze toward him, their eyes locking for but a moment in time, ere she continued bounding forward.

And Ronar knew. He knew they’d just been serenaded by none other than the Falcon of Emerald Forest.

“Sir LeGode,” he shouted loud enough for her to hear as he leaned forward to address the steward. “Pray, tell us who is this Falcon of Emerald Forest?”

LeGode’s face twisted as if he’d bitten a lemon. “Alack, tell me she did not bother you and His Grace on your way here?”

“’Twas a minor incident with an arrow that nearly pierced my heart.” Ronar dared a glance toward the lady and found she had slowed in her exit, her ears tilted in their direction.

LeGode faced the bishop, his voice edged in panic. “I pray you were not harmed, your Grace.”

“Nay, my guards dealt with her.” The bishop tossed meat into his mouth as if the subject bored him.

The juggler dropped the apples he was tossing, and the crowd roared in laughter.

Sir LeGode addressed Ronar. “I apologize for your inconvenience, Sir Knight, and I’m glad no harm came to you.”

Damien chuckled, but Ronar elbowed him to silence.

“Pray, who is this fierce lady archer?” Jarin asked.

“A nuisance, a pest, nothing more. She hunts and provides food for the village.”

“Against the king’s command?!” The bishop sparked to life, finally pushing his trencher away and patting his belly. “’Tis the king’s forest. She should be caught and hanged.”

“Many have tried, your Grace, but she has proved”—Sir LeGode cleared his throat—“rather elusive.”

“Elusive, indeed.” Jarin smiled at the wench who filled his glass, then raised it to a toast. “Quick as a rabbit, sly as a fox, an archer with no equal, is the Falcon of Emerald Forest. But knights beware her boot!” He chuckled, his eyes glinting playfully toward Ronar.

LeGode snorted.

“Who is this rebel who dares defy her king?” The bishop wiped his mouth with the tablecloth.

“As I said, no one knows, your Grace,” LeGode replied, annoyed. “A peasant with a bloated ego, I expect. Never fear, we will catch her. And when we do, she’ll hang from the gallows.”

Ronar’s gaze found her again at the edge of the crowd. She cast him one last glance ere disappearing out the door. He couldn’t help but smile. The infamous Falcon of Emerald Forest posing as a servant girl in the midst of Luxley castle. Either she was the most courageous woman he’d ever met, or she was utterly and completely mad.

 

♥♥♥

 

“You seek what?” Sir LeGode turned from the narrow window of his study to face the bishop, who sighed and spread out the embroidered black robes of his vestment around his feet. Short-cropped gray hair circled an angular face whose lines were as harsh as the man’s squinty brown eyes. During the past three days, Ronar had sought those eyes and that face for any semblance of the grace and kindness of God, but as yet, had not found even a suggestion.

Quiet, reserved, and obedient, his page, a lad of only fifteen, shadowed the bishop, attending his every whim.

Flanked by his friends, Ronar shifted his stance impatiently behind the bishop, most anxious for news of their quest. Instead, he found his thoughts returning to the Falcon of Emerald Forest. Captivating woman. To what purpose would she risk her neck by coming to the castle? And singing before LeGode and all the knights. Ronar smiled. Intriguing! He simply must know more about her.

The bishop’s voice jerked Ronar from his thoughts. “The Spear of Destiny, Sir. Surely you have heard of it. And ’tis not I who seeks it but your king.”

Sir LeGode grimaced. “Of course. Of course. Anything for the king. ’Tis just that...” He lowered to a chair. “The Spear that stabbed Christ?” His thick brows rose in skepticism. “’Tis but a myth.”

“It is no myth, I assure you. ’Tis real and quite powerful, and the king has need of it to help fight his many enemies.”

Cedric, LeGode’s son, an odd-looking man in his twenties with wide eyes, a receding chin, and a face much kinder than his father’s, grunted from a chair in the corner.

Ignoring him, LeGode snapped his fingers, and a young maiden who stood to his right poured them drinks from a decanter on a side table.

Damien licked his lips, while Jarin followed her every move. Ronar kept his eyes on LeGode. Something was amiss with this one. Where most men flattered and cowered in the presence of a man who had the king’s ear—and the power of life and death that accompanied it—LeGode, contrary to his behavior at the feast, appeared suddenly annoyed with the man as if the bishop were but a servant interrupting his master. There was something else as well …something vile lurking behind his feigned smile.

The girl bowed before the bishop and handed him a drink, then served Sir LeGode, Cedric, and finally Ronar and his men. If she’d lifted her gaze, she would have seen the grin on Jarin’s face as he examined her pretty features.

“But why look for the holy relic here?” LeGode sipped his drink.

The bishop set down his cup and fingered the large gold crucifix hanging about his neck. “The king has been investigating the Spear for years. The priest who found it in Jerusalem when we took the city in the Sixth Crusade swore on his death bed that he gave it to a young girl living at a convent in the south of France.”

Candlelight flickered over the man’s age-lined face as he stared at the tomes lining the wall.

LeGode had the foresight to wait for the Bishop to continue.

“That young girl we believe to be Lady Grecia D’Clere.”

“Lady D’Clere!” LeGode balked. “Forsooth, I do not believe it.”

“You do not believe your king?” The bishop’s tone pierced.

“Nay, ’tis simply that I knew Lady D’Clere well. I was her husband’s dearest confidant ere he died and then hers, until illness took her home. Surely she would have told me.”

Bishop Montruse shrugged. “Mayhap the lady was sworn to secrecy.”

LeGode rose with a nervous sigh and approached the brazier in the corner, wherein hot coals provided the only warmth in the small study. “If ’tis here, I know not where. I’ve been steward of this castle for nine years, and I’ve ne’er seen this Spear. Peace froth, ’tis a bit farfetched.”

The bishop snorted. “What is farfetched is that the knights from Luxley win every battle in which they engage. Do you wonder why the king so oft enlists their aid?” Bishop Montruse waved an arm toward the main hall beyond the door. “I’ve seen naught here that would render them with superior training or prowess, naught but a besotted head knight and a host of squires still suckling at the breast.”

Sir LeGode flattened his lips, anger simmering beneath the surface of his raging eyes.

“In addition,” the bishop continued, “Were you aware that Emerald Forest is by far the most lush and plenteous of all the king’s forests? Teeming with deer, rabbits, and wild boar, as well as an abundance of wild berries and herbs.”

“What does that have to do with the Spear?” LeGode snapped, still staring at the flames.

“Wherever the Spear resides, the blessings of God follow.”

“Mayhap our Lord is simply pleased with me.” LeGode finally glanced at the bishop, his sickly-sweet smile instantly fading, followed by a look of resignation. “Of course, your Grace, search the castle and the grounds all you wish. My servants will assist you, and I shall assign my son to supervise. I have no doubt you will find him up to the task.” He gestured toward Cedric, who was examining the fringe on his surcoat with great interest.

Bishop Montruse cast the lad a scowl ere rising to his feet. “Nay. I will take charge. Mayhap when Lady D’Clere is well, she will be more accommodating.”

LeGode bowed before the bishop. “Forgive me, your Grace, if you have not found me so. Lady D’Clere takes her council from me. I will inform her of our meeting, and when she is well enough to receive you, you can hear her sentiments. Far be it from me to hinder the king’s quest.”

“Yes. Far be it.” The bishop sneered. “There is one additional item the king wishes me to discuss with you. His Majesty has sent four suitors for Lady D’Clere, all men of title and honor, worthy of her station and two who would have improved upon it.”

LeGode’s expression twisted like a snake slithering through grass before a look of innocence prevailed. “I seem to recall messages about suitors, but alack, they never arrived.”

“They were all killed by wolves not long after leaving their estates.”

“Wolves? How sad.”

Though Ronar could detect no such sorrow in the man’s tone.

“You know nothing of this?”

“How could I?”

“Humph” The bishop turned to leave.

LeGode moved toward him. “If I can assist you in your search, your Excellency, I am your servant. But I fear what you seek is not here.”

“We shall see.” Bishop Montruse snapped at his page and the boy fell in line as his master headed toward the door. Before he exited, the bishop turned, his robes swinging about him. “If you are hiding the Spear from us, Sir, we will not only find it, but you will find the noose.”

The last thing Ronar saw ere he followed the bishop out the door was Sir LeGode clutching his throat.