Chapter 12

 

Drawing water from the basin, Ronar splashed it on the back of his neck then scooped another handful onto his face and chest.

“Forsooth, I’ve never seen a more inept group of knights in my life,” Damien commented from behind him as he tore off his sweat-laden tunic.

Jarin chuckled. “More court jesters than knights, and the chief among them Sir DeGay.” He glanced out the window, folding arms over his chest. “A week of practice and most could not find a target if it were pinned to their behinds.”

Grabbing a towel, Ronar faced his friends and dried himself. “Nor would they find Lady Falcon flying through the tree tops like the bird for which she is named.”

Damien threw a fresh tunic over his head. “She was within our grasp. I cannot believe we lost her.”

“I lost her, you mean,” Ronar said as he donned a linen shirt, hearing the shame in his voice.

Jarin glanced his way and grinned. “’Twas unlike you, I’ll grant, but I believe you’ve met your match in this lady. She outwits you at every turn.”

“Tush! A woman equal to me?” Easing into his leather doublet, Ronar began tying the laces. “Never.” Then why hadn’t he told Damien that she’d disappeared behind the waterfall? If he had, they could have gone after her and mayhap be closer now to finding the Spear and leaving this cursed place—or at least relieve the king of one less thief. Ronar had cursed himself a hundred times since then. In truth, he had opened his mouth to speak the words, but his throat had closed so tight, he could barely breathe. By the time he could, his admission would have cast too much suspicion on his silence.

Alack, if he were honest, he did not wish to see the lady tossed in the dungeon, pilloried, and then hanged for her crimes. Not for merely feeding hungry villagers. Though that would surely be the punishment enacted by LeGode, as was his right.

Pulling St. Jude from his pocket, Ronar rubbed the tiny statue. If ever there was a lost cause, it was Ronar. If ever he was in need of intervention by St. Jude, ’twas now, for he feared this Lady Falcon was making him weak, luring him away from the straight path he’d vowed to take.

Nay. He would not allow her to bewitch him. Now that he knew where the lady hid, he would seek her out at the right moment, gain her trust, and discover the whereabouts of the Spear. Smiling, he slipped the statue back into his pocket. How pleased both the bishop and the king would be when he presented them with the Spear of Destiny—earning yet another notch in his belt of penance.

He sat to tug on his boots when a chill scraped his arms—a common occurrence since he’d arrived at Luxley. Still, it never failed to set him on edge. Aye, there was darkness in this keep, heavy and thick like fog made of tar. Mayhap he should seek the bishop’s advice on such spiritual matters.

His glance took in Jarin, still staring out the window, absently flipping a coin through his fingers.

“How fares your lady?” Ronar asked to lighten the mood.

Jarin gave a sad smile. “Still ill, I fear. Would that they’d allow me to see her.”

Ronar stood and strapped on his belt and short sword. “If such a visit were proper, I have no doubt you could make the lady well by your smile and flattery alone.”

“Alas, if you truly wish to see her, we could sneak you into her chamber,” Damien added. “’Twould be of no account.”

“Tempt me not, dear friends. It may come to that, withal.”

Damien sheathed a knife in his belt and laughed. “The poor lady might die of fright should she open her eyes to find your ugly face peering at her.”

Ronar chuckled. “Mayhap I should go in your stead, to ensure her heart be tuned to true love.”

Jarin snorted. “Begad! Your face, Ronar? Such a sight would surely prompt the lady to join a convent!”

Damien raised his brows, eyes full of mischief. “To his point, if your history with Lady Falcon is any indication.”

Ronar’s resolve to capture said lady only grew stronger as he and his friends endured the wrath of both the bishop and LeGode at the noonday meal. Their initial inquiries into how the training was going and what information Ronar and his men were able to glean from the villagers transformed into angry accusations the more the wine flowed. Ronar had learned to endure raging censure in silence over the years, for it seemed that those who do nothing are the angriest at those who do all. However, keeping Damien’s temper in check was quite the feat. Thankfully, Jarin had been blessed with the gift of ignoring buffoons, though his current lack of flirtations with the serving wenches gave Ronar pause.

“I assure you, your Grace, we will find this Lady Falcon and bring her in,” Ronar finally said when the bishop’s rage had run its course.

“Alack! I shall believe that when I see it, Knight. Or mark my words, the king will hear of your incompetence.”

Aye, Ronar had no doubt the king would see it as such. Regardless of his friendship with Ronar, his Majesty would believe his favored bishop.

A young boy darted into the hall, searched the crowd, then headed for LeGode.

“What is it, lad?”

“Sire, I fear the news is grave.”

The bishop bit off a piece of venison, then leaned to listen.

“’Tis Lord Hadrian Falk of Kent. He is dead.”

“Dead? How?” LeGode shouted a bit too forcefully, though neither surprise nor sorrow tightened his expression.

“Fell off his horse, Sir. Struck his head and then devoured by wolves.”

Bishop Montruse laughed. “Another dead suitor? Sir LeGode, if I didn’t know better, I’d think the lady cursed.”

“She is not cursed, your Grace.” LeGode visibly restrained himself. “’Tis simply fate or God’s intervention. Mayhap she is meant for another.”

Putting aside his shock at the bishop’s pleasure at another’s death, Ronar kept his eye on LeGode. Something was amiss with this one.

“Meant for another, you say?” The bishop tossed a cherry in his mouth. “She is meant to be taken to bed to produce heirs. Any coxcomb could do that.”

Ronar cringed at the crude remark.

Jarin, however, slowly rose, and before Ronar could stop him, he faced the bishop. “The lady deserves your apology, your Grace.”

“Apology!” The bishop sprayed wine on the table. “You dare speak thus to a man appointed of God? She is a woman and deserves naught but my pleasure in seeing her.” His eyes seethed as he stroked the red silk stole around his neck. “You do well to remember ’twas Eve who caused the fall of man. I would watch my tongue, Knight.”

“Forgive him, Excellency.” Ronar stood and bowed toward the bishop. “’Tis been a trying week full of disappointments. By your leave.” Then taking Jarin by the arm, he dragged him down from the dais and across the crowded hall, gesturing for Damien to follow.

“Becalm your temper, Jarin,” Ronar whispered as they walked. “Or ’twill be your head he’ll be tossing into his mouth next.”

“He dares insult Lady D’Clere and then blames it on God!” Jarin hissed.

“’Tis not our place to judge.” Though the bishop was making that difficult of late.

“Why do you defend him?” Damien spat.

“I defend God and the Church.”

“Are they not one and the same?”

A fortnight ago, Ronar would have said yes. Now, he was not too sure. “’Twas the wine and the bishop’s fear of our king that loosens his tongue.”

“I should run him through with my sword,” Jarin slurred.

“If you wish to lose your head, by all means.” Ronar was nearly at the door to the outer bailey when LeGode’s woman servant ran up to him. “A moment, if you please, Sir.”

He handed Jarin off to Damien. “Take him outside. Mayhap the fresh air will revive his good sense.”

After they left, the woman moved Ronar to the side, then glanced around as if expecting an army to appear.

“What is it?”

“’Tis…’Tis a friend in need of help.” Her eyes sparked with fear.

“What friend have I here?” Save the two who just left.

“I beg you, Sir. If you’ll follow me”—she glanced at LeGode—“but at a distance.”

Against his better judgment, Ronar nodded, his curiosity piqued. The lady left and ascended the stairs of the keep.

A group of minstrels began thrumming their instruments while a jester—bells sewn into the bright red and green fabric of his attire—sped through the hall, teasing people and playing the fool. At the command of its owner, a dog followed the jester around and leapt and danced beside him. The crowd roared in laughter.

Ronar wandered toward the pantry, keeping an eye on the bishop and LeGode. Thankfully, both men’s attention was elsewhere—the bishop’s on the entertainment and LeGode on his stew, which he stared at, sulking.

Halfway up the stairs, the woman met Ronar and then led him further up, past several halls and chambers, finally stopping before a door lit by candles on either side.

“What’s this now?” A trap? He gripped the hilt of his sword.

Opening the door, the woman urged him inside, quickly closing it behind them.

The chamber smelled of sickness, tallow, and bitter herbs. Darkness inhabited the corners as if waiting to reach out and drag a hapless victim to his death. Cold. Why was it so cold? A bed draped in gauze sat to his right, a woman lying within. But ’twas another woman who drew Ronar’s gaze, her dark shape lifeless on the floor. He took a step forward.

Lady Falcon.

 

♥♥♥

 

“You owe me.” Drogo entered the dank, misty dungeon from his chambers beyond, white robes fluttering like vaporous spirits.

“So, ’twas your doing, then?” Sir LeGode stepped back as the warlock swept past, leaving behind a trail of putrid odors and hopelessness.

“Who else? You asked me to do the deed, did you not?”

“Aye. Another eaten by wolves,” LeGode said more to himself, hiding the shudder coursing through him. “You command these barbaric animals?”

“Not the animals, the demons within.” Drogo stopped, started to pace again, stopped, stared at whatever brew bubbled in his pot, then glanced up at the ceiling.

“Would that you could command them to catch a certain Falcon.”

“The forest thief is naught to me.” Drogo waved him off and continued moving about the chamber as if the floor were too hot to stand upon.

“She may lead us to the Spear,” LeGode offered.

“I care not for”—his expression knotted and it almost seemed as if smoke emerged from his mouth. He fingered his gray beard and continued storming about the tiny chamber.

LeGode watched, his fear rising. Normally the warlock was calm, controlled, in command, frightening in his hatred and rage. This…this behavior bordered on hysteria.

“Obtaining the Spear will send the bishop and the King’s Guard scurrying back to where they came from, which is good for us both,” LeGode dared to say. “Can you lead us to this witch of the forest? Or better yet, to the Spear itself?”

“If she were a witch, I could find her.” Drogo’s breath came hard and fast as he increased his pace.

“What is amiss, Drogo?”

Halting, Drogo grabbed a handful of hot coals. But before he could scatter them on the table, his scream shook the very walls of the chamber—not an ordinary scream, but a shout that was sharp enough to slice steel. A row of bats above them added their own screeches to the cacophony as they flew up the cone in a mad dash to escape whatever otherworld creature made that hideous sound.

Drogo dropped the hot coals and instantly plunged his hand into a bowl of water. When he withdrew it, bubbling, red flesh covered his skin.

He lifted his face and roared into the darkness. “I cannot see! It hinders me.”

“What hinders you?”

Drogo lifted both fists to his temples and squeezed as if he could ground his head into ash. “The Spear. It’s here in the castle!”

 

♥♥♥

 

“I didn’t know who else to summon, Sir Knight.” Lady D’Clere’s companion glanced up at Ronar from her position beside Lady Falcon. The servant who had brought Ronar stood against the door as if she could keep others from entering.

Kneeling beside Lady Falcon, Ronar took her limp hand in his. “What happened?”

“She came to see her…”—the companion raised a hand to her mouth to catch a sob— “to comfort Lady D’Clere with song, and she accidentally drank her healing potion.”

“Accidentally?” Ronar huffed and pressed a hand to her cheek, feeling the rising heat of a fever. A tumble of copper-colored hair, shimmering in the firelight, spilled about her head over the white-knotted carpet. Ragged breaths tumbled from her lips, followed by a slight moan.

“I’ve tried to awaken her, Sir, but she seems to be getting worse.”

“Why summon me? Am I not her enemy?”

The woman instantly dropped her gaze.

“Come now, we both know who she is.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” The companion shared a harried glance with the servant at the door.

“She is the Falcon of Emerald Forest, is she not?”

The companion breathed out what seemed like relief. “And you have not disclosed her secret, which gave me hope that you possessed a heart of mercy.”

“True enough, I have not told anyone. Hence, she is in no danger. Why not hail the physician and have her put to bed or brought to the village? Her presence here is not uncommon.”

“But her sudden illness is, Sir Knight. It proves someone here in the castle is poisoning Lady D’Clere.”

“It could be anyone.” The woman at the door wrung her hands. “We know not. But should they discover that…that…she drank the potion to reveal the truth, they may attempt to ensure her silence.”

“Alas, ’twas no accident then?” He raised a brow toward the companion.

She glanced at Lady Falcon and shook her head.

He followed her gaze back to the woman who had caused him naught but trouble these past weeks. And now to discover she risked being poisoned merely to help another. Ronar growled and ran a hand through his hair. Why did this lady touch him so?

The companion’s blue eyes pleaded with him. “We haven’t the strength to carry her to the village where she can recover in safety.”

“Will you help us, Sir Knight? Or will you turn us in?”

Ronar rose and studied the still shape of Lady D’Clere behind the gauze curtains of her bed. Such a sharp contrast from the comely lady who’d graced them with her presence nigh a sennight ago. Could someone truly be poisoning her? And to what end? Yet the proof lay before him. The Falcon of Emerald Forest, de-fanged and de-clawed. He could easily call the guards, turn her over to the bishop and LeGode, and take full credit for her capture. Mayhap God had shown Ronar mercy for all his blunders.

He debated while gazing at the woman, so frail, so weak and helpless lying there. Not at all like the Falcon who had defeated thirty knights—the thief with a soul kinder and braver than any he’d known.

She may have the Spear. The voice was ever so slight within him. Why turn her in now when he could turn both her and the Spear over to the king and receive a much bigger reward?

“Aye, I will help you,” he said and instantly regretted it as the thump of boots thundered through the castle. Many boots.

LeGode’s servant, eyes flashing with terror, slipped out the door. Seconds ticked past like minutes as Ronar strode to the window seeking a way of escape. But they were too far up.

The door opened and the servant entered. “They search every room for the Spear. We are trapped.”