by Shea,Lisa
“Jack, it is time for the debate to continue,” Lord Epworth reminded him finally, glancing between the two again. “I have been looking for you.”
Jack nodded, then bowed briefly to Catherine. She dropped a brief curtsey in response, then turned and walked toward her room. Jack watched her go, his heart heavy. Then he headed with Lord Epworth toward the main hall.
The room was already crowded with participants, and Lord Epworth moved toward the front table, waving Jack to accompany him. The table was already quite full, and Jack shook his head, scanning the room. He spotted the three acolytes in the back of the room, several empty seats nearby. Father Berram sat near them, his hands shaking slightly as he talked with his neighbor.
Jack nodded to his young friends as he took his seat. He was content with his location; he realized in short order that he could more easily watch reactions and hear crowd comments from this position.
The debates started up, but Jack found them slow going. Each speaker had a recommendation to make, but enjoyed the spotlight and took far longer than he needed to in order to lay out his point of view.
Jack turned to talk to Michael during one of the more droning speeches. “How is your ankle doing?” he asked solicitously, keeping his voice low.
Michael seemed grateful for the distraction, and turned eagerly. “Oh, it is quite fine now, thank you,” he replied with a smile. His face became contrite. “I am deeply sorry for causing so much trouble during our travel,” he added. “It was a blessing that Shadow came along when he did.”
The comment reminded Jack of the interchange when Shadow had first entered the clearing and met up with the three novices. He had not had an opportunity since then to talk with the trio alone, and despite the crowd around them now, few seemed to pay any mind to their conversation.
Jack dropped his voice lower, and he looked across the three sets of eyes with serious attention. “You all seemed to know Shadow when we met that rainy afternoon. When had you met him before?”
Walter glanced at the other two with hesitation, then slowly stated, “I suppose, after all we went through together, that we can tell you some of what happened.”
John nodded and leant forward, his eyes holding Jack’s. He ran his muscular hand through his thick red hair absently as he spoke. “It was about three years ago. We were playing around near a rapids. It was spring, so the stream was raging at a fierce clip. We were horsing around on the rocks and Walter slipped, falling in -”
“I did not slip!” interjected Walter quickly. “You pushed me - I would never have gone in otherwise!”
Michael sighed. “In any case,” he continued, shaking his head at the other two, “Walter was in the water and was quickly pulled downstream. We ran along the bank, but he was being drawn to the other side, and the rocks were pretty nasty. We were yelling for him to swim, but he was being pulled under.”
Walter crossed his arms over his chest, his voice petulant. “Those rapids were rough! I was trying my best. You know I am not a great swimmer.”
John took up the story. “All of a sudden, there Shadow was, standing on the bank. There was not a moment of hesitation. The cloak came off, Shadow was in the water, and the next thing we knew, Walter was safely on the opposite bank. We had to run down to a bridge to get across, and by the time we got to Walter, Shadow had left.
Jack turned to look at Walter with a piercing gaze. “You saw Shadow without any disguise? You spoke with him?”
Suddenly, Walter clamped his lips shut, and a set look came to his eyes. He shook his head no, then turned to look out at the proceedings.
Confused, Jack turned to Michael. Michael apologized quickly, “I am sorry, Jack.” Michael looked around and dropped his voice lower. “Apparently Walter swore to Shadow never to talk about that. He will not even tell us anything. We used to tease him about it, to get him to say something. However, we respect his promise now and defend his decision. I feel shame that we ever used to try to get him to break that vow.”
Jack was frustrated, but he nodded in understanding. “Of course. I am sorry, Walter, I had no idea.”
Walter looked back and gave a smile. “I am just glad to be here, and alive.” He seemed pensive for a moment, looking down. “Now I owe Shadow my life twice.”
Jack had hundreds of questions that he wanted to ask the boys, but he took a deep breath and turned to watch the debates. He would have to find another way to learn what he wanted to know about this Bowyer lone wolf.
Chapter 8
Catherine’s injuries were healing, but she was still grateful for Peter’s arm as they headed in to dinner. Jack and Lord Epworth had already taken their seats at the head table, and Peter walked Catherine to a seat at Lord Epworth’s left, settling her there before he moved to the other side, to sit on Jack’s right.
Lord Epworth looked over Catherine’s face with critical attention once they sat side by side, and Catherine blushed under the scrutiny.
At last Lord Epworth sighed. “My little one, that bruising on your face is worse than I had imagined.” He shook his head. “It is a shame that your council could not send you in a protective carriage, to save you from this dreadful injury.”
Catherine flushed to an even brighter shade of crimson. She looked down at her lap, willing herself not to look at Jack, praying he would not speak out.
Lord Epworth took her hands in his own. “Oh, my child,” he added contritely, “I do not mean to cast any aspersions on your family. I imagine they thought it best to have you arrive in the manner you did.” He paused for a moment, giving her hand a squeeze. “Know that when you join my family you shall always ride safely in a comfortable coach. I shall not allow you to sit on horseback again.”
Catherine took in a long, deep breath. He surely did not mean it. He was simply being solicitous, saying what he thought she wanted to hear.
He smiled, patting her on the hand soothingly. “I am sure your face will heal as good as new. Going forward, in my attentive care, nothing further will ever harm the perfection of your looks.”
Catherine murmured a quiet thanks, her eyes self-consciously moving to look at her arms. If Lord Epworth thought the bruising on her face was bad … but it was not worth worrying about now. That was a discussion for a later time. Perhaps he would not be as sensitive about scars which were hidden from public view.
Her eyes automatically looked across Lord Epworth’s chest to where Jack’s bracers were on display in their elaborate glory. Jack had been forced to wear those guards by his foster father; he had been instructed to hide his scars of valor from view. Her face flushed now not in shame, but in anger. That anyone could be denigrated for being wounded while defending the innocent …
Her eyes moved up to Jack’s face, and she took in a deep breath. He was gazing at her, his eyes reflecting understanding, support.
Then Lord Epworth was leaning forward again, blocking her view. He smiled congenially. “I will have my physicians send over their finest salves,” he instructed firmly. “You will look perfect in no time, I promise.”
A pair of servants moved in with trenchers of roast pork and Catherine turned her attention with relief. The aromas from the plates were heavenly, and the group dove into the delicious food with a voracious appetite.
Catherine listened to Lord Epworth’s stories for most of the meal, biding her time. Lord Epworth finally leant back in satisfaction, his stomach pushed out with the rich food. Catherine, feeling she had been quite patient, quickly took the opportunity to speak across him to Jack, who had been silent on the other side.
“Jack,” she began in a casually friendly voice. “Do tell us what happened during the debates today. I have not yet heard anything about the afternoon.”
Jack’s eyes flicked to Lord Epworth, then looked back to Catherine. Before he could speak Lord Epworth sat forward again, interrupting their view of each other.
“Now, Catherine, child,” he offered soothingly. “The debate consisted of agonizingly bor
ing conversation. Look, Maya is going to sing us a few songs with the musician troupe I came across on my return. Let us relax and enjoy their performance.” He patted Catherine’s hand, then turned his chair to draw closer to her.
Catherine put on a smile, willing herself to be patient and tolerant. She took a long drink of mead and turned her attention to the evening’s entertainment. Maya again looked like an angel come to earth with her porcelain skin and ocean-blue eyes. Her layers of white dress seemed lighter than air.
The dark haired, frog-faced drummer did a wonderful job of syncopating with Maya’s summertime songs, and Catherine mused how the oddest pairings sometimes create the sweetest sounds. She noted with amusement that the flute player, with his shock of red hair, bore a striking resemblance to Peter, if only the musician’s nose had been a little straighter. The male singer, in his small frame, seemed to have the energy of someone twice his size, and soon had the entire room singing along in enthusiastic harmony.
Catherine looked from the motley crew of musicians over to the aging man at her side. He was well respected by his fellows, after all, and had a gentle demeanor. Maybe she could find some way to make this pairing work. There were far worse men in the world to be matched with. She spent the next two hours in deep thought.
When the performances were over, most of the gathering meandered off to their rooms. Catherine stood when Lord Epworth did and did not resist when he guided her toward the exit. Father Berram, roused from his corner spot, used a cane to slowly come over to meet with the two.
“Ah, Lord Epworth,” greeted the elderly man querulously. “If you have a few minutes, I needed to talk with you about some points brought up at the debate. Perhaps if we could speak in private?”
“Of course,” responded Lord Epworth smoothly. He gave an absent bow of farewell to Catherine, then dismissed her with a turn and continued on with Father Berram toward his office. Catherine sighed softly in relief. She stood still for a few moments, to give Lord Epworth time to fully leave the room, then she returned to sit by the fire.
She looked up with a smile when Peter and Jack came to sit on either side of her, bringing her a tankard of mead. Jack gave her a half-smile. “I assume you do still want to hear about the debates.”
“Yes,” said Catherine with a grateful nod, glad that Lord Epworth’s behavior had not put Jack off. Jack settled back and went carefully over the details of the afternoon. Catherine and Peter listened raptly, and an hour passed quickly.
Peter nudged her softly in the ribs. “Now, perhaps a song or two?”
Jack retrieved her travel harp from its hook, and Catherine smiled her thanks. She played songs of her childhood, songs of her homeland. Her face became wistful and sad, but she played them so that she would not forget.
* * *
Catherine woke early the next morning, the faint dawn sunlight whispering into her small but comfortable room. She rolled out of bed, threw the thick curtains wide and looked down on the central courtyard. Peter, Jack, and the soldiers of the cathedral were in full motion, working their way through a series of sword routines. The movements reminded her fondly of home, of what she had left behind.
She sat on the low bench by her window, watching the men as she had each morning since her arrival. They were so different, those two. Peter’s movements were the crisp, precise actions of a classically trained man. Jack, on the other hand, tended toward more aggressive, full blows, his moves reflecting innovation and fluid response. She wondered what his training had been.
The sun rose higher into the robin-egg-blue sky, and she drew herself away from the window. It was time to get dressed. She first removed her floor length white chemise, examining each part of her body with step by step attention. Her wounds were healing well, the mottled purple fading into gentle pink. Her brow furrowed as she moved her right arm. Her shoulder injury was still the worst of it. She rotated her arm over her head, and her upper arm groaned in resistance. She lowered her arm again and pressed the seam of the scar gently, pursing her lips. She needed to remember to take it easy, to allow the area to heal properly.
Satisfied, she pulled on a fresh white chemise, then a pale yellow dress followed on top. Carefully, reverently, she slipped on the green pendant, running her finger along its spiral design. The sunlight caused the glass to sparkle with an inner glow.
It looked so warm outside, so refreshing. She decided to take a short walk through the crocuses before breakfast and relish the fresh air.
She was delighted to find Michael in the gardens, his thin frame moving steadily on his crutches. He apparently had taken a break from his two constant companions. She spoke up in welcome as she approached. “Are you enjoying the crocuses as well? Are they not gorgeous?”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed the young man, his blond hair glowing in the spring sun. “Look at how they occasionally escape their beds, too,” he added with mirth, pointing to a lone crocus that had sprouted in the middle of the chive patch.
Catherine lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I have always had this thought that squirrels did that,” she admitted with a grin. “Certainly the crocuses are not walking on their own. A squirrel must dig up a bulb, think it is a nut, and bury it elsewhere.”
Michael chimed in immediately. “I bet that is exactly it. However, would it really be a squirrel? Maybe it is a mole of some sort, blind as a bat!”
Catherine smiled and hooked her arm into Michael’s. “Is not this much better than roaming around the musty cathedral? While I do appreciate the stained glass and carvings, here is a beauty remade fresh each day by nature.”
Michael swept his eyes up to the formidable walls of the cathedral looming behind them. “I hear that the vaults below have incredibly intricate wood carvings, gathered from all over England, combining pagan symbols with Christian ones,” he replied in consideration. “They were an obsession of the previous Bishop. My parents are historians and spoke of them often. Those works of art might be interesting to see.”
Catherine’s smile faded. “I have been trying to avoid the vaults,” she admitted, her voice haunted. “Lord Epworth is custodian of a great treasure here. From all I hear, those artifacts are indeed worthy of the reputation they have garnered.”
Her voice became harsh. “Lord Epworth is about to abandon everything entrusted to his care. The chances of those carvings surviving the month are slim to none. The conservative church members who are moving in will burn those in a heartbeat.” She shook her head in anger. “He is abandoning his charge, fleeing without a glance back, solely concerned with his own safety.”
Michael gave her a reassuring pat on the hand. “That is a ways off yet,” he reminded her gently. “Do not worry about that happening until it becomes set in stone.”
Catherine forced herself to smile. “Well, what about you? What are you going to be up to?” she asked with interest.
Michael beamed. “Father Berram is continuing from here down to St. Albans,” he told her with enthusiasm. “We will of course be going with him! One of his oldest friends, Father Oswold, is living there. The town is the location of the first martyr in all of England. I have always wanted to go there. The amount of history at St. Albans is just amazing.”
Catherine let Michael ramble on about his trip and the research he would do. She was quite happy for him, that he would get to visit locations he had read about for so many years.
As Michael spun his dreams, Catherine looked around and was puzzled to see Jack at the far end of the garden. He did not make an attempt to come over and join the two; indeed, he seemed if anything to be lost in thought. She drew her eyes away from him and struggled to focus on Michael’s stories.
After they had walked for a while, the breakfast hour chimed. Michael escorted Catherine in to the dining hall area. They were greeted in the entryway by Lord Epworth and Maya. Maya nodded demurely and left as Lord Epworth smiled down at Catherine. “My child, you look lovely,” he complimented, offering her his arm. “You are one
of our tiny garden flowers come to life.”
Jack came up behind the group and nodded greetings to his father. “She is inordinately fond of crocuses, or so I hear,” he commented with a small smile. “I do not believe we have any yellow ones in our gardens, however.” He moved past the group to take a seat with Peter, who was already relaxing by the fire.
“Why, then, we will just have to fix that,” joked Lord Epworth with a grin.
He led Catherine and Michael up to the main table where they settled in for their morning’s offerings. Catherine steeled herself and somehow lasted through the hour of breakfast, followed by another two hours of conversation in Lord Epworth’s study. She understood that Lord Epworth was attempting to the best of his ability to be engaging. She simply felt no answering emotion - little interest in his never-ending stories of famous people, and a building irritation at his off-handed dismissal of her views and ideas.
By the time their discussion in the study ended, it was all that she could do to walk at a slow pace when fetching her dagger and cloak to stride out toward the main courtyard.
Catherine was not surprised when Jack fell into step beside her as she crossed beneath the archway of the main gate. The two did not speak as they walked along the cart path, easing from the sunlight clearing of the cathedral’s immediate surroundings to the lush, quiet woodland to the south. They strolled along the quiet stream for a while, then ascended the rise up to the overlook. As they walked, Catherine rolled her head along her neck, easing the tensions that had built there.
Jack glanced over with a keen eye. “Are your injuries bothering you?” he asked with concern.
Catherine shook her head no. “It is not my wounds that are giving me trouble,” she replied wearily, then bit her tongue and focused on the mossy path ahead. It was not her place to complain about Jack’s foster father to him.
