by Shea,Lisa
Her heart lightened as she walked slowly down the path, drinking in the beauty of the gardens. Her feet took her around the pond to the bridge behind it. Even the water sparkled with fresh life, and the sun became more effective in melting away the fogs and mists. She looked out across the scene with pleasure.
Her heart caught suddenly in her throat. A man was striding toward her down the long path, his rangy build and dark hair immediately recognizable to her. It was Jack. His movement was quick, sharp, and his face as he approached was darkly serious.
Catherine gripped the bridge’s railing with both hands, steadying herself. She had hoped that the week without him would have cured her of her affections, but her reaction told her that if anything the absence had made her miss him even more. He looked so strong and sure, his dark hair framing his face, curling slightly as it reached his shoulders ...
Jack came up and stopped short before her. He spoke without any preamble. “I have just gotten word,” he bit out tersely. “Shadow has brutally assassinated two men that I respected deeply - Carl and Craig. They were traveling craftsmen who moved from city to city offering assistance. Good men, good fighters.”
His face was set in a serious look. “You must tell me what you know of Shadow, and where I can find him. This heinous act needs to be avenged.”
Catherine blinked in shock, her mind whirling through her options. Jack’s mind was even more quick, and he took a step toward her. “You were not surprised,” he snapped coldly. “You knew of these murders?”
Catherine had a firm rule against lying and saw no benefit in changing that now. “Yes,” she stated simply, her voice flat. “I knew that Carl and Craig were dead.”
Jack’s gaze roiled in fury. “You knew, but did not tell anyone here? Surely you knew of their association with our cathedral,” he pressed, the anger in his voice held under a very tight rein.
“I did,” answered Catherine shortly.
Jack’s face flushed at her response. His voice was a sharp demand. “Tell me where Shadow is.”
Catherine’s back went up; she turned to square her shoulders against Jack’s, holding her ground.
“You abandon me for a week, then return to shout orders at me? I most certainly will not tell you anything about Shadow,” she retorted hotly. Fury swept over her and knew she had to leave quickly before she said something she regretted.
She turned on her heel to stride past Jack back to the cathedral.
* * *
Jack could barely hold onto the chaos of emotions which whirled within him. There she was, right in front of him, and so far out of reach. And now she was deliberately holding back information about the death of men he cared for almost as much as her?
Then she was turning her back on him, leaving him, and something snapped within him. He slammed his hand down on her left shoulder, desperate to hold her in place, to keep her there by his side. The week without her had been sheer torment …
A blur of silver streaked into his vision, and all other thoughts stopped.
Catherine had spun faster than he had thought possible. There was the cold bite of metal against his neck, the sharp edge of her dagger pressed along his jugular, and his world narrowed into a pin-point focus. He froze to instant stillness.
Catherine face had distilled to ice, and she gazed into his eyes almost without recognition. He wondered if he imagined the tremor of panic deep within her core. The pressure at his throat did not waver.
He did not breathe, did not move, acutely aware of the razor edge, of the sturdy hand which held it in place, that one small movement ...
“Good God, Jack, what the hell is going on?” came a loud, shocked voice. Peter came running up to stand beside the two, looking from one to the other. “Catherine?”
Catherine’s eyes did not move from Jack’s gaze, nor did her knife leave his neck. Her eyes were shadowed and her voice came as a flat rasp. “If you ever grab me like that again ...” she bit out, giving a slight turn to her blade. “Do you understand me?”
Jack nodded slightly, and he carefully released his hold on her left shoulder. Catherine took a step back and deftly slid the knife back into its scabbard. Without turning to look at Peter, she strode deliberately past the two men back to the cathedral.
Peter watched her go, then rounded angrily on his friend. “What in the world were you doing?” he challenged in angry confusion.
Jack took a deep breath and rested his hands on the railing of the bridge. “I just found out that Carl and Craig were slain by Shadow. Apparently Catherine knew about this and was shielding Shadow. She was protecting Shadow from me, and from justice.
Peter sorted through this information. “When did the killings take place,” he asked, pondering something.
Jack counted backwards. He suddenly went pale. “About two weeks ago,” he replied, the blood draining from his face. “Perhaps a day after we first came to Worcester.”
Peter nodded. “Which makes it a few days before Catherine arrived here, her body covered with injuries.” he agreed, continuing the thought.
Jack shook his head. “Surely there can be no way that those two men are responsible for Catherine’s wounds,” he argued with heat. “They were men I knew, men I trusted.”
Peter looked down into the pond, considering. “If it had been them, and if we assume that Shadow and Catherine have some sort of bond between them, then it would explain why Shadow would have taken such drastic action.”
Anger surged through Jack’s body. He did not know if it was because Catherine had defended Shadow against him or at the thought that the two were lovers. “I refuse to accept that Carl and Craig are involved at all in Catherine’s injuries,” he repeated firmly. “There must be another explanation.”
Peter looked over. “The only way to know is to ask,” he responded. “Maybe if we ask her together, calmly, she will be willing to at least confirm or deny any part she played in this situation.”
Jack nodded in agreement. “You are right,” he ground out in frustration, struggling to push down the jealous heat which flooded through him. “If she was in fact an innocent victim in all of this, then she deserves sympathy, not anger.” He thought back to the sword cut she had on her right arm. Surely some sort of fight had been involved to cause that kind of wound.
The two men stood on the bridge for a half hour, discussing the situation and what approach would work best. Finally they headed in to the cathedral to find Catherine.
As the two men approached the main doors, the wooden entryway was flung wide and Lord Epworth stormed out, looking around. He spotted Jack and walked straight over to him.
His voice was low and cold. “What did you say to her?” he demanded with steely anger.
Jack dropped his eyes. He did not want to involve Lord Epworth in this, but apparently the situation was escalating quickly. “My Lord, I am sorry to inform you that Carl and Craig were killed recently. I asked Catherine to provide information on the main suspect, a man from her town named Shadow.”
Lord Epworth’s eyes flicked with surprise. “That is all?” he insisted, his voice shaded with confusion.
Jack glanced at Peter, then back at Lord Epworth again. “What has happened,” he asked, concern rising in him.
Lord Epworth spread his arms wide. “She has gone. She grabbed her belongings and took off on her horse. My guards insisted she remain, but did not feel comfortable restraining her by force when she refused. Nobody knows where she has gone to, or why.”
Jack’s response was immediate. “I will go after her and bring her back,” he promised with firm resolve.
Lord Epworth’s reaction was equally quick. “You will not,” he thundered in anger. “You have already caused far too much harm to my relationship with Catherine, whether you meant it or not. Father Berram will be leaving in a few days for St. Albans, along with his novices. I want you to swear to me that you will accompany them as far as they wish to go. This will be your last duty to me as a son, fo
r I will be leaving for Ireland soon.”
At Jack’s look of hesitation, Lord Epworth’s face became stern. “Swear it,” he repeated.
Jack dropped to one knee before his foster father. “I swear it, on my honor,” he vowed. Lord Epworth turned away and strode off before Jack regained his feet.
Watching his father leave, Jack’s heart dropped. Everything was now lost. He had accosted Catherine in fury, and she had run straight back into Shadow’s arms. It was completely his own fault.
He walked past Peter without speaking and strode to the gates. He remained standing there, staring out, until his shoulders slumped and he admitted to himself that she was not going to return.
Chapter 13
Jack’s week drifted by as if he were a ghost moving amongst a world long since gone to him. His body went through the motions - eating crisp strips of bacon at breakfast, assisting Father Berram at the afternoon debates, sitting dutifully beside his foster father during the long, bleak evenings. His ears took in the melodies of Maya’s angelic voice, the rhythmic accompaniment of the frog-faced drummer. All sounds, all sensations barely registered in his mind.
Each morning he geared up and took on the guards in sparring exercises. Each afternoon he rode out with Peter on patrol of the cathedral’s lands. He recognized each fluttering movement of a branch, caught each cry of a distant stag, but none touched him.
Friday came around again. Jack stood on the fishpond bridge for a long while, gazing down at the still waters dappled by the morning sun. Catherine’s presence surrounded him, haunted him, filled him with an aching loss. She had stood on this very span of curved wood. Her fingers had laid on this very railing.
He remembered keenly how her eyes had blazed in her defense of Shadow. He could see with crystal clarity her fury when he demanded she sacrifice her loyalty.
He had grabbed her, to force her to give in to his wishes.
He had driven her straight into Shadow’s arms.
* * *
Jack barely heard the closing discussions of the debate. As he had expected, the participants resolved to press King John to reconcile his differences with the Pope. Jack had little hope of the exhortations making any real change, but it seemed to give the men in the room a sense of progress. He wondered if Catherine’s skills could have brought about a more meaningful result, and pushed the thought away wearily. There was no way to know.
The participants, joyous in their sense of success, bustled out toward the main hall. Jack followed the boisterous group with leaden feet.
A grand feast waited for them in the main hall. The tables were groaning with colorful pheasants, ripe peaches, elegant swans, and a number of rare delicacies brought in from all corners of the known world. Jack took a long sip of his mead, watching idly as Lord Epworth chattered away at Maya. The world continued to revolve and move forward just as if nothing had changed.
John’s young voice was rich with laughing energy. “Jack! Are you in there?”
Jack shook himself aware, and looked across the table at the acolyte. “I apologize,” he offered with a half-smile. “My thoughts were elsewhere.”
“Apparently so!” agreed John, taking another bite of his pheasant leg. “I was saying that Father Berram is finally ready to embark on his expedition, now that this tedious talking is all done with. He thinks tomorrow night, or Sunday at the latest, and we will be off! Is that not exciting?”
“Yes, that is good news,” agreed Jack quietly, his heart dropping. Once he left, then even if Catherine did return, he would never see her. She would meet up with Lord Epworth, the two of them would embark for Ireland, and she would be gone … gone …
Peter gave him a gentle pat on the arm, startling him from his musings.
“Would you like some company on the road?” asked his friend with quiet earnestness.
“Surely you have work here?” replied Jack, looking up at Peter with curiosity.
Peter shook his head. “Lord Epworth is almost complete with all of his preparations. I was never intending to accompany him to Ireland, and the incoming clergy already have their own soldiers and men with them. I would welcome the chance to go out for a few weeks.”
“If you truly are willing, I would be pleased to have you on the ride,” agreed Jack, a soft easing coming to his soul. “It would help to pass the time, and I could use a second sword hand.”
“Consider it done, then,” smiled Peter, clinking Jack’s mug with his own.
“I almost wish we would run into trouble on the road,” murmured Jack, downing his mead in a long draw. “The poor soldiers are asking me to ease up on my attacks during morning practice. I have a fury of energy within me, and nowhere to vent it.”
Peter chuckled wryly, nodding to his friend. “I am afraid you will have little luck on that count,” he commented quietly. “I have been paying close attention to the reports on that front. Conrad and his crew have been spotted by numerous contacts in the far north. Whatever they are up to, they seem to have turned their attention away from Berram and his book.”
Jack sighed, looking down. “I suppose that is just as well,” he agreed quietly.
* * *
Jack and Peter spent Saturday afternoon sitting at the main table with various maps of the countryside, discussing the routes they could take to St. Albans, considering how quickly to ride.
Peter’s eyes scanned over the topography. “Are they in any rush?” He tapped his lip in thought. “Father Berram certainly managed his horse when you first came here, but I am not sure we should force him to do that for a prolonged period of time.”
Jack nodded in agreement. “I think a wagon would be a better choice,” he commented. “Father Berram could ride, and the boys could either ride with him or walk as the mood struck them. You and I would bring our horses so that we could hold off any mounted attack, as unlikely as that would be.”
“What do you think, about a month?” asked Peter.
“Yes,” confirmed Jack, his eyes going over the landscape. “The boys are looking on this as a grand adventure and are no rush to see it end. Berram, as well, seems to be quite patient and would rather get there comfortably than in a frantic rush. I think that will do quite nicely.”
“I will get the kitchen to pack us some supplies,” mused Peter, “and we can restock along the way as needed.”
Jack nodded to him, and the two headed their separate directions. Jack worked his way through the stables, talking with the wagon master, ensuring all was ready for the trip. When he was done, he felt his feet leading him to the main gate, as they had done every day since Catherine had left. He stood there for a long while, staring down the road, his eyes seeking for any sign of movement down its dusty length.
There was nothing. She was gone; she was not going to return.
* * *
Sunday morning’s mass streamed by in a smooth movement of noise and motion; Jack did not hear a word of the sermon. His mind was focused on the day of travel ahead of them. In short order Jack stood with Peter in the main courtyard, the midday sun streaming down across the steady activity that filled the area. He held his horse’s reins with casual ease, looking out with growing desolation at the road beyond the main gate.
Behind him, the courtyard echoed with friendly banter as Walter, John, and Michael helped the elderly Father Berram clamber up into the sturdy wooden wagon. It was already well stocked with boxes of dried meat, baskets of apples and peaches, thick wool blankets, and other sundry items.
Jack became lost down the long road, off in the distant horizon. The preparations behind him seemed insubstantial and disconnected. So much was changing, and soon he would be gone from here, perhaps forever.
“You are sure the mercenaries are near Scotland?” he asked Peter for what must have been the tenth time in the past few days. “I have no desire to risk these men’s lives again.”
Peter patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. “We have numerous independent reports,” he stated with cert
ainty. “Whatever they are up to, they are far from here. We should easily make it to St. Albans without issue. The less guards we take, the less we attract attention.”
Jack nodded absently. It was true that bandit activity in the area had gone into a lull in the past weeks. It was as if the troublesome elements in the area had gone into hibernation, and were waiting … for what? Why were things suddenly so peaceful?
His eyes flickered - it seemed that there was a small movement in the distance. He shaded his eyes against the afternoon sun, and soon the shape of a rider, coming at a fast gallop, distinguished itself from the background. As the person approached, Jack could make out the black cloak, but nothing else. The steed was also jet black. A flash of sunlight revealed a white blazon on its head.
Jack’s eyes sharpened; his muscles rippled with tension. His hand dropped to his hilt, his fingers wrapping around the leather.
His voice was a low growl. “Shadow.”
Peter put his hand on Jack’s arm. “Wait,” he cautioned, watching the figure. The rider came closer, dropping down to a slower canter. A toss of the head threw the hood back.
Catherine.
His breath caught. He would at least be able to see her before he left. She had come back.
His eyes stayed on her as she approached. She did not slow as she came past him through the main gates, instead pulling to a hard stop near the far steps. Her entrance caused a stir; the collected crowd stopped packing the wagon and horses and turned to watch her progress with a loud murmur.
Catherine dismounted easily and unstrapped one of the small packs tied to the horse’s saddle. She carefully removed an oilskin wrapped object, then turned and scanned the courtyard area.
Spotting Lord Epworth, who was watching her with a look of surprised pleasure, she strode straight to him and curtsied deeply. “M’Lord, please let us talk for a moment,” she requested, her voice neutral. She drew him to a quiet corner of the courtyard.
