Badge of Honor - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 10)

by Shea,Lisa

  Even as they fell, Jack was hurtling toward her, sweeping her up in his arms, pulling her away from the two men. Peter slid in front of the pair, watching both falling bodies, alert for any counter attacks.

  The room echoed in silence as the watchers stared open-mouthed. The two fallen men lay still in the center of the room, not moving. Leaving the ring of onlookers, Lord Xavier strode forward to check the bodies, stopping by first one, then the other. He glanced up at Peter. “Fetch the guards. They may yet live, and it will be a great pleasure to see them answer for their crimes.” Peter was gone in a flash, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

  Catherine clung to Jack, shaking in his embrace. It was several long moments before she opened her eyes. She looked up into her lover’s gaze, weariness threatening to overcome her.

  “I love you, and there will never be any other in my life,” she vowed, all else fading from view.

  Jack tenderly kissed her on the forehead, her cheek, her neck where the thin line of red ached. “I will always be there for you,” he whispered. “No matter what, I will come for you.”

  Catherine closed her eyes, and the world fell away.

  Chapter 26

  Catherine drank in the warmth of the inn’s dining room, leaning forward to clink a toast to her friends around the table. Lord Xavier and Nicholas drew down the last of their ale in a long pull.

  Lord Xavier shook his head. “Really, my dear, we must be off,” he teased with a chuckle. “I have many things to tend to.” His eyes moved to his side. “I am sure Nicholas here wants to get back to his darling Zoe.”

  Nicholas’s reply was instant. “I will stay as long as Catherine needs me,” he vowed, but Catherine saw the longing in his eyes and knew at once how he felt.

  “You two get on your way,” she encouraged with a soft smile. “You have done more than I could have ever asked for. It is thanks to your efforts that we were able to get through this.”

  She stood and moved around to hug each man fondly in turn. The group moved out the door, and in a short while they were waving as the two men moved out of sight.

  A familiar bear of a man strode down the street toward them, and Catherine nodded in greeting as Sir Magnor came up before the inn. His face had lost its stubborn glare, and now held a hint of abashed shame.

  “It seems I was taken for a fool,” he admitted to the two in a quiet voice, “but there may be some good to come out of all of this yet. I have talked with the council at the Abbey, and they have agreed to use my land to set up a scholastic center. They will keep it safe from King John’s prying hands, and ensure it does not fall victim to whoever moves in to take control of Raymond’s lands.”

  He nodded to Jack. “I believe that young religious friend of yours, John, will be in charge of some of that operation. They find he has a good mix of religious knowledge and soldiering skills.”

  “Good for him,” grinned Jack. “I am sure he will do very well.”

  Magnor’s eyes moved wearily to hold Catherine’s. “That only leaves your Bowyer lands to keep safe,” he muttered. “I am afraid I do not have the manpower to help with that.”

  “Do not worry,” replied Catherine, looping her arm through Jack’s with easy grace. “We will cover that end, I believe.”

  Magnor looked between the two, then nodded, offering his forearm to Jack. Jack took it with a strong grip, and then Magnor was turning, walking back down the street toward his inn.

  Catherine watched him go, then turned thoughtfully to head back into the main room. She had not spoken to Jack of any future plans, and she found her throat growing tight, wondering what he had hoped for, what he expected. She knew where her own dreams lay.

  She sat at the large table in the room’s center, and in a moment Jack and Peter flanked her, with Susan and Marcie filling out the remaining chairs. The innkeeper brought over bowls of chicken stew without waiting to be called, laying pints of ale next to each serving. A fire roared in the fireplace, and Catherine ate slowly, the gentle normalcy of the place infusing into her bones. The world would go on. It was time to start thinking about the future.

  “I realize there is not much left to Bowyer,” she mused, staring into her tankard. “Even so, I find myself wanting to return there. With King John’s difficulties, there will be an even greater need than usual for diplomacy and negotiation skills to represent the poor and the weak. If we can set up even a building or two, we can offer that training to those who seek it.

  Marcie smiled gently at her friend. “These students will need something to eat,” she offered. “I could set up an inn, providing room and board for those who wished to come to learn.”

  Susan looked shyly at Peter, and Catherine realized that the two were sitting close together, almost touching on the bench. She wondered how she had missed this before, that the two had seemingly become a couple under her nose. “We could set up a market area for traders,” added Susan cautiously, “If we could somehow offer safe passage, this would draw in commerce as well. The roads still cross through our town, and it is convenient for many reasons.

  Peter spoke up. “It would be my pleasure to help undo some of the damage that has been wrought.”

  Catherine turned to Jack, and found herself lost in his grey eyes, so full of intelligence and strength. He reached into his tunic, drawing out the leather thong, revealing the small carven snowdrop. Marcie and Susan smiled in recognition, nudging each other with a smile.

  “I have gotten my wish, after all,” he murmured, leaning forward. He ran his hand tenderly down the side of her face. “You know where I will be,” he vowed. “By your side, wherever you choose to go. Together I am sure we can rebuild your forces, train a guard to keep the lands safe, and draw people in to begin anew. After all, Father Jeffrey and the Tanners need somewhere safe to start over, and we could use a church.”

  Catherine’s eyes dropped to the brown ring she had worn all these months.

  He followed her gaze, taking her hand in his, lowering his mouth tenderly to press a kiss on it. His voice came out smoky with passion. “Only another eleven months and eight days until our engagement period is over,” he added with a smile.

  Catherine raised her glass to Jack in a toast, and the others joined in without a word. She smiled at him, then turned and gazed at each friend in turn. She thought about the trials they had passed through, and her heart filled with hope at the new future they could forge together.

  Their scars had made them stronger; had branded them as survivors. As long as they stayed together, and worked as a team, she knew they would succeed.

  “To honor,” she offered, raising her glass high.

  The words echoed all around her, and her gaze swept to join with Jack’s. She became lost in the depths, and she knew that she had finally found everything she sought in life.

  At last warm laughter from the next table over shook her out of her spell. She looked over and smiled. There was a woman about her age sitting with an older woman who might have been a beloved aunt. The two were laughing and joking together. The younger woman had a scabbard at her hip.

  The older woman said, “I tell you, Morgan, I am just so glad I have you as my bodyguard. The men I’ve worked with in the past simply did not understand my rhythms or interests. You are a sheer delight.”

  Morgan grinned with pleasure. “Donna, I’m just glad someone appreciates my skill with the sword!” She shook her head, drawing the sword out of the scabbard and laying it on the table. “But I swear, what they say about the cobbler’s child going barefoot is absolutely true! My father is so backlogged with work for others that I’ll never get this sword back in good shape. And then where will we be if some bandit prince wants to run off with you?”

  Donna grinned. “It all depends on how handsome he is.”

  The two burst into gales of laughter.

  Catherine’s heart was warmed. There were indeed other female sword fighters out there in the world, and they were finding their way. The more
the women all supported each other, the more respect they would build.

  She wished Morgan all the best of luck in her quest.

  There was a hum at Catherine’s hip.

  She looked down to the sword she carried – the one given to her when she was a lost child of thirteen. At the time, she had barely understood what Joan had told her about the sword. She’d been more fascinated by Joan’s travels in the Holy Land and her exploits in saving innocents.

  But one phrase did ring in her mind –

  Do not become too fond of Andetnes. When you have at last found contentment, there will be another whose fate balances on the point of a pin. You will know when it is right. And the sword will have a new mistress.

  Catherine nodded. She’d had Andetnes for thirteen years now. It had seen her through all her training. It had helped her win the tournament against Raymond. It had kept her safe countless times as Shadow.

  She smiled and unwrapped the hilt, removing her emblem from within it. She could select another sword for her remaining years as reeve. This one had brought her the man she loved – and her best friends at her side. It had seen her through trials and tribulations.

  It was time to let a fresh set of hands wield it.

  She smiled and called over to the two women. “Morgan, Donna, my name is Catherine Bowyer. I would love for you to join us. I think we have much to talk about!”

  * * *

  The Sword of Glastonbury series continues with Book 11, Seeking the Truth -

  http://www.amazon.com/Seeking-Truth-Medieval-Romance-Glastonbury-ebook/dp/B006GIYE5W/

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  As a special treat, as a warm thank-you for reading this book and supporting the cause of battered women, here’s a sneak peek at the first chapter of Seeking the Truth.

  Seeking the Truth - Chapter 1

  England, 1212

  Happiness depends upon ourselves.

  -- Aristotle

  Morgan wriggled her way through the bar’s noisy throng, a feisty salmon struggling against the almost overpowering current, heading always upstream, driven by her instincts. She paused a moment to take a long draw from the tankard of ale in her hand, balancing the other two mugs close against her waist, her hand strung through their handles. A boisterous farmer bumped into her as she weaved past a heavy oaken table, and she laughed as she hip-checked him back into place. The rowdy crowd was certainly enjoying the harvest celebration. The sun had barely slipped past the horizon and already half of the pub seemed well on its way toward drunken abandon.

  She plunked herself down on a worn stool, sliding the tankards out across the small round table with practiced ease to her two friends. The men called out their thanks, grabbing at their ales and each downing half the mug in a smooth motion.

  Christian grinned up to her. “You are a saint, Morgan,” announced the red-head, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Sure, and you get the next round,” she joked merrily, pushing her long, jet black hair back from her face with one hand. The men were still wearing their guard uniforms, having come right from watch duty to join in the festivities. Morgan knew Lady Donna’s keep was well enough protected – there were plenty of guards still left on the walls. Her friends deserved some time off. It was harvest, after all. A season to relax, to have some fun.

  She rolled her head, loosening the ache from her shoulders and neck, taking another long draw on her ale as the chaos of the place washed over her with comfortable familiarity. The pub was normally ample for its patrons, but tonight it was overflowing with the crowd, both with the farmers celebrating their crops and the soldiers in from London. It made for a tightly-packed night.

  “And just why are those outsiders here?” she asked Christian, looking over at the soldiers. She’d grown up in Shamley Green, knew every man, woman, and child here. The trio of well-built men stood out like hawks in a flock of sparrows.

  “Something about a funeral for a friend of theirs,” responded Christian, barely sparing a glance for the newcomers, his eyes warm on her face. “Felix said they should be in town for another few days, perhaps. They are staying down at the inn.”

  “Was there bandit action in the area?” Morgan pressed, her interest sparking. Maybe she could talk with Lady Donna, get some time off from her bodyguard duties.

  Christian was shaking his head, sending his red curls dancing. “Nothing so exciting,” he calmed his friend, his eyes twinkling. “Rumor has it that the man got on the wrong side of a loan shark and was put out of his misery.”

  Morgan sighed. It was always the same; nothing exciting ever happened around here. She put the strangers out of her mind, rolling her shoulders again; that stubborn ache in her neck just would not ease. She turned to her right, to the man who leant back in watchful relaxation. She swatted playfully across the top of his brush-cut blond hair, riffling the gently greying tips. “So, Oliver, what about putting that medical training of yours to some good use?” she teased him with a smile.

  He arched an eyebrow, then slid a hand behind her back, unerringly kneading at the knot immediately above her shoulder blade. She sighed softly in pleasure.

  God’s teeth, but he was a good man to have handy at the end of a long, wearying day.

  Then, suddenly, he stopped. She looked up with a toss of her head, protest on her lips.

  Oliver was staring over at the bar, his eyes sharp. Morgan glanced over and saw that Felix, the portly barkeep, was waving one hand toward their table with a wry grin. His red nose practically shone in the dusk as he nodded his head to the right. Morgan followed the look and spotted one of the elderly farmers tottering to his feet, a look of outrage on his face.

  Morgan could barely hear his curse over the din of the room. “How dare you say your turnips are better than mine!”

  Morgan felt Christian begin to rise beside her and patted him playfully on the arm. “You two hold tight; I will be right back,” she promised, draining her ale. “Sometimes a woman’s touch is what is called for.”

  “You certainly have that touch,” agreed Christian with a smile, his eyes sweeping her curvaceous form with appreciation. Morgan leant over the table for a moment, dipping the front of her scarlet dress lower than necessary as she swept up the empty tankards, winking at Christian as his grin grew wider. Then she was turning, dropping the mugs off for refills as she swept past the bar on the way to the corner table.

  “Come now, Jonas,” she called out to the balding farmer as she came up alongside him, “I think it is time for you to head on home.” Offering a friendly smile, she tucked her arm in against his. Jonas seemed caught between his pride in his produce and the well-built woman who was insinuating herself against his side. The latter won out, and he turned, his face glowing.

  Morgan chuckled. “Let us get you home to your wife,” she suggested, walking him to the door. She dropped her voice down a notch. “Besides, I am sure everyone here knows that your turnips are the best in the county. Let that braggart make a fool of himself if he wishes.”

  Jonas’ face shone with pride, and he nodded blearily in agreement. Morgan released him as they got out into the dark street, watching fondly as he ambled his way down the dirt road toward his small cottage. The noise rang out behind her, but the houses were peacefully quiet as they spread out in three directions, lights from candles and fires glowing softly in several windows.

  Morgan glanced toward the end of the street, toward the two-story building which housed her parents. The forge would be quiet now, but she knew it would not be silent in the home. Her father
and mother were undoubtedly at it again, raging over some perceived slight, some invented ill. No, she would not be heading home until well near dawn. Thank all that was holy that she was due back at the keep tomorrow afternoon and her short visit was nearly at an end.

  Pushing her family out of her mind with well-practiced effort, she turned and dove head-first in the roiling chaos of the mob. She saw the fresh tankards waiting for her on the scuffed bar top and began weaving her way through to retrieve them.

  She was jostled hard to the left by the tumultuous crowd, staggered, and a spray of liquid misted her arm. She looked down at her stained dress with a wry smile, wiping herself down as she turned.

  It was the soldiers from London, their dark green uniforms crisp and neat, an island of order in the stormy sea of muddy turmoil. The man she had hit was shaking drops off his hand, a small metal cup on the table now only three-fourths full. She sized him up in a long glance. He seemed perhaps thirty, his body long and rangy, well-muscled beneath his tunic. His chestnut hair was cut relatively short, brushed back from his face, emphasizing his strong cheekbones, his grey eyes flecked with gold.

  One of his companions looked over. “Hey, lass, fetch us another round of ale,” he called out, his speech slightly slurred. Morgan turned her gaze with mild annoyance. This soldier was more muscular, about the same age as the first man, his birch-brown hair cut close to his head. He stared with hazy interest at her buxom form spilling out of the close-fitting dress she wore, then slid his look back up to her face. “Be quick about it and there might be a nice bonus in it for you,” he added suggestively. He glanced over at the well-built man she had hit. His voice became slightly more formal “Did you want a refill on your mead, Sean?” he asked the man.