The Protector

by Becca St. John

  The door opened once more, the damp seeming to swirl about, agitated by the intrusion. She would ignore them, him, whoever dogged her steps. Ignore the shifting and settling of one onto a pew at the back. In earnest, she tried to focus on her prayers. Steadiness of mind. Calm.

  Look within, feel the silence, the lightness. Peace.

  It did not come.

  “Please, dear Lord, help me to know what I must do. How to be a wife to my husband. How to help those who suffer . . .” she murmured her prayers, trying to sink deep into them, to distance herself from any and all distractions.

  “Lady Veri?”

  Veri jumped, startled. A long, slender hand covered her mouth, holding back the gasp that verged on Veri’s lips. ‘Twas the cowled figure who had joined her, having slipped, unnoticed, into place beside her.

  Noise came from the back of the small room. Another approached. One of Roland’s spies.

  “Take this.” The cowled figure whispered, urgently thrusting a missive into Veri’s hand, looking over her shoulder as she did so.

  Veri looked from the folded, sealed parchment, up to the face cast in shadow by the hood of her cloak.

  Cynthia.

  She looked back to see Ieuan’s grim, determined approach. Without a glance, she slipped the letter up the sleeve of her gown.

  “Greetings,” she whispered to Cynthia.

  Cynthia rose, stately and tall, her hood falling back revealing a thick blonde braid falling down her back. “’Twas my wish to acknowledge my presence, though I did not mean to disturb your prayers.” She bowed her head.

  “Nay,” Veri told her truthfully, “’Tis good to see you back in your home.”

  “Until later,” Cynthia promised, a gleam in her eye, as she backed out of the pew and away from Ieuan.

  “Until later,” Veri murmured, thinking only of the letter within the tight sleeve of her tunic. It beckoned. She could not read it now. Not by the dim light. Not under Ieuan’s watchful gaze.

  Veri faced the young man with cool disdain until he, backed away, moving quietly to a place well behind his master’s mistress.

  **********

  Head bowed, Mother Rose knelt before the convent’s altar, her knees upon the cold stone floor, back straight, erect. Though no sounds came from the other sisters of Our Lady’s, Rose could hear them in her mind. She knew what prayers they murmured, for this mass was dedicated to one of their own. LadyVeri.

  “Pray, watch over her . . .”

  “Bring her back to us . . .”

  “Free her from the brute . . .”

  “Let us hear some word, any word . . .”

  All these would be intermingled with humble pleas, “may it be Your will . . .”

  Rose heard the prayers in her mind, in her heart, and knew them to be no different than her own. ‘Twas torment to know that she, alone, was responsible. She could have held Veri back, refused her return to Oakland Castle. She’d had it in her power, but allowed herself to be weakened by Veri’s pleas.

  Veri, a mere child to the world. Too naïve, too innocent. Rose had known better.

  Now they all had to live with the memory of the bedding. The memory of brutality, hatred. The child Rose had helped to raise to adulthood.

  A lesson

  The thought slipped in unbidden. Rose refused to listen. She was a woman of spirit now, as interested in the healing of the soul as the body. To reduce the trauma to a mere lesson allowed all manner of evil without censor. Some lessons were best not learned.

  So much history behind them, from the days of the Women of the Woods, the healers. They knew to abandon their work at the first murmur of witch.

  They fled.

  And in the fleeing, Veri ended at Oakland Castle, beneath the eye of Father Ignacious. Their attacker.

  What now of Veri? Could she leave? Would she? Rose could have found a way, aided her, if the Lord of Oakland had not sent them all off so quickly. He knew, had known, that Veri would not turn to him until all other allies were gone. And now, there were no allies at Oakland. None. And there wouldn’t be, until Rose did something.

  She would do something now. Take action! Anything to protect Veri, to get her safely away from Lord Roland.

  First, she would have to counter Veri’s sense of allegiance. She had taken a vow of marriage, and would not shirk such duty easily. It was that oath which drew her back to Oakland in the first place, despite the dangers.

  Though the dangers proved worse than any could have anticipated.

  “Our dearest Vervain,” Rose thought of the letter she’d composed, of the woman, Lady Cynthia, who had left with it concealed within her dress.

  Lady Cynthia, who would take the sister’s message to Veri. Ally or enemy, Rose did not know, could not assess. The woman had asked to be trained as a healer. Asked as though the sisters of Our Lady’s were of the old ones, the Women, the Healers. She could not have known, had no reason to suspect, despite having searched them out.

  There was no way for the woman to know of Veri’s or Rose’s connection with the Healers.

  “Please, dear Lord,” Rose’s prayer surfaced automatically, “do not let this woman betray us. She is my only recourse, the only one to reach our Veri. Allow us this one small blessing .”

  Head bowed Rose’s prayer murmured on as she knelt before the altar, her knees pressed upon the cold stone floor, back rigidly straight. Not once did she pray for Roland. Not once did her heart believe he was anything but evil. He had hurt her Veri. That was sin enough.

  She would wish him to hell.

  **********

  He found her in the chapel, within the dark space of prayer, though there was no mass and the small building colder still than the chambers within the castle. Ieuan stayed to the back. Veri knelt in a pew close to the altar.

  “I should not have let her leave, but she was determined, M’lord.” Ieuan said, by way of greeting.

  Roland nodded but said naught. There was no need. True, Ieuan should never leave his post outside his Lord’s chamber, but Roland would not have kept Veri from her prayers and he’d choose no other, save one of his own men, to guard her. It would have been better if Ieuan had awakened him but still, this choice was a good one. In future, Roland would have a contingent plan; someone available to go with Veri while Ieuan stayed at his post.

  Ieuan leaned in closer to his lord. “Lady Cynthia was here.” He whispered. “They spoke, though I know not what of.”

  Roland had been watching Veri, studying her stillness, thinking of her, when Ieuan mentioned Lady Cynthia. His mind snapped back to his page.

  “I want her kept away from my wife.” He ordered, feeling an overwhelming urge to pull his wife to him, study her for some bruise, some wound that his sister-in-law had inflicted. Foolish thought. If any hurt was done, ‘twould have been of the mind, not the body. A twisted word, a half-told truth, could do more damage than a broken limb.

  Though difficult, he restrained himself from interrupting her prayers.

  “How long has she been thus?” He asked Ieuan.

  “Long enough for her bones to freeze.” Was the reply.

  ‘Twas a cold and austere place with its simple stone altar and plain cross. Even the candles held little appeal. Roland had not stopped in the chapel since his return to Oakland. He was unaware of the change in the place. Once, it had been the home of much of Oakland’s wealth, with ornate candelabras, statues to the holy virgin and babe. Saint Christopher graced one alcove and tapestries covered the wall. All gone now.

  Hannah. His step-mother, severe and pious Hannah. He knew her game, had seen it often enough. One should not worship graven images. Ornate workings of gold were the base of greed. Aye, perhaps, but they were also a storage of wealth.

  Wealth, which gave Hannah a home and leisure to contemplate such devotion. The means to keep Hannah in her God- given place. Society’s hierarchy. The social scheme of things. In Hannah’s mind, God’s pleasure bore her the daughter of a wealthy lo
rd. Others he bade suffer the state of lowly peasants. God’s grace and God’s wrath. ‘Twas not her zealot’s place to change such dictates.

  Remove the wealth from the chapel, but far be it for Hannah to distribute it among the less fortunate. No, the wealth was free from Hannah’s ministry.

  Not so the child he had brought to Oakland so many years before, not so for Veri.

  “Give her to the people,” Hannah had stated. “Let her care for those of her order, but remove her from castle life!”

  Roland’s stepmother fought, ferociously, against his marriage. Veri was not meant for the life of a highborn lady. She knew not the strictures of society’s rules. She was not born to live thus. Send her back to the hut, Hannah had announced. To the hut and homespun clothes and meager supplies within the woods, with danger, danger everywhere.

  Roland’s hand fisted tightly. Could Hannah not see that Veri was sent to them, a blessing from God? It was their place to care for and protect her, to shelter her from the woes of the world.

  He’d send Veri nowhere. She was in his life by God’s own hand.

  Veri shifted, rearranging her gown so she could rise from where she knelt. The wrapping of anger that had engulfed Roland, quickly transformed into one of concern. In three strides, he was there, taking Veri’s elbow, helping her to stand.

  She spun around at his touch, looked up into his face. He wished her at ease. Could not help himself, tempted by her softness, he traced her cheek, eased her scowl, his thumb running along the furrow between her brows .

  “What is it you pray of, wife, to keep you here so still in the cold?”

  She smiled, the light in her eyes touching his soul. “I pray for you, milord. That we can find peace as husband and wife.”

  Startled by her bluntness, relief washed over him, wiping away the guilt from the night before. He pulled her close, hugging her to him, not wanting to let go. So soft, yet strong.

  “Come!” He urged, his arm wrapping around her shoulder. “Let us return and break our fast.”

  She pulled back. “Come?” She chastised. “You are always telling me to come here, go there, do this, not that.”

  Snuggling her against his side, he leaned closer, as they crossed through the chapel and to the yard beyond. “What was that you said, wife?” He requested, as though he had not heard her words, aware only of Ieuan following closely. “Tell me what it is you whisper.”

  “Nay,” she sighed, “it does not matter. You will not change such ways.”

  “What ways are those?”

  “The ways,” she teased, as she stepped in front of him, facing him with hands on hips, smile on lips, “that have you commanding me as if I were one of your soldiers.”

  Roland chuckled. “Nay, wife, I do not confuse you with a soldier.” Lifting her straight up so her feet dangled, as though she were naught but a babe, he finished, “ ‘tis more of a servant I see you as.”

  Her gasp was swallowed by the mist surrounding them, his laughter a haunting sound for those who could hear but not see. She twisted in his hold, to slap at him in mock anger, for he held her hostage within his arms, a welcome embrace.

  They laughed as Roland strode up the castle stairs, through the door Ieuan rushed to open. Veri turned her face into Roland’s shoulder, breathing in the strong scent of leather and wool and man. Embarrassment and delight warred within her as he carried her, excitement surged as she rode within the wave of his stride, quickened to the tightening of his hold.

  She was full of it, the touch, the feel, when suddenly, ‘twas gone. She was on her feet. So abruptly her legs were not yet ready to hold her upright.

  Dazed, she brushed her hair from her face to see the room full of those who had gathered to break their fast. All silent, looking at husband and wife. Veri ducked her head, shooting a quick glance at Roland, so caught by one he did not seem aware of the others.

  Tanya.

  He scowled as she sat, smiling from the lower table.

  Did you not find your husband coming from that whore’s bed? Dori taunted. That whore’s bed. The phrase ran around and around in her mind, chased by the memory of her own words. Who will you turn to for a wife, then? What woman will ease your needs?

  That whore's bed.

  As clearly as if she stood before the castle gates, Veri pictured Roland coming from the hut, Tanya’s hand clasped onto his hauberk.

  Tanya.

  Veri looked to the head table,to find Dori watching her, a cold, twisted smile upon her lips.

  Veri stood taller, straighter. Every member of this household played against her. Their cruel words, cruel jokes aimed with deadly accuracy.

  And now Roland.

  His betrayal wounded far beyond anything the others could inflict.

  They would relish her shattering, but she’d not let them break her. With a new found coolness, she left Roland’s side, walked up to the dais of the head table.

  Roland’s long strides had him there first, pulling a chair back for her, sliding it into place as she sat. For once, she was grateful for the tall back and sides of her seat, to hide within its fold, private.

  “Veri?” Roland leaned around to look at her. She lowered her head as though adjusting her skirt further, shielding her eyes from his view. “Have some meat,” he encouraged, holding out his knife with a portion of venison stuck to the end of it. As he held it thus, Veri sensed someone sit beside her. A welcome distraction. Without a word, Veri turned away from Roland’s offering .

  “Lady Veri,” Cynthia greeted.

  “Lady Cynthia,” Veri returned, remembering the letter tucked within her sleeve. She could not ask her questions now. Did not dare be open and honest within these walls.

  She rose from the table, headed for the stairs.

  “Veri?” Roland followed her, “Cynthia upset you?” He asked. “What has she done?”

  “She,” Veri told him succinctly, “has done naught wrong. ‘Tis he,” she poked at his chest, “who is my bane.”

  At his wariness, she laughed.

  “I will join you above stairs,” he told her.

  “If we must live as brother and sister, rather than husband and wife, then treat me so.” She whispered, vehemently, “You do not dog Margaret’s steps nor Doreena’s. Leave me be, as you leave them so.”

  “You are not sister to me,” he told her.

  “Aye,” she agreed, “I am less than that.”

  His chamber was empty as she felt. Closing the door on the world beyond she lent against its solid strength; head bent back, eyes shut tight.

  Boars breath!

  She kicked back at the door, shoved off to pace, like a caged beast; to the fireplace, the alcove, his bed, the door to her room.

  Her room.

  Separate, chaste.

  Lonely.

  She had no meaning here. No place. A healer not allowed to heal. A wife who was no wife. Forbidden the roles she felt most capable of fulfilling. As though she were bound with rope, her lips plied shut with cloth. She could hear, see, but could not act, was not heard.

  And he turned to another.

  Or did he?

  Learn to trust me, turn to me when any doubt arises. He had told her. Others would condemn me of sins as easily as they condemn you. ‘Tis important you not believe all you hear.

  Who will you turn to for wife? She asked. He’d not answered.

  She flung herself upon his bed, arms outstretched, cheek against the fur spread, soft against her face, soothing. Brushing her cheek along its softeness it caressed, calmed, cleared her mind of all but the gentle caress.

  What was she to do? It would have to be drastic, whatever action she took and if she failed, somehow she would have to leave. He could not have it both ways.

  “Milady?” Cwen peeked around the edge of the door.

  Veri looked up, surprised to see Cwen. She thought the girl would be downstairs attending her own meal. She said as much.

  Cwen hesitated. “I take my meals here,�
� she finally offered, hurriedly explaining, “Then I am here for you. To see to your needs.”

  “And lonely?” Veri wondered. Cwen shook her head, too quickly, too vehemently. Veri understood. She had talked to Hannah yesterday. Cwen would no longer be lonely. Maida would soon join them in their ostracism. There was comfort in numbers.

  “Well,” Veri suggested, “With the meals I miss below stairs, perhaps we should keep a dish of almonds and sweat meats within my room. Some dates and figs and bread. What do you think of such an idea?”

  “You will need a pot of beer as well Milady.” Cwen added, but Veri scrunched her face at the notion.

  “Nay, I will risk the water. The beer is not to my liking. Too bitter.”

  “The water is not always fit, M’lady. Perhaps some wine.”

  “Too sweet.”

  Cwen sighed, a slight heave of her shoulders. She would miss the beer and wine Veri thought and chuckled.

  “Aye, then, see that my bureau has pitchers of beer and wine but do not offer it to me.”

  “Nay, Milady,” Cwen argued, “’tis not necessary.”

  “It is small enough payment for the help you have been to me.”

  Cwen curtsied, “Thank you, lady Veri,” she blushed, hurrying from the room to fulfill Veri’s plan.

  Alone, finally, though Veri slipped the letter from her sleeve, looked to the lettering. It was from Rose.

  Rose.

  Shock rippled through Veri. Rose, both mother and sister, aunt and friend when they lived in the caves with the other Women of the Woods, the other healers. Now she was Mother Superior of Our Lady’s Convent.

  Rose had argued against Veri’s return to Oakland Castle, disdained the greedy concerns of worldly life that plagued the wealthy. That was not the true reason Rose wanted Veri to stay within the convent.

  “Once a woman lays with a man, his body parts hold more interest than the use of a plant.”