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Suddenly the platform shuddered, and a breath of cool air hit her face. Her eyes shot open, and she found a man balanced on the stage beside her. She stared at him, disoriented. Then she felt the ropes slipping from her wrists. "Hold on to me," he instructed. She threw her arms around him, gladly. Given his handsome visage, he could only be an angel come to deliver her soul. God had been merciful, after all. Glory be! The ropes at her ankles parted. In the next instant, the world turned upside down as the angel hefted her over one shoulder. He leaped down the face of the pyre, managing to dodge the flames. However, they bit into Merry’s wimple, threatening to singe her hair. She snatched off the headpiece and threw it down. It was then that she realized she was still alive. The angel hadn’t taken her soul, but her mortal shell as well. He jogged toward the gate, now, his hard shoulder pummeling her belly. Gasping for breath, Merry craned her neck to see the Mother pursuing them. Agnes had snatched up her braided whip and was coming after them, the abbot and priest close behind. Merry's savior beat them to the gate. He threw it open, and suddenly she was surrounded by milling horses and gleaming weaponry. "Ride," he said with authority, and the horses leapt into thunderous motion. Strong hands spanned her waist, and Merry landed jarringly upon a saddle, the sky once more above her. No sooner had she caught her breath than the prioress's voice raked over her. “Stop!” The tip of a whip whistled by her cheek, and Merry lurched back, fighting to keep her seat. “Hand her over to me at once!” the prioress insisted, threatening them both with her whip. Agnes was a formidable woman, but Merry’s rescuer was taller still, with shoulders twice as broad. He gripped his sword with accustomed ease, frowning at the Mother’s unseemly rage. Clearly he wasn’t an angel, but a warrior of some sort. His voice reached her ears, steady and dignified, as he addressed the prioress. “As the prince's right arm, madam, ‘tis my duty to intervene. You said you would be burning the bodies of the dead this morning. This girl does not look dead to me.” He flicked Merry a glance, his gaze running through her like a sword of fire. “She is dead of spirit, dead to the Church!” the prioress raged. “How dare you interfere in matters of religious concern! This witch tried to poison me!” She glared at Merry. “Indeed,” said the warrior smoothly. “Then I will convey her to the nearest abbey to be tried there. It seems to me you have forgotten whom you serve.” Conveyed where? Merry’s heart stopped dead. Nay, she could not endure a second trial! “I will not stand for it!” the Mother seethed. “What is your name? I intend to bring a formal complaint against you. How dare you breach my wall!” “’Tisn’t your wall,” the warrior corrected softly. “’Tis God’s wall. The name is Luke le Noir,” he answered. “Complain all you like, only be prepared to account for your actions if you do.” He dismissed the Mother with those words and positioned himself to mount behind Merry. The prioress drew back her whip. “Beware!” Merry cried. The sword flashed by her eye, severing the lash in two. With scarcely a pause, the warrior dropped into the saddle, pulling Merry snugly against him. They leapt into a gallop, riding into the golden trail of dust the army had left behind. A hundred paces down the road, he placed his sword across her lap. “Hold this,” he requested, taking the reins with both hands. Merry grasped the heavy weapon. Her fingers registered the smooth, cool quality of the blade, its razor sharp edge. Her senses were strangely heightened, so that the newly risen sun blinded her, the grass filled her nostrils with dusty perfume, and the wind whistled through the weave of her nun’s attire, cooling her skin. Those details roused her to the realization she was still alive! Yet she felt nothing but despair. She had come so close to death that she’d welcomed its oblivion. How much better for an angel to have taken her soul! Now, according to this man, she would be made to stand another trial. She had endured too much in her previous trial—-allegations that the devil had tricked her; questions as to the properties of herbs; how had she come by the mark on her backside—-had the devil put it there? By heaven, she was weary of it! She simply could not live through it again! A quiet rage began to burn in her, overtaking the shock of her reprieve. Merry looked wildly about her. She could see that they were gaining on the army ahead of them. It hadn’t escaped her notice that her rescuer wore no armor. Finally, she looked down at his sword, lying across her lap. She curled her fist around the odd-shaped pommel. The steel had been beaten into the shape of wings. If only she had wings herself to fly away! It wouldn’t be right to kill the one who’d saved her. Neither could she wound him, though it might allow her to thrust him off his horse and gallop away. Still, where would she go after that? The prince’s soldiers would be on her in an instant. ‘Twould be easier just to kill herself. The rolling movement of the horse alone might send the point sliding between her ribs. God’s teeth, only the sword was too long! She struggled a moment, extending the pommel as far as she could. The tip slipped under her arm, pricking the man behind her. “What are you doing?” He wrenched the sword from her grasp. At the same time, he brought the horse to a sudden standstill. Merry relinquished the weapon to the man’s stronger grasp. She should have known oblivion would not come easily. And now she’d angered him. She cringed, preparing herself for a blow. “Were you trying to kill yourself or me?” he demanded incredulously. Having slid his sword beneath a strap on his saddlebag, he captured her jaw and angled her head back so that she was forced to meet his gaze. The strength in his fingertips astounded her. She realized he could break her neck without calling upon even a portion of his power. A familiar terror rose up in her and seized control of her muscles. His motives for saving her could not be pure. No man was that noble. She gained her freedom by sliding abruptly from the saddle. Unmindful of her bruised knees, she scrambled up again, deaf to the warrior’s command that she stop. The dry grasses pricked her feet like thousands of needles. She could not understand why it pained her so to run, but her usual speed was hindered. She felt only dismay, not surprise, when two powerful arms snatched her from behind and lifted her off her feet. She kicked him mightily, making painful contact with his armored hose. After a moment of useless struggle, she realized she was wasting her strength. Better to conserve it for a later time. She went suddenly limp. How miserable her existence, she marveled. She’d avoided being raped by her stepfather and beaten by the prioress only to face ruin at the hands of a warrior too powerful to overcome. Now she was at his mercy. What she knew of such men, she had learned first hand. They were bloodthirsty barbarians who used women ruthlessly and cast them aside. Her own mother had been raped by such a man. “If you force me,” she warned, calling upon the unique defense that had kept her chaste this long, “your member will shrivel and fall off, I swear it. I am a powerful sorceress,” she added raggedly, “and you will rue the day you ever did me harm!” |
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