Dark Warrior (3 page)

“At the moment we have only each other.”

He was right and, to let him know she agreed, placed a gentle hand over his. They fell asleep and soon were wrapped together like lovers.

“Wake up, Mary,” a harsh voice whispered in her ear. “Wake up now.”

She thought she was dreaming, feeling snug in her warm cocoon and not wanting to leave it. She bristled as the arm around her squeezed tighter.

Something is wrong.

Her eyes opened wide, daylight had just broken, the night inching back into the shadows.

“Someone approaches.”

She listened but heard nothing.

“I need to see who it is. You must remain here and not make a sound.”

She squeezed his arm in response. As he left their shelter, she quietly moved closer to the door so that she could see if the intruders approached. She could not leave her safety completely in his hands. What if something happened to him? She had to be ready to defend herself and to flee if necessary.

The sun continued to rise, chasing the night away along with the shadows that so often haunted the woods. She wondered about Michael's safety. The night was his friend, the daylight his enemy. Where would he hide?

She thought she heard a rustle of leaves and saw a movement in the thick brush. She remained still and listened then heard it again.

Someone is out there.

Her heart beat wildly, fright sent gooseflesh racing over her body. She feared being returned to Decimus. His insidious reputation as an inquisitor caused dread among the innocent and guilty alike, his power coming from on high—the Church.

She did not fear death, her father's beliefs having taught her it was a beginning not an end. It was the senseless suffering that Decimus inflicted on his victims that frightened her.

The rustle of bushes and sudden appearance of a man had her catch her breath and hastily place a hand to her pounding heart. She recognized him, tall and hefty, with a face that would win no hearts; he was the man who had caught her in the woods and choked her.

He approached the shed quietly and apprehensively, casting cautious glances around him. He kept his hand firm on the hilt of his knife in the sheath secured to his belt.

Mary kept a steady watch on him, wondering where Michael had gone. She grew nervous as the man inched closer to the shed, not certain of what to do should he attempt to enter. She could not cry out but remained helpless. She looked around for a weapon when a movement outside caught her eye.

Michael appeared without warning, had the man down on his knees and his hands around his neck. Where he had come from she could not say. It was as if he appeared magically from out of nowhere. The thought made her shudder.

The two men exchanged words and then suddenly the captured man reached out and, with one swift blow to the leg, took Michael to the ground.

Mary watched horrified as the two men rolled and punched and fought like vicious animals ready to kill. One minute Michael seemed the victor, the next minute the other man would have the upper hand, and so it continued until Mary thought it would never end. Then in one instant the man reached for Michael's mask and tore it aside.

Mary could see only the man's reaction, as Michael's back faced her. The man grew pale, his eyes widened in horrible fright, and his mouth dropped open as though he was ready to scream for mercy, but then, as though he gave it second thought, he lunged for Michael.

With swift hands Michael deflected his attack, grabbed him around the neck and with a quick jerk broke it.

M
ary was stunned silent. She had seen death through illness, but never had she seen one man take another man's life. And never had she seen a man kill to protect her. She shuddered, her stomach quivered, and she closed her eyes, offering a quick prayer for both men.

With her eyes open again, the shock and horror on the man's face when he looked upon Michael played before her eyes. She could not imagine what caused this terrifying reaction, and the thought that she was dependent on a stranger who brought such fear made her shiver. Had she placed her safety in a savior or the devil's hands?

Michael rushed through the open door. “We need to leave now.”

He reached down to where Mary crouched on the floor, grabbed her arm, yanked her to her feet and out into the bright sunlight. Mary saw no signs of the man's body as Michael hurried her into the woods, but then he would not be foolish enough to leave the dead man in plain sight.

A few feet into the woods, Michael stopped and snatched up several stones.

“Keep these with you in case we are separated.” He shoved them into her hand. “We must move quickly and put as much distance as possible between Decimus's men and us.”

She nodded vigorously to let him know she understood, placed the stones in the hem of her sleeve. They would need to keep a steady pace and probably continue on into the night. She had to remain strong whether she had the stamina or not.

He stepped in front of her to lead the way, hesitated a moment and turned his shroud-covered head to her. “Your legs, are they strong enough?”

She responded with a faint smile; she was not at all certain if her weak legs would hold her.

“No harm will come to you.” His voice was harsh and confident.

He turned and walked ahead, his strides powerful yet silent. As Mary followed behind him, ignoring the pain in her legs and back, she realized he moved like a shadow, weightless and fearless of his surroundings, avoiding the bright sunlight as much as possible, choosing instead the dense part of the woods where sunlight fought to penetrate the thick, leafy canopy. He was at home here, the shadows welcoming friends who embraced and protected.

Michael seemed intent on keeping their arduous pace; he showed no signs of fatigue. She wondered how his black garb did not become burdensome when the sun pierced the heavy foliage and grew more potent with the day.

She wished she could call out to him to let him know she needed water and food. A sprinkle of perspiration marked her forehead. If she could pin up her long hair, pull it off her back and neck, it would be a welcoming relief. And rest—oh, how she wished she could rest if only for a moment.

He stopped suddenly and Mary almost collided with him. He stood still and listened, and she did the same, hoping to hear what had caught his attention, praying it was not footsteps.

It took a moment but she heard the familiar sound and smiled. It was faint but distinct—a brook or stream. She wanted to run fast, cup handful after handful of water to drink and splash on her face. She eagerly turned, ready to find the stream.

Michael took hold of her arm. “We must be careful. Any who travel will look for water to refresh themselves and we must not be seen.”

They made their way cautiously toward the sounds and, after Michael made certain they were alone, walked to the stream.

Mary immediately dropped down, cupped some water and did not stop drinking until her thirst was quenched. Then she proceeded to wash her face. The water felt refreshingly cool against her warm skin.

From the corner of her eye she saw Michael scoop water into his ungloved hand and drink. This was the first time she caught a hint of flesh. She was surprised to see that his skin was warm in color, not pale as one would expect, as he spent his days completely shrouded from the sun.

He finished quickly, reached for the glove beside him on the ground, and stood. “I will find food.”

She nodded eagerly and returned to rinsing her face with the cool water. When she finished she combed her tangled hair with her fingers as best she could. Mary then looked for a twig; picking one off the ground, she twisted her hair up onto her head and threaded the sturdy stick through the knot. She retrieved from the loose hem her stones, then fashioned a pouch with the corner of her tunic, knotting it to keep the them in place. She tucked one stone in her belt, ready and handy to use when necessary. She felt refreshed.

Michael was standing beside a tall tree. He stood perfectly still and seemed as focused on her, or perhaps his attention was on something in the distance, beyond Mary.

She turned but saw nothing, and when she glanced back to Michael she jumped; he stood beside her. She held her palm out, walked her fingers across it then pointed to her ears and shook her head.

“Silent steps are necessary for me.” He held out his cupped hands filled with berries.

Mary took a handful and savored their sweet juice.

“We will rest for only a few moments; we have a distance to go and cannot waste time.”

Mary nodded, walked to the water's edge to sit and give her weary legs rest. Michael joined her, offering the remaining berries. A tender smile showed her appreciation and she reached out, gently brushing the berries from his hand into hers. She stared at his glove-covered hand realizing that strength and tenderness rested there. He could pick delicate berries without crushing them, and yet the same hand could snap a man's neck. He was a contrast of shadow and light and she could not help but wonder what had created him.

She wished she could speak, ask him questions. A sudden thought struck her and she looked around excitedly, reached for a stick nearby. Then she wrote in the dirt in front of them.

Why?

She pointed at him, her finger going up and down the length of him.

“Why do I conceal my identity?”

She nodded.

“If people could look upon the Dark One, he would be dark no more. And he could help no one.”

Why help?

He did not answer immediately. He turned his head away and answered harshly. “I have no choice.” He stood and held his hand out to her. “We must go.”

She dropped the stick and took his hand. She had touched on a subject he did not wish to discuss, did not wish to reveal. Strange, they were so much alike. They both hid. She from Decimus, but who did he hide from?

Her thoughts were soon directed to her footsteps, the terrain having grown more difficult. Small hills, fallen trees, large stones that needed to be climbed, avoided, or walked around slowed their pace, as did her tired aching muscles. Just before nightfall they stopped briefly to eat roots collected along the way. Mary wished for any bed, even the hard ground to rest upon, but it was not to be. They continued on, darkness closing in around them. Mary tripped several times, unable to clearly see the path. Finally, she almost tumbled to the ground but Michael quickly caught her. She dropped her head tiredly to his chest.

He wrapped his arm around her for support. “I know you are worn out, but there is a cave a few more miles ahead and we can rest safely there.”

It felt good to rest her weight against him, if only for a moment. But she had to remain independent, reliant on herself, no matter how exhausted she was. She reluctantly eased herself off him. Then they continued, Michael at a hardy pace, she keeping up—surprising for two people who had been walking since daybreak. Neither uttered a word, focusing all their energy on steady and persistent footsteps.

Nearly two hours passed before they arrived at the cave. It was small, dark, and cold. Mary shivered. She rubbed her arms, longing for a fire to warm her bones. Michael cloaked his robe around her. “I will not take a chance and light a fire, though I do not think anyone has followed us this far; I will not risk it.”

Mary fought against dropping against him to rest again, but since she had not an ounce of strength left, it took only seconds for her body to betray her. She slumped against him, surrendering with her entire weight.

“Sit and rest while I go find soft brush to fashion a bed,” he urged. “We must sleep and have much land to cover tomorrow.” Then he lowered her exhausted body to the ground.

Mary's aching legs were grateful for the reprieve. As she rubbed the sore muscles she gave thought to Magnus. Would he join them soon or were she and Michael completely on their own?

Michael returned shortly with an armful of pine branches to find Mary writing in the dirt floor. He laid out the brush, then looked to see what she had written.

Magnus here soon?

Michael explained. “I am to see to your safety until I can contact him. He will then decide what is to be done with you. He is a good friend and cares very much what happens to you.”

Mary hung her head, her shoulders slumped, and she sighed heavily.

Michael bent down in front of her, slipping his glove-covered finger beneath her chin and lifting it gently. “Magnus will make certain that you have a safe place to live.”

She shook her head. As long as Decimus lived she would not be safe. She stretched out on the bed of pine.

“Your fatigue brings disillusionment. You will feel stronger in the morning.” He lay down beside her.

Strength
. Her parents' death had given her strength. One night she was a young girl with a loving family, the next night she had no one and faced torture and death. She remembered how she had cried when Magnus told her they were dead, that she would have to leave her village, go far away. She had cried until there were no more tears to cry, and then she got angry. She swore that one day she would make Decimus suffer for what he had done, but that was a young girl's hurt and pain speaking.

How would she make him suffer? Perhaps she has been, by eluding capture. The thought gave her comfort.

“Sleep, Mary,” Michael said and turned on his side to drape his cape over her. “I will let nothing happen to you.”

She sighed softly, pressed her fingers to her lips and then pressed them to his lips, an innocent gesture of gratitude.

And as she drifted off to sleep she thought she smelled a familiar scent again, one she could not identify but which seemed to be the key to a special memory.

T
hey slept well into the next morning and it was not until midday that they continued their journey. Clouds hurried overhead only minutes after they began walking, and Mary hoped the rain would wait; a muddy path made travel all the more difficult.

A good night's rest had helped and her legs felt strong today. Michael had told her that if they kept a steady pace they could reach their destination after nightfall. There they would have hot food and a soft bed. The thought gave her strength and she was determined to keep pace with him.

He was agile for a man who appeared burdened with heavy garments and a mask. If she was not aware that the face-covering was of a thin material, she would have wondered if it were magic that allowed him to walk the road so confidently. And his harsh voice allowed for no insight into his true nature, and often fostered fear.

He hid his identity well. There was no telling who this man was, even his true height went undetected; a slight hunch always with him.

Yet Mary could not help but wonder over her rescuer's identity. Were his facial features also harsh? Was he so hideous that people recoiled in fear?

She knew nothing of him and attempted to piece together what she could. He was brave and unselfish, placing himself in danger to help her. But he was also confident in his ability to protect her. She wondered how often he protected the innocent and if it was a service he provided for a fee. Keeping his identity hidden was a wise choice, for then he could walk freely among the masses without fear of capture. He could actually live two separate lives, unless of course this shroud concealed a badly scarred face and body.

Michael turned suddenly, startling her. “Men and horses nearby.” He took her hand and dragged her off the path. He found an area dense with shrub and forced his way in, pulling her in behind him. It was a tight squeeze with little room. They huddled together between thick branches, the thorny leaves poking at their arms, legs, and faces. One pricked like a fine bone needle at her neck. The riders were closer now so she knew she could not move. She remained as she was and soon felt the first drop of blood drip down her neck.

She could hear the men grumbling as they guided their horses over the rough terrain. She wondered if they searched for her or if they were thieves who preferred a trail less traveled.

It seemed a very long time before their voices drifted away; even then she did not move. There was no telling if men straggled behind. She and Michael remained as they were, bodies pressed against each other. She realized she was growing accustomed to their closeness. She knew it was not proper for a man's body to be so close to hers unless of course it was her husband's. She recalled when she was young how she and the other young girls in the village would giggle over the lads' attempts to impress them. Those giggles had ceased when she had been brought to Ireland. She had been too fearful of strangers to share in the village activities so she had kept herself, isolated from people. As she matured she made a few friends, but mostly with people who could teach her things—the bowman, the healer, the metal smith. She had felt the need to protect not only herself but also the aging couple, James and Nona, who had so generously opened their home to her.

Michael stirred and she was quickly brought out of her musings. It was time for them to go and he parted the thick branches for her.

She stepped out and placed her hand to her neck to see to her wound.

“You are hurt.”

He sounded angry as he examined her wound but gently wiped away the blood, his glove-covered finger lingering on her neck. This tenderness was in such contrast to his harshness. A touch barely detectable, a faint whisper across her skin. Gooseflesh raced over her.

She gently pushed his finger away and shook her head, letting him know it was nothing to be concerned with, then pointed to the direction where the men had disappeared.

“We must change our course. We cannot risk meeting those men along the trail. It will delay our arrival time by several hours and the terrain will prove burdensome at times.”

She shrugged; she understood there was little choice.

“Think of the food and soft pallet you will rest upon tonight; it will be the impetus that keeps you going.”

Was that a note of teasing in his harsh voice? She hoped so, for it made him more human.

Several hours later she fought tears and exhaustion. There was no trail to follow. They climbed hills, scaled rocks, descended into valleys and climbed out of them. She barely felt her legs, and her arms ached from pushing away branches and grasping them to help her climb. She had thought she ached before but never like this, never had she felt so compelled to drop to the ground and give up.

“A short distance more.”

He had encouraged her with those words time and time again, but now they only meant more endless walking and climbing. And when she thought things could not get worse, night fell and darkness rushed around them.

The barely visible path was now impossible to see, nor could she see Michael, his black garments blending with the night. He finally stopped and, standing on the edge of a slope, he pointed down into the valley.

She wished she could cry out with joy when she saw the small village, lights glowing from the cottage windows.

He took her hand and helped her descend into the valley. As they got closer she caught the scent of roasting meat and heard laughter and children playing, and she wanted to run and join them, leave her fears behind.

By the time they reached the first cottage her mouth was watering from the delicious scents. She was exhausted in body and mind. They were greeted with enthusiasm, almost as if the villagers were expecting him.

They were ushered into a cottage, the children shooed away while the adults busily saw to getting them food.

Mary grabbed for the pewter tankard offered her, the smell sweet. She relished the pleasure of the brew's thirst-quenching taste and the way it soothed her sore throat.

A short, stout woman introduced herself as she replenished Mary's tankard. “I am Glenda and it is pleased we are to have you here.”

Mary quickly drank more of the soothing brew, her eyes turning wide in appreciation.

Glenda patted her shoulder. “We know you cannot speak. Rest your voice and do not worry. You are safe here with us.”

Mary eagerly reached for a thick hunk of dark bread to dip in the pot of stew placed in the center of the table. The delicious aroma made her salivate and she wanted to sigh at the exquisite taste.

“Rabbit stew,” Glenda said. “Enjoy, there is plenty, and when you are finished I will help you wash up if you would like?”

Mary was quick to nod her head. Tired as she was she wanted to rid herself of the dirt and grime and climb into bed clean and refreshed, ready to begin anew.

She looked over to Michael talking with a man in the corner of the cottage. The man looked old and worn though Mary could not say it was from age. His long red hair held not a hint of gray, his body appeared strong but weary. The curve of his shoulders showing he once carried heavy loads. He was worn out and worn down as though stamped on repeatedly until it was impossible for him to stand up.

She looked at Glenda and the other woman helping her, Patricia someone had called her. The two women possessed the same worn looks as the man, as though life had been harsh on them, especially Glenda. Deep lines and wrinkles intruded on a pretty round full face and bright blue eyes; a scar marred the right side of her jawbone. She may have been young in age, but she had been aged by life.

Mary sopped up the stew with piece after piece of bread, Glenda and Patricia encouraging her to eat as much as she wished.

Michael joined her at the narrow table and ate sparingly. He was quick to excuse himself explaining he had matters to attend to. Mary waved her arm to let him know she would be fine. She was enjoying the food and was not ready to stop eating. She looked forward to feeling clean again and a bed, a real bed with a warm blanket— Her thoughts had rushed to a halt. Michael would not be sleeping beside her tonight. She needed his warmth no more, but the safety and comfort of his arms was a different matter.

Michael hesitated at the door. “Glenda and Patricia will see to your needs.”

“Aye, she will be fine,” Glenda said, her smile generous.

Patricia agreed with a nod and Mary noticed how thin and pale the young woman looked, almost as if it had been some time since she had last eaten.

Glenda must have thought the same for when Michael left along with William, the man he had been speaking with, she encouraged Patricia to eat.

“You barely touched your meal; share the stew with Mary.”

Mary nodded eagerly and held out a hunk of bread to the thin woman.

Patricia hesitated until Glenda nudged her to take the bread and sit at the table.

“We will all share the meal and enjoy the delicious brew Patricia made,” Glenda said, filling tankards for them all.

Mary held up her tankard, smiled, and nodded to let Patricia know how much she enjoyed the drink.

Patricia gave a meek smile.

“Herbs and flowers,” Glenda said. “She does not share the secret of her mix with us, but she is generous in preparing it for everyone.”

Glenda continued to do most of the talking and Mary tried not to yawn between mouthfuls, but fatigue was fast overpowering her and soon she would not have the strength to lift her goblet.

“Patricia, go see if you can find a nightdress for Mary while I help her wash.” The young woman hurried off.

Glenda soon had the table cleaned and a bucket of water and cloth brought in for Mary's use. She did not ask permission to help, she simply took charge and in minutes had Mary out of her tunic and shift with a blanket wrapped around her. Mary was grateful for her assistance, but tired as she was she could not let someone else see to her needs. She had to rely on herself; it was important for her to know that. She took the cloth from Glenda with a tender smile of appreciation and began to wash herself.

“You should know this is a special place.”

Mary had a feeling it was and listened as Glenda explained.

“The Dark One has saved everyone here. Patricia was being starved and abused by her manor lord and then he accused her of heresy. She found herself in one of Decimus's dungeons.” She paused, rubbed her scarred jaw, then seemed to garner strength and continued. “I was in the same dungeon, accused of practicing the black arts because of my healing skills. I heard Patricia's every scream as she did mine.” She touched her scar again. “I thank God for the Dark One's courage every day. He brought us here to safety and it is here we help him in his task of securing safe places for all those he rescues.”

Mary scrubbed the dried dirt from her skin while Glenda's every word reinforced her fear of Decimus and inflamed her anger. He inflicted punishment on people without care to the truth.

“The Dark One is a good man. We trust him and care for him.” She stuck her chin up. “And it matters not what lies beneath his dark garb for his intentions are pure.”

Mary realized then that Michael took no fee for his services. He unselfishly rescued the innocent, but why? Why was he a savior to so many? The more she learned about Michael the more intrigued she became with him.

“We are a village of discards; no one wants us or cares what happens to us, no one, that is, except the Dark One. He cares and sees that we are kept safe.” She lowered her voice. “There is nothing that he would not do for us or we for him.”

She suddenly beamed, a smile that lighted the whole cottage. “The Dark One even found me a husband. He rescued Terence from Decimus last year and brought him here after his hand was cut off under torture.” Glenda's eyes filled with tears and she had to clear her throat to finish her tale. “The Dark One carried him into the village, brought him right to me and told me to look after him, that he needed my smile to make him well.”

Mary grew nauseous over the horrific pain and suffering experienced by all three. She could not imagine how anyone with a heart or soul could do such a thing. Only pure evil was capable of such horrendous torture. Decimus was surely the devil's own.

“We were wed three months ago and Terence told everyone that when he looked upon my face, he knew he would be well because an angel was taking care of him.” Glenda wiped a tear away as Patricia quietly entered the cottage.

“Put the nightdress on the bed and come help me wash Mary's hair, if you will, Patricia.” Glenda said, then looked to Mary. “That is if you would like our help?”

Mary nodded and smiled. She felt as if it had been forever since her hair had been clean and she was simply too tired to wash it herself.

Patricia spoke softly, but Mary heard. “Clean hair feels so very good.”

Mary nodded vigorously just before both women set to work.

It took a bit of time to wash away the dirt and grime then comb the tangles out, but Glenda and Patricia were patient and by the time they were done Glenda exclaimed, “My lord, you have beautiful blond hair.”

“I have never seen such a stunning color,” Patricia said and touched the long strands. “It is an angel's color for sure, pure and light.”

The door opened slowly and Michael walked in.

Glenda, with Patricia's help, hastily rid the cottage of any mess, turned back the soft blue wool blanket on the straw mattress, and after a quick blessing for a good night's sleep, the two women closed the door behind them.

Michael made no move; he remained near the closed door staring at her.

The silence grew uncomfortable, Mary wondering if there was a problem. Exhausted and fearing it might be necessary to continue their journey without rest, she turned wide, questioning eyes on him.

He walked over to her. “Nothing is wrong. It is just that you are so very beautiful.”

She never felt comfortable when someone commented on her beauty. She did not think herself any different than other women, but since she could remember people, men and women alike, commented on her beauty. It was a neverending litany she attempted to ignore, feeling her looks common enough.