Dark Destroyer (4 page)

And so did a father’s grieving heart.

St. Milburga’s Priory

Ludlow

Clang!

That was what the iron pot in her hand sounded like when it came into contact with a human skull. Trapped in the kitchen as an influx of Welsh raiders ran amok through the wing of the cloister, she’d had no choice but to fight back with the only weapons she could find. The Welsh didn’t seem to be interested in the women in particular, but more in the food or any valuables they could find. They shoved nuns aside or, in one case, barricaded the Mother Prioress in a closet by blocking the door, and ran through the cloister taking anything they could carry. On this day at St. Milburga’s, chaos reigned.

Until they came to the kitchen. A big, rectangular-shaped room with a dirt floor and enormous, bricked hearth, it was stocked with winter stores and there was a woman inside that had decided to fight back. Backed into a corner with a handled iron pot in her hand, the young woman in charge of the kitchen was dressed in the rough, brown woolen garments of a novice nun but possessed silky dark hair and brilliant blue eyes that lauded astounding beauty normally not usually seen in the cloister. But that beauty was marred with anger on this day and she had swung the pot at the invaders for all she was worth.
Smack!
A hit against a hand and men would howl.

The raiders were trying to relieve the kitchen, and the priory, of barrels of dried beans and vegetables, items intended to keep the priory supplied throughout the winter, but the young woman with the pot in her hand would not permit it. St. Milburga’s Priory had known raids before from the Welsh, especially when food was scarce, but this raid was particularly bad. There were many starving Welshmen who wanted what the priory had, and the nuns and wards of the priory found themselves fending off a fairly serious invasion of men intent to plunder their meager resources. Even Welsh children were involved this time, making it harder to fight back for the healing order of nuns.

Even so, the Welsh could not be permitted to steal the food that the priory needed in order to survive, which meant the nuns found themselves on the defensive, most especially the young woman in the kitchen. When the pot became too heavy for her to bear, she collected a big piece of wood stacked neatly near the hearth and began using it like a club.

“Go away!” she shouted. “Go away or be damned! God will punish you for this, do you hear?”

The Welsh mostly spoke their native tongue and did not completely understand her, although a few of them understood her words quite clearly when she brained them with the wood. The tall lass was not beyond aiming for the heads, and sometimes the buttocks, of the Welsh who were trying to steal from her. Oddly enough, however, they didn’t try to fight back – they grabbed for items from the kitchen, whatever foodstuffs they could get their hands on, and the young woman would chase them down with her wooden club.

However, not all of them would allow her to chase them away. One Welshman, young and big, grabbed at a barrel of barley, which was quite heavy. When the young woman rushed him with her club, he reached out a hand to shove her back, nearly pushing her into the hearth. This only seemed to infuriate her and she leapt to her feet, exchanging the wood for a long iron spit that they used to roast meat on. It had a pointed edge, like a dagger, and she went after the man with it.

The Welshman had his back to her as he tried to flee, only catching a glimpse of the spit in her hands at the last moment. Since he had the barrel of barley in his arms, he had to drop the thing in order to defend himself and prevent the young woman from goring him. The wooden barrel fell to the dirt floor and exploded, sending barley everywhere.

The Welshman and the young woman wrestled with the iron spit for a few moments; he was trying to take it from her and she was trying not to let him. But he was much stronger and managed to yank it from her hands, injuring her palms as he jerked it free. Just as he managed to wrest it from her, his cohorts began to yell in their harsh language, their shouts echoing against the cloister, and the Welshman with the spit bolted from the kitchen, still holding the spit. Enraged that he’d taken her weapon, and now with bloodied palms, the young woman ran back to the hearth to reclaim her wooden club.

Racing to the kitchen door, she came to a sudden halt as she heard the sounds of heavy fighting going on outside of the kitchen. Instead of simply screams and running feet, she could now hear weapons clashing, metal against metal. Someone, somehow, had brought weapons into this raid and she could hear the sounds of a battle quite clearly now, growing worse.

The main entry in and out of the kitchen opened into the cloister, a covered walkway that joined the Servery, or dormitory for the nuns, to the kitchen and to the refectory and the rest of the priory. Beyond the cloister, in the center of the collection of buildings, was an open grassy area, called The Garth, where the novice nuns and wards often performed their lessons.

It was in The Garth that the young woman in the kitchen seemed to hear most of the fighting going on. Her rage cooled and she began to feel a hint of fear as she peeked around the side of the open door to see The Garth beyond. Immediately, she could see soldiers with weapons, battling the poorly-dressed Welsh, and she caught a glimpse of at least one heavily-armed knight as he rode his big, armored steed beneath the covered cloister. The knight seemed to be chasing the Welsh with his enormous broadsword and as she watched, he caught up to one and gored the man when he tried to fight back.

Now, dead Welsh were littering The Garth as a serious battle went on inside the walls of St. Milburga’s. The young woman’s anger at the raiders fled; now she was terrified for her safety and she pulled back into the kitchen and slammed the heavy, worn oak door, which had a broken iron bolt on it. The Mother Prioress had never seen the need to repair it, so now the young woman had no real means of protecting herself should the knight, or armed soldiers, decide to invade the kitchen.

But she had her wooden club and she looked at the thing, knowing it would not be enough against an armored knight. She needed something heavier, something that could do damage against the well-protected warrior.

Racing back over to the hearth, she picked up the handled iron pot again, knowing it would be the only true defense against such a man. Moreover, she had to strike first, to stun him or even knock him unconscious so she could run away and have a fighting chance against the madness going on around her.

Rushing back to the kitchen door, now closed, she positioned herself against the wall next to the panel so that when it was opened, she would be behind it and not be seen. She would at least have a few moments to come up behind whoever entered the kitchen and smash them over the head. God forgive her for truly hurting the man, but she would not be taken prisoner, or worse.

She had to fight.

As the sounds of battle continued outside her door, the young woman pressed against the wall and listened, praying fervently that no one would make any attempt to open the kitchen door. She prayed that they would simply bypass the kitchen but she knew that was a foolish hope; the kitchen contained most of the value of St. Milburga’s. It was what the Welsh were after and as she clutched the iron pot to her chest, she looked around the kitchen at the damage done by the raiders.

The burst barrel of barley was on the floor near the door. She wasn’t particularly worried about that, as the barley could be swept up. A few bags of dried beans had been taken, and a slab of precious pork that had been hanging from the ceiling rafters, but in all, they hadn’t lost too much. She wanted to keep it that way but she wasn’t entirely sure she could fight off hordes of men with swords. The Welsh hadn’t been armed, at least not that she could see, but the second group of men that were in The Garth… they were armed, and heavily so.

She was jolted from her thoughts when something heavily bumped against the old oak door. The door rattled and young woman jumped, shrieking with fright, before quickly biting her lips together. She didn’t want to be heard.
Sweet Jesus, do not let me be heard!
she prayed, but it was too late. Someone had evidently heard her cry of fear. The door lurched again and abruptly opened, spilling forth an enormous knight in expensive and well-used armor.

Terror seized the young woman. The knight was barely through the door when she ran up behind him and hit him as hard as she could on the back of his helmed head with her iron pot. He fell like a stone and she pounced, beating him with the iron pot rather haphazardly, trying to strike him on the head again but the pot was so heavy that she ended up hitting him in the neck and shoulders and back with it. The knight, face-down on the dirt floor, grunted in pain.

“You beast!” she shrieked. “How dare you invade our home! I will beat you to a bloody pulp, do you hear?”

She was straddling his back at this point, trying to pin him down with her insignificant weight as she beat him with the pot. Unfortunately, her arms grew quite tired very quickly as the knight put up a hand to try to protect his head.

“I am not here to harm or harass you,” he said, his voice muffled against his faceplate. “I swear I mean you no harm, Sister.”

The young woman wasn’t convinced but her arms were so weary that she could hardly lift the pot anymore. She ended up putting it on his head so that it was engulfing most of his helm as she leaned forward and put all of her weight on it, attempting to keep his head down.

“Then who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing here?”

The knight was amply protected against her assault but the pot on his head had him in an awkward position, especially with her leaning on it.

“My name is Gates de Wolfe,” he said evenly. “I serve the Earl of Trelystan.”

The young woman’s features rippled with confusion and, bewildered, she backed off the pressure on his head. “The Earl of Trelystan?” she repeated, mulling over his surprising statement. But when she realized she was no longer nearly lying on his head, she pushed her weight forward again, onto the pot, to keep him down. “Lies! You are not from Trelystan!”

The knight beneath her had, so far, made no move to fight back. He simply lay on the cold dirt floor and let her beat on him.

“I am, I swear this to you,” he said. “Lord de Lara has sent me but when we came upon St. Milburga’s, we walked right into a raid. We have managed to subdue them, Sister. You need not be afraid any longer.”

His explanation made a good deal of sense about the Welsh and a second group of armed men appearing in The Garth. Now the young woman was coming to understand somewhat, but she was still frightened and bewildered. In her confusion, she eased the pressure upon his head once more.

“Have they gone?” she asked. “The Welsh, I mean. Are they gone?”

Gates sensed that she had relaxed and he was quick to take advantage of it. He didn’t have time to fool around with a frightened nun. Quick as lightning, he pushed himself up, pushed her off, and flipped her over onto her back. Suddenly, he was on top of her with her arms pinned over her head with one hand. As his body weight and one hand kept her wrists immobile, he used his other hand to lift his visor and look at her.

The truth was that he had fully expected to see a nun beneath him – one who wore woolen clothing to chaff her skin and remind her of the vanity of the flesh, one who did not bathe regularly, and one who shaved her head to do away with worldly beauty. He knew she was young by the sound of her voice but other than the usual expectations, he had nothing beyond that.

Therefore, the fact that he had expected something unspectacular and crude somehow made the shock of the opposite that much stronger. Lifting his visor to gain a clear look at the nun who had assaulted him, he was literally jolted with surprise as his gaze fell upon beauty so angelic and unearthly that he could hardly believe what he was seeing. The woman had skin like cream, full and rosy lips, nearly black hair that was now covered with dirt from the floor of the kitchen, and the most brilliant blue eyes he had ever seen.

It was like finding a rose amongst sewage or a white dove amongst ravens. For such beauty to be found amongst the confines of a priory made no sense to him at all. Stunned, Gates had to literally catch his breath, make a conscious effort to swallow, and then resume breathing before venturing to speak.

“Who
are
you?” he finally asked, his voice sounding strangely raspy.

The young woman was frightened but trying not to show it. “Please,” she asked softly, “do not hurt me.”

Gates couldn’t help but watch her lush lips as she spoke, feeling oddly flushed at the sound of her whispery, sweet voice. “I told you that I would not harm you,” he said, lifting a dark eyebrow. “But
you
tried to take my head off. I want your vow that you will not try anything so foolish again if I release you. Do I have your promise, Sister?”

The young woman shook her head, her dark hair brushing against the dirt of the floor. “I am not a sister.”

Her reply did nothing to abate his puzzlement. “Then what are you?”

“A ward,” she said. “That is, I hope to be a novice very soon. I have lived here most of my life. You said that the Earl of Trelystan sent you?”

Gates nodded. “He did.”

“Prove this to me. What is his name?”