Iris Johansen
The Beloved Scoundrel
Copyright © 1994 by Iris Johansen.
CHAPTER 1
The Window to Heaven was shattered.
Only moonlight and cold wind streamed through the huge circular cavity where splendor and beauty had once reigned.
Marianna dug her fingers into the door to keep herself upright as she stared at the devastation. The journey had taken too long. She had failed Mama. The pattern was smashed; the Jedalar was gone. Then she forgot everything else as the deep sense of loss over the act of sheer desecration hit home. She knew the Jedalar should be more important to her but, dear heaven, all that wonder and beauty gone forever.
Why was she so stunned? They had destroyed everything else in her life. Perhaps it was even fitting that this last beautiful remnant had died.
“Marianna.” Alex tugged at her arm. “I think I hear them!”
She went rigid, listening. She heard nothing, just the wind whistling among the shelled and deserted houses of the town. She looked away from the shimmering splinters of glass scattered across the floor of the church, her gaze searching the ruins that had once been the town of Talenka. She still heard nothing, but Alex had always possessed sharper hearing than she. “Are you sure?”
“No, but I think…” He tilted his head. “Yes!”
She should never have come back. She should have taken the road to the south. Her mother would have forgiven her. They had not taken quite everything from her. She still had Alex, and by God, she
She slammed the heavy brass-studded door and dragged Alex behind her as she tore down the long aisle toward the altar, stumbling over a broken iron candelabra and several fat white candles scattered on the marble floor. The soldiers had wreaked their usual havoc here, she thought grimly. Everything of value had either been stolen or destroyed. The gold crucifix that had once adorned the wall beneath the Window to Heaven had vanished; the statue of Mary and the Child to the left of the altar had been toppled from the pedestal.
“Horses,” Alex whispered.
She heard them now too. The sharp clip-clop of hooves on the cobblestoned street outside.
“They won’t find us,” she whispered back. “They didn’t see us come in, and those pigs can have no traffic with either churches or prayers.” She pulled the little boy behind a column beside the altar and crouched down beside him. “But we will stay here awhile and wait for them to go away.”
Alex shivered and drew closer to her. “What if they do come?”
“They won’t.” She slid an arm around his shoulders. He was thinner than he had been last week, she realized in concern, and he had been coughing all day. The scraps of food she had managed to salvage from the deserted farmhouses outside the town had barely been enough to keep them alive.
“What if they do?” Alex repeated.
Heavens, he was persistent. “I said they-” She stopped. She didn’t know the duke’s soldiers wouldn’t come, she thought wearily. She could not be sure of anything or anyone. She doubted if those monsters would come to worship, but they might come to loot and burn again. “If they come, we will hide here in the shadows and be very quiet until they leave. Can you do that?”
He nodded, his weight heavier against her. “I’m cold, Marianna.”
“I know. As soon as we hear them leave, we’ll look for shelter for the night.”
“Can we light a fire?”
She shook her head. “But maybe we can find a blanket for you.”
“And for you.” He smiled at her-only a faint smile, but it was enough to light his face with the cherubic radiance that had led her mother to use him as a model in her last work. It was the first time she had seen him smile since the night they had-
Mama…
She quickly blocked the thought. She must not think of that night or anything that happened since. She had found it weakened her, and she must stay strong for Alex.
“A blanket for me too.” She wanted to lean forward and kiss him, but Alex had reached the advanced age of four and regarded himself as too old for such a display of affection. “Just as soon as they leave the village.”
But they weren’t leaving. They were coming closer. She could hear the horses just outside the church and men’s voices laughing and talking.
Her heart pounded as she drew Alex closer.
Let them go away, she prayed frantically. Mother of God, let them not come into the church.
Footsteps on the stone stairs.
The muscles of her stomach tightened painfully.
“Marianna?”
“Shhh.” Her hand clamped over Alex’s mouth.
The door creaked as it swung open. So much for prayers. Now she must do as her mother had taught her and rely only on herself.
Mama.
A tide of grief overwhelmed her. Tears stung her eyes until she could barely see the man standing in the doorway.
She blinked. She had not cried since it had happened, and she would not cry now. Tears were for the weak, and she must be strong.
She watched the man start down the aisle. He was tall, very tall, his stride long and purposeful, his dark cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a vulture. He was not in the duke’s livery, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t the enemy. No one followed him, she noticed in relief. He had left those other pigs outside. She had a better chance of besting one man.
He stumbled in the darkness and muttered a curse.
She heard Alex’s gasp beneath her hand. There had been many curses that night, curses and laughter and screams. She had held Alex to her breast so he would not see, but she had not been able to keep him from hearing. Her hand kneaded his thin shoulders in silent comfort.
The man stumbled again and then stopped, stooped, and picked up something from the floor. A few minutes later a tiny flame of light pierced the darkness as he lit the stub of a broken candle he had retrieved.
She shrank farther back into the shadows, her gaze raking the enemy to search out weakness.
Dark hair tied back in a queue, a long face, a glimmer of green eyes.
He lifted the candle high, his eyes searching the darkness until he found the gaping hole that had once been the Window to Heaven. His hand tightened on the candle; his face contorted in an expression of demonic fury. “Damnation!” His booted foot kicked out at the shards of glass on the marble floor. “Dammit to hell!”
He’d cursed in English. He must be English, like Papa, but she had never seen Papa in a fury like this.
