The Last Knight by Candice Proctor

she thought she saw something move in the stand of birches that stood just where the road flattened out into the valley. A brown, shifting shadow that appeared, then was gone.
All the soft warmth and heady sense of adventure she'd known just moments ago suddenly vanished from the afternoon. She remembered the chilling hiss made by the crossbow bolt as it flew through the air to sink into Walter'sflesh. She remembered the routiers ’ ugly taunts and the savage malice twisting their faces as they reached for her. She remembered the ripped and bloodied bodies of the women in that burned village, and before she could stop it, a violent shiver shook her.
She darted a quick glance at de Jarnac, hoping he hadn't noticed that betraying moment of weakness, but to her dismay, she discovered him watching her. “Don't worry, little lordling,” he said, his voice unexpectedly soft, his expression unreadable. “I'll see you to Laval.”
She found she could not say anything, perhaps because there was, after all, nothing to say. She was afraid, and he knew it. Their gazes met and held, and it was as if she could feel his eyes upon her, piercing her, judging her. It unnerved her, the way he looked at her. She found it unsettling enough, simply being near him. He was so fierce and intense, he frightened her. And yet she knew, in that moment, that she would not change her mind. Whether she was comfortable with him or not, she desperately needed his escort to Laval.
She could only hope that he would not change his mind and decide to leave her at the monastery after all.
They came to the Benedictine monastery of Saint-Sevin shortly after terce.
The monastery lay at the edge of a wide water meadow flanking a broad stream that flowed slowly down toward the Vilaine. Creamy white sandstone walls, still new enough to show their crisp chisel marks, encircled a compound dominated by the great stone mass of the church tower rising up as tall and solid as any castle keep.
Above the dull tramp of their horses’ hooves in the dusty road, Attica caught the distant pearling of the stream, justvisible as a ribbon of sparkling light through the trees and rushes. Cattle lowed in the pasture, brown heads swinging up to stare solemnly at the riders as they passed. From somewhere out of sight came the high-pitched shouting of children—the nutriti , dedicated as young boys to a life of seclusion, holiness, and scholarship.
She had not expected the air of peaceful serenity that hung over this place, for she had heard the terrible tale of its founding often enough since coming to eastern Brittany. How some threescore years before, during the reign of Louis VI, a darkly handsome but ruthlessly ambitious knight by the name of Lothar had murdered his brother, raped his brother's wife, and blinded their son—his own nephew—in order to seize the boy's inheritance. According to the tale, Lothar had lived a long and prosperous life, untroubled by either repentance or punishment. Only on his deathbed did the dark knight begin to fear retribution for his hideous crime. And so he had endowed the monastery of Saint-Sevin to buy his way into heaven. As they drew to a halt before the monastery's new gatehouse, Attica stared up at that massive church tower and wondered if it had worked.
A crow wheeled, cawing, above them. She turned her head, watching it, only to have her gaze captured by the dark, restless knight beside her. A knight who, like Lothar, had killed his own brother.
A profound sense of disquiet rippled over her, a fear that she tried to calm with reason. She told herself that, unlike Lothar, de Jarnac had not mutilated his nephew or seized the boy's inheritance. The nephew still lived, secure in his castles, while it was de Jarnac who roamed the world, dispossessed, haunted. He was not like Lothar. He was not.
“Porter,” he called, tipping back his head, his gaze assessing the monastery's gate and walls. His voice was not loud, yet Attica wasn't surprised to see the