Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero (20 page)

Cynthia swung down from her horse and hastened inside the cottage.

The girl on the bed raved, thrashing about, and kicked off her coverlet. Cynthia pushed her sleeves up to her elbows and looked sternly at the young man.

“How long has she been ill?”

“Since we came,” he sobbed, gazing helplessly at his bride. “Four days. Ah, God, what is to become of her? What will—“

“Listen to me,” Cynthia told him stoutly, bringing his head around with a firm hand. “Are you going to mewl like a babe all day, or are you going to help your wife?”

Taken aback by her words, he slowly recovered his dignity, wiped his nose across his sleeve, and nodded. “I’ll help you.”

“Hold her, then.”

For hours, Cynthia worked with the sick young woman, laying hands on her thrashing head, applying poultices, sponging her hot skin, slipping sips of boiled water between her lips.

At last, the worst of it passed.

Cynthia was weary to the bone. But the girl would live. And the lad had kept his word, staying by his wife’s side the entire time. As Cynthia rose on wobbling legs to leave, he threw himself gratefully on his knees before her, blessing her and pressing a small silver coin into her palm. She wouldn’t take it, of course. To put a price on her gift was to curse it.

In time, the sun finished its watch, and the sky blushed crimson. Cynthia was exhausted. Her eyes felt as sandy as oysters. She’d slept little last night, and she hadn’t eaten all day, not wishing to partake of the peasants’ meager stores. So with trembling arms she pulled herself up atop her mount and lit out for home.

Arriving at Wendeville long past supper, she let Elspeth bring her meal to the solar—pickled herring, a crust of pandemayne, a cup of ale, almond cream. All the while, Elspeth fussed over her like a cat washing its kitten. But Cynthia was too tired to eat much. The moon had not yet risen when she collapsed on her bed in a heap of stained and crumpled velvet.

Restful slumber eluded Cynthia. Visions of moaning, retching peasants filled her dreams, row upon row of them, like plants in a ghastly garden, a vast field of bodies stretching into the distance as far as her eye could see. They gasped for breath and groaned her name, and no matter how much lady’s mantle she sprinkled upon them, there wasn’t enough. They were going to die if she didn’t help them. Their need suffocated her. But there was nothing she could do…nothing…

She awoke at dawn with a jolt. Her heart pummeled her ribs, and she drew in a ragged breath. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, then looked down with distaste at her rumpled gown. She’d hardly had a decent night’s sleep, but a strange sense of urgency beckoned her to the village.

Dressing quickly in a gray kirtle, she scrubbed her face and tucked her hair beneath a white veil. As the sun rose, she left Wendeville with her guard, her satchel bulging with herbs, and nibbled on the sticky honey bun Elspeth had pressed into her hand to serve as breakfast.

She sensed bad tidings long before she arrived. Sickness permeated the village. She could feel it on her skin, in her soul. The pall hanging in the air was as palpable as a smothering cloak as Cynthia rode, shivering, into the noxious haze.

The village was silent except for the random cackling of hens or the occasional bark of a dog. Wraiths of smoke escaped through the roofs of the cottages. But the sounds of the village—children playing, men hammering, mothers scolding—the sounds of life, were conspicuously absent.

Recalling her nightmare, Cynthia shuddered and wondered which household to visit first. As her horse indecisively tamped the dirt with its hooves, the shutters of a nearby hovel sprang open.

“My lady! Are ye here to heal?” cried out the pale young Scotswoman who lived inside.

“Caitlin. Aye,” she said, dismounting and clasping the woman’s hand. “Do you have the sickness?”

“’Tis my sister. She canna eat. She canna sleep.”

Cynthia went inside and laid hands on Caitlin’s sister. Fortunately, the illness hadn’t progressed far.

“She’ll live,” Cynthia told her. But she wouldn’t reveal what she’d felt when she’d brushed the back of Caitlin’s own hand. The sallow lass’s spirit was so frail, she wouldn’t survive the sickness if it took hold in her.

The first death came at midday. It was Edward Simon. His widow’s wailing could be heard all along the lane. The fool had been ill for days, but was too proud to ask for help.

Such men’s misplaced dignity enraged Cynthia when its price was so high. She did what she could to comfort the woman and made her promise to seek out aid should the sickness come upon her.

After that, it was as if a reaper came through the village harvesting souls. The town leatherworker was cut down, followed shortly by his wife. Within an hour, Robert the weaver succumbed.

As the nauseating stench of death washed over Cynthia, her horrid dream came back to her. Never had she seen a disease claim so many so quickly. Doubt pressed in all around her, and suddenly her satchel full of herbs seemed powerless against the encroaching foe, like a child’s wooden sword against a charging boar.

A tiny part of her wanted to run away, to flee all the way back to Wendeville and drop the portcullis against the grasping, needy souls. She wouldn’t do it, of course. She’d never turned away from the ailing, be it man, beast, or bloom. She had a gift. It was both her responsibility and her honor to use it.

Her first task was to get the bodies blessed and buried before their sickness could spread. She straightened and spoke to a hale young lad who stood nearby.

“Elias, do you know the way to Charing? It’s not far.”

The boy nodded.

“Go there, please, and fetch the Abbot to bless the bodies.”

She would have just as soon never laid eyes on the Abbot again, and it pained her to have to ask this favor of him, but she couldn’t let the villagers die unshriven, and Charing was the closest keep to the village.

“There’s nothing more I can do for the dead,” she murmured to those who stood with her. “Take me to the living.”

An hour later, Cynthia had finished with a third household. But there appeared to be more than a dozen still requiring her healing, despite the efforts of helpful neighbors who offered their aid. She heaved a shaky sigh. What if she depleted all her medicines? What if her strength dwindled to nothing? She brushed back a loose lock of hair with a trembling hand. Her dream was becoming frighteningly real.

The sun had only opened half an eye over the horizon, as if deciding whether or not to rise at such an unholy hour, when Garth made his way from his quarters to the great hall. On the way, he practiced his speech, whispering the phrases with a sweep of his arm here, a fatherly frown there, determining which delivery was the most effective.

He was prepared now to finish his sermon for Cynthia, the Sabbath sermon she’d missed when she was called from the chapel. His Bible was tucked under his elbow, specific passages marked with pieces of frayed ribbon.

All God’s creatures, he would tell her, had their proper places. The lion didn’t lie down with the lamb in this world. Neither, he’d say with an apologetic smile, should priests fraternize with noblewomen.

Steeling himself for this most important discourse, he stepped forward into the great hall. Maidservants scurried past, bearing fragrant platters of fresh bread and flasks of watered wine, breakfast for the castle denizens. A gangly boy tended the snapping fire in the middle of the hall. Hounds slumbered in one corner. A knight polished his sword in another. In front of the buttery screens, Elspeth wagged a finger at Roger the steward, who thrust his stubborn chin out against whatever she scolded him for.

But Cynthia was nowhere in sight.

Elspeth interrupted her tirade long enough to address him. “Morning, Father Garth. If it’s Lady Cynthia you’re after, she’s gone to the village.”

“Again?”

“Aye, I fear so.” The old maid shook her head. “It’s a stubborn malady, this is. My lady has a sense of these things, and this morn, when she set out…” Elspeth’s face pinched into a worried frown. “She didn’t look well, not at all.”

Something in the woman’s words rattled him.

“Is she in danger?” He squared his shoulders. “Is there anything I can do?”

She studied him for a moment, as if judging his worth, then waggled a finger in the air. “She might require a priest at that. If it’s as bad as she thinks, you may be blessing the dead by day’s end.”

He nodded, and then glanced ruefully down at his carefully marked Bible. He’d have to defer his sermon again. But at least he’d be of some use today, dispensing last rites and comforting those who needed the word of God.

In some ways, he envied the dead. They were at peace, free of earthly passions, able to enjoy heaven’s tranquility. They didn’t have to wrestle with the kind of temptations Garth did.

With his Bible in hand and Roger’s directions committed to memory, Garth set out along the east road toward the village.

“And I’m ashamed to say, lass, I succumbed to drink ere I could put a twinkle in her eye.”

Cynthia sat speechless. For some time now, she’d knelt by the old man’s bedside, listening to the most preposterous confession she’d ever heard. It was that of Henry Webster, the oldest man in the village. He’d raved on and on, which was amazing for a man as sick and aged as he was, about all the sins he’d committed.

At first, she listened attentively. Poor old Henry didn’t have long to live. Since the Abbot might not arrive in time, Henry said he chose to make confession to an angel. Cynthia apparently qualified. Somehow, she managed to keep a straight face as he recounted in great detail his dubious sins, among them the ugly women he regretted courting and the years he’d wasted drinking when he could have been wenching.

It was only when she ventured a glance at his withered old face that she saw the mischief bright in his rheumy eyes.

“I can see you doubt me, lass,” he wheezed. “But I tell you, never did a lady leave me without a smile on her face.”

She grinned.

“Aye, like that,” he said, nodding.

“I’m thinking you’re enjoying this confession,” she accused.

“Did I tell you about the time I stole a real Infidel? She was a slave girl from Araby. Full ripe she was, golden as the sun, and sweet. But it was thievery, just the same. The Bible says, ‘You shall not thieve.’” He cocked his head and screwed up his face. “Nay, maybe it wasn’t thievery after all. As I recall, the wicked wench cut my purse ere I sent her on her way.”

Cynthia shook her head.

“What about you, lass? Where’s your husband?”

She stifled a chuckle. Henry Webster looked like he’d be glad to swive her himself if his old bones would allow it.

“You remember, Henry,” she said. “I’m widowed.”

Slowly, the lust drained from the old man’s eyes, and his gaze slipped absently around the room, as if he’d wandered off to another world. A long moment later, as she was about to count him lost, he looked up at her steadily, mildly curious.

“Were you with your man when he died?”

“Aye,” she said, swallowing hard. “He died in my arms.”

Henry turned his head away. “It’s a sweet way to go.”

Cynthia reached out and took his hand in hers. “I’m no golden lass from Araby, but I’ll stay with you, Henry.”

She could see the old man’s mouth working before he clamped it shut. He squeezed her hand gratefully with what little strength a dying man had left.

“I suppose I should be shriven properly,” he sniffed. “My Margaret will be waiting up there in heaven for me somewhere, good wife that she is, saving me a spot.”

“I’ve sent for the Abbot.”

“Truth to tell,” Henry admitted, his speech beginning to thicken, “I’m not looking forward to heaven.”

“And why is that?”

He slowly licked his lips. “There’s no ale there and no harlots.”

She grinned, and her shoulders shook in silent mirth. A ray of sunlight suddenly arced across the room from the opening door as, behind her, someone quietly entered the cottage.

In the next moment, comforting fingers settled upon her shoulders, and she felt the warmth of the visitor close behind her.

“Don’t weep, good woman,” his voice whispered. “Soon his soul will be at peace in heaven.”

“Peace?” she said, giving Henry a conspiratorial wink. “According to Henry, he plans to wreak havoc in heaven, a-wenching all the day.”

Old Henry’s eyes twinkled in answer.

The hands on her shoulders stiffened, then abruptly slid down her arms to wheel her about like an errant warhorse.

She gasped in surprise. He stood before her, so close she could see the gray flecks in his confused eyes, so close she could feel his outraged breath upon her cheek.

“Garth!”

He looked as astonished as she. “You.” He snatched back his hands as if she were a burning brand.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her cheeks aglow with chagrin. Lord, what must he think of her?
A-wenching in heaven,
indeed.

He looked anxiously past her toward the old man.

She rubbed the back of her neck self-consciously. “You’ve…you’ve come in time to give Henry the last rites. I’ve already heard his confession. If you’d like, I can repeat the heart of it for…”

Henry dissolved into a fit of wheezing. Garth made the sign of the cross, stepping around her to the bedside, and began the benediction without delay.

Cynthia took Henry’s hand again and let the Latin syllables fall on her ears like quiet bells. She couldn’t help but wonder how many times Garth would repeat the blessing today for souls who’d meet less timely deaths.

“Don’t forget to tell him about seducing the virgins, my lady,” Henry croaked.

Garth nearly strangled on his words. “What?”

The old man’s body was racked by coughing.

“He wants me to give you his confession,” she explained, trying her best to look solemn. “He seduced three virgins in a fortnight, two of them—“

“That won’t be necessary! Sir, all your sins are forgiven.” He genuflected. “Whatever they may be.”

Cynthia bit back a smile. It was terribly endearing the way Garth’s nostrils flared when he was upset.