Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero (23 page)

“Go back to your bed, Mary,” he told her, nudging her under the elbow. “And speak no more of devil’s herbs.”

After she scurried off, he stuffed the plants into the cloth bag and evened what soil remained as best he could. But the indentations in the earth and the gaps between the remaining bushes were as obvious as gaping holes in brown hose. And he was sure that as he trudged back to his quarters, he left a trail of damning silt along the way.

Morning brought his crime to light.

“You did what?” Cynthia demanded.

“I…” Garth cleared his throat and met her eyes squarely. “Removed them.”

At first, Cynthia was too dumbfounded to speak.

“Perhaps,” he gently suggested, “you weren’t aware they were devil’s herbs.”

“Devil’s herbs?” she echoed numbly.

Slowly the shock wore off as she perused the destruction before her. A tuft of mint was pressed flat into the soil. Empty sockets sank where the plants had been torn out, and mounds of earth undulated between what plants remained. It looked as if someone had let the hounds of hell loose in the garden.

Yesterday, she would have been furious. Yesterday, she would have given Garth a scathing sermon about the sanctity of a woman’s herb garden. And she would have demanded that he replace every plant.

But yesterday, she could afford the luxury of anger.

Today, she was desperate. She’d had the nightmare again—sallow, skeletal victims stretching as far as the eye could see, reaching their grasping hands toward her, begging for her healing, and her satchel hopelessly empty.

She needed those herbs, badly. She didn’t care if they were sown by Lucifer himself. She needed them.

And Garth, who had stood by her yesterday, who had given his blessings to the villagers with the patience of a saint, who had cradled her in sheltering arms on the long ride home, now brazenly informed her he’d confiscated the only weapons she had against the killer disease.

Now she might never save the village.

To her mortification, her face crumpled as readily as a lost little child’s. Her eyes grew liquid. Her chin quivered, and she dissolved into disconsolate tears. Unable to stop the sobs that escaped her, and humiliated at her lack of control, she buried her face in her hands and turned to flee.

“Wait!” He caught her by the arm. “Don’t… Don’t cry. I didn’t mean…” His thumb massaged her forearm. “I’ll get them back. I promise. Somehow I’ll get them back.”

His earnestness only made her weep all the harder. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and sobs welled up from a deep, aching place in her chest. She felt as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. And she was too weak to bear it.

Then his arms folded about her, dragging her against him, wrapping her in a protective embrace, holding her with quiet strength and reassurance. And she returned again to that refuge she’d found last night, the welcome sanctuary of his arms.

With her ear against his chest, she could hear the strong beat of his heart and the soothing rumble of his voice as he promised to make things right. She closed her eyes as he rested his chin lightly atop her head. Nothing had ever felt more natural to her.

As natural as when, long moments later, after her sobs had subsided into rough hiccoughs, she turned her tear-streaked face up to his and sought out his lips with her own.

He tasted like autumn—all smoke and mulled wine, ripe apples and dusky honey. His mouth was soft, warm, and yielding, the sigh of his breath so faint she could barely feel it stir. And like autumn cider, once tasted, she wanted more. She clasped the folds of his robe between her fingers and drew him down, closer, deepening the kiss. She slanted her lips across his mouth. Her nostril flared against his as they shared one fluttering breath. His fingers curled slowly against her back, and a soft moan escaped her.

At the sound, his hands stilled. He broke violently away from the kiss and pushed her firmly back by the shoulders. Though she searched his face, her eyes still heavy with desire, he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Instead, he restlessly studied the ground.

“I…” he began tautly, “I’ll see you get your plants back.”

For one reckless instant, the last thing on her mind was her plants. She wanted Garth back. Not the cool, controlled man of the church standing before her now, but the one of passion she’d glimpsed a moment ago.

A tiny muscle flexed in his jaw. “I think we should leave for the village,” he muttered, “before you forget I’m a priest.”

She was still vulnerable enough to be wounded. She stepped away, cut to the quick by his reprimand. Just before she wheeled toward the stables to seek her mount, she fired back, “Don’t you mean before
you
remember you’re a man?”

Garth watched her go in silence. She was right. Every nerve in his body cried out that, aye, he was indeed a man. His mouth burned where she’d kissed him. His eyes felt drenched in honey, heavy and slow to respond. His heart thudded. And below his cassock cord…bloody hell—he didn’t even want to think about that.

How had it happened? She’d wept. Comforting her was as natural a reaction as scooping up a fallen child. But somehow, as her sobs broke against his chest like ocean waves breaking on the shore, he was moved by emotions far stronger than mere compassion. He wanted to hold her closer. He wanted to hold her forever.

He never should have let her kiss him.

He lifted the back of his hand to his lips with the intent of wiping away any vestiges of that kiss. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It had been four years since he’d felt the touch of a woman’s mouth. He’d forgotten how soft and sweet a kiss could be, as delicious as honey mead, as warm as summer. And yet he’d never felt a kiss so deeply as the one Cynthia bestowed. It was as if she stole the breath from him, drew his very soul between her lips, then gave him the precious nectar of hers in exchange. And he grew drunk on that ambrosia.

It was her moan that sobered him. The small whimper of desire wrung from her throat shot a bolt of lust straight into his loins, the like he hadn’t felt in years. His body responded instantly. Instantly, his options narrowed. He must either bed her or cast her away.

He made the only choice he could. He was a priest, for God’s sake. And, he thought as Cynthia emerged from the stables with her palfrey, because he’d made the right choice, his mind would be at peace, unfettered by guilt, for the journey to the village.

But his body… He clenched his fists until the knuckles grew white. His body would curse him at every step.

The interior of the first cottage they visited looked as bleak to Garth as an empty ale cask, despite the small fire burning in the room. What few furnishings the two Scotswomen possessed were worn to splinters. Chinks in the daub let mist in through the wattle walls. Straw stuck out between the seams of one threadbare linen bed. The iron pots hanging beside the hearth bore deep cracks.

Cynthia was given the place of honor, a rickety chair propped near the fire. Garth stood beside a warped oak table he dared not lean upon for fear it would collapse. He wondered how Cynthia could come to hovels like this day after day and not be dragged into the mire of the peasants’ misery.

“You can do no more here, Caitlin,” Cynthia said. “Your sister grows well already. See how her cheeks have color now?”

“But I promised her I’d stay.” The pale Scots lass glanced ruefully at her sister, worrying her fingers so much that Garth feared she’d wear them to the bone.

“And so you have,” Cynthia assured her. She placed a comforting hand atop the girl’s shoulder for just a moment. Then her smile grew strangely brittle, and she snatched it back. “But I fear your aunt will worry if she hears no word from you.”

“I canna leave her. She’s my sister. I must stay.”

Cynthia nodded in apparent surrender. But as she turned, stepping past Garth to leave, she tugged hard, surreptitiously, on his cassock, murmuring low in his ear for him to follow her. They were the first words she’d spoken to him since they’d left Wendeville in stony silence. He followed her toward the door of the cottage.

As she pretended to rummage through her satchel, she spoke under her breath. “You must tell her it’s…it’s the will of God that she goes to her aunt.”

He drew his brows together. He wasn’t about to lie about the will of God.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Why not let her be?” he murmured. “She is happy enough caring for her sister. It’s a grim enough place for the two of them. But alone—“

“She won’t be alone. A neighbor will care for her.”

“Still—“

“Caitlin’s sister will live through the illness,” she said pointedly. “But if Caitlin stays,
she
will not.”

Her words sent a disturbing shiver up his spine. “I suppose you somehow…know that.”

She regarded him with eyes as clear and solid as crystal. “I do.”

He swallowed uncomfortably as she continued to stare at him. An eerie feeling overtook him, as if he looked into the eyes of a saint…or an enchantress—he wasn’t sure which. Her gaze remained steady, her faith unwavering. Satan’s ballocks—she believed she could foresee the girl’s fate. And her quiet confidence wore away at his doubt until he, too, began to believe.

“Please,” she said. “You can save her life.” She touched his sleeve. “Besides, are you so certain it
isn’t
God’s will?”

He grimaced at the question. There was no proof it was God’s will, no proof at all. Yet Cynthia’s motives were genuine. And she’d been right yesterday about the infant and its poor mother.

He sighed. Certain he was about to step into waters over his head, he nonetheless nodded his consent.

Within the hour, Caitlin was packed and on her way atop a cart bound for Fryston, two of Lady Cynthia’s silver coins clasped in her fist and Garth’s blessing upon her head.

As for the other villagers, most of those Cynthia had treated were improved.

Little Tim atte Gate proved to be more stalwart than Garth had expected. Gone were the dark circles around his eyes. He even had a weary smile for Garth.

The motherless babe had survived the night on goat’s milk and the care of the three neighbor women, who fought over him like jealous aunts.

There were only two deaths—one elderly woman who had probably expired of old age and the village tanner, who’d refused to drink Cynthia’s egg broth during Lent.

The second death troubled Garth more than a little. Like a good Christian, the tanner had adhered to the strictures of Lent, even when it meant his own earthly demise. But somehow, as Garth comforted the weeping widow and her four children, all he felt was frustration. How could a man deprive his family of their livelihood, of his love? How could a man cast away the precious life God had granted him when the salvation for that life lay so close at hand? Aye, the observance of Lent was a covenant to be kept. But when a life hung in the balance…

He watched the smallest child, a tiny girl sitting listlessly against one grimy wall of the cottage, coughing. Her eyes were bright with fever, her face sallow. He glanced toward the fire. A cauldron of watery vegetable pottage bubbled on the hook. The thin gruel wasn’t enough to keep a babe alive, let alone four sickly children and their mother. Something had to be done.

He turned to the oldest boy. “Do you keep chickens?”

“Aye,” the boy sniffed.

He blew out a long breath. “Here’s what I want you to do.”

As he gave the boy directions, his heart raced deliriously, like that of a novitiate skipping his prayers. He explained to the lad how to make egg broth for his little sister and instructed him to add a few eggs to the pottage as well.

Though their eyes widened in surprise, the tanner’s kin never voiced a protest. Garth was a priest, after all. No one questioned the word of a priest.

Watching the eggs go into the pot, Garth felt as sinful as a lad throwing stones at chapel windows. The Abbot would have stripped him of his rank for such an act. But Garth also felt more alive than he had in years. Finally, he was doing some perceptible good. Blessings and prayers could only heal the spirit. These people needed healing for their bodies. And if he could save one soul to serve God on earth, what sin was there in that?

His heart still pulsed with quiet joy as he left the tanner’s cottage to see what further service he could render. To his wonder, the sun already declined toward the western hills, painting the green knolls with buttery light. Lady Cynthia would wish to leave soon.

Down the lane, he saw her speaking with a cluster of young women. As he strolled toward them, he overheard her urgent pleas.

“Wormwood most of all,” she said. “But in the days ahead, if you can find hellebore, nightshade, and monkshood…”

“I’ve seen nightshade at the far end of the meadow,” one maid offered.

“And monkshood usually grows near the brook,” another said.

A third woman shook her head. “But wormwood…”

Remorse stopped him in his tracks. The women of the village, grateful for Cynthia’s healing, were offering to replace the precious herbs missing from her garden—herbs
he’d
allowed to be ruthlessly plucked from it.

He’d make it up to her. He didn’t know how. But he had the long journey home on foot to think of a way.

Beyond Cynthia’s window, a fox yipped once, its voice muffled by the night fog. Somewhere in the distance, a wildcat warned off an intruder with a plaintive squall. And then the world grew silent. Mist made a white corona around the moon and crept between the shutters.

Cynthia kicked the coverlet off for the third time. She couldn’t decide if she was hot or cold. Every time she snuggled deep into her bed against the chill mist, her thoughts would stray to Garth—to how his fists locked when he was frustrated, how his emerald eyes softened with compassion, the unyielding line of his jaw, the gentle thunder of his voice, the wayward curl that was wont to spiral beneath his ear, the wool-apple-woodruff scent of him, the sinuous curve of his mouth, and the taste of him…oh, the taste of him.

She wanted more.