Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero (3 page)

Long-repressed tears welled in Cynthia’s eyes, threatening to spill over. It didn’t matter that his death had been coming for months. It didn’t matter that he’d lived a long, rewarding life. Her husband, the kind and gentle man who’d given her he last two years of that precious life, was gone. And there had been nothing she could do about it.

She let John’s wrist drop gently upon his chest and reached across to close the lids over his eyes.

Behind her, Elspeth gulped out a single sob, then buried her face in Roger’s thick surcoat, muffling the rest.

Out of habit, Cynthia pulled the furs up to John’s neck and tucked them in around him. Then she gazed once more at his rugged, wrinkled face. Remarkably, there lingered at the corners of his slack mouth the vestiges of a smile.

Suddenly she was transported to the past spring, when they’d walked hand in hand through a meadow thick with new daffodils, the air fresh and sweet with a recent shower. What had he said to her then? That she was his salvation. That she’d taken his weed patch of a life and filled it with flowers. His smile had been so full of joy and so sincere that she was moved to prove her affection for him at once, spreading her mantle and coupling with him among the daffodils.

The seasons came and went, days spent in light and laughter. All told, they’d had only a score of months together. Still, this was how she’d remember John always—smiling as he had on that spring day.

She closed her eyes and waited for the hollow ache in her throat to subside. John wouldn’t want her weeping over him. His dying command proved that. And after all, he was at peace now. His long suffering was over. With that small consolation, she managed to swallow her sorrow. She kissed first his pale forehead, then his papery cheek in farewell.

The abrupt bark of the dour Abbot clearing his throat encroached upon her private ritual. She flinched, startled. She’d almost forgotten
he
was there. In her vulnerable state, the last person she wanted to deal with was the ghoulish Abbot.

Reluctantly she faced him, suppressing a shiver. Today, he looked even more like a messenger of death. His dark robes contrasted starkly with his sickly pallor, and his sharp-boned face and sunken cheeks were almost skeletal.

“He is with God now, child,” he intoned soberly, folding his spidery fingers before him in a semblance of humility.

Child.
How the word grated on her ears. Only the Abbot could make the endearment sound like an insult.

He’d never liked her. He’d made that clear from the beginning. And she’d made no pretense of affection for him. But for the sake of John, to whom the Abbot appeared singularly devoted, she’d kept her opinions to herself. She’d endured the man’s condescension, his hypocritical patronizing, his interminable sermons on the inferiority of females, and his resolute blindness to the fact that Cynthia was a grown woman with her own free will.

But now it was over. Now John was gone, and she no longer had to put up with the Abbot’s affectations of fatherly concern. He’d be leaving Wendeville soon. John had bequeathed him a holding at one of his neighboring estates. In a matter of days, the Abbot would be out of her life.

In the meantime, she dared not let him witness a hint of the disabling loss she felt with John’s passing. It would only fuel his criticism of her. She straightened her spine and gave him an indifferent glance.

“Please see to the blessing and entombment at once, Abbot. Then if you’ll pack your things…”

The Abbot stabbed her with a sharp, disapproving glare. Then, as quickly, he judiciously lowered his eyes, snuffing out their dark fury. “Of course. As you wish.” He steepled his fingers thoughtfully beneath his chin. “But, child, what about kinfolk who may want to see him before—“

“John had no kinfolk, save me.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m sure you knew that.”

He did. And as far as he was concerned, a wife of less than two years could hardly be called kin either. His blood boiled as he thought of all that Wendeville wealth in the hands of a child. Why, she hadn’t even the look of a proper grieving widow. She should be wailing like old Elspeth, wringing her hands, turning helplessly to the church, to
him
, for comfort, for guidance.

Instead, her cheek was conspicuously dry, almost as if she were relieved. The golden flicker of the fire danced across her young, luminous face, turning her disheveled hair to flame, the devil’s fire. Aye, she definitely looked relieved, as if, when the old man’s soul was lifted from his body, a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

It wasn’t right. The wench was too much in control, too aloof. And far too clever for his taste. Lord John’s body was not yet cold, and already she planned to evict
him—
a servant of God who’d neglected his own monasteries to remain steadfastly by the dying man’s side. She’d find a formidable foe if she thought getting rid of him would be easy. He had no intention of leaving her alone with the vast Wendeville fortune. One way or another, he’d receive his due.

He twisted his fingers in wordless irritation, resisting the urge to strangle the wayward wench into accord. But he knew ire was not the answer. Anger was never shrewd. Nay, he must be meek. After all, it was the meek who inherited…

“Abbot?”

“Perhaps you act in haste, child.” He fixed a bland, sympathetic expression on his face and looked down his nose at her. “It’s a harsh trial, losing a husband, and you so young. Wait a day or two. Allow me to offer you spiritual comfort.”

To his consternation, she actually winced at his words. “I find comfort in the peaceful manner of his passing, Abbot,” she said, unpinning the dried rose spray from her surcoat and placing it upon Lord John’s silent breast. “I wish that all men could die as content as my John.”

His nostrils flared. John Wendeville had certainly been that. Happy beyond reason. Happier than any mortal man deserved. The wench had coddled him like an infant. He frowned at the array of various scented oils and potions by Lord John’s bedside, medicines she’d concocted for his ills. It turned his stomach to imagine Cynthia’s hands applying their devil’s ointments to the old man’s wrinkled skin. After all, the church believed in the sufferings of the body. His own scarred back attested to the fact that pain was the avenue for salvation. Why should the old man be spared the agony of his own dying?

He sulked as he watched Lady Cynthia blow out a candle at the head of the bed. Damn the heathen wench! And damn John for wedding her. They’d ruined his plans. All the years he’d spent romancing the old goat as if he were a suitor, all the forced smiles and exchanged pleasantries, all the patience as the childless lord’s life dragged on and on and on… All were wasted now, all because of the harlot before him. Cynthia le Wyte had come to seduce the lord’s wealth away, using the one weapon the Abbot couldn’t employ.

She’d
slept
with the wrinkled prune.

He closed his eyes to slits, unable to blot out the repugnant vision that came to mind of young Cynthia mounting the wasted old man in eager ecstasy. He turned away in disgust, letting the dim light obscure the enraged veins sticking out from his neck.

He’d have to control that rage if he wanted a scrap of his reward. It might be too late to save the inheritance, but there was still a chance to wheedle a healthy stipend from the bereaved widow.

Bereaved? The idea almost made him laugh. Unlike her sniveling maid, the cold Cynthia hadn’t shed a single tear for her husband. And she clearly bore
him
no love. Squeezing blood from an apple would be easier than wresting a penny from Lady Cynthia.

If only the wench had died with John… He clenched his fingers together, imagining the feel of her soft, supple neck between his hands as he choked the life from her.

“I think he’d want a simple, private ceremony. Abbot?” Cynthia said. “Abbot?”

The Abbot jerked his head up, startled. Cynthia could see his thoughts were elsewhere. He was probably thinking up ways to salvage her wayward soul. She sighed and looked one last time at John’s restful face.

That all men could die as content…

Her husband
had
been content. For two years, Cynthia had stayed by his side—a faithful wife, adored companion, enthusiastic lover. That he survived an entire year after the physician tucked him into his deathbed was likely due more to her doses of affection than the foxglove and wormwood she painstakingly administered to him for his failing heart. She’d devoted herself to pleasing him—preparing his favorite foods, regaling him with snatches of song, letting him occasionally win at chess.

Gently, she leaned forward and blew out the last beeswax candle beside the bed. A wisp of smoke rose upward, flirting with the gold brocade bed curtains.

Theirs had been a marriage of convenience. Neither of them had deluded themselves about that. Cynthia’s father was land-poor, widowed, and sonless, with an eldest daughter whose countenance could only be described as “healthy” at best. When the wealthy but feeble Lord John Wendeville offered for Cynthia’s hand, le Wyte hastily arranged for her sacrifice to the heirless lord in order to increase the family fortune.

Cynthia was never bitter. She knew and accepted that marriage was often a practical arrangement. She’d hardened herself to circumstance long years ago, upon her mother’s death. At eighteen, she’d realized she was no great beauty. Nor did she possess the kind of holdings to tempt a suitor. Therefore, she entered into the union with Lord John with pragmatic grace, if not enthusiasm.

And John was quite pleasant, as it turned out. He was patient and kind, sweet and generous. He dressed her in velvet, showered her with emeralds, put up with impertinent old Elspeth, even allowed her to fulfill her dream of owning a pleasure garden, from which she picked him daily bouquets.

John knew he was dying. He simply wanted companionship in his final years.

Cynthia gave him far more than that. She was a wife in every sense of the word, surprising him with a devotion he swore rejuvenated him. It delighted her to see him weep in gratitude as she pleasured him with unwavering patience in their bed. And it wasn’t for lack of trying that she never conceived an heir for him.

In their months together, as Cynthia’s garden flourished beneath her loving hands, so did her husband. The fact that he would die soon didn’t stop her from caring for him. He was like the annuals she set out each spring. She nurtured them, coaxed the beds to blossom in joyous profusion, then accepted their withering and dying. It was an accustomed cycle. And it was a matter of pride with Cynthia that not once in the old man’s short life with her did she falter in her tending of him.

That care, to the Abbot’s quite vocal consternation, included the use of a great many potions and poultices concocted from the massive herb garden she’d planted in the castle courtyard.

The Abbot was scowling even now at the mazer of ground herbs with which she’d liberally dosed John’s wine for the past two days to relieve him of pain. No doubt the Abbot thought she’d poisoned her own husband with what he referred to as “devil’s medicine.”

It didn’t matter. That “devil’s medicine” had cured many a vassal and servant in John’s household. Her knowledge of herbs and the gift of healing she’d acquired at the time of her first blood had convinced even the folk of the surrounding villages to trust in her miracles. Besides, she didn’t care what the Abbot thought. He’d be gone by week’s end.

“Lord John recognized your…loyalty and service, Abbot,” she said, trying to keep the edge from her voice. “He’s been quite generous.”

“Oh?” His casual tone belied the interest in his piercing black gaze.

“He bequeathed to you the holding at Charing and the fields surrounding.”

The Abbot blinked. “Charing?”

“Aye.”

“How kind.” His voice broke. His chin trembled.

Cynthia felt a twinge of remorse. Perhaps she’d been too hasty, too judgmental. Perhaps the Abbot wasn’t as unfeeling as he seemed. Perhaps he
was
touched after all by the loss of his benefactor, no matter how he despised
her
. She tried to think of some small word of consolation. But staring at the pasty, somber man looming in deathly dark robes before her, her mind came up empty.

“After the ceremony,” she said as gently as possible, “I’ll send along two servants to help you get settled at Charing.”

In the awkward silence that ensued, she retreated from the shadowy chamber with Roger and Elspeth, closing the door with finality on both the Abbot and a chapter of her life.

The Abbot stared at the closed door, stunned. His chest constricted. He could scarcely draw breath.

Charing. Lord John had left him
Charing
. The Charing property didn’t represent a twentieth of the old man’s wealth. It was a travesty, a slap in the face. After all he’d endured, the sacrifices he’d made, this was his reward—a moldering castle on the barren land adjoining Wendeville. The niggardly tribute left a bitter taste in his mouth, like a moldy bone tossed to a faithful hound.

Rage snaked its way through his veins, heating his blood as he gazed down at the chilling body laid out so peacefully upon the bed.

He’d been cheated. There was no other word for it. He’d been betrayed by the old fool’s incorrigible desire for his lascivious young wife. How many times had he warned Lord John about the dangers of lust? How many Sabbaths had he spoken, within the walls of Wendeville’s own chapel, of that deadly sin?

But he’d been ignored. The very word of God had gone unheeded. Disgust twisted the Abbot’s mouth. Fury sharpened his vision. He coiled the fingers of one hand into a bony fist. Then, with a strangled oath, calling upon the wrath of God for penitence, he drove that fist with all the rancor of a cuckolded husband into Lord John’s lifeless, sin-riddled groin, again and again, each blow punctuated by the name of the old man’s transgression…Cynthia!

By the time his fury was purged, sweat beaded his brow. He gasped for breath. His knuckles throbbed with pain.