Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero (35 page)

And yet the alternative was just as unthinkable. If they kept their hearts secret, he knew that one day the impatient king would choose a suitable husband for Cynthia himself, a man to further Edward’s own political interests. And that would be the day Garth’s soul shriveled and died.

He clenched his fists, wishing he could tear asunder the images of the impossible future before them.

He visually measured the sun’s ascent above his sill. It had been nearly an hour since she’d left for her bathing pool—probably enough time—but he couldn’t be too careful.

Sometimes, though he no longer adhered to his vow of chastity and though he kept his faith, what he and Cynthia did felt like sin. If they were caught…

He didn’t want to think about it.

Still, he felt a twinge of trepidation as he glanced through the window toward the wood and the overgrown deer trail that marked the path to the pool.

She swore the place was private, that everyone knew that, and no one dared encroach on her summer bath. But that didn’t change the fact that the two of them would be out of doors, together, in broad sunlight, for the first time.

He’d tried to persuade her to stay with him in his chamber. But she’d pleaded with him relentlessly, tempting him with the delights of sunshine and green grass and refreshing water, flashing the smile that turned his knees to custard. He’d punished her with a growl and a fierce kiss, hauling her over his thigh and onto the bed, pinning her there. A thrill of pure animal lust had shivered every muscle in his body as he gazed at her. But she remained adamant.

He could have changed her mind in an instant—both of them knew it—with one strategic brush of his lips, one caress of his hand.

But he hadn’t.

And now he feared that fate would realize it had left them alone too long.

Cynthia shivered in spite of the strong midday sun as the water sluiced over her naked shoulders. It was a glorious day. At the north end of the wide pool, the stream babbled over the smooth pebbles and dove several feet, spreading with a gurgling sigh. The pool was clear as glass, so deep that the bottom was a green blur. Jewels of sunlight winked on the waves as the water circled and was siphoned once again at the opposite end into a rushing brook.

She wondered what was taking Garth so long. Sometimes his sense of propriety annoyed her. What they did—was it so wrong? Surely nothing so heavenly could be evil in God’s eyes. True, Garth was a man of the cloth. He had taken certain vows. But he wasn’t a monk anymore. Chaplains were allowed to take wives. Certainly this was not so different. As for her, why should the king care who she wed? She was hardly a virgin, and she couldn’t have cared less about rumors that might tarnish her reputation.

She tipped her head back, drenching her hair in the cold current that swirled around her. It was so peaceful here. She’d made the lovely spot her own domain. No one ever intruded upon her. The only other visitors she had were birds, squirrels, frogs, an occasional fox that skittishly drank at the pool’s edge, and fish that nibbled at her toes. It was a perfect haven…and the perfect place to tell Garth the happy news.

She smiled and rubbed her palm over the slight swelling of her belly. Actually, it was scarcely noticeable. But she was certain that sometime after the new year, she and Garth would be blessed by their own child.

It had been sheer torture to keep it from Elspeth, to pretend to endure her monthly courses at the usual time when she’d missed three already. But she wanted Garth to be the first to know.

She wasn’t sure how he’d respond.

Over the last three months, she’d seen Garth come back to life. She’d heard him laugh long and loud, nearly fainted at his whispered words of desire, reveled in the music of their joined souls when not a word was spoken between them.

She’d learned all there was to know about Garth de Ware and his family. She smiled now, recalling the tales he’d told her of his illustrious brothers.

Holden de Ware was a ferocious warrior, unmatched in combat, a man who had garnered the confidence of the king with his skill in battle and his keen sense of diplomacy. That diplomacy had earned him his wife, Cambria Gavin, laird in her own right of a Scots clan. According to Garth, Holden’s mail-clad wife was as sly and savage a fighter as her husband. Of course, Cynthia had to admit, his opinion may have been colored by the fact that Cambria had once outwitted Garth.

Garth’s oldest brother, Duncan, was as kindhearted as Holden was fierce. Castle de Ware was nearly overrun with recipients of Duncan’s charity. Orphans and halfwits were drawn to him like iron filings to a lodestone. And yet he’d had to exercise considerable charm to win the heart of Linet de Montfort. She was a Flemish woolmaker, a member of the guild, competent and independent, sure she had no use for a husband. Apparently, Duncan convinced her otherwise aboard, of all things, a sea reiver’s ship.

They sounded charming, and she looked forward to meeting them…if Garth would have her. It was the one thing of which she was unsure. Garth seemed to care for her now, but when he learned of the child…

Everything could change in an instant. He could slam that great helm closed over his emotions again. He’d certainly had enough practice.

Still, she had to take the risk before anyone else found out. And hopefully, bathing in the refreshing waters of this special place, with the sun beaming down and birds warbling from the bushes, Garth would take the news well. Hopefully, he’d be pleased.

A rustling came from the nearby willows. She grinned and twirled in the water toward the sound.

“Garth?” she ventured.

No answer.

“Garth,” she said. “You can come out. It’s safe.”

The branches parted. It wasn’t Garth.

A portentous cold lump settled in Cynthia’s stomach as she looked into her maidservant’s wide and culpable eyes.

“Mary?” Cynthia’s voice quavered. That would never do. It would establish her guilt at once. Nay, she had to take charge. “Mary!” she scolded. “Return to the castle at once! This is my private domain! What the devil are you doing here?”

The branches parted further. Mary wasn’t alone. The lump in Cynthia’s belly congealed into a block of ice as she stared into familiar, cruel, hard features. The Abbot.

“I
commanded her to bring me to you.”

For a long, painful moment, she felt as stunned as a deer caught in an open meadow.

Then the brush surrounding the pool rattled, and four burly knights in the scarlet tabards of Charing emerged. At the Abbot’s command, they sloshed forward through the current toward her. She gasped, trying to shield herself from their greedy eyes, but still they came. She panicked, turning in the water, looking for escape. Finally, one knight clenched her arm in a steel gauntlet, dragging her forcibly forward.

“Stop it!” she ordered. “You’re hurting…”

Her words fell on deaf ears. Leather and mail scraped against her bare skin as the four brutes hauled her roughly from the water, ignoring her commands. And to add insult, all the while they struggled with their slippery prize, the Abbot loudly intoned some absurdity about herbs and witchcraft.

She shrieked in outrage, heat suffusing her face, as they set her naked upon the bank. While she stood, drenched and shivering, one of the men pressed a curved dagger to her throat. Another pinioned her arms behind her back, thrusting her breasts forward like an offering to the horrible man who continued to drone on and on about her supposed crimes, brandishing a silver cross and licking his lips like a wolf about to devour a rabbit.

And then he uttered something that struck terror into her soul.

“…proof that she bears the child of Lucifer himself.”

All too soon, before she could understand, one of the men clapped irons on her wrists.

“What is the meaning of—“ she cried, earning a quick prick from the knife at her chin.

Panicked, she glanced at Mary. Surely she could find empathy there. But Mary only stared at the ground, guiltily worrying her knuckles.

“You,” she breathed. It was Mary’s doing. Somehow Mary had divined her secret. And she’d divulged it to the Abbot.

“Gag her,” the Abbot ordered, pointing one bony finger. “I won’t have her casting some witch’s spell upon you good men while you do God’s work.”

They stuffed linen between her teeth to silence her. It was hardly necessary. She doubted she had the power to speak with such outrage and disbelief rattling her mind.

What was the Abbot saying—that she was a witch? Did he truly believe that? And if he did, did he have the power to do anything about it? The church reigned supreme in spiritual matters, aye, but surely the false accusations of one man couldn’t… Dear God—what would he do with her? What would he do with Garth? And what, for the love of Christ, would he do with her child?

She closed her eyes, hardly noticing the slap of branches against her arms as she stumbled barefoot along the leafy path.

This wasn’t happening. It
couldn’t
be.

Garth cursed mentally as he descended the stairs. He’d hoped to steal from the castle to Cynthia’s bathing pool without notice. But the great hall was brimming with people.

A handful of brawny knights wearing scarlet tabards muscled their way forward, hauling some burden he couldn’t make out. Probably a thief, he mused, or a poacher on Wendeville lands. As the men swaggered toward the center of the hall, the castle folk made way for them, gasping and falling back like an ocean wave around a formidable ship.

He frowned.

“My lady!” Elspeth shrieked suddenly from across the hall.

“Lady Cynthia!” Roger groaned from the dais, staring, then tearing his eyes away from the knight’s burden.

Fear catapulted Garth from the stairwell. He strode on wooden legs through the crowd of servants, the taste of dread bitter on his tongue.
Please, God, don’t let her be…
he prayed wildly, unable to even consider the possibility.
Please don’t let her be…

His heart in his throat, he broke through the crowd and spun to face the knights.

For one brief moment, relief filled him like sweet nectar. Cynthia was alive—breathless, a little bloody, but alive. Thank God the knights had rescued her from…

His relief turned quickly to anger. Bloody hell—she was completely naked! Not one of the men who saw fit to call himself a knight had so much as offered her a cloak.

He opened his mouth to launch a scathing rebuke when Cynthia caught his eye. Her face was filled with despair—not shame, not disbelief, but despair.

Suddenly he realized the truth. These men were not her rescuers. They were her captors. And worse, behind them, looking on with morbid satisfaction, stood the Abbot.

He should have been fearful, but outrage took command. Garth drew himself up to his full height.

“Abbot!” he snapped, unmindful of the stir his dominating voice caused. “What is the meaning of this?”

The Abbot started visibly but recovered quickly enough. “I fear I bring unfortunate news.”

Before he could elaborate, Garth jostled a serving girl beside him. “Your cloak,” he demanded.

She sheepishly surrendered the careworn garment.

The Abbot took in a sharp breath. “I wouldn’t stand too close, Father Garth,” he warned, relishing every syllable. “You see, your lady, I’m afraid, is a servant of Satan.”

The castle folk gasped collectively, backing a pace further, then began to murmur speculatively among themselves.

“What?” Garth asked, incredulous. “What nonsense is this?”

He sneered and stepped forward to drape the cloak about Cynthia’s shoulders. The poor lass shivered with cold and fear. Her lips trembled. Her skin was as pale as vellum, and her hair hung in long mahogany strands that did little to conceal the puckered tips of her breasts. He clenched his jaw in ill-suppressed anger. Her hip and one thigh were badly abraded, and her cheek bore a small cut, clearly the marks of rough handling by the armored brutes. Damn, how he wished he had a blade in his hands.

“I warn you,” the Abbot intoned, “this woman is a witch. Approach her at your own peril.”

“That’s absurd! Lady Cynthia is no more a witch—“

“I should warn you also,” said the Abbot, holding up a subduing palm, “that
your
faith, Father Garth, must be held up to the light.”

“My faith?” What was the Abbot spewing now? Cynthia stood, wet, terrified, quaking before him. What did his faith have to do with…

“Surely you recognize the signs of possession. You’re a man of God, after all.” The Abbot lifted his bony shoulders and let out a whispery sigh of feigned regret. “And yet you did nothing. She used devil’s herbs, and you turned a blind eye. She directed others to break the covenant of Lent, and you looked aside. And now—“

“This woman has saved countless lives. Who gives you the authority to condemn her?” Garth demanded. But already his heart beat madly in his temples. Hell—if the Abbot knew about the herbs and Lent…

“The Lord God,” the Abbot announced dramatically, “gives me the authority. Would you challenge His will?”

At a nod from the Abbot, three of the scarlet knights drew their swords. The crowd scattered back with muffled shrieks.

Garth wasn’t afraid. He was furious. In fact, if he’d had that sword in his hand, he was sure he could best a whole army of knights, so angry was he.

But he didn’t. And it would do Cynthia no good to spill his blood across the rushes. Then she would be left without a champion. Nay, he’d use his wits, not the blade.

“You’d send three warriors against an unarmed priest?” he scoffed. Then he turned toward the people, the servants and nobles who had flourished under Cynthia’s care. “Do you believe these charges?” he asked. “Do you believe that this woman…” He gestured to her, and the hopelessness in her eyes made his voice crack. “This woman who’s stitched your wounds and set your bones, this woman who’s salved your cuts and birthed your babes, do you believe she could possibly be a witch?”

For a long moment, a quiet guilt settled over the castle folk. Surely they wouldn’t betray Cynthia. Surely they owed her more than that.