Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero (8 page)

Biting the corner of her lip, she moved down the nave toward him. He straightened like a wary wolf, ready to bolt.

“You were distracting him, weren’t you? You struck him so he wouldn’t notice the greater pain of his arm.”

She could tell by the lowering of his tensed shoulders that she was right.

“And it worked. Indeed, I’ve never seen a bone setting done so quickly.”

If he didn’t smile at the compliment, at least he lost a portion of his scowl.

“So…” She lowered her eyes to the floor. “I thank you for the assistance, and I’m sorry I…” She ventured a glance up at him. His lip had stopped bleeding, but it was puffed out where she’d hit him. “I…” She dug busily in her satchel and pulled out the bottle of rosemary infusion and a clean linen rag. “This should help the bruising.” She stepped toward him, and he stiffened. Dear Lord, she thought, was the poor man afraid of her now? “Don’t fret,” she assured him. “It’s painless.”

He stood his ground then, but she sensed he was tempted to flee.

She wet the cloth and stood before him. Strange, though she was tall, she had to look up to meet his eyes. She fastened her gaze on his mouth. It was beautiful. His jaw was swarthy with faint stubble, and in contrast, his lips looked soft. They were not too full, not too spare, with an intriguing curve that promised roguish smiles. She couldn’t believe she’d damaged that mouth with her fist.

Blinking back her wayward thoughts, she began to dab at the cut. He winced once, then let her continue.

Mingling with the aroma of rosemary, Garth’s scent intruded upon her senses, a spicy fragrance like the holy incense in smoke-filled cathedrals. It was intriguing and exotic and intoxicating.

His fingers clamping about her wrist startled her from her thoughts. Apparently he’d had enough of her rosemary. But it wasn’t exactly annoyance she glimpsed in his gaze. Something feral flared in his eyes, threatening her and sending her a warning all at once, like a wolf fighting his instinct to hunt. It took her breath away.

And, contrary to her usual waywardness, for once she heeded his unspoken threat.

Her hand slipped easily from his grasp.

“I’ll have Roger see to your chamber at once,” she said, fidgeting with the rag and corking the bottle, “give you the day to settle in.” She wheeled and hurried away, tarrying only long enough to gather her satchel and toss an invitation over her shoulder. “I’ll expect you at dinner.”

And even after she closed the door behind her, even after she’d put half a furlong between them, still her heart beat wildly, like that of a mouse freed from the talons of a hawk.

Garth’s mouth throbbed, not in pain, but with the memory of her touch. He raised the back of his hand to his lip, willing away the sensation.

He should never have let her near, the goddess with her laughing eyes and her sensual mouth, her summery fragrance and her healing caress.

Faith, it was remarkable to him that her touch could be so gentle. She’d nearly cracked his teeth with her fist.

When she’d come in, he’d been praying for understanding, that somehow Will and Lady Cynthia would comprehend his intent and figure out why he’d done what he’d done, since, under his vow, he couldn’t tell them. But the last thing he wanted was for Cynthia to read his mind.

Vile thoughts resided there, thoughts that had him desiring her company, responding to her touch, craving her succulent mouth.

He closed his eyes against the visions.

Lord, to what purgatory had the Abbot sent him?

Unfortunately, the tale of Lady Cynthia’s blow of vengeance upon the new chaplain was too juicy a tidbit for the gossips to ignore. By the time Roger the steward had directed him to his quarters, welcoming him with an ivory comb and a polished steel mirror to add to his meager possessions, rumors were running rampant.

As soon as Garth set foot outside his chamber, a flock of servants scattered like panicked hens from his door. When he strode into the great hall, men nodded cautiously and women whispered behind their hands. The instant he entered the armory, the knights grew silent. In the kitchen, the cauldron of pottage suddenly required the close inspection of the cook and all of the serving lads. The bustling courtyard quieted when Garth made his way past the armorer’s shed and the mews and the swine’s pen. Even the squires busied themselves with brushing the horses when he ducked into the stables. And everywhere, giggling children followed him, nervously poking and prodding each other while he suffered their unguarded scrutiny.

He supposed he was rich fodder for their jests. After all, everyone had heard of his renowned brothers, Duncan and Holden. They were two of the finest knights in England. Surely the castle folk expected Garth to be no less. It must pique their morbid curiosity to see a de Ware reduced to the level of a lowly friar. And no doubt his vow of silence and the unfortunate incident in the lists added fuel to the fire.

Whatever their intent, they succeeded in destroying his peace and shredding his dignity. He wanted nothing more than to crawl away like a wounded animal, to return to the chapel, to his quarters.

But he was a de Ware. His blood refused to let him turn tail like a coward. He supposed he’d just have to armor himself against the onslaught.

In the meantime, he needed to find a place of temporary refuge, where he could escape the haranguing mob, if only briefly, and order his thoughts.

He ducked into the tiny room he’d sought out, alone at last. He spread the burgundy velvet curtain closed behind him and leaned back against the cold stone wall, heaving a sigh of relief. Then he smirked. It was utterly absurd that the only peace he could secure in the vast Wendeville estate was in a garderobe.

He shivered in the drafty chamber and loosened the cord around his cassock, idly wondering how long he could remain sequestered here before someone suspected him of an ailment of the bowels. He bunched up the voluminous robe, deftly untied the points of his braes with one hand, and aimed a stream of piss into the dark, dank hole.

How he’d survive the day, let alone the weeks and months to come, he didn’t know. Isolation had become a way of life for him, his religion a comfort. Being thrust into the secular world again so abruptly with its chaos and disorder and…temptations was like yanking a hapless bat into the blinding sunlight. He wondered if he’d ever grow accustomed to the glare.

With a final shake, he hitched up his leggings and tied the points of his braes. He smoothed down his cassock, then, knotting the cord, he blew out a resigned breath and reluctantly shouldered the garderobe curtain aside.

“Ah-ha!”

Garth’s heart vaulted into his throat. A plump old bird of a woman in russet skirts charged forward, startling him so that if he hadn’t just finished relieving himself, he would surely have done so on the spot.

“There you are!”

The wench had the round, wrinkled face of a shriveled apple, but there was an animated spark in her brown eyes. She glanced quickly about for witnesses, then smacked a small but efficient palm in the middle of his chest and shoved him back into the garderobe, snapping the curtain closed after her.

Garth staggered back, resisting the urge to make the sign of the cross against the lunatic woman. She gave no quarter, blatantly inspecting him from head to toe like a farmer sizing up a plowhorse.

“I’m Elspeth,” she finally announced, drawing herself up proudly to her full height, which brought the top of her stiff-wimpled head to the middle of his chest. “Lady Cynthia’s maid. Have been since she was a babe in swaddling.”

Garth blinked. Had the daft woman barged into the garderobe just to introduce herself? He slipped his gaze uneasily toward the curtain.

“Pah! No one’s seen us,” she assured him. “I need to talk to you in private.” She winked without smiling. “Can you think of a more private place?”

He wished he had.

She measured him with a glare once more, like a mother sparrow with its feathers fluffed, about to scold the crows from her nest. “So you’re the new chaplain.” She nodded toward his face. “That where she cuffed you?”

He raised a hang self-consciously to his lip.

“Hmph.” Then she shrugged. “Well, it appears she’s put you in your place, then. At least you’ve got a little more life in you than the whey-faced cadaver we had before.” The woman certainly minced no words. “But I’m here to give you a warning.”

Garth didn’t like the sound of that. He had just enough nobility left in him that the tone of an impertinent servant tweaked his ear. He straightened and folded his arms sternly across his chest.

“Now don’t be getting your cassock in a twist,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “It’s about Lady Cynthia.”

He uncrossed his arms.

“Heed me well, lad,” she commanded with unrelenting insolence. She poked at his chest, apparently not intimidated in the least by the fact that he outweighed her at least two and a half times over. “I made a vow to Lord John, Lady Cynthia’s husband, God rest his soul.” She paused to make the sign of the cross.

Garth absently followed suit.

She lowered her voice. “On his deathbed, he made me swear to find her a husband within the year.”

Garth frowned.

“Now I know it goes against the custom of grieving and all,” she continued, “and I’m sure the Abbot wouldn’t approve. But it’s a promise made on the man’s deathbed. Mark you well, it’s not as if my Cynthia didn’t have a care for John. She was with him till the end, wiping his forehead and…and holding his hand…” The woman’s eyes watered over, and her chin quivered.

At a loss, Garth dug in his pouch for a linen square and awkwardly handed it to her.

“Bless you,” she squeaked. Then she blew her nose soundly, crumpled the linen into a ball, and handed it back to him.

He chivalrously cached the thing.

She sniffed and lifted her chin, plucky once more. “He said it was to be a man of her heart. After all, Lady Cynthia spent two of her young years caring for an old soldier with one greave in the grave. And he wouldn’t see her do it again, do you hear? Nor will I. Not while she’s still hale enough to snare a fine young buck.” She dusted her hands together as if to say that was that.

Garth stared hard at the woman. Why was she telling him all this? Surely Lady Cynthia’s romantic affairs had nothing to do with him, even if the maidservant’s frank words somehow sawed at him against the grain. He was a man of the cloth, concerned with matters of the soul. What did he know of matters of the heart?

“So here’s the crux of it,” she confided. “I’ll do everything in my power to bring Lady Cynthia the pick of the litter. She deserves no less. But a year’s not much time. So I say we dispense with the grieving and get on with the gaiety. I’ve already put word out there’ll be dancing and singing in the castle again within the week.” She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him. “This is what I’d have from you. It’s plain. Swear me an oath that you won’t plague my lady with undue remorse. No sermons on grief or chastity or honoring her husband’s memory. Nothing to harden her heart or stand in the way of her courting.” She clucked her tongue. “Lord knows you men of God like to burden a body with sin at every turn, but I’m asking you this once to forbear.” She waved an impatient hand at him. “Aye, I know all about your vow of silence, but you can nod your head as well as any man. And I’ll have your nod on it right now.”

Garth bristled at the maid’s demanding tone. Lord, the conniving old woman possessed no sense of propriety. Never had he encountered such unabashed candor in a mere servant. It was outrageous. And yet he found himself willing to overlook her faults, for curiously enough, this chittering bird of a wench had just offered him a glimpse of salvation.

Oh aye, he’d swear that oath, on the Holy Scriptures, if need be. He’d be only too glad to expedite Lady Cynthia’s quest for a new husband. The sooner she was wed, the better—anything to remove temptation.

He nodded his assent and, for the first time since he’d arrived at Wendeville, he felt like smiling. Perhaps, he dared to hope, God hadn’t deserted him after all.

Cynthia twisted her fingers in the linen napkin, inexplicably nervous. The sounds in the great hall reverberated in her ears as if she were hearing them for the first time. Daggers scraped across pewter platters. Wine gurgled into cups and down gullets. The hounds whuffed softly from their corner, eager for the tidbits children would bring them later. Kitchen lads brought forth steaming bowls of pottage and loaves of fragrant bread, adroitly dodging the maidservants hefting flagons of wine. And everyone spoke at once.

Thanks to Elspeth, the castle gossip had turned around again. The incident at the lists had been declared an unfortunate accident, a mishap caused when the chaplain drew too close to Cynthia’s exertions. And if young Will and his friends knew a different story, they held their tongues. Their world was rife with fighting and maidens and honor, after all, and they didn’t much care for rumors.

Still, all was utter pandemonium in the hall, as usual. Indeed, Cynthia suspected strangers could dine for weeks at Wendeville and never be spotted. Except that she knew everyone in her own household and the nearby village. She’d mended them all at one time or another.

Only one stranger dined before her tonight, the humblest of priests, yet she agonized over every detail as if she entertained the king. Would he like the rue wine? Did he find his bench comfortable enough? Was there a draft in the hall?

Already, he’d made a bad choice of tables. He’d managed to sequester himself between the two quarreling Campbell cousins, and there he was stuck, picking morosely at his capon while the raucous lads jostled him mercilessly. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable, no doubt unnerved by both the boys’ familiarity and the cacophony of the hall—knights bragging, maids giggling, hounds barking. She bit her lip. Wendeville Castle was a far cry from a monastery.

“My lady?” Elspeth appeared at her side, bearing a flask of wine. She settled in beside Cynthia and filled their cups. “Will has joined us, do you see?” She nodded toward the youth. “Weak as a lamb, but hungry as a wolf.”