by Carrie Lofty
But that did not mean she wanted to take his arm.
"And this is the entryway to the cathedral," he said with flippant disregard. "I don't know why some of the holier brothers ever bother to leave. They spend so much of their day here."
"You ridicule the faithful," Blanca said. "Why?"
"Because they ridicule me."
"Then why join a monastery at all?"
He grinned at Ada. "Your new friend is brazen. I like her."
Ada exchanged a bemused glance with Blanca, finding curiosity in the young girl's face but no censure. She seemed to have the patience for all manner of people, no matter their faults. "I like her, too, but likely for differing reasons."
Fernan shrugged, his face turned up to the elaborately carved archway leading to the cathedral. "I came to this place as you do, forced by circumstances and without a pleasing alternative. Fourth sons in noble houses cause their parents endless dilemmas. After all, we are not needed at home but have no titles "or professions to sustain us." An uncharacteristic harshness tainted his voice. "And as for siblings, they hold us in no regard. Our entrance into the world merely divides an estate from thirds into quarters."
"So you came to the church even though you don't believe?" Blanca asked.
Fernan laughed and tried to retake their arms. Both women slipped carefully out of reach. "I never said I don't believe. I simply have a different idea of how to spend my waking and, well, my sleeping hours. A body cannot live by study and prayer alone."
As they walked back through the cloister, Ada considered the differences between Fernan and Gavriel. That they both occupied the same space, maintained the same profession, and struggled with the same duties seemed almost absurd. The distance between them was too great for her mind to bridge.
"Senor, do you find it a challenge to keep your vows, especially since this is not your chosen calling?" she asked.
He laughed again. "In that, at least, my father was kind to me. He could've assigned me to the Order of Alcantara or some other Benedictine nightmare. At least here my vows are easy to keep."
Ada stopped in a courtyard full of spring blossoms and herbs. "Your vows are easy?"
"Obedience, the first, is the one I find most taxing. As for the vow of poverty," he said, opening his arms to the lush greenery. "I live nearly as well here as I did on my father's estate. The vow only applies to personal property, which the monastery keeps in trust for the first year. Upon confirmation, the property is returned to us, but we are expected to behave judiciously."
Even Blanca frowned. "What a strange order," she said.
"Singular, in fact, but not merely for these reasons."
Whether he realized it or not, Fernan sounded almost proud. "All of the orders have leeway in determining such matters, but Santiago takes pious autonomy to its extreme." He leaned in close like a conspirator. Ada and Blanca eyed each other only once before joining him in the loose huddle. He certainly had a gift for the dramatic. "Knights of Santiago only take a vow of conjugal chastity."
Ada's jaw dropped. "Conjugal? They can get married?"
"Can and do, my dear," Fernan said, wearing a leering grin. "Which is why I'm constantly on the lookout for a woman to become Senora Fernan Garza. Unmarried men are confined to abstinence, I'm afraid, but since we share the monastery with an equal number of women—the canonesses who tend to the pilgrims—my chances are good."
His expression turned mock serious. "Well come to think of it, I suppose chastity is the hardest vow to maintain. But the sooner I find a wife, the sooner I can devote all of my energies to flouting authority."
Finding a nearby bench in the courtyard, Ada sat down. She looked to Fernan for answers in the hopes he would be serious, if only for a moment. "The brothers can marry, is that right? And there is no vow to abstain from violence? Not even for the clergy?"
"We are a religious order, the sole purpose of which is defending the kingdoms of Castile and Leon from the Moorish threat. No one, not even the clergy, shuns violence. It is our purpose." He smiled without mirth. Pale blue eyes fixed on hers. "I wonder, Ada, who's been telling you such tales?"
Chapter 19
For the evening meal, Gavriel sat with a dozen other men in the monastery's smaller dining hall. Pacheco and Fernan ate quietly and kept their heads bowed, as all brothers of the Order did at mealtime. His eyes itched from infrequent sleep, but he did not miss their suspicion.
Ever since he used war spoils to secure a place at Ucles, he had shunned excess attention. Wearing white robes, his hair shorn, he blended in as just another aspirant Out in the world— and with a screaming devil woman as his companion—those attentions had returned to him. Their safe arrival in Ucles did nothing to erase that old, nagging sensation of being watched
He kept his eyes on the bowl of talbina before him, seeing the warped image of his fatigued face reflected in the barley broth, and reminded himself of the truth: they were interested in Ada, nothing more.
Pacheco observed him with the same expression he had worn during their meeting, at once evaluating and suspicious. Ever more suspicion. That the novice master had covertly issued instructions for his punishment did not allay a terrible feeling that even more sacrifice would be required of him.
"Good evening."
The soft female voice at his back sent a shiver through his veins. A morning voice, honey and anise. Sweet, spicy, and forbidden. But his reaction was not mirrored on the faces of the other men. Some scowled. Others tugged clerical hoods lower over skittish expressions. Only Fernan grinned openly, his glib mouth asking for the crack of Gavriel s knuckles.
"She cannot be in here," Pacheco said quietly.
Gavriel harvested a fresh supply of indignation. What did Ada know of laws and obeying the restrictions everyone else embraced? Nothing. She knew only her own demands.
He stood and turned, looking Ada in the face. His heart pumped hard, once, then galloped. She wore a plain green gown and stood before him clean, neatly coiffed, and inexplicably angry. Only dark smudges beneath her eyes and a slight waxen sheen to her skin hinted at the hardships of her recent withdrawal.
She blinked once and cleared her throat. "Don't you believe in common civilities?"
Her acidic tone, so different from that honey sweet greeting, made him aware of dozens of eyes on them both.
As if I didn't feel conspicuous enough.
"You cannot be here," he said, guiding her to the wide, arched entryway. A thick tapestry wobbled stiffly as they passed. Blanca, who had been standing unobtrusively behind Ada, stepped out of the way and followed them into the nearby courtyard.
Ada settled her expression into one of boredom, making a mockery of his attempt to maintain an even temper. He caught a hint of lemon. His mouth watered.
"And why not? Blanca and I are hungry."
"Eating in the presence of a woman is not permitted, not even with the canonesses. You're to dine with the women. Didn't Fernan tell you that?"
"Perhaps it slipped his mind." She pinned him with those clear, sharp eyes, making him long for moments of incoherent rambling and pleas. "Do they fear being unable to resist our charms? Perhaps the thought of fornicating over the dining table hinders digestion?"
"It may have crossed their minds."
"Did it cross yours?"
Thrusting aside the bowls and pitchers, the plates and cups. Pushing her down on the scarred wooden table and yanking up that gown. Burying himself in her willing flesh. He was almost ready this time, letting those images invade his senses, like steeling himself against the snap of leather and the bite of iron. Relax. Accept. And then the shock of it was gone.
The temptation was not.
"Of course it did," she said. "You're a hypocrite. I said as much—then proved it."
"No more than any man."
"Too much to be borne, then." She turned to leave with Blanca. "I'll endure my stay within these walls. You'll see. I have friends here, even if you refuse to be civil."
"Friends?"
She tipped her head. "Blanca and Fernan."
"Fernan is no friend to you, inglesa."
The smile she offered was far more suggestive than the friendly amusement she had shared with Fernan. "Blanca, you should find out where the canonesses eat," she said. "I shall speak with Gavriel and join you shortly."
Blanca's smile was also sly, but with a charming innocence— none of the threat and certainty hone of the damage to Gavriel's self-control. He had believed arriving in Ucles would remind him of the life he intended to lead, and that the vastness of the monastic grounds would be able to keep his contact with Ada to a minimum.
Such a fool.
He took her upper arm and led her away from the courtyard, toward an indoor training hall. A quick check revealed the cavernous space empty. They each took a torch from the corridor and entered the hall, pushing them into sconces inside. Swords of all types lined the walls, as did armor, shields, maces, and crossbows. Four archery targets sat against the far wall, just below four corresponding window slits. No light shone inside, the black of nightfall nearly absolute, but flames made the lines of each surface quiver among the shadows.
In that golden light, Ada appeared as a goddess—an irritated goddess, all pale skin and flashing eyes. He should be pleased her hair was up and coiffed properly, but he could not help but remember it down, unbound, glorious.
His palms prickled. The healing blisters, surely.
"And why shouldn't I count Fernan among my paltry number of friends?"
"He spends far too much time in the village. His dalliances with local girls are notorious." Gavriel shrugged. "I only thought to save you or Blanca the difficulty of discovering his character firsthand."
"His character? Interesting."
How had he looked into the face of his enemies without blanching, when this woman's unnerving stare transformed him into a chastened boy? But after his tense and nightmarish meeting with Pacheco, he had lost the nerve for such frank confrontations.
"Yes," he said. "I wouldn't want him to take advantage."
"Because you reserve that right for yourself?"
"Ada, I did nothing you didn't want as well."
"And have you considered what will happen if I'm with child?"
The floor dropped from below his feet Dizziness washed over him like burning tar, viscous and hot. A child. With Ada. So intent had he been on her safety and the consequences of their tryst with regard to his novitiate that the idea of a child had escaped him completely.
He closed his eyes but could not banish the image of Ada cradling his son or a beautiful daughter, a daughter with hair the same deep brown of her mother. Longing unlike any physical desire stabbed at him. The regret that followed left him breathless, aching, and hollow.
"I suppose that means the answer is no," she said quietly.
"Ada—"
"Fernan is acting more a friend to me than you. You've decided to treat me like a contagion. You brought me here." She stepped closer, her eyes like the center of a flame, mesmerizing and fiery. Gavriel breathed deeply, dragging in her scent— the only bit of her he could have without penalty. "I wonder what other selfish purposes you have in mind."
"Stop."
"I don't think I will," she whispered. "You wanted me here, Gavriel. You've taken great pains to make me well, but I think you've lived to regret that."
The sweetness of her breath washed over his face. Dios, how he wanted to kiss her again. How many hours had passed? Only a day? And his body felt as starved for hers as if they had never touched, as if he had never been joined with her.
But never again.
"You're not my only regret," he said.
Ada laughed quietly, melodious and sinful. "But what is the use of passing your novitiate when you've broken all of your vows in the process?"
He gnawed the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. "Master Pacheco determines the bounds of my novitiate. I've discussed these previous weeks with him, and he offered me leave to stay."
Ada nodded slowly and turned to face the wall of armaments. He slowly expelled the hot breath in his lungs, relieved that she gave him space. She walked along the wall. Slivered glimpses of her face reflected in the surface of every blade. Shards of silvery light dotted her hair and the bodice of her gown. She stopped beneath the fleury Cross of Santiago, eyes lifted to its stark red against a field of white.
"I never realized how different Santiago is from the other orders."
"Yes." He frowned, wondering at the darkness in her voice. "'Tis unique."
"Is that why you chose it?"
"I will not discuss that, Ada."
She turned, her eyes narrowed. "For example, you keep your own property. Isn't that true? There is no vow of poverty."
Gavriel bit his teeth together. Fernan.
"What a brother brings into the Order, he keeps," he said. "When he dies, the Order is like his widow and receives the inheritance."
"Interesting, too, that you mention widows—the implication of marriage. Because there is no ban against marriage, and neither is there a ban against violence." She closed the distance between them. One moment, she was standing below the Order's cross. The next, she was within an arm's length. That curiously blank expression had given way to anger. White-hot anger. "Am I mistaken, Gavriel?"
They sparred with their eyes as surely as if they each held one of the deadly weapons lining the hall's chilled stone walls. Gavriel remained as dominating as ever, tall and solid and dark, but she had shaken him with the mention of a child.
A queer sort of betrayal burned at her temples. He had lied to her about his vows and he had not considered the consequences of their lovemaking. She had considered it, and as with every other time she pursued pleasure at the expense of reason, she had chosen pleasure. At least she had made the choice—as much as she could have claim over that function of her brain.
No, I chose to be with him.
But his lies had betrayed every noble intention he claimed.
His jaw tightened. If he knew that the tic gave away his discomfort, he would probably strive to do away with it. Jacob had said as much, that warriors spend their lives ferreting out weaknesses and eliminating them.
"You're not mistaken," he said, his impassive voice like a learned man at lecture—or like Meg reciting scientific facts that the entire world should know as thoroughly as she did. "Los caballeros can marry freely, having been given dispensation from Pope Alexander. Once married, the knights can live with their wives either within the bounds of the monastery or on their own estates."
So detached. And so deeply at odds with the struggles he had presented. He had lied. He had talked about his vows as a means of tricking her, not only with regard to her use of opium, but as a seduction. The possibility seemed too despicable, yet she could not soothe the anger burning at her temples.
"And even facing the temptation of lying with a woman, chastity is not strict," she said, working to match his cold tone. "A man can live with his mistress without censure or strife. Isn't that right?"
"Obviously Fernan told you all of this, las barraganas included?" His lips curled, not a smile and not a sneer. "I would've thought a noblewoman's translator too detached to care about our quaint local customs."
"I've not lived in a cave."
"Oh?" He arched his brows, a penetrating look in his eyes. "The opium seemed quite good at keeping you apart from the world."
Her tongue burned. The thought of opium coupled with the distress over Gavriel's behavior only heightened her thirst. It was always there, waiting, tempting. But then, so was the thought of touching him again.
"In England, barraganas would simply be another class of harlot, not sanctioned companions," she said. "I hadn't paid them any regard while in Toledo. And I certainly hadn't thought their relationships with los caballems might be condoned by the Church."
"We are all that stand between the Christian kings and the southern tribes. Rules have been
... altered for us. Even if a man cannot bring himself to marry, knowledge that he has a mistress to protect and provide for might temper his baser impulses."
"And what of the women? Are they ruined?"
"No," he said. "There aren't enough women on the frontier to be so strict."
"But you've vowed chastity?" she asked, her breathless disbelief growing. "You've vowed to abstain from violence? This place stands against all who would threaten Castile. These knights would die to the man to defend Ucles. Yet you want me to believe you've sworn the opposite."
"I never lied to you."
"Then what does this mean?"
"My vows are personal." He stalked the two paces between them and grabbed her arms. He gave a little shake, eyes fierce and wild. "My reasons are personal."
"They must be because they're also abnormal."
She tried to twist her arms free, but his grip intensified. Their faces close, she stared into his eyes and licked her lips. She allowed her body to flag, just a bit, and wilted against him. As soon as her breasts pushed against the hard wall of his chest, he flung her away.
"Bruja."
"You call me names?" She spit at the ground between his feet, his stance wide and arrogant. "You're the one who's chosen to do what none of the other brothers have. Why? Would you stand by and let this retreat be overrun? Would you leave a sword lying on the ground and allow the people here to be killed?"
"No, and my actions these past few days have proven that"
"Then why make a vow? You must have known it would be impossible for a man like you to uphold."
He tipped his head to the side. "A man like me?"
"A warrior. You're not a clergyman, no matter your delusions"
"I was, do you understand? No longer." His staccato shout bounced around the hall. Even the torches seemed to flinch, the flames spiking ghastly streaks of color over his grim face.
"And warriors do not marry? You would deny yourself the comfort and security of a wife, for all your years—when no one else denies you these things?"