by Carrie Lofty
He walked to the wall lined with swords of all kinds, from simple broadswords to strange serrated blades from distant lands. Hands behind his back, he looked on them with an unreadable expression. Regret? Sadness? Resolve? He had looked at her naked body with similar confusion.
"All knights under reconquista have purpose," he said. "Every garrison must be turned into a town. The easiest way to do that is to turn unmarried men into respectable citizens with obligations, wives and children to protect. That's why they inhabit these outpost towns and why barraganas are tolerated. 'Tis not marriage, but a small step toward stability."
"But you stand apart from all of it?"
"I must."
Ada walked to his side. They stood shoulder to shoulder, much as they had in the bathhouse, ready to defend each other against any enemy, no matter their quibbles and frustrations. What would it be like to depend on such a man, really depend on him as a partner and a friend? The idea was as foreign to her as was holding a child, but both resonated in her soul with more power than she dared admit.
That power. He held it.
Kindling her sense of outrage, she stepped in front of him, her body between his and the serrated blade hanging on the wall. Tension bunched his strong shoulders, adding an uncharacteristic slope to his tall, splendid physique.
"Most men only take vows when they feel strongly," she said "They believe. They feel connected to a higher idea. They feel compelled—obliged, even—to make a promise to God. They do not use them as a prison or a punishment. You've hidden from the world and put a cage around yourself?'
"You don't know me."
"You're right" Even in the midst of her anger, her pride like a tattered sail, she could only stare at his beautiful face. "I wonder what you would be like free, unfettered by this place."
'.'Free of my responsibilities?"
"Free of these lies. I know I've told my fair share." She stepped into his space, breathed his air, felt his heat. "You walk apart from this place. Everyone sees how different you are. You don't belong here."
"I..." His voice scraped raw. "I belong here. You won't take that from me, no matter your body and your words."
"And what would you be without the Order?"
Dark eyes closed, a man defeated. "A slave and a murderer. That's why I thought to bind myself with these vows."
She shook her head. "I don't believe—"
"It matters naught what you believe, Ada."
"No. No! Only what you believe. You fabricate restrictions that cause you pain. You cut yourself off from life. For all I know, you're lying to me about this!" Tears pressed for freedom. He was no monk—that much had been clear from the start. But she had imagined him a warrior, someone powerful and strong. Someone stronger than herself. "Will you tell me the truth? Will you trust me?"
But he did not answer. His eyes warned her like the hiss of a fire. The man she had touched and loved was gone. And she would do well to forget he had ever existed
Chapter 20
The torches had burned low, shimmering softly at his back. Gavriel stayed in the weapons hall for half of the night, unable to shake free of his confusion. If he returned to his room, he would be alone with his thoughts, his mistakes, and his flogging whip. Never had he considered himself a cowardly man, but he could not face his punishment that evening. The wounds Ada had inflicted on him were vicious enough. Although blood did not leak from his skin, he felt exhausted, shredded, and hopeless.
Tell her, a voice whispered in his mind. She would understand.
No. Ada might come to understand why he had chosen the monastic life, but she would never fathom what he had been before Santiago. He had committed terrible deeds, all in the name of the de Silvas and his own warped interests. No motivation justified what he had nearly succeeded in doing.
An attempt on the king's life—how could she forgive that?
Had the tide of battle at Alarcos moved a little faster, a little slower, any number of events altered but slightly, King Alfonso would have been at the mercy of Gavriel’s blade. But mercy was an emotion for weaklings, men raised by soft hands. Six years ago, at Alarcos, he had not known the meaning of the word.
He opened his eyes, standing before the wall of swords. Choosing one from the wall, he hefted the perfectly balanced weapon. The weight of the pommel offset the blade and gave it grace and power. Simplicity. Only metal and man. The intentions behind the warrior who held it, the culpability of the victim who received it—unimportant. In the heat of battle, none of it mattered.
He missed that anonymity. He missed the ease. The man who owned him and the man who sired him had been the same. Gavriel had not been permitted a say in where he turned his blade, like a horse who cannot contradict the knight on its back. A mere messenger, he had delivered his father's deadly intent without thought or remorse.
And no matter the anonymity and the ease he missed, those simple paths, he would not return to such an existence. Mindless and soulless. Time away from Lord de Silva had taught him to account for his misdeeds. Master Pacheco had instructed him on the steps he must take to become whole and pure. Painful steps. And when Gavriel had failed, Pacheco saw fit to offer him another chance. He would not fall again. Ada had to realize that.
He gripped the hilt of the sword, the cool metal warmed by his hand. Raw blisters burned between his thumb and forefinger. He would never again use a sword. He would never again kiss Ada, touch her, lay with her. She had to understand that, as did he—really and truly, until hearing her voice or smelling her soft skin no longer held sway.
And all he could use to convince her was the truth.
Two days later, Blanca stared through a window slit to the beautiful view of Ucles far below. The rising sun cast squat white buildings in gold. Much the same in every respect to Yepes, houses stretched across the shallow valley floor, filling every crevice. Although she could not see individual people or animals, she imagined the quick vitality of a morning in the Saturday market. She imagined it and she wanted it
But from that high outlook, she may as well have been living among the clouds. No such vitality thrived in the monastery, only quietness and stillness and routines enough to make her skin itch. The need to be down in the center of the market and find its secrets thudded beneath her breast.
"This place is not what you expected, is it?"
She glanced at Ada where she sat on her cot Dressed in that deep green gown—me one that made her skin appear even more fair, her hair even darker—Ada watched with a tiny, teasing smile. Her company, however moody and baffling, had been Blanca's only relief from the tedium of their monastic shelter.
'Difficult to say," Blanca said, forcing thoughtfulness into her words. "I've seen but one building, and I've yet to see the town. To cast judgment now would be unfair."
Ada's smile widened. "But you have already."
"Yes, I'm afraid." She turned from the narrow window and its sunny, tempting view to settle onto her own cot, stretched opposite Ada in their small quarters. "I worry my expectations of life outside of Yepes will prove unreasonable. Perhaps any town is essentially the same as another." She shrugged, trying to slough her misgivings as easily. "Has that been your experience since leaving England?"
Ada tipped her head to one side and began plaiting her long, silken hair. Blanca touched her own hair—curly, coarse, wound tightly atop her head—and suppressed a glimmer of envy. "You're right in that many towns share much in common," Ada said. "But variations of culture and thinking do exist. The interest is in searching for the differences."
"And what of our escape from Yepes?" Blanca sat on her cot, memories of their dashing escape hastening her breath. "Can an ordinary life compete with such excitement? And would I even want it to?"
Ada's nimble fingers slowed. Her face darkened, the sun hidden by a cloud. "I've seen enough of such excitements to want peace, nothing more. A peaceful mind."
Blanca studied her new companion, this strange woman with the curious accent
and flawless grasp of the Castilian dialect. The circles beneath her eyes should have faded, and her body should have shown the pleasant effects of regular meals and freedom from the opium. But Ada had been suffering horrendous nightmares, fits of screaming and tears that awakened Blanca several times before dawn. She had done her best to offer comfort, yet nothing held the terror away for long.
That morning Ada appeared as beautiful, as fragile, as lost as ever—in body and in mind—but with a strength Blanca admired. She never spoke of the nightmares, only composed herself each morning as if the evening had been restful and secure. She spent her time in their shared room hunched over unfurled scrolls, mumbling in her rough language.
"A peaceful mind." Blanca smiled softly. "After your craving I should find that easy to believe."
"You knew?"
"Of course," she said, suddenly wondering if her words caused offense. "La Senora..."
"Ah, she told you."
Blanca stood and motioned for Ada to turn. She lifted the woman's heavy plait and began to arrange it atop her head, pinning and talking and enjoying the novel texture. "You should be proud of yourself," she said. "Some people never escape. The withdrawal is too difficult and they succumb, or so I've heard." She paused, peeking over Ada's shoulder to get a better look at her expression. "He helped you, did he not?"
"Yes," Ada whispered.
"He must care for you."
"No, I'm an obligation. Nothing more."
Blanca stuck a hairpin between her teeth and waved a dismissive hand. "Obligations are dispatched like reluctant parishioners giving alms. I cannot believe what he did for you is mere obligation, can you?"
"I've been told it doesn't matter what I believe."
"Have patience," Blanca said. "These days are a trial, and you are capable of much."
"Good and ill, both."
"As all of us are." Having finished Ada's hair, a crown as elaborate and beautiful as any intended for a monarch, Blanca returned to the window. "Fernan has offered to take me into town, should I wish."
"Oh?"
"A number of the unmarried freyles and canonesses travel together, acting as chaperones—or not, I suppose."
"Do you enjoy his company?"
She laughed, shaking her head. "Not particularly. But it will be a way to see the town."
Ada arose from the cot and smoothed her skirts before joining her at the window. "Be careful, Blanca. Fernan's smile hides a great many things."
"It does." She rubbed her hands along her forearms. "La Senora offered endless observations about the kinds of men in the world. She said that one is the kind you trust immediately, while another is the sort who should never be trusted. Fernan may be the latter."
Forcing a smile, she tried to keep from needing to justify herself to this confused Englishwoman. But Blanca felt like a simpleton, a mere girl from the country. To have traveled so far from home... one had to be strong for such an adventure. Or very, very scared.
"I've lived my entire life in a small town," she said. "But in working with La Senora, I learned a great deal—especially with regard to men."
Ada offered a skittish laugh. "You comprehend more than I do, I fear. I used to know how to talk to men, to gauge their moods and personalities..."
Her exotic voice trailed off, eyes distant and fogged.
Blanca touched her arm. "When you've lost yourself, it's difficult to know how to find others."
Ada's face opened into a wide smile. "You are far too wise. Well if not Fernan, then who?"
"Someone kind, funny, handsome, I suppose. Someone who could respect me. After how I was treated in Yepes, I fear being able to find anyone who will look beyond that." Blanca tipped her head closer, knowing she treaded a path too near to prying. "And you? You and Gavriel?"
A quick look of panic crossed Ada's face, but then her shoulders hunched a little. Blanca had heard the two of them together by the river—quiet words followed by quiet sounds she knew to be private and intimate. Sleep had not found her again. She had lain awake, her heart sick with wanting a companion of her own.
Believing Ada had found such a love, her envy of the beautiful woman nearly eclipsed her strange admiration. But since their arrival to the monastery, the two lovers had worked tirelessly to avoid one another.
No, Blanca had rid herself of envy days before. On top of the endless nightmares, the cost of Ada's fascinations seemed far too high.
"My apologies," Blanca said. "He is a difficult one, another kind of man altogether. Whether to love him or to hate him— who can tell? But he's certainly not for me because he has no sense of humor."
Ada laughed quietly. "At times I wonder if his face will break if he smiles."
“You'll do fine, then. If you can laugh at a man, he does not dictate your thoughts."
"I'm glad you're here, Blanca. You remind me of my sister, and I'm reminded of how much I miss her. Without you, I should not know what to do with myself, given the choice between solitude and Gavriel."
"That would depend on his mood."
With a heavy knock at the chamber door, Ada gasped and put her bandaged hand to her throat
"Inglesa? May I speak with you?"
Ada's face drained of its scant color, and then her cheeks burned a dark pink. "Shall I open the door and discover his mood?" she asked.
"Only if I can. hide beneath my cot," Blanca said.
"Coward."
"The battle is not mine."
Gavriel pounded again, the heavy door shivering. "Ada? Are you in there?"
"As to his mood, he sounds glowering," Blanca said.
"Inhospitable, at the least"
No, Blanca thought. His voice exactly matched Ada's face—resigned, wary, and unbearably sad.
Gavriel did not merely stand in the doorway; he dominated that space. She had not seen him up close since the night in the weapons hall, and her greedy eyes absorbed the sight. White robes covered him from neck to ankle, but her body responded to the powerful man beneath. She had gripped his taut backside, her mouth on his sex. She had kneaded the muscled caps of his broad shoulders and felt the firm weight of him move sinuously, then more urgently above her.
How could he hide among men half his stature and authority? How did he expect to belong hi such a place, following orders and ignoring the most elemental facets of himself? And how could he stand there as if their tryst by the river had never occurred?
For that matter, how could she?
She looked again, searching deeper. Restlessness overlaid his strength and distance. His face was a grim picture of fatigue, his cheeks hollow. His lips were chapped. Did statues grow weary? No, only human men—men like Gavriel beset by demons as vicious and unrelenting as her own.
The waking memory of her nightmares slid across her vision. A dungeon cell and fiery pain. Loneliness. Terror. And over the slivers of her past, these new dreams layered regret and desire— regret for having abandoned her sister and treating Jacob so badly, and desire for a little peace. Be that opium or Gavriel she no longer cared. They both brought her as much misery as pleasure. Doing without either was slowly driving her mad.
"Gavriel," she said, erasing wariness from her voice. "I'd not expected to see you today, as you've been doing your best to avoid me."
She wanted to slap him, make him hurt and cry out. At the very least, she wanted proof that her words reached him. His potent impact on her life had proven humbling, her every thought turning to him. And so quickly.
"May I speak with you, Ada?"
"We've said quite enough."
Gavriel eased into the sleeping chamber, his broad shoulders making the space feel cramped and overly warm. "I want to tell you," he said quietly. "Everything."
Her mind and her body froze. He was offering... what exactly? And was she brave enough to hear it?
She flexed the fingers of her good hand. "You expect my curiosity to get the better of me?"
"Please, inglesa"
Ada had mustered litt
le patience for her sister's experiments.
She had assisted out of obligation but also because, on occasion, Meg revealed marvelous things—unexpected beauty and wrath, all pulled from the natural world, manipulated and made extraordinary. The subtle shift of Gavriel's expression reminded her of those moments of wonder.
As much as she steeled herself against his plea, she remembered the moment she had begged of him, cornered by the archbishop’s physician and his tools made for bleeding. What weighed so heavily on Gavriel that he, too, felt the need to beg?
She nodded once and moved to accompany him into the corridor.
"No, please stay," Blanca said. After retrieving her cloak, she flipped the hood over her knotted black hair and made for the door. "I believe I shall make that trip into town this morning."
Ada stared into the girl's impenetrable black eyes, finding only caring, sympathy, and a pinch of curiosity—the sentiments of a friend. An unlikely friend in that unlikely place. She breathed a little more calmly when she squeezed Blanca's hand.
"Be careful."
Blanca tossed a cautioning look toward Gavriel. "And yourself."
With Blanca gone, the stillness between them was like mud drying on skin, prickly and irritating. Ada retrieved a headdress she had borrowed from a canoness and affixed it over her hair. His eyes followed her every move. Yes, the statue was gone, but the man who took its place could harm her a hundred times over.
She swept her gaze over the room. "Where can we talk? I assume the Order does not allow unmarried men and women to have conversations in private chambers."
"No," he said on an exhale. "The weapons hall remains empty. Sunshine lures everyone out of doors."
"Well good. We'll hold swords and talk. If you aren't honest with me, I reserve the right to be your executioner."
He blinked and turned on his heel. Ada made a face at his retreating back, cursing his severity. One smile. Not so much to ask.
She followed him through the endless corridors of stone and slivers of light, the Castilian spring sunshine weaving its way into every corner. Men in robes passed them in silence, heads bowed, while a group of women in the courtyard knelt among the foliage to tend the new growth. Their quiet chatter offered a semblance of normalcy to the endless quiet Ada had grown up thinking the forest a lonely and isolated place, but the solemnity of the monastery—for her, an outsider—seemed even worse. How would it feel to be among so many people, all of whom worked toward common goals and held common beliefs?