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.
But pain was an old friend. And that old friend soothed him, clarifying his thoughts. He carefully wiped the moisture from his face with the corner of his sleeve and smoothed the cope over his cassock.
He knew what he had to do now. Lady Cynthia Wendeville may have sent him packing, but it wasn’t the last she’d see of him. There were always others he could use as instruments for his purpose.
He had at least a year. No widow would dare marry before at least a token period of grief. Until then, Wendeville’s coffers would be safe enough.
Slipping a spy into the servants’ ranks would be child’s play. His world teemed with the repentant—lost sheep who would lay down their lives to do his bidding and gladly sell an influential shepherd like him their very souls.
As a parting gesture of concern for the bereaved Wendeville household, and to protect his investment, he’d even help Lady Cynthia select a new chaplain. He’d find her a humble cleric from the poorest monastery in the land, a man of little ambition, a man who believed in the blessedness of poverty—in short, a man who’d not interfere with the Abbot’s aspirations to wealth and power. Oh aye, he’d find a chaplain for Wendeville. Indeed, he already knew just the man for the position.
CHAPTER 2
APRIL
Garth de Ware gasped as the wanton woman rode him mercilessly. She was exquisite. Her long, black hair fell forward, lashing his bare ribs. Her eyes glittered like emeralds. Her fingernails raked his shoulders, and her sleek, round buttocks pounded down upon him as relentlessly as the tide. He felt every glorious inch as he strove upward to shelter in the warm recesses of her flesh.
She leaned over him, thrusting voluptuous breasts forward which he happily cupped in his hands. They were so soft, so delicate, he feared he might hurt her. Then she bent to him, shoved aside his hair, and lapped voraciously at his ear, and it was all he could do to keep from bruising her in his eagerness. She eased a nipple between his lips, and he sucked gently at it, gasping at the sweet honey of her skin.
Tension stretched his body until he felt like a bowstring ready to snap. Her nipple popped from his mouth, and he tossed his head feverishly back and forth.
“Mariana,” he moaned, his breath coming shallow and rapid. “Ah, Mariana…”
He woke abruptly. No woman rose above him, only the pale ceiling, where the dawning sun sketched leafy patterns across the bare plaster. For several seconds, he was disoriented. Then the truth crashed down upon him like an iron portcullis.
The nightmare had returned to haunt him.
He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. His bunched cassock was soaked with sweat, and an all too familiar, craving ache gripped him between his thighs.
Curse his animal lusts—they mocked him yet again. Here he lay, a man of the church, stiff as a lance and sworn to chastity.
He forced a cold, somber mask to fall over his face like the visor on a close helm, concealing the rapt ecstasy of the dream, blotting it out of existence.
He refused to acknowledge that betraying part of his body. Certainly he’d not defile himself by seeking relief, even though as near as he was to bursting, he could have achieved it with a single stroke of his hand. But he was a monk, and if it was God’s will that he continue to endure this wretched nightmare, then perhaps it was meant as a test of faith.
So he clenched his teeth, stared gravely at the ceiling, and waited for the fiery longing to subside. He tried to forget Lady Mariana’s bewitching form, tried to think only of her cruel honesty and her mocking laughter. He forced himself to remember how much she’d hurt him.
Unlike his older brothers, he’d come late to wenching. Holden and Duncan had probably sampled the charms of a score or more damsels each by the time they were twenty. For them, Garth’s virginity had always been a source of amusement.
Part of Garth’s reluctance to pursue carnal pleasures was that he was f
ated for religious pursuits. A young man with two older brothers as brilliant and worthy as his could only seek his fortune through the church. Since his skill with his studies exceeded that with the blade, particularly when compared to his illustrious siblings, his destiny seemed clear.
Oh, he’d tasted the life of a knight, and he could wield a sword as well as most. His father had trusted him to guard Duncan, the eldest brother and heir to the de Ware estate, on his myriad adventures. And once, when Garth traveled with Holden north to the borders of Scotland, his brother had let him serve as steward to the castle he’d won. Unfortunately, Garth had failed miserably, outwitted by the Scots wench who eventually became Holden’s bride. After that, he’d decided to return home and keep to his pious path toward the church.
For six months he worked diligently under the scrutiny of Castle de Ware’s chaplain, memorizing, studying, falling naturally into the rhythm of prayer and blessing, worship and chant. He showed promise, the chaplain informed his father, and might even aspire to the office of bishop. Garth seemed destined for greatness.
Until Lady Mariana de Martel came to live at the castle.
The orphaned daughter of a landless lord upon whom James de Ware had taken pity, she blew into Garth’s life like a devastating whirlwind, steering him off course and dominating his every waking thought. She devoted herself as thoroughly and deeply to sexual pleasure as Garth did to the church, and it was only a matter of time before he was tempted by her far more fascinating religion.
She teased, taunted, tortured his untried body with seduction and denial until he was crazed with desire. The sight of her made his blood run hot, and his heart raced if she so much as brushed his arm in passing.
One torrid summer night, Mariana called him to her bedside, wailing and writhing under the influence of what she claimed were devilish nightmares. She sent away her maid and bade him bolt the door. A half dozen times that night she called upon his young, virile body to exorcise the demons of her dreams. By the time dawn broke and Garth stumbled back to his own chamber, he was dazed and exhausted.
Rather than easing Garth’s infatuation, however, she’d only piqued it. He turned his face from the church and began to worship Mariana, devoting himself completely to pleasuring her. He decided at last that he wouldn’t be content until he made her his wife.
But Mariana had other plans. She’d grown bored of him. He no longer seemed to be able to satisfy her endless cravings. She avoided him, made excuses, left him waiting in an empty bed.
Garth was young and inexperienced, and love was blind. Like a knight facing the quintain for the first time, he never saw the blow coming.
He could remember, word for word, everything she said as he lay naked, drained, trembling with fatigue and shamefaced rage. It pained him too much to recall those words now. But after she was through with him, after she shredded every scrap of his newfound masculinity from him as easily as his linen undergarments, he was filled with such self-loathing and humiliation that he could scarcely draw breath.
He would never, he vowed, shame himself with a woman again.
And so he threw himself wholeheartedly into the church. He withdrew beneath a cassock so thick that Cupid’s arrow couldn’t pierce the wool. To his parents’ dismay, he moved out of the castle and humbled himself to the level of a simple monk at a poor monastery. There, he embraced his new life with the zeal of an ascetic. And he never looked back at the life he’d once led…until the nightmares came to taunt him, forcing him to remember, nay, to relive his past.
He sighed heavily. The pressure in his loins had abated now. All that remained was disgrace. And for that, he must confess to the prior. Contrition for his sin, the sin of lust, was the only way to be rid of it once and for all.
He folded back the rough wool blanket and sat up, forcing his bare feet with intentional cruelty onto the cold stone floor. The back of his cassock stuck to him. The damp wool itched against his skin, but he refused to allow himself the comfort of scratching. He muttered a hasty prayer as he crossed himself, hoping he wasn’t late for Sabbath Mass.
Prior Thomas padded across his office, stroking his freshly shaved chin with one hand, patting his portly stomach with the other.
“I see,” he murmured uncomfortably.
Thomas wondered how long this would take, and more to the point, how soon he could eat. God forgive him, but this was part of a prior’s occupation he truly detested—passing judgment on men who were surely no more flawed than he was.
And naturally, God had seen fit, in some kind of penitential jest, to send him Garth de Ware today. Brother Garth came to him at least once a fortnight with some or other imagined sin for which he felt he owed contrition.
This week it was lust.
The prior rubbed his hand over his face. By the morose look in Garth’s eyes, he knew he wouldn’t be able to explain that any normal, warm-blooded male of his age naturally felt the stirrings of the body. Nor, he feared, would Garth be content with a stern lecture. Nay, Garth was one of those rare, irritating fanatics who insisted on harsh self-punishment. Something had happened in Garth’s past to make him believe he was unworthy, and nothing on heaven or earth could convince him otherwise. Thank God the prior had locked away the monastery scourge, or Garth would doubtless insist on a daily flogging.
Garth stared up at him expectantly, and though the youth knelt humbly enough before him, Prior Thomas had to remind himself that the young man was his underling. Garth de Ware’s countenance was anything but humble. His steady, noble gaze marked him as the son of a lord. His was the face of a man born to power, a face that commanded respect, led armies, and doled out justice.
When Garth had first come to the monastery, though his spirit seemed somehow lost, his body was strong and fit. He’d been a striking youth. Now, apathy had ruined the lad’s appetite and, in the prior’s opinion, left him too spare. Garth’s was by nature a warrior’s body, not fashioned for the inertia of a monk’s life, no matter how readily his mind adapted. The lad was literally wasting away.
Thomas ran a palm over his own round belly and expelled a weary puff of air. Above all, the prior liked order—lengths of wool that made exactly two cassocks, jongleur’s verses with happy endings, just enough of last year’s wine to last till the new barrels were ready, all loose ends tied. Such things were incontrovertible proof that God was in his heaven. Garth de Ware? He was an anomaly, a reminder that perhaps all was not right with the world.
What had brought Garth to God’s fold, the prior couldn’t guess. It was the one subject the lad would never broach. But it was apparent the young man simply didn’t belong here. His own parents said as much, inquiring frequently after Garth in the hopes he’d change his mind about the monastery.
It wasn’t that Garth wasn’t fit for the church. He certainly possessed the fear of God, love of Christ, and devotion to mankind required of a man of the cloth. But with his keen intellect and noble ties, he was better suited to the position of castle chaplain or abbot or even bishop, some office requiring frequent contact with the secular world.
The prior feared the seclusion of the monastery was slowly draining the life from Garth de Ware.
Still, Garth did as he was told, and his father, Lord James de Ware, supplied the monks with a generous annual oblation. Prior Thomas supposed it was none of his affair whether the young man’s calling was true or not.
He cleared his throat and tried his best to mold the cheery crinkles of his bald forehead into stern furrows. He’d have to choose his words carefully. Garth would indubitably castrate himself if he thought it a seemly punishment for the sin of lust.
It truly was a shame the lad was not of the in seculo clergy, those who worked “in the world,” for though the church officially frowned on such a thing, a goodly number of such clergy possessed concubines, wives, and even offspring. Clearly, they never grappled with the sin of lust.
“Let me see. You say you cried out her name?” he asked, steepling his fingers
importantly.
The young man’s gaze hardened. “Aye, Father.”
“So your tongue shares the blame of your sin?”
“Aye.”
The prior nodded, pacing thoughtfully. “Then it’s fitting that your tongue bear the punishment.” He clasped his hands before him. “I will have your vow of silence for…a fortnight.”
He let his gaze slide over Garth’s face, gauging the severity of the sentence. It was often difficult to tell how much chastisement the lad felt he deserved.
Thankfully, Garth lowered his eyes in acceptance. Then he pressed a holy kiss to the prior’s ring and silently excused himself from the office.
After he’d gone, Prior Thomas heaved a relieved sigh and clapped the matter from his hands. He’d made the right decision, and, he thought rather selfishly, he’d earned several days’ respite from the youth’s self-reproaching tongue.
As it turned out, his timing couldn’t have been better. By week’s end, an eminent visitor would arrive at the monastery, a man who would change Garth’s life forever. And because the lad was sworn to silence, there wasn’t a blessed thing he could say about it.
The late morning rays of Friday’s sun slanted down in wide diagonal bars between the columns of the monastery’s inner courtyard, alternately casting Garth in light and shadow as he walked the long, open hallway, beating the dust from his cassock.
What had happened to make the prior call Garth to his office so urgently? He’d been halfway through copying the third verse of Psalms when he’d been summoned.
He hoped it wasn’t bad tidings. It was difficult being away from his family. He seldom saw them more than twice a year. His father wasn’t a young man anymore. His mother always seemed tinier and more fragile than he remembered. His brother Duncan’s wife was expecting their second child. A hundred unpleasant things could have happened.
Bracing himself for the worst, he knocked lightly upon the prior’s door. Prior Thomas swung the portal wide almost before Garth had lowered his hand. A broad smile wreathed the old man’s face. Not bad news then. Garth offered up a silent prayer of thanks.
Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero Page 3