He watched the lady for a moment more as she bowed her head over her hands as if in prayer. Then he made a decision. While she continued with her meditative ritual, he wiped his palms on his cassock and handed the boy his swordbelt, directing him wordlessly to clamp it between his teeth. The lad screwed his eyes shut and bit down hard.
Garth blew out a sharp breath. He’d watched the physician at de Ware set bones. How difficult could it be? The trick, he remembered, was distraction.
He braced his foot under the boy’s upper arm and adjusted his hand around the boy’s wrist, preparing to pull it. But just before he yanked, he raised his left hand and clouted the lad smartly across the face.
Gasping in shock from the blow, Will had no time to yelp as Garth hauled hard on his arm. In the wink of an eye, the bone popped back into place.
Garth’s satisfied smile lasted exactly two heartbeats before a female fist cracked it from his face and he rocked backward into the dust.
Cynthia couldn’t believe she’d hit him. But then she couldn’t believe what he’d done. Priests were supposed to comfort the sick, not pummel them. And if she’d knocked Father Garth onto the ground with the full force of the power she’d summoned for healing, it was no less than he deserved.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” she cried as he stared at her in stupefaction.
With a groan of frustration, she turned her attention to poor Will, who lay as pale as linen on the cold ground. She shook her hands. There was still a vestige of energy remaining in her fingertips, but it felt scattered. She’d wasted most of it on that punch, and she knew her knuckles would be bruised tomorrow. In fact, she doubted she could harness the power now at all.
“Are you all right, Will?” she asked, bending near.
The boy’s eyes were glazed as he looked at her.
“He hit me,” he mumbled, spitting the leather belt from his mouth. “That priest hit me.”
“How is your arm?”
Will frowned. “It hurts…but not as much. Why did he hit me?”
Cynthia pursed her lips. She wanted to know that as well. She eased her thumbs tenderly along Will’s forearm, feeling for the separation, and discovered to her astonishment that the bone was set perfectly. Apparently, Garth had been lucky.
“We’ll splint it properly when Roger arrives,” she told the boy with a forced smile of reassurance.
Then she let her gaze slide over Garth, unable to hide her anger. She had many questions, and she cursed the vow that would allow him to answer none of them. Then again, she doubted she’d like his answers. No priestly humility resided in his eyes now. He scowled harshly, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his lip with the back of his hand, and she thought she’d never seen a man of God look so unlikely to turn the other cheek.
Roger loped across the yard, bearing linen, several pieces of wood, and her satchel of herbs. She’d had no time to summon a vision to guide her in Will’s treatment, but she knew she could rely on myrtle, bruisewort, and feverfew to expedite the knitting of the boy’s bones. And, she thought peevishly, Will could probably use a rosemary infusion for the nasty bruise the chaplain had given him.
As for Garth, she supposed she ought to swab his cut as well. Perhaps she would, later, when she wasn’t so vexed with him.
But Garth didn’t give her that choice. As soon as Roger arrived, he came to his feet, beat the dust out of his cassock, turned on his heel and left.
Only much later, after she’d sent Will off with his arm successfully splinted, dabbed extract of mint upon her own bee sting, and begun to gather up her medicines, did Cynthia wonder again at Garth’s cruelty.
What had become of the chivalrous hero with the gentle touch in that long-ago garden? Had the years changed him so much? If this was what the church had taught him, if this was his version of holy works, then she intended to have a long talk with him. Indeed, the fact that he couldn’t argue with her might prove a good thing.
She hefted up her satchel and strode across the grass, still in her bare feet.
What had possessed Garth to make him clout a defenseless lad? What earthly purpose could striking a boy who was already in agony serve?
Halfway across the yard, she halted so abruptly that her satchel of bottles clattered against her thigh.
Of course.
She’d believed it was sheer luck that Garth had managed to set the bone properly. But was it?
Maybe he’d known precisely what he was doing. Maybe he’d simply taken matters into his own hands. From what she’d glimpsed in the moment before she struck him, Garth had known to brace Will’s upper arm and to pull true. As far as punching the boy…
A flush of shame washed over her like warm rain, and suddenly she knew the truth. Garth had meant well. He’d done exactly the right thing. And—curse her misguided assumptions—she’d struck him for it. Guilt made her knuckles throb all the worse.
Swallowing her self-righteousness, she straightened her shoulders and glanced toward the chapel. She had to apologize. She’d acted without thought. And she’d completely misunderstood him.
Knowing it would be no easier later, she trudged toward the chapel and sheepishly opened the door.
He was there, kneeling before the altar, his head bent in prayer, the glass-filtered sunlight staining his dull cassock in blocks of cobalt and scarlet and gold.
She hesitated. Though the castle belonged to her, she felt as if the chapel was his sanctuary, and she didn’t wish to intrude on his prayers. Perhaps she should come back later.
But she lingered a moment too long, and when he rose and turned, he saw her. He apparently hadn’t heard her come in, for his eyes widened and his mouth parted in surprise. Then a shadow fell across his face as if a cloud had gone across the sun.
“I…I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” she said, feeling suddenly clumsy. “I came to, well…”
Wariness crept into his dark gaze.
She took a deep breath and faced him squarely. “I came to apologize.”
His expression didn’t change, but then, what did she expect? She had clouted him with all the force of her healing power, flattened him with her fist. He no doubt thought her a bully.
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 f
rom 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.
Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero Page 6