Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero

by Glynnis Campbell

  Cynthia ignored the others and uncorked the vial of monkshood extract. “This will make you feel very light, Meggie,” she cooed, pouring the liquid generously into her palm, “almost as if you could fly.”

  She reached very tenderly between the girl’s limp legs and smeared the extract at the spot where the infant’s tiny blue head was crowning.

  “I want you to tell me when you feel as if you’re flying, Meggie.”

  There was no need for the girl to speak, for in a few moments her body relaxed, and her face took on a dreamy expression, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  “We’ll take the babe now,” Cynthia murmured to the midwife.

  Jeanne ran a hand across the girl’s belly and massaged, pressing gently at first, then more firmly. Cynthia eased her fingers in around the babe’s head, trying not to think about its poor, lifeless body. It was difficult, slippery work, but she managed to turn the baby and pull it forth as Jeanne pressed hard on Meggie’s belly. Meggie was mercifully oblivious through the whole procedure. She scarcely knew the deed was done.

  Cynthia received the afterbirth onto a thick pad of linen and handed the baby to Mary. The young maid went white.

  “You stay with me,” Cynthia ordered. The girl had probably never seen so horrifying a thing, but Cynthia couldn’t afford to lose her help.

  Then she applied a poultice of crushed shepherd’s purse to stop the bleeding. She insisted the midwife scrub her hands clean in the hot water and go home to rest, asking her to send the chaplain to the infirmary. Elspeth pressed a wad of absorbent linen between Meggie’s legs while Cynthia scoured her own hands. Then she took over, covering Meggie with a thin sheet and combing the girl’s hair back with her fingers till she fell asleep.

  Meanwhile, Mary cowered in the corner of the chamber, and now she hissed like a frightened kitten. “She’s bound to die after what you did, my lady.”

  Elspeth rounded on the terrified maid, wagging an angry finger. “Lady Cynthia’s healing is held in the highest regard, whelp. There may come a day you’ll be thankful for it yourself. Until then, you’d do well to remember your place and hold your tongue.”

  “But it’s a witch’s herb, monkshood,” Mary argued.

  Elspeth’s voice was dangerously soft. “Would you be calling Lady Cynthia a witch?”

  “See that you wash your hands well, both of you,” Cynthia interrupted before a fight could ensue. “Monkshood isn’t a witch’s herb, but it can be dangerous.”

  She shook her head. Where anyone got the notion that an herb could be evil was beyond her. After all, hadn’t God created all the plants? True, some of them could be poison if used in ample amounts, but they possessed no mystical powers. Herbs were simply for healing the sick and removing pain.

  A tentative knock came at the door as she scrubbed at a spot of blood on her sleeve.

  “Come,” she called.

  Garth frowned. He’d half hoped no one would hear him. He had no idea why he’d been summoned. After all, he knew nothing about birthing. And he was filthy from the garden.

  He pushed the door inward anyway. A de Ware never walked away from a lady in need.

  The metallic odor of blood unnerved him for an instant. His eyes sought the source at once. A young woman lay atop the bed in the middle of the chamber. The linens at the foot of the bed were streaked with scarlet, as if the bed itself had been slashed and wounded in some gruesome battle. But though the woman’s face was as pale as plaster, as still as death, she was alive. The sheet rose and fell to the rhythm of her breathing.

  The two maids tidying the chamber stared at him. He clearly didn’t belong here. This was a woman’s domain. Yet Cynthia motioned him in, fetching a bundle from the bed with great care.

  “The babe,” she said quietly, not meeting his eyes, “needs blessing. I was hoping you’d defer your vow of silence to see it done.”

  He furrowed his brow. The infant could scarcely be moments old. Why such urgency?

  She lifted her gaze to him then, and he knew at once.

  The babe was dead.

  He swallowed hard. She wanted him to perform last rites.

  She continued to stare at him, beseeching him with eyes burdened by sorrow, haunted by pain. And in that moment, no matter what had passed between them before, no matter that he thought her the seductive daughter of Eve, he knew he’d do anything to take that suffering from her eyes.

  He received the feather-light bundle and strode to a private corner of the infirmary, whispering the words around the painful lump in his throat to save the poor babe’s soul. By the last Amen, Cynthia had gone.

  He handed the babe to Mary. The women would no doubt prepare its tiny body for burial. The mother snored softly from the bed, her grief abandoned for the moment in the land of dreams. Elspeth blew her nose, then shoved the rag into her pocket, busying herself with gathering up the soiled linens. His work here was done.

  But what about Lady Cynthia? It was his duty to comfort the living as well as bless the dead. Certainly she must be in need of comfort. After all, he’d seen how she took her duty to her household to heart. In some way, she probably felt responsible for this tragedy.

  He found her in the outbuilding she’d fashioned to grow starts of tender plants. It was a cozy place, kept warm by a roof of sheepskin that let in the sun’s light, and wet by a well sunk in its midst. Earthenware pots of all sizes, filled with assorted foliage, cluttered the wooden shelves. As he let himself in, warm, moist air enveloped him.

  “Close the door.” Her voice came from the far corner, muffled by a forest of greenery. “Please.” Then her head popped up between the fronds. Her eyes were red from crying, and he felt a sudden, inexplicable longing to cradle her against his shoulder, to let her sob her sorrow into his cassock.

  “Oh. Chaplain.” She self-consciously wiped at her cheeks, then gestured toward the entrance. “If you’ll kindly…”

  He secured the door.

  “The babe?” she inquired.

  He nodded.

  “If you’ve come to tell me it’s the will of God,” she muttered, “you’re wasting your breath.”

  He frowned, taken aback. Cynthia snipped a flowered branch from one of the plants with all the wrath of Perseus beheading Medusa. She wasn’t grief-stricken. She was vexed.

  “I know. He is at peace now.” She snipped another branch. “His soul is in a better place.” Snip. “God works in mysterious ways.” Snip. Snip. “You don’t need to preach to me. I’ve faced death more times than you can imagine.”

  She hooked the shears over a nail in the wall and gathered the white-flowered stems into a bunch. With a swish of her wool skirts, she tried to pass.

  He caught her arm. He didn’t know why. It was foolish and instinctive and dangerous. Maybe it was the vulnerability underlying her bitter words or the helpless frustration reflected in her eyes.

  She gasped softly as the flowers were crushed between them. A light breeze wafted their fragrance past his nose, a sweet fragrance vaguely familiar to him. What was it? His mother had grown this in her garden. He was sure of it, but…

  Jasmine.

  He only mouthed the word, but the air stilled as if he’d uttered an enchantment. A queer prickling traveled up his spine as he inhaled the scent.

  Jasmine.

  He struggled to remember. There was something about jasmine and the woman before him. He perused her face, his eyes only half-focused, and gently took the bouquet from her fingers. Faint images of lazy summer afternoons spent reading in the garden buzzed around his brain like…

  Bees.

  He remembered now, something… He looked at Cynthia directly, studied her face. Oh aye—he remembered her well. How could he have forgotten the orange-haired sprite who’d stolen his mother’s roses? The little lass leaning back against the jasmine? Her shock when she was stung by bees? He’d rescued the poor frightened girl. And she’d called him “Sir Garth.”

  She was a grown woman now, but he vi
vidly recalled how vulnerable and trusting the little girl had been as he wielded his blade to remove the barbs from her tender flesh.

  “I remember you.”

  Cynthia’s heart missed a beat. Garth’s voice took her breath away. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t the deep, resonant, rough-edged timbre so unlike his carefree childhood voice. His words sent a shiver through her soul. Then, as if his voice weren’t enough to convince her that he was the most alluring man alive, his eyes softened, and one side of his mouth drew up in that familiar quirky smile to remove all doubt.

  She couldn’t help but return the smile, but her heart pounded like a fuller’s paddle. The feelings she’d had for him as a girl were nothing to the way she felt now. Her legs weakened beneath her, and she could feel a blush begin upon her cheek. A woman could lose herself in his smile.

  But no sooner did she entertain that thought than the grin faded from Garth’s face. He pressed his lips together in a thin line, and his eyes flattened. He released her arm and stared over her head toward the wall as if she were invisible.

  Lord, she realized—he’d broken his vow of silence.

  CHAPTER 10

  Garth cursed mentally. How could he have let a woman come between him and his vow? He had only one more day of his penance to serve. For four years he’d kept his monastic oaths, answering to the Lord with undying devotion, inflicting severe punishment upon himself for unworthy thoughts. He’d embraced chastity with such sobriety that he was often the butt of jests comparing him to his notoriously lusty brothers. All for what? To be tempted from the simplest vow by a woman? It was unconscionable. How could he have forgotten the harsh lesson he’d learned from Mariana?

  He clenched his jaw so tightly he feared his teeth might crack. Slowly, purposefully, he pressed the jasmine back into her hands, rejecting it as thoroughly and unmistakably as he must her.

  “What is it?” she asked, her face the portrait of innocence. “Your vow? It’s all right. I swear I won’t tell a soul. It’ll be a secret between us.”

  He pulled the corners of his mouth down. Their secret. He wondered if that was what Eve had said to Adam as she handed him the apple. Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes to her, clutched his crucifix in a reassuring fist, then turned away with a measured precision that belied his chaotic state of mind and took a step toward the door.

  “You know,” Cynthia said crisply at his back, “the Abbot never told me what it was you did to deserve that ridiculous vow of silence anyway. I wonder…”

  Garth’s heart jerked against his ribs, but his feet managed to hesitate only slightly in their bid for freedom. What mischief did the woman perpetrate now? She was like a ferret burrowing at his soul. He owed her no explanation. He wasn’t obliged to reveal his iniquities to her. Confessions were between the sinner and the church.

  If only he could make it to the door before…

  “Let me guess,” she said with the pensive coyness only a woman could master. “What sin might a man of the church commit?”

  His fingers fumbled with, then gripped the iron handle of the door, and relief surged through him as he pulled it open. The contrasting wave of cool air struck his cheek like a sobering slap. He was safe now. He’d return to his quarters and spend the rest of the day praying for forgiveness for…

  “It must have been a grave sin indeed to require such a grave penance.”

  Satan’s teeth! Was she following him? A quick glance told him the meddlesome wench had secured the door behind her. Worse, she looked for all the world as if she intended to dog him the rest of the day, nettling him with rude questions.

  Very well, he decided. If she could dismiss propriety and common courtesy, he’d do the same. He’d ignore her completely, march off as if her chatter were no more than a breeze blowing past his ear.

  It worked for three long paces.

  Then the chain of his crucifix broke, and the wooden cross slid from around his neck, clattering on the stones at his feet, throwing off his stride.

  He whirled. To his horror, Cynthia snatched it up like a prize, closing it in her fist before he could reach it. He glanced at his stolen goods, then clenched his teeth, as tense as a cat about to spring, sorely tempted to pry it from her greedy hands.

  Apparently unaffected by the threat sizzling in his eyes, she ran an idle finger along the worn wooden edge of the cross. “I’d venture so far as to say you must have violated one of the seven deadly sins,” she guessed.

  The blood left his knuckles as he tightened his fists in the folds of his cassock.

  “The seven deadly sins…hmm…” she mused.

  He ceased breathing.

  “Well, I don’t think it was covetousness. There’s little to covet in a monastery.”

  She tapped his cross against her lip, and his jaw dropped. How dare she place her lips where his had pressed a thousand times…

  “Nor do I imagine it was envy.”

  He stood very still, staring at the crucifix. He wanted it back, very badly. But he could see in her eyes, she wasn’t going to give it to him. Not yet.

  “I’m certain it wasn’t sloth, for I can see by your work in the garden you’re not an idle man.”

  She’d done it now—come perilously close to the truth and exceeded his tolerance for torment.

  He whipped away from her. Never mind his crucifix. It was probably defiled now anyway. He’d get another one.

  In the meantime, he’d put up with no more of her taunting. He stalked off with a satisfying snap of his cassock and the longest strides he could manage.

  They were apparently not long enough.

  “By your fitness,” she said, running to stay at his heels, “it’s definitely not gluttony.”

  He felt as tightly wound as a catapult about to fire and as panicked as a novice about to fire it.

  “Anger?” she guessed, breathless from the chase. “Maybe. Even now…your fists betray you…clenching and unclenching like that… Hmm. What about lust?”

  He halted so abruptly that she collided with his back with an “oof.” Involuntarily, he wrenched his head toward her.

  Something in his eyes must have given him away and shocked her terribly, for she suddenly grew clumsy, fumbling with the crucifix, and he knew one instant of grim satisfaction.

  “Oh!” She worried the chain while her gaze darted about like a singed moth, uncertain where to alight. “I… I….didn’t,” she mumbled, scarlet chagrin rising in her cheeks. “I’m so…sorry. I thought surely that…that pride was your sin.”

  Garth compressed his lips, thoroughly humiliated. Was that admission supposed to comfort him? Pride was the one thing he didn’t have. Curse the wench! It was bad enough he’d made confession to Prior Thomas. But this, this was unbearable—a woman he hardly knew divining his guilt.

  He could hear the gossip already, imagine her glee at spreading it. Father Garth—a monk of four years, a de Ware, sworn to chastity—lusted after women.

  He bit the inside of his cheek to quell the shout of fury and shame threatening to explode from him. By God, he wouldn’t let her see his disgrace. He’d hide it if it killed him.

  He stretched himself to his full height, concealing his emotions like a knight primed for battle, confronting her with the countenance of a calm but deadly warrior. Now he could face her. With this mask, he could face the devil himself.

  He refused to beg for the crucifix. If she wanted it, she could have it. She probably needed it more than he did anyway. He nodded coolly, then turned on his heel and fled to seek holier ground.

  Cynthia couldn’t move. She felt as though the breath had been sucked out of her, taking with it the mist over her eyes.

  Lust. Lust was his offense. Not pride.

  She’d been so sure his sin was pride. Pride was always the vague failing for which monks were punished. Ballocks—if she’d known, she would never have played that cruel game with him. But she’d been frustrated by the babe’s death and vexed by t
he aloofness in Garth’s eyes, and at the time she’d wanted nothing more than to poke those cool, unfeeling orbs.

  She could still see the subtle flinch at the outer edges of his eyes when she’d uncovered the truth. He’d tried to hide his emotions, sheathed them faster than a knight shoving a sword into its scabbard. But she’d glimpsed the pain, the humiliation. How he must hate her.

  As he paced off, the fabric of his cassock slapped the air like the sail of a ship bound for frozen climes. It wasn’t till he’d disappeared inside Wendeville’s chapel that Cynthia leaned back against the castle wall, still clinging to Garth’s crucifix, and considered what had just transpired.

  A million thoughts bounced about in her head. Garth de Ware had committed the sin of lust. Lucifer’s ballocks! What had he done? What constituted lust to the church? Had he slept unclothed at the monastery? Had he sought his body’s release at his own hands? Had he been found with a lover?

  Suddenly the heat of the day seemed overwhelming. Cynthia fanned herself with one hand, swinging the cross idly from its chain with the other.

  Garth de Ware was very much alive, she realized. There was passion there. The flame wasn’t extinguished, though the battle to suppress it still raged within him, even after four years, driving him to take vows of silence to curb his desires.

  But she’d been right. There was hope. There was a chance.

  Delight shivered through her as she recalled the spicy scent of his hair and the way it curled upon his nape, the evergreen depths of his eyes, the aura of undeniable strength and masculinity that surrounded him. Just knowing he was capable of suffering the pangs of desire made her heart race. It was full night before she could banish the enticing image of Garth de Ware, his cassock cast aside with his inhibitions, from her mind.

  Mary pulled her cloak together against the midnight chill and glanced down at her hands. Her knuckles were rubbed nearly raw from all the scrubbing she’d given them. She had no desire to be caught with traces of monkshood on her person, especially since she was gong to see the holy man again tonight.