The Knave and the Maiden. Blythe Gifford

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СКАЧАТЬ a whiff of heather would take him back. His mother had loved that smell. She had stuffed some in a little pillow for him to sit on while he listened to her tell him how Christ turned water into wine and made many loaves from few.

      Fairy stories. He found that out just in time, just before he would have promised his life to poverty, chastity and obedience.

      He shrugged off the unwelcome memories. Past is past. Look at today. He looked out on William’s land again. Green fields hugged gently rolling hills, each field stitched neatly to its neighbor with greener trees. Blue and copper butterflies clustered as thickly as the yellow and white flowers they sat on. What would it be like to have a home in a lush, sweet land like this? No invaders had ripped the land apart for nine generations. No stink of blood soaked the soil. No savage soldiers’ cries, living or dead, drowned out the twitter of sparrows.

      He envied William the land he walked on. He wanted his own earth beneath his feet. Maybe, after he had repaid William. Maybe, after William died and Richard forced him to leave. Maybe, he could find some land, abandoned or unattended. Some land that with a strong arm he could make his own.

      But first, that meant taking the girl to bed. Next time, he would be gallant and charming and eventually she would tumble like a tavern maid. He would not have to face her eyes when she rolled beneath him.

      Stand straight and speak kindly.

      He shook his head. It was as if his mother spoke in his ear. He was six again and she was saying goodbye as he sat atop the horse that would carry him away.

      The thought distracted him as he called a halt for the day beneath a grove of trees beside a cold spring and assigned guard duties for the night. No sense tiring them all at once, especially Sister. They had many days of walking ahead.

      He splashed cold spring water on his face and down the back of his neck. He would talk to the girl again.

      Stand straight and speak kindly. God will watch over you.

      God had some things to answer for. But he might try his mother’s advice on the young Dominica.

      Chapter Six

      Standing just beyond the reach of the fire’s warmth, Dominica scanned the group, looking for The Savior, or Sir Garren, if that’s what he insisted she call him. Not that she wanted to call him anything at all. She was looking for him so she could avoid him. And if she saw him, she would refuse to speak to him. Why should she? Everything she said made him scowl.

      She tossed back her hair and bit her lip. It was probably sinful to hold a grudge against one with a special relationship with God, but he was so rude today, she felt justified in ignoring him.

      He had settled the group early for the night. After the evening meal, Sister Marian gathered the pilgrims into a mismatched choir. It was strange to hear singing that did not echo on stone. But Sister Marian, her clear voice praising God with each note, led them with enthusiasm, even for the Widow, whose deaf ear let her sing happily in her own rhythm. At least when she was singing, she wasn’t talking.

      “Your faith gives you wings to fly like Larina

      To fly like Larina, to fly like Larina;

      Your faith gives you wings to fly like Larina

      Into the arms of the Lord.”

      Dominica hummed along, tapping one foot, happily reminded why she was here and what she would find at the end of her journey: a sign from God that she could go home.

      She counted the singers. Sir Garren was not among them, nor were Simon and Ralf. Perhaps he was standing guard with them.

      She felt a shield at her back, blocking the wind, and turned. Sir Garren loomed behind her, tall and straight as a tree. “You do not join the singing?”

      Her throat clutched the hum. She was not going to speak to him. She was not certain she could speak to him. But he had asked her a direct question. She had to say something. “Singing is not my talent. Mother Julian has always been clear about that.”

      A frown creased his brow. Everything she said brought a frown. He smiled at Sister. He even smiled at Innocent. What was it about her that made him frown? “You dislike singing?” she ventured.

      “I dislike announcing our presence to thieves.”

      A gust of wind rustled the ragged oak leaves behind her. Hand-shaped shadows waved along the ground. Dominica swallowed. Thieves. Something new to fear. Bravery had been easy when, sheltered by cloistered walls, all she had to fear was Mother Julian. “God protects pilgrims.” And it is your task to protect us, she thought.

      He opened his mouth and then shut it with a deliberate smile. “Don’t worry.” He brushed a lock of hair back from her forehead. She shivered at the touch of his fingers, yet she felt reassured. “We are still close to William’s land.”

      At least he had not frowned.

      This time, however, she would not speak. Ignoring him, she looked back at the singers and hummed through closed lips waiting for him to go away.

      He stayed. Back straight as a soldier, he stood so close to her she could sense the rise and fall of his chest. She wondered whether it were covered by the same dark brown hair as his fingers, scolding herself for the thought. Even if he were no saint, she should not think of him as a man. Nuns never thought of men that way.

      She jumped when he spoke again, his voice soft somewhere above her left ear. “I must ask your forgiveness. I spoke like the rudest peasant instead of a chivalrous knight.”

      Refusing to look at him, she kept her gaze on the fire, hoping he could not see her satisfied smile. “I know little of chivalry.”

      Large, warm hands cupped her shoulders. He turned her, gently, but firmly, to face him. Firelight flickered over his face, softening the rough edge of his chin and the harsh lines around his eyes. “I am sorry. I have no excuse for ill treatment of another.”

      She chose her words carefully, trying to resist the pleading look in his eyes. “It is not my place to judge a man who is one of God’s messengers.”

      His chest rose with an inheld breath, as if he were ready to berate her again, but sighed instead. “At least you are no longer calling me The Savior.” He shook his head. “Life treats us ill enough. We should be kind to each other.”

      Sorrow lurked in his voice. Chagrined, she regretted her petty game. He preached kindness, just as the Savior did. And practiced it, too. She had seen it in his care of Sister and all of them. He had asked for forgiveness. Surely she could forgive ill manners. “I forgive you.”

      Some of the pain behind his eyes dissolved. “Thank you.”

      She couldn’t look away. Her chest rose and fell with his, and she had a strange, dizzy sensation that they breathed as one person.

      Behind her, the singing dissolved in laughter. She stepped away from him and looked back at the fire.

      He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you talk now?”

      She did not want to talk to him. She did not want to stand near him. She did not want to feel so shaky and uncertain. СКАЧАТЬ