The Knave and the Maiden. Blythe Gifford

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СКАЧАТЬ had lived four score years. After a glance around the chamber as if to reassure himself they were alone, William reached beneath his pillow and pulled out a folded parchment, no bigger than his hand. Red wax, indented with the Readington crest, doubly sealed the thin thread that pierced the layers. “For the monk. At the shrine.”

      Taking the message from William’s shaking fingers, Garren wondered how he had managed to hold a quill to write.

      William’s voice quavered, too. “The seal must be unbroken.”

      Garren smiled, silent. Even in the monastery, he had been a poor reader.

      William shook his arm, forcing his attention. Forcing an answer. “Please. There is no one else.”

      Garren looked into his friend’s eyes, eyes that had seen so much by his side, and knew that for as many weeks as William drew breath, he would say yes.

      He nodded, clearing his throat. “But I don’t want your money.” This journey should be a gift.

      William rolled his head no, leaving a new chunk of blond hair on the linen under his head. William knew his funds would take him no farther than the next battle. A weak smile curved his pale lips. “Take it. Buy me a lead feather.”

      A leaden pilgrim’s badge. Proof of the journey. A token to flaunt his faith. Garren gripped William’s fingers. “I’ll bring something better. Since you can’t travel to the shrine, I’ll bring the shrine to you. I’ll bring you a real feather.” Somehow it seemed appropriate, to violate a shrine to comfort a man with faith. At least you could see a feather. Hold it. Touch it. Not like the false promises of the Church.

      Skin already pale, blanched. “Sacrilege.”

      A chill skittered up Garren’s back. Stealing a relic. Violating a shrine. God would punish him. He nearly laughed at the thought, a residue of training over experience. Garren had seen the puny extent of God’s mercy. God’s punishment could scarcely be harsher. “Don’t worry. No one will miss a small one.”

      Still shaking his head, William closed his eyes and slipped into the near-death sleep that was his life.

      The door opened without a knock and the lilting voice of William’s younger brother Richard grated on Garren’s ears. Richard, who would not go on pilgrimage for his brother for love nor money. “Does he still breathe?”

      “You seem eager to hear me say ‘no.’”

      “It is just that this state can scarcely be called living, don’t you agree?”

      Garren did, but not for Richard’s reasons. “Perhaps. But as long as he breathes, he is the Earl of Readington.” Richard, however, need only wait. He would be Earl soon enough.

      “What is that?” Richard reached for the folded parchment as if he had the right.

      Garren shrugged and slipped it into his tunic. It nestled stiffly below his ribs. “It must be a petition to the saint.” Now that he had said yes, he dreaded the journey. Not the days of walking, but the company of all those trusting pilgrims who believed an invisible God would answer their prayers if they only paid His price. Garren knew better. “He asked me to go to the shrine and pray for his recovery.”

      Richard snickered. “By the time you arrive, you will be praying for his soul.”

      And by the time I return, Garren thought, I’ll be praying for my own.

      Kneeling before her private crucifix, the Prioress turned from contemplating the chipped paint on Christ’s left hand as the girl strode into her office, barely bending her knee in greeting.

      The Prioress rose with creaking knees, wondering why she had granted this audience, and settled into her own chair. Dominica was a slip of a girl who knew no better than to be grateful that the Priory had taken her in and raised her and given her useful work to do, the cleaning and the laundry and the cooking for the few who remained.

      The Death had taken its toll. There were too few serfs to plant the crops or to harvest what grew. Christian charity followed a full stomach. Of course, Lord Richard could have made it easier.

      Without asking permission to speak, the girl interrupted her thoughts. “Mother Julian, I want to accompany Sister Marian to the shrine of the Blessed Larina.”

      The Prioress shook her head to clear her ears. The request was so outrageous she thought she had misheard. No please. No begging. Just those piercing blue eyes, demanding. “What did you say, Dominica?”

      “I want to go on the pilgrimage. And when I return, I will take my vows as a novice.”

      “You want to join the order?” This was what came of raising the girl above the state in life that God had intended for her. She should have given the foundling to the collier’s wife when she had the chance. “You have no dowry.”

      “A dowry is not required,” the girl said, as if reciting the text on preaching. “Faith is required.”

      The Prioress bit her tongue. She was not going to argue theology with an orphan. It took more than faith to feed and clothe twenty women. “You cannot take the veil.”

      “Why not?” The girl lifted her chin as if she had the right to disagree. “I can copy the Latin manuscripts as well as Sister Marian.”

      Our Lord preached forgiveness, she reminded herself, trying to soften her tone of voice. “What makes you think you have a calling, Dominica?”

      The girl’s blue eyes burned with the fervor of a saint—or a madwoman. “God told me.”

      “God does not speak to abandoned foundlings.” The Prioress clenched her fingers in prayer until her knuckles turned white and her fingertips red. This was all her fault. She had let the girl sit with them at meals and listen to the Scripture readings. Likely the chit flattered herself that she understood God’s will because she had heard God’s words. “God speaks through His servants in the church. God has said nothing to me about your joining the order.”

      “But Mother Julian, I know I am meant to spread His word.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “I want to copy the texts into the common tongue, so the people can truly understand them.”

      The Prioress beat prayerful fingers against her lips. Heresy. I have a heretic living under my roof. If the Readingtons find out, I will never see another farthing from them. I should never have let her learn her letters.

      The girl was still speaking. “I belong here. I know it. And after I reach the shrine, you will know too because God will give me a sign.” Dominica’s face beamed with the kind of faith the Prioress had neither seen nor felt in many years. “Sister Marian will be my witness.”

      Sister Marian had always spoiled the girl. “Who will pay for this journey? For your cloak, your food? Who will do your work while you are gone?”

      “Sisters Catherine and Barbara and Margaret have said they will bear my load. And Sister Marian said she will pay for my food from her dowry.” She looked defiant. “I won’t eat much.”

      “Sister Marian’s dowry belongs to the Priory now.” The Prioress cradled her throbbing head in her hands. What had become of obedience? This was what came of allowing the Sisters to keep lapdogs.

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