The Knave and the Maiden. Blythe Gifford

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      Lord Richard uncurled himself, spine straight, feet flat on the floor, and met her eyes for the first time. “The little scribe? Is she old enough to travel?”

      Did everyone know the girl could write? Pray God she had said nothing to him about her heretical ideas. “In her seventeenth year, my lord.”

      His nose twitched as a weasel’s might. “And still a virgin?”

      The Prioress drew herself to her full height. “Do you have so low an opinion of my stewardship?”

      “I’ll take that for a ‘yes.’ What does she seek on this pilgrimage?”

      Clasping her hands, she considered his curiosity. Perhaps she could use it. “She wants to join the order and she seeks a sign that God approves.”

      “Because you do not?”

      She assessed him for a moment. There might be a reason to tell him the truth. “No. I do not.”

      “Then we have something in common. I have another interest. In the mercenary,” he said. His dark eyes glowed. “My brother’s gratitude seems to extend to perpetual support, as if this Garren were a saint. I would have him see what kind of knave the man really is.”

      She already knew what kind of a knave Lord Richard was. No doubt his brother did, as well. The Prioress waited for his proposition. She did not think it would be a pleasant one.

      “Offer this Garren money if he will seduce the little virgin. He seems to do anything for a bit of coin. And when she accuses him, we shall each have something we want.”

      “Milord, I cannot—”

      “You don’t want her to be a nun. Neither do I. And once Garren is disgraced, William will have to throw him out.” He paused, smiling. “If he lives that long. If not, then I’ll be the righteous one. And then I’ll have a few personal tasks for the girl.” His smirk left no doubt that those tasks would take place in the bedchamber. “Don’t worry. She may still do laundry for you, Prioress, in her idle hours.”

      “Milord, how can you ask such a thing?” And how could she consider it? Because she was responsible for twenty lives besides Dominica’s. Lives already pledged to God. And when the Earl died, the fate of those lives would rest in Lord Richard’s hands.

      “If you do, I might be able to give you the support you need. And a generous incentive to the mercenary for his sin.”

      No hint of trouble, she had told the girl. This scheme would assure she never took the vows. Of course, hadn’t she herself wondered, nay, hoped for just such a thing? Perhaps God was answering her unspoken prayers. “And I’m sure your remembrance of the Priory will be generous.”

      He laughed, a chittering sound that rattled on the roof of his mouth. “Well, that all depends on how successful you and the Blessed Larina, are, doesn’t it?”

      The girl had the Devil’s own eyes. Maybe this was the fate God had meant for her. And the mercenary? He and God could wrestle for his soul.

      “I promise nothing,” she said, cautiously. “I can but prepare the table.” And pray for forgiveness.

      “I promise nothing, either.” He squinted at her. “Prepare it well.”

      Garren, though he had given up God as a lost cause, was still shocked when a nun asked him to violate a virgin.

      “Dominica is her name,” the Prioress said, settled in her shabby chamber as if it were a throne room. “Do you know her?”

      Speechless, he shook his head.

      “Come.” The Prioress beckoned him to the window overlooking the garden. “See for yourself.”

      The girl knelt in the dirt, facing away from him. Her hair lay like poured honey in a thick braid down her back. She hummed over her plants, a soothing sound, like the drone of a drowsy bee.

      Of its own accord, his heart thumped a little harder. Even from behind she had a pleasing shape. It would not be difficult to take her, but the idea rekindled a sense of outrage he thought long dead.

      “I’ll not force her.” He had seen too much force in France. Knights who took vows of chivalry and then took women like rutting boars. The remembrance churned in his stomach. He would starve first.

      “Use whatever methods you like.” The Prioress shrugged. “She must not return from this trip a virgin.”

      He looked back at the girl, digging up the weeds. He was no knight from a romance, but he had a way with women. Camp followers across France could attest to that. Every woman had a sweet spot if you took time to look. Where would this one’s be? Her shell-like ears? The curve of her neck?

      She stood and turned, smiling at him briefly and the purest blue eyes he had ever seen looked into his wretched soul. He felt as transparent as stained glass.

      And for a moment, he shook with fear he had never felt before a battle with the French.

      He shrugged off the feeling. There was no reason for it. She was not that remarkable. Tall. Rounded breasts. Freckles. A broad brow. Her mouth, the top lip serious, the bottom one with a sensual curve. And an overall air as if she were not quite of this earth.

      She turned away and kneeled to weed the next row.

      “Why?” He had asked God that question regularly without reply. He didn’t know why he expected a country Prioress to answer.

      The Prioress, broad of chest and hip, did not take the question theologically. Her dangling crucifix clanked like a sword as she strode away from the window, out of hearing of the happy hum. “You think me cruel.”

      “I have seen war, Mother Julian. Man’s inhumanity is no worse than God’s.” He had a sudden thought. The usual resolution to a tumble with a maid would find him married in a fortnight. “If it is a husband you need, I’m not the one. I cannot support a wife.”

      I can barely support myself.

      “You will not be asked to marry the girl.”

      He eyed a neatly stitched patch on her faded black habit and wondered whether she had the money she promised. “Nor fined.”

      “If you had any money you would not be considering my offer. No, not fined, either. God has a different plan.”

      God again. The excuse for most of the ill done in the world. Hypocrites like this one had driven him from the Church. “If you do not care for my immortal soul, aren’t you concerned about hers? What will happen to her? Afterward?”

      Her eyes flickered over him, as if trying to decide whether he was worthy of an answer. “Her life will go on much as before.”

      He doubted that. But the money she offered would be enough for him to give William the gift of the pilgrimage. Enough and more. William would be dead soon. Garren would have no welcome under Richard’s reign. All he owned was his horse and his armor. With England and France at peace, he had no place to go.

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