Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero

by Glynnis Campbell

  No matter how frequently she visited, the chapel never failed to fill her with awe. It was holy and quiet and serene—the oldest part of the castle. The afternoon sun streamed through the brilliant stained glass, leaving designs like bright fallen petals on the cool gray stone floor.

  The new addition at the chancel of the chapel still startled her. The great stone tomb dominating the nave bore a carved effigy of Lord John Wendeville, the way he supposedly looked as a young man. But Cynthia saw only a stranger’s face when she gazed upon the reclining figure. The man was attired as a knight with a lion crouching at his feet, his hands pressed together in prayer. Atop these hands, hands that bore little resemblance to her late husband’s, she tenderly placed the daffodils.

  “I’ve brought flowers, John,” she whispered, and still her voice seemed a shout in the death-quiet chapel. “The garden will be lovely this year. The long winter didn’t harm the roses at all.”

  She carefully separated the blossoms, arranging them in a spray atop the tomb, then relegated her soiled apron to the floor.

  “And I heard the first cuckoo today. It made me think of that song. How did it go?”

  She bent her head over her hands to think, close enough for a bee traveling upon one of the daffodils to flit onto the bright blossom of her hair.

  Then she began to hum softly, a song about a rude cuckoo who stole a robin’s supper, throwing in the words where she could remember them.

  The bee meandered across her orange tresses in search of nectar. It staggered twice, fell to a lower curl, then lost its grasp completely and tumbled onto her shoulder.

  Cynthia struggled through the last verse, then tossed her head back for the familiar refrain.

  The dazed bee, annoyed and confused in the tangle of her hair, floundered onto its back. When it squirmed upright again, it stung her for all it was worth.

  The song ended on a shriek. Cynthia clapped one hand to her shoulder, then one to her mouth, amazed not only by the sharp pain, but by the loudness of her own voice as it echoed against the stone walls. She jumped back, scattering the flowers over the edge of the effigy, and winced as her fingers brushed away the half-dead insect. It buzzed in an ineffectual circle on the floor, and she frowned down at it.

  “A bee!” she said in wonder. It was scarcely spring. What was a bee doing…

  A strange vibration tugged at the nape of her neck. Some long lost incident pushed upward at the crust of memory to be reborn. In all her years of gardening, she’d only been stung once before, long ago. But there was no forgetting that pain.

  Suddenly, it was as clear to her as if it had happened yesterday—the de Ware garden, the roses, the honeybees…the boy.

  All at once, the chapel door exploded inward.

  She whipped round. Her heart tripped. The door struck and bounced off the plaster wall.

  A tall, dark-haired stranger loomed in the doorway. His dark robe swirled about him, his shoulders squared with primed power, and he clenched his hands as if preparing for battle. His chest heaved with exertion, and he glared at her with fierce green eyes that seemed to condemn her.

  Dust motes scattered riotously in the shock of sunlight, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The man’s chest rose and fell once, twice, and still she stood riveted to the spot by his gaze.

  Finally a familiar figure shattered the moment, gliding forward past the man, his black cassock rippling like inky shadows swallowing up the light. “Are you ill, child?”

  “Oh!” she exhaled, placing one hand at her bosom to assuage her panic.

  The Abbot peered down his nose at her. “I hope we didn’t startle you.”

  Of course he’d startled her. Half to death. But if she knew the Abbot, frightening her was likely his intent. Indeed, she gleaned some satisfaction from the possibility that her sudden shriek had startled him.

  “I hope I didn’t…” The words caught in her throat as her gaze flickered again over the man accompanying the Abbot. He wore the cassock of a holy man, but he didn’t look like any friar she’d seen before. “Startle you.”

  She tore her eyes away long enough to see the Abbot smile with thin affection. “Nothing you do could ever startle me, child.”

  Ordinarily she’d snap back a clever retort, but today she wasn’t interested in a verbal duel with the Abbot. She was far more intrigued by his companion—the towering, grim-faced, broad-shouldered man of the cloth who continued to challenge her with a piercing stare.

  “I’ve brought a chaplain for Wendeville,” the Abbot droned, glancing down at the bee still spiraling on the flagstones beside her bare feet. “Apparently not a moment too soon, if verminare already infesting the chapel.” Cynthia spared the Abbot a glimpse, getting the distinct impression he wasn’t just referring to the bee. “Lady Cynthia,” he said, nodding with false deference, “may I present Father Garth.”

  Garth.

  She looked closer.

  It couldn’t be, she thought. It was mere coincidence. The bee made her remember the boy in the garden, and here was a man with his name. Garth was a common enough name. Surely it wasn’t the same Garth. And yet…

  “Garth?” Her pulse pounded erratically at her temples. It was childish, this sudden excitement. But the man before her had gray-green eyes and hair the color of chestnuts…and suddenly she wished with all her heart, childish or not, that it was that boy. It was naïve, a memory from a girlhood filled with faeries and foolish dreams, and she was a woman grown. But she couldn’t recall a time when she’d been happier, that halcyon time before her mother had died. Garth de Ware was a part of that life. Please, she prayed with uncharacteristic whimsy, let it be him.

  Garth had never felt more awkward in his life. For God’s sake—he’d thought he’d left his warrior ways behind him.

  The lady’s scream had started it all. His heart had plummeted at the sound, and for the first time in four years, his hand had whipped around to his left hip, seeking his sword, finding nothing but cassock.

  As unnerved by his own instinctive response as he was by the shriek of a damsel in distress, he nonetheless burst into the chapel like a knight bent on rescuing her.

  Then he froze. And almost broke his vow of silence. Before him, bathed in the ethereal light of the sun-washed chapel, stood the most fey and wondrous creature he’d ever beheld. A wave of paralyzing heat assaulted him. The breath caught in his chest, and his heart stumbled like a wounded warhorse.

  The devil had taken a pleasing shape. There was no other explanation for such beauty. The woman was nearly as tall as he, but as statuesque and well proportioned as the pagan sculptures he’d seen long ago in Rome. Her skin was smooth and vibrant, like the flesh of an apricot, and a delicate sprinkle of freckles frolicked across her nose and cheeks. Her lips were sensual, as inviting as a cherry tart, and her eyes were an ethereal shade of blue matched only by a clear English sky. Most striking, however, was the shock of unbound orange hair that curled riotously about her face, framing it like a storm-tossed halo. It reminded him of marigolds and sunlight and long-abandoned summers of childhood innocence.

  Her sideless surcoat, where it wasn’t smudged with dirt, was the color of Highland pines. Beneath, a soft gray kirtle hugged her lovely form, and the sight of the delicious curves it revealed made Garth’s nostrils quiver like a steed’s sensing danger.

  Mother of God, he despaired silently, what comes to test me now? Surely this was some jest. The Abbot couldn’t be serious. He’d have to be mad to place a man burdened by the sin of temptation in the household of Eve herself.

  The woman’s gaze swept him from head to toe, settling at last on his face, searching his eyes for…something. “Is it possible,” she said, her breathy voice drizzling over his nerves like honey, “that your surname is de Ware?”

  He stiffened. She’d heard of him.

  “Indeed,” the Abbot said coolly. “You’re acquainted with his family then?”

  From beneath his brows, Garth could see her face ligh
t up with pleasure. It made him melt inside.

  “It’s been some time,” she breathed. “But I’m so pleased to see you again, Garth.” She warmly inclined her head and extended her hand. It was a capable hand, strong and genuine, a little soiled, but unfettered by jewelry or guile. “My father was Lord Harold le Wyte?” she prompted.

  Panic seized him as he stared at her hand. He knew without touching her that that hand was as warm as fresh-baked bread. He suppressed the desire to take it, greeting her with safe, stony silence instead.

  As far as Lord Harold le Wyte, he neither remembered her father nor wished to remember her. If he had known her, it was from a time he’d put under lock and key long ago, and he didn’t intend to pry open that box, ever.

  Her pretty smile faltered. Her hand hung in empty space.

  “Oh, I should mention,” the Abbot said, “Father Garth is under a vow of silence.”

  The smile congealed on her face. She awkwardly withdrew her hand. Garth felt a twinge of remorse, but he’d never been more grateful for a penance in his life. He couldn’t have forced words past his lips if his soul depended on it.

  “I understand.” She didn’t look as if she understood at all. Indeed, she looked rather offended, as if he’d taken the vow just to spite her.

  “It’s a temporary penance,” the Abbot added, “just a week more.”

  “Ah.” Her glance flickered over him, inspecting him rather too thoroughly.

  “I’m certain, Lady Cynthia, you’ll be pleased with Father Garth. He’s had four years in the monastery, and he’s a fine scribe, as well as an expert on sin and the moral life.”

  Garth winced at the Abbot’s subtle barb.

  “I’m so glad you found him, Abbot,” the lady said.

  Garth knew he was doomed. That wistful longing flirting about her eyes would surely be his undoing. Her very presence rattled his composure and did unspeakable things to his loins. And—God have mercy—short of castration, there was no way out of the hell his life was about to become.

  CHAPTER 4

  What trifling pleasantries the Abbot and the woman exchanged, God only knew. Garth was too bedeviled by the chaos in his brain to pay them any heed. But all too soon, the Abbot began to speak of leaving.

  “I regret my haste,” he said without a hint of regret, “but I trust you shall see Father Garth settled? I must be off to Charing before nightfall.”

  Garth stiffened. Was the Abbot abandoning him, then?

  Aye. Indeed. With little more than a curt nod and a sweep of his somber robes, the Abbot managed to make the hastiest escape from Wendeville since Lot fled Sodom.

  The chapel door closed behind his swirling cope with an ominous thud, like the portal of a prison.

  Garth clenched his fists repeatedly, sorely tempted to rush headlong after the Abbot. But that was a coward’s way out. And he was no coward. He was a de Ware.

  Still, left alone with a woman for the first time in four years, he floundered as uncomfortably as a fish thrown from the river. Knotting his restless fingers in the coarse fabric of his cassock, he stared at the well-worn flagstones.

  Cynthia broke the ponderous silence, gently clearing her throat. “The chaplain’s chamber is rather modest, I’m afraid.” Her voice sounded as rich and lush as her hair. “The chapel is the oldest part of the castle.”

  Unwilling to look at her, Garth feigned an interest in the windows. He might not be able to flee this temptress, but he certainly couldn’t be expected to carry on conversation with her, considering his vows, and he definitely wasn’t going to gaze into her beautiful blue eyes again.

  Instead he pretended to inspect one of the panels of stained glass, though for all he noticed, it could have depicted the Last Supper or the Feast of Valhalla.

  Her hospitality was apparently undimmed by his disregard. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” she crooned. “The glass came from Sussex.”

  She came up behind him in a soft rustle of skirts, close enough that he could smell the fresh earth on her, close enough that he could feel her warmth at his back. He clenched his jaw, studying the narthex window intently enough to crack the glass.

  “John had it commissioned when we were first wed,” she told him. “It was his gift…” She broke off, and something in her voice surprised him. Something caught at his heart and stilled his breath.

  Sorrow. He’d forgotten. She’d just lost her husband.

  “His gift to me,” she finished quietly.

  Garth lowered his eyes from the window and let a sigh ease from him. Lady Cynthia was in grief. When the Abbot told him that Lord John had been old and feeble, he’d assumed there was no real affection between the decrepit lord and his young bride of two years. He could see now he was wrong. Cynthia had cared for her husband.

  As he turned toward her, she smiled brokenly and wiped at her nose with the back of one dirty hand, leaving a streak where a tear had fallen. His heart softened at once. And he knew, as impetuous as it was, he could no more refrain from consoling her than a sparrow could refrain from singing. Lending comfort was as natural to him as breathing.

  He reached out for her as he would to a child, cupping her cheek in one palm, brushing his thumb carefully across the smear to erase it. A wave of guilt washed over him. Compassion was the church’s daily bread. How could he have been so selfish, so caught up in his own troubles that he failed to notice her grief?

  But as soon as their gazes converged, Garth’s fatherly instincts vanished. The innocent gesture suddenly seemed perilous. His hand burned with forbidden fire where it touched her cheek. Her skin was velvety and inviting, as smooth and warm as a fresh-laid egg. He could feel the racing pulse at her throat beneath his fingertip. And as he watched, her eyes grew veiled with some unnamable yearning and her lips trembled apart. His nostrils flared, and for one mad moment, as the sun drenched them both in a stained-glass sea, he feared he might lower his head to kiss those lips.

  But an intruder shattered the moment, barging in through the chapel door. The two of them parted as quickly as torn parchment, and Garth lowered his gaze at once, praying he didn’t look as mortified as he felt.

  “My lady,” the elderly gentleman said. By the jangle of keys at his belt, Garth guessed he was the castle steward.

  “Roger!” She sounded strangely breathless. “Come in. Meet our new chaplain.”

  “Father.” The man gave him a cursory glance from head to toe, then dismissed him. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but there’s been an accident.”

  “Accident?” She straightened.

  Garth’s eyes fastened on the steward, suddenly alert.

  “It’s Will, my lady. He fell from his mount in the lists. He’s howling something fierce. I think his arm is broken.”

  Garth set his mouth. He’d never broken a bone, but he’d watched the physician at Castle de Ware set his brothers’ a few times. It wasn’t a pleasant sight.

  “Go and fetch my bag, Roger,” Lady Cynthia said, pulling her hair back and tying it up with a leather thong she dug from her pocket. “And find me wood and linen for a splint.”

  Garth stared at her, astonished. Certainly she didn’t intend to treat the lad herself. Setting bones required a strong back. And a strong stomach. It wasn’t work for a gentlewoman.

  “This may take a while,” she explained as a small furrow of worry creased her brow. “Please make yourself welcome.”

  And before he could incline his head to acknowledge her, she whirled and was off in a whisper of velvet.

  All his priestly instincts told him to remain in the chapel. It was where a man of God belonged, after all. This was Lady Cynthia’s castle, and if she was in the habit of playing physician, what business was it of his to interfere? If she could endure the gruesome sight of a fractured bone, if she had the strength to wrench a man’s arm half out of its socket while the wretch thrashed about, if she could turn a deaf ear while he screamed in agony…

  With a self-mocking grimace, he bolted out the do
or after her.

  He could hear the boy halfway across the yard, his low bellows of pain cracked by the unfortunate yelps of youth. Four of his companions huddled over him, shifting anxiously from foot to foot, but when Lady Cynthia arrived, they made way for her.

  “What happened?” she asked the squires.

  They all replied at once, but the gist of it was that the boy had been thrown or fell or leaped from his horse and landed on the hard-packed sod of the list. She knelt beside the victim.

  “Can you sit up?”

  The boy gasped in pain, but his friends managed to right him.

  “We’ll have to remove your—“ she began, halting as Garth caught up to her and seized her shoulder.

  He hunkered down between Cynthia and the youth and unfastened the lad’s swordbelt and the buckles of his breastplate. They slipped off easily enough, but the mail hauberk beneath would be difficult. Beckoning with his hand, he summoned two of the squires forward to support Will’s broken arm. While the lad clamped his teeth against the pain, Garth slipped the heavy chain mail off his good arm and over the top of his head. Then, as the boys carefully lowered Will’s arm, he guided the hauberk off the injured limb. The brave lad made no outcry, but beads of sweat stood out on his brow.

  “Thank you,” Cynthia murmured as he dropped the chain mail to the ground. “Now, Will, let’s find out where the break is.”

  She pressed her thumbs along the boy’s arm, working her way up under his sleeve. Halfway up his forearm, he gasped sharply, and she halted.

  “All right. I can feel the break. Just rest for a moment. Roger will be along with my medicines soon.” Then she sat back on her heels, closed her eyes, and began rubbing her hands together as if warming them by a fire.

  Garth scowled. What was she doing? The boy was suffering. The steward might not arrive for another quarter of an hour. The longer the delay, the more difficult it would be to snap the arm back into place. Something should be done…now.