Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero

by Glynnis Campbell

  Her hands trembled on her lap as she let the music fall about her ears. His voice rumbled and rolled, whispered and sang, floated like a roundelay, then pounded down like the surf.

  “…tempus spargendi lapides et tempus colligendi…”

  All at once, she understood. The emotions he held in check, the passions he denied behind a staid face and rigid body, were expressed in his voice as he read…God-knew-what. Cynthia was so caught up in the beauty of his delivery that she wasn’t listening to the words. With all her soul, she longed to rush into Garth’s arms and press her ear against his chest, to feel the power of his rumbling voice. She wanted to be enveloped in his strong, warm…

  “…amplexandi et…”

  Her gaze darted toward him. Amplexandi. Embrace.

  Garth didn’t mean to look up. Especially not at that spot. But Cynthia’s quick intake of breath distracted him. And once distracted, all was lost. The words danced before him on the page. He couldn’t find his place to save his life.

  “Et…et…”

  “Et tempus…” Cynthia quietly offered while the castle folk stared at him expectantly.

  He stiffened, but refused to look up. Things were not progressing well as he’d planned. True, he was reading the words properly, and Lady Cynthia appeared to listen with rapt attention. It was only that suddenly her attention seemed altogether too rapt. He struggled to find the phrases again, but everything looked like meaningless black scribbles on the page. Frustrated, he closed the tome with a thump, tucked it back under his arm, and cleared his throat.

  “Tempus plantandi. A time to plant,” he began, pacing, although the action felt oddly unnatural. “Our world is like a great garden. On one hand, there are daisies and roses and marigolds…”

  Marigolds? Lord. Why had he said marigold?

  “Marigolds,” he repeated more firmly. “On the other, there are wheat and rye and barley. And then there are thistles and all manner of weeds that…”

  Cynthia’s eyes looked as liquid as melting icicles.

  He cleared his throat. “All manner of weeds that grow among the…”

  Her lips were parted, and he could see the pearly rims of her teeth.

  “Among the thistles.” He nervously licked his upper lip. God, he wished she would stop interrupting him with those vibrant eyes. Curving mouth. Lush hair.

  “Aye, God created weeds,” he croaked, “just as surely as he created barley. But you wouldn’t plant weeds in your barley field, would you?”

  A few men in the congregation obediently shook their heads. Cynthia, however, stared at him with a longing so naked that he found himself strangling the Bible beneath his arm.

  “Nay,” he answered. “Nay, you would not, any more than you’d plant thistle among lilies or nettle among…jasmine.” The curse that sprang to mind was too foul to think about. Damn her lustrous eyes! “Some plants…” His voice broke. “Some plants do not belong with others.” He paced across the front of the nave, then stopped and made a grand sweep of his arm. “Just as the gardens of the world are planted, so is man set upon the earth in God’s great garden, each in his own time and place. A knight does not toil in the scullery, nor does a…a peasant dine beside the king. A minstrel has no place in the armory. A merchant does not labor in…”

  Bloody hell. Lady Cynthia looked as if she might devour him any moment.

  “In the field,” he finished, watching Elspeth, watching the new maidservant, watching the two children shoving each other on the back bench. Anyone but Cynthia.

  He stumbled through his thoughts with about as much grace as a novitiate, striving to ignore that radiant face, those translucent eyes, that adoring smile. He silently prayed for strength, focusing on the religious accoutrements that comforted him—the candles, the stained-glass windows, the Bible.

  Eventually his voice grew steady. Gradually he relaxed into the familiar duties of his office. And at last he sensed he could face her again. At last he could offer his congregation the meat of his sermon. Finally he could deliver the message so crucial to her.

  Alas, it was not to be. As he continued his discourse, an unfamiliar messenger stole up the aisle to speak briefly with Lady Cynthia. And before Garth could say another word, before he could even begin to expound upon the very important lesson he had to impart, Cynthia fled in a hush of golden velvet, simultaneously relieving and disappointing him, and leaving behind the subtle fragrance of jasmine.

  CHAPTER 11

  The satchel of herbs and tinctures rattled on the saddle behind Cynthia as she rode with her guard toward the village. She wished she’d been able to stay for Garth’s sermon. She could have listened to his seductive voice all day.

  But there was no time for delay. There wasn’t even time to change out of her heavy velvet Sabbath gown. The messenger said the stomach illness had affected at least three members of the village nearby already. Time was of the essence to keep the sickness from spreading.

  A hundred yards from the first house, a dirty little urchin ran up to meet her small entourage. She knew him—little Tim atte Gate. Tear tracks muddied his cheeks, and he sniffled as he bade them to hurry, for his father was sick. Unmindful of soiling her skirts, Cynthia reached down and scooped the lad up before her on the palfrey, nudging the beast to a swift pace.

  Her heart pumped faster. She was facing the unknown, and others were relying on her. This ability she had to heal was a mixed blessing. Sometimes, looking into the bright eyes of a child she’d rescued from death’s grasp, elation burned fiercely within her breast. Other times, no matter what potions and curatives she tried, no matter how long she labored beside a suffering patient, death—that heartless reaper of souls—slowly drained the life from its victim, and she inevitably languished in defeat and despondency for days.

  Still, her gift brought with it a certain responsibility. If anything could be done to relieve suffering or remove pain, Cynthia felt obliged to try it. The villagers depended upon her and knew she’d drop everything to come to their sides should they need her.

  “There!” the little boy cried suddenly, wiggling on her lap and pointing toward a stone hovel off the main road.

  Cynthia nudged her palfrey toward the cottage while her men waited outside. The house was as stooped as an old woman and as tightly shuttered. Smoke boiled forth from a hole in the roof. Cynthia set the child down and then dismounted. She grabbed her bag and swept past the boy to let herself in.

  The interior was oppressively hot. A cloud of smoke swirled about her when she opened the door, stinging her eyes and throat. She coughed. Where anyone got the notion that stifling heat and darkness were beneficial to a sick person she couldn’t imagine. She left the door ajar and immediately ordered the bevy of children in the cottage to open the shutters.

  Tim’s father, Rob, lay curled on his side atop a filthy bed. A threadbare coverlet concealed the bottom half of his body. He shivered uncontrollably. Cynthia pushed up her sleeves and commanded Nan, Rob’s wife, to begin warming water over the fire. Then she set her bag down beside the bed and bent to peer closely at her patient. His skin was flushed and dry, and his eyes were sunken in his head.

  “How long has he been this way?”

  “Two days, my lady,” Nan replied.

  Cynthia touched the man’s forehead. It was papery and hot. She felt both sides of his throat. His pulse was rapid, and there was swelling beneath his ears.

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began slowly rubbing her palms together. Her flesh tingled at the friction, warming until the heat was like a glowing force held between her hands. Then she placed her palms on either side of the man’s head, resting her thumbs at his temples. She imagined a bright white radiance flowing down her arms, through her fingertips, and into Rob’s body, warming him, soothing him, healing him. And in brief flashes behind her eyes, she received images of the herbs he needed.

  When the light diminished, when the power ran its course, she withdrew her hands, shaking off the vest
iges of energy that lingered.

  “He needs something to drink,” she told the wife.

  Nan, her eyes full of nervous doubt, wrung her hands by the fire. “He can keep nothing down, my lady.”

  “He must have drink,” she explained. “See how dry his skin is? We must find something he can take in small sips.” She opened her satchel. “I have herbs I can use, but only when he is able to take a little liquid.”

  She reached into her bag and drew forth a stoppered vial. Shaking it gently, she handed it to the woman.

  “This is yellow dock. I want you to find a clean rag and wash his body with this. We must wipe away all traces of illness.”

  Yellow dock’s merits were questionable, but Cynthia found it useful for keeping many a fretful relative busy while she administered more potent cures.

  “You, Tim. I saw hens in the yard. Can you fetch me a fresh egg, one laid this morn?”

  The boy nodded solemnly and scampered off.

  Cynthia whispered to Nan, “You must keep the children away from him.”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “He’ll need warmth, but you must let the fresh air in as well.”

  Cynthia picked through her bag of vials and packets, setting a few aside, dismissing several immediately, finally choosing the three she’d seen in her vision.

  “I’m going to leave you these. Give them to him only after he can hold down a few spoons of watered wine. This,” she said as the woman sponged her husband’s forehead, “is lady’s mantle. It should settle his bowels.” Nan nodded. “And this is extract of roses,” she continued, holding up a tiny bottle. “Mix it with a little honey, and it will work as a restorative.”

  The little boy marched in then, carrying the egg before him like some precious jewel. She took it and asked one of the older children for a clean cup.

  Rob moaned on the bed, drawing his knees up, and Nan’s brow wrinkled in worry.

  “His belly pains him,” Cynthia said, picking up the third packet, dried red clover. “Make an infusion from these leaves. Steep them in boiled water. Then strain the leaves and let him sip at the liquid. It should help with the pain.”

  The older child handed Cynthia a cup, and she cracked the egg into it, swirling it around with a piece of the shell. Then she ladled warm water from the pot on the fire over the egg, swishing it so the egg would cloud the water. When the cup was half full, she knelt by the man.

  Nan’s brow creased. “But, my lady, he can’t have eggs! Lent has begun!”

  Cynthia had expected that the woman would protest. She paused in her labors. “I know, Nan,” she murmured, “but the truth is, he must have nourishment. He’ll die without it. I’m certain God will forgive him this one transgression. Let’s pray that your good Rob lives to pay the penance.”

  Nan chewed at her lip uncertainly for a moment. Then she lifted her husband’s shoulders so Cynthia could tip the broth, sip by sip, into his mouth.

  “Make this for him twice a day, if possible,” Cynthia said quietly. “But it must be absolutely fresh. Send your children to fetch the eggs, and your neighbors will take no note of it. Keep everything tidy, but if another of your household takes ill, use the same herbs.”

  Nan bobbed in agreement. Cynthia lowered the man’s head and tucked the coverlet in around his shoulders.

  “I’ll visit tomorrow,” she assured the woman, rising and picking up her satchel.

  As she bid them farewell and mounted up again, Cynthia sucked in a deep breath of fresh air. She often wondered how these people could live like mushrooms, huddling together in their close, dark, damp world. Were she as penniless as they, she’d choose to bed down like a wild daisy, in an open field beneath the sky.

  The second family had much the same complaints as the first. It was odd, she thought. The two lived at opposite ends of the village. Sickness typically appeared like spring bulbs, clustered at first in one area, then radiating outward.

  There were two victims of the illness this time, Jack Trune and his eldest son, Richard. They, too, had had the complaints for two days. She learned from Elizabeth Trune that the two men had been to market on Friday in the village of Elford.

  “Did they see Rob atte Gate there, do you know?” Cynthia asked, cradling Richard’s head to give him egg broth.

  “Aye,” Jack croaked from where he lay.

  “Does Rob have the sickness?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Aye.”

  Cynthia explained about the egg broth. Elizabeth seemed only too eager to have an excuse to forgo the restrictions of Lent. Cynthia smiled to herself. If this continued, every household in the village would be sneaking out to fetch eggs and concealing it from their neighbors.

  It was early afternoon when Cynthia mounted up again for the trek home. She looked forward to a nap in the solar. It was a consequence of her gift that healing others drained her own energies.

  As her horse plodded along the curving lane, a young man called out from behind her, despair cracking his voice.

  “Please, my lady, if you will!”

  She looked around. Here was a face she didn’t recognize, a face darkly handsome, but twisted in pain. He made no effort to hide the tears streaking down his cheeks.

  “They say you can heal the sick!” he cried, loping toward her.

  Wasting no time, she turned her mount. “Lead the way.”

  His shoulders dropped in relief. He beckoned her to follow.

  “It’s my wife,” he said brokenly. “We’d just come to the village from Elford to make our home here.”

  “Elford?” An uneasy prickling started at the base of Cynthia’s spine.

  “Aye, it’s on the other side of—“

  “What are her complaints?”

  The man ran a shaky hand through his grimy hair, as if the memory were almost too much to bear. “Her stomach pains her. At first, she screamed with the pain, then later…when she could keep no food inside…she only moaned. She grew fevered, trembling most horribly…” He began to weep anew. “She’s seen visions…terrible visions…demons and…and…”

  Cynthia swung down from her horse and hastened inside the cottage.

  The girl on the bed raved, thrashing about, and kicked off her coverlet. Cynthia pushed her sleeves up to her elbows and looked sternly at the young man.

  “How long has she been ill?”

  “Since we came,” he sobbed, gazing helplessly at his bride. “Four days. Ah, God, what is to become of her? What will—“

  “Listen to me,” Cynthia told him stoutly, bringing his head around with a firm hand. “Are you going to mewl like a babe all day, or are you going to help your wife?”

  Taken aback by her words, he slowly recovered his dignity, wiped his nose across his sleeve, and nodded. “I’ll help you.”

  “Hold her, then.”

  For hours, Cynthia worked with the sick young woman, laying hands on her thrashing head, applying poultices, sponging her hot skin, slipping sips of boiled water between her lips.

  At last, the worst of it passed.

  Cynthia was weary to the bone. But the girl would live. And the lad had kept his word, staying by his wife’s side the entire time. As Cynthia rose on wobbling legs to leave, he threw himself gratefully on his knees before her, blessing her and pressing a small silver coin into her palm. She wouldn’t take it, of course. To put a price on her gift was to curse it.

  In time, the sun finished its watch, and the sky blushed crimson. Cynthia was exhausted. Her eyes felt as sandy as oysters. She’d slept little last night, and she hadn’t eaten all day, not wishing to partake of the peasants’ meager stores. So with trembling arms she pulled herself up atop her mount and lit out for home.

  Arriving at Wendeville long past supper, she let Elspeth bring her meal to the solar—pickled herring, a crust of pandemayne, a cup of ale, almond cream. All the while, Elspeth fussed over her like a cat washing its kitten. But Cynthia was too tired to eat much. The moon had not yet risen when she collapsed on
her bed in a heap of stained and crumpled velvet.

  Restful slumber eluded Cynthia. Visions of moaning, retching peasants filled her dreams, row upon row of them, like plants in a ghastly garden, a vast field of bodies stretching into the distance as far as her eye could see. They gasped for breath and groaned her name, and no matter how much lady’s mantle she sprinkled upon them, there wasn’t enough. They were going to die if she didn’t help them. Their need suffocated her. But there was nothing she could do…nothing…

  She awoke at dawn with a jolt. Her heart pummeled her ribs, and she drew in a ragged breath. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, then looked down with distaste at her rumpled gown. She’d hardly had a decent night’s sleep, but a strange sense of urgency beckoned her to the village.

  Dressing quickly in a gray kirtle, she scrubbed her face and tucked her hair beneath a white veil. As the sun rose, she left Wendeville with her guard, her satchel bulging with herbs, and nibbled on the sticky honey bun Elspeth had pressed into her hand to serve as breakfast.

  She sensed bad tidings long before she arrived. Sickness permeated the village. She could feel it on her skin, in her soul. The pall hanging in the air was as palpable as a smothering cloak as Cynthia rode, shivering, into the noxious haze.

  The village was silent except for the random cackling of hens or the occasional bark of a dog. Wraiths of smoke escaped through the roofs of the cottages. But the sounds of the village—children playing, men hammering, mothers scolding—the sounds of life, were conspicuously absent.

  Recalling her nightmare, Cynthia shuddered and wondered which household to visit first. As her horse indecisively tamped the dirt with its hooves, the shutters of a nearby hovel sprang open.

  “My lady! Are ye here to heal?” cried out the pale young Scotswoman who lived inside.

  “Caitlin. Aye,” she said, dismounting and clasping the woman’s hand. “Do you have the sickness?”

  “’Tis my sister. She canna eat. She canna sleep.”

  Cynthia went inside and laid hands on Caitlin’s sister. Fortunately, the illness hadn’t progressed far.