Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero

by Glynnis Campbell

  But in the end, the only words he could speak were ones that were as familiar to him as his own name. Broken, he clenched his eyes shut and surrendered to his fearsome God. He fell to his knees before Cynthia, clasped his fists together, and prayed for the Lord’s mercy upon her.

  Over and over he said the words until, eventually, his fervent prayers diminished, becoming syllables murmured mindlessly as spots floated again before his eyes. Exhaustion overcame him. Three sleepless nights caught up with him and hauled him into the muddy waters of slumber.

  One hour might have passed, or ten. He wasn’t certain. But some soft sound awakened him. He lifted his head from the wool coverlet and, for a moment, couldn’t remember where he was. His eyes were swollen, and his cheeks felt stiff from the salty tracks of his tears.

  “Garth?”

  He came wide awake in an instant. He’d know that dulcet voice anywhere.

  “Cynthia?” he croaked.

  She looked as feeble as a new-hatched dove, her neck wavering as she strained to lift her head. But she was breathing. And her color had returned. She was alive. Praise God, she was alive.

  “Cynthia!”

  His first impulse was to crush her in an embrace of pure euphoria. He longed to cover her face with kisses of celebration, to pick her up and whirl her about the chamber.

  But, stepping near the bed, stretching out a hand, gazing into her faintly shimmering eyes, he saw her for once more clearly than he ever had before.

  This was a woman who deserved the best of life. God had wrenched her from the grasp of jealous death so that she might dwell a bit longer among the living, sharing her gift, fulfilling her dreams. Who was he to dull that bright light of her spirit? To stain the precious years she had left with regret and disappointment? Cynthia deserved far better. She deserved more than what Mariana had proved him—half a man.

  As she stared expectantly at him, her beautiful cornflower eyes full of hope, shining with gratitude, soft with affection, his heart sank to his stomach.

  It would kill him, he knew, to deny his feelings. It would break her heart as well. And yet, it was the only right thing to do.

  He looked away, unable to bear the mild confusion and pain he knew would enter her eyes. He withdrew his extended hand, closing it into an impartial fist. And he hardened his heart against the flood of emotion that threatened to unman him and make him forget his good intentions.

  “Are you…” He cleared his throat. “Do you feel better?”

  Her silence forced him to meet her gaze again. She looked hurt, puzzled.

  “You…” Her voice creaked like an iron hinge in need of oil.

  She struggled to sit upright. He couldn’t stand by and watch her futile attempts. Steeling his emotions, he vaulted forward, cradling her in the crook of his arm and bolstering her with several pillows. Then he reached for his hip flask of watered wine, uncorked it with his teeth, and raised it to her lips. She covered his hand with her own two and drank greedily. Surely it was unwise to drink so much at once, but he couldn’t deny her.

  After several gulps, she pushed the flask aside and wiped a shaky hand across her lips. Then she raised her eyes to his.

  “You stayed with me.”

  It sounded like an accusation. He slipped his arm from around her, corking the flask and dropping his gaze.

  “How long?” she asked.

  “Not long,” he lied, putting the flask away.

  “Long enough to grow this,” she said, reaching up to stroke his stubbled chin.

  Her fingers burned like hot embers against his face. He turned his cheek aside.

  He felt her eyes on him, searching his face a long while before she turned her head to look despondently toward the window.

  “How many days have I been ill?”

  “Five…six.” He picked up the wooden platter from the floor and set it on the table, squaring it up with the edge. He had to get away from Cynthia…now…before he forgot his intent and begged for her touch again. “I’ll fetch Elspeth. She’ll be relieved that you’re well.”

  “And are you?” She still gazed out the window, and her words seemed more thought than speech.

  “Am I…?”

  “Relieved?”

  More than you can possibly imagine, he thought. He answered evasively instead. “Of course. It’s always a blessing to see the work of God’s hand—“

  “It wasn’t God’s hand that healed me.” She turned toward him, and there was such desperation in her eyes that he couldn’t bear it.

  He bit the inside of his cheek, avoiding her piercing gaze. “I fear you blaspheme, my lady.”

  Before he could halt her, she clasped his hand in her two.

  “It’s this hand I remember between bouts of sleep, holding mine, smoothing my brow, stroking my cheek, healing me.” Her voice was rough, and she blushed as if the words came from her against her will. Then she lifted his trapped hand to place a quick and reckless kiss along his knuckles.

  His heart fluttered. He wanted her kiss. Her soft breath was a sweet caress across the back of his fingers.

  “Then you must forget this hand,” he whispered harshly, reluctantly pulling away, knowing he crushed her. “It’s an instrument of God’s will, no more. That’s all it will ever be.”

  He made the sign of the cross and walked stiffly toward the door, feeling the pain he’d inflicted all the way. Before he left, he turned to her once more. “It’s all I will ever be.”

  CHAPTER 17

  In the following days, the sickness in the village foundered and died, and the air filled with the sweet scents of nature’s renewal. The sun coaxed tender shoots of grass up from the earth, and tightly curled leaves and buds tipped the dark branches with vivid green. By Easter, everyone, peasant and noble alike, was eager to crowd into the great hall of Wendeville for an enormous feast. Cynthia hired mummers to perform a St. George play, and Father Garth, promising loyal service to the castle henceforth, blessed the colorful pace eggs, as was his duty, for the men and women to exchange.

  The days passed in subdued harmony while the garden erupted in a slow explosion of color. But for Cynthia, the blooms brought little joy. They were only a bright reminder of how dull her life had become in contrast.

  Elspeth continued to bring candidates for Cynthia’s hand, and while she tried to greet them civilly, none of them seemed of adequate intellect or appropriate demeanor to take on the responsibility of Wendeville. Certainly none of them even remotely stirred her heart, and while it wasn’t necessarily a prerequisite for marriage, if she wanted an heir, she had to at least be willing to bed Wendeville’s lord.

  The situation seemed hopeless, and having Garth nearby did nothing to remedy that. She compared every man to him. This lord’s eyes were not as bright. That lord’s smile was not as bewitching. This gentleman’s touch was not nearly as warm, that gentleman’s not nearly as firm.

  But at last, on a brilliant morn in late April, when tufted clouds frolicked like lambs across the jewel-blue sky, he came.

  His name was Philip.

  He was perfect—not too handsome, not too plain, not overly extravagant, but far from miserly, fair-minded, polite, humble.

  She didn’t love him. Far from it. But he was acceptable as lord for Wendeville. She could see he would be good for the people. Roger liked him. Elspeth liked him. The castle folk liked him. Everyone would be glad of a wedding between the two of them.

  Everyone but Garth. Garth instantly hated Philip. And just as instantly prayed for forgiveness. There was no real reason to hate the man. He was perfect for Wendeville, perfect for Cynthia. But that ugly beast, jealousy, perched upon Garth’s shoulder.

  It didn’t belong there. Garth had no claim upon Cynthia, none whatsoever. Since that blessed day when God had seen fit to save her life, Garth had dedicated himself wholly, devotedly to his religious duties, vowing to leave Cynthia to a more deserving man.

  He made frequent visits to the town now. He knew the villagers
by name and considered each soul his solemn responsibility. He’d even arranged, with the permission of Wendeville’s groom, to send palfreys each Sabbath to transport the elderly to Mass at the chapel.

  He helped with the distribution of alms and trenchers and worn clothing to the poor, and even spent odd hours scrubbing plaster and polishing the stained glass of the chapel until it shone with heavenly luster.

  He taught the children of the keep to read, and even indulged the falconer, who had no real use for letters, but who’d come to him with a longing so sincere he couldn’t refuse him. He tended to the sick, prayed for the destitute, blessed two newborn babes, and gave the old castle brewster last rites.

  And through it all, he managed to keep apart from Lady Cynthia. She even obliged him by respecting his chosen detachment from her. Once he’d explained, once he’d made clear to her that her life had been bargained for upon his faith, she seemed to understand. She no longer summoned him to the garden or teased him at supper or wore the scent of jasmine in his presence.

  Only when he passed one of the fragrant sprays of white and yellow blooms Cynthia cut and placed about the castle did a faint but persistent longing pierce his heart. Only when the scent of flowers wafted through his thoughts did he feel strangely bereft.

  And if he sensed empathy in her, if she, too, seemed particularly wistful in idle moments, he told himself it was the loss of her husband that made her so, or a feminine longing for a child, or the simple restlessness of spring. It would have tortured him too much to hope she felt the same pangs as he.

  As it turned out, he was mistaken about her melancholy. She wasted no time at all finding a new lord for Wendeville.

  Elspeth, with her usual stubborn persistence, had continued to inflict eligible noblemen upon the castle, and, for a while, Cynthia had discarded them as casually as a fisherman throwing back too small catch.

  It would have been a lie to say her actions disappointed Garth. In his eyes, none of the men had seemed good enough for her.

  But then Sir Philip de Laval arrived.

  He wasn’t nearly as flamboyant and engaging as Lord William had been, but then the man would never eclipse Cynthia’s light. Garth could see in his forthright gaze that Sir Philip was a good man. His spirit wasn’t troubled by doubt. He wasn’t plagued by moral dilemmas. He was simply a decent, God-fearing, honorable man.

  Apparently Cynthia thought so, too. Within days, she’d accepted his informal proposal of marriage.

  It was probably for the best. She did look peaceful strolling about the courtyard on his arm. The smiles they exchanged at supper were fond, and the way Philip’s face glowed with quiet pleasure when she entered a room, Garth knew he’d treat her well.

  In the occasional moments when envy surfaced among his thoughts, Garth pressed it down like an autumn apple, filtering the bitter seeds from the sweet cider. If his throat closed when he thought about having to be the one to seal their bond of marriage, he reminded himself that Cynthia deserved so much more than he could give her.

  Thus it was that on days like today, the first of May, when all Wendeville was agog with feasting and merrymaking and festivity, Garth welcomed the chaos to which the castle was reduced, for he had no time to dwell on such troubling matters of the heart.

  Indeed, his own exuberance amazed him as he stood at the edge of the wooden palisade constructed for the great May Day tournament. In the lists, Wendeville’s finest warriors kicked up swirling clouds of dust, battling afoot in the melee, wielding blunted swords and shouting aspersions against their foes.

  Garth’s heart pounded, and he felt his own shoulders tense as he watched the knights whirl and slash at their opponents. Of course, none of them were fit to polish the armor of his magnificent brothers. Duncan and Holden could have taken on the entire Wendeville fighting force without a scratch, he was sure. But that didn’t curb his enjoyment of the spectacle, and before he knew it, he was yelling out insults and encouragement along with the rest of the crowd.

  It was a friendly melee. When it was over, the victors held out their hands to their fallen foes and clapped them on the back for a battle well played. Blunt blades were used in the sword duels. The jousting, as well, was done with coroneled lances…which was why the accident came as such a shock.

  Garth had taken a cup of wine from a passing maidservant and was eyeing the pennons of the visiting knights to see how many he recognized when a collective gasp from the crowd drew his attention. He turned his gaze at once to the field of the lists. One of the jousters had fallen, which was nothing surprising, but he lay silent where he fell for a long while…too long. And when the helm was pulled from his head, it was obvious the unconscious knight was only a lad.

  Garth swore under his breath. His brothers had done their share of filching armor as boys and fighting in tournaments for which they had neither permission nor experience to participate. But then, they were destined to be the finest knights in England. This boy was clearly…a boy.

  The men on the field had removed his breastplate and were slapping at his cheeks now, trying to rouse the lad, to no avail. Lord, if they didn’t hurry…

  Garth dropped his cup to the ground, heedless of the wine that trickled onto the sod. He hoisted up his cassock and leaped over the palisade on one arm, charging forward as soon as his feet hit the ground.

  Cynthia gathered her skirts and lunged forward without thought. A lad lay unconscious on the field. She had to help him.

  She heard some vague protest as she left—Philip, no doubt, concerned for her safety. But she rushed off anyway, half-conscious that her betrothed dogged her every step.

  “Back away!” she snapped at the knights as she flung herself to the ground beside the fallen jouster. “Give me room to work.”

  Behind her, Philip gasped. “Cynthia! Surely you’re not going to…” he began, likely appalled by the sight of his bride-to-be squatting like a peasant in the dust.

  “Let her be.” Cynthia’s ear caught on the soft, deep voice above her. It was Garth. And in that instant, as he stood so close that his cassock rippled against her surcoat, an unexpected breath of desire blew past her like wind from a warm and faraway land.

  “But…she can’t…” Philip sputtered.

  “Let her be.” Garth spoke quietly, but with enough force to silence Philip. Then he caught her eye. “Will he live? Can you save him?”

  Gazing into his solemn green eyes, she was transported back to the monastery. She’d asked that very same thing as Garth lay languishing in his cell.

  “Save him?” Philip asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “What do you need?” Garth asked, demanding her gaze.

  Philip intervened. “Chaplain, I must protest. This is no place for—“

  “Tell me,” Garth ordered.

  Cynthia nodded and began rubbing her palms together.

  Behind her, Philip protested. “What the devil?”

  “Not the devil,” Garth murmured. “It’s God’s work.”

  She hadn’t used her gift since Philip had arrived, and it returned reluctantly, but with such strength that she was scarcely able to control its power. Bolts of current seemed to shoot up her arms and through her legs, skewering her between earth and sky like lightning. Her skin crawled with prickles of fire. Quivering with trepidation, she stretched forth her hands and placed them lightly upon the lad’s forehead.

  An image clapped into her brain like the flashes of a night storm, swift and sharp and clear. But it seemed so strange, so perverse…

  She frowned and opened her eyes, snatching her hands back. The image made no sense.

  “What is it?” Garth asked.

  “Cynthia, I must insist you come away,” Philip said.

  She ignored them. Wetting her lips, she closed her eyes and tried again, placing just the tips of her fingers upon the boy’s temples. There it was again. The same aberrant picture. It couldn’t possibly be right. And yet what choice did she have? The lad grew paler b
y the moment, his skin cooling even as she wrestled with her thoughts.

  Garth’s heart raced. If Cynthia didn’t make quick work of it, if she couldn’t decipher the cure soon…

  Suddenly she emitted a small moan of confused frustration. Then she inclined her head toward the lad’s. For a moment, it appeared as if she intended to kiss him.

  Philip cursed. “What in the name of—“

  Garth again intervened, blocking Philip with his arm. “Wait.”

  But even Garth’s faith was tested as her lips fell upon the boy’s mouth in a most improperly intimate fashion. She blew out a long breath of air, and the lad’s cheeks puffed out like a frog’s. The surrounding knights began to mumble among themselves as if wondering what to make of this strange perversion. Again she exhaled into the boy’s mouth.

  “What wickedness is this?” Philip demanded, incensed. “Come away from him now, Cynthia.” He reached forward to grab her arm.

  She shook it off, and he gaped in astonishment.

  “Leave her be,” Garth said.

  “I will not stand by and let—“

  Suddenly a rasping breath pierced the air, and Garth saw the boy’s chest rise. Relief and wonder filled him. She’d done it. She’d saved the lad. Literally blown the breath of life back into him. He caught her gaze, and such profound joy shone in her eyes that he longed to embrace her in sheer triumph.

  But it wasn’t his place now. He was a priest. And Philip, Cynthia’s betrothed, was still scowling beside him.

  A great cheer went up, echoing into the stands, and the boy struggled up on his elbows, dazed, embarrassed, but thankfully alive.

  Abruptly the back of Garth’s arm was caught in a sharp pinch.

  “How dare you endorse this…this work of the devil,” Philip hissed. “Have you no care for Lady Cynthia’s soul?”

  Not waiting for a reply, Philip let him go and wrenched Cynthia up violently by the arm. “And you,” he muttered under this breath. “That boy should be dead. How could you interfere with the will of God?”