by Amy Jarecki
Alan gestured to his body. “My size, but a hand taller.”
Walter shook his head. “Tis nay that easy—”
“Just see it done. I’ll hear no more from naysayers.” Alan turned to Trevor and Brus. “We sail at dawn.”
Propped up with pillows, Gyllis closed her eyes and yielded to the monk’s gentle ministrations. She’d been in the cell at Ardchattan Priory for a month now and, though the sickness had passed, the paralysis still plagued her. Even her breathing had become shallow and labored. She closed her eyes. Dark thoughts of a life as a cripple blackened her mind. She’d be a burden to her family—or to the priory unless by some miracle, God saw fit to give her the strength to walk again.
“I’ll wager things are not as comfortable here for you as they are at Kilchurn Castle,” Brother Wesley said in his ever-soothing voice. He had a sallow complexion with grey eyes, black hair, and his front teeth were large and crooked. It was difficult not to stare at them on the rare occasion he smiled.
How different and ever so mundane things were cloistered behind the priory walls. Nothing exciting ever happened—she never heard a voice raised or the clanging of swords when the guard sparred as she’d heard daily at Kilchurn Castle. The dangers of the world seemed a hundred miles away.
Gyllis glanced at the stark walls with a single wooden cross nailed above her head—aside from the bed, the only piece of furniture was a wooden stool. Brother Wesley looked at her expectantly.
“Aye, my chamber is five times the size of this cell,” she answered. “And the bed is far softer than this cot.” Indeed, she’d prefer to be home now.
He pressed the heel of his hand into her thigh and rubbed with a circular motion. Had he not taken an oath of celibacy, Gyllis could never have permitted him to care for her. “With God’s grace, we shall have you up in no time. I’m sure you are anxious to return to your kin.”
“If I could spring from this bed this moment, I would.”
“You must take one thing at a time. ’Tis a long process to recover from a disease like paralysis.” He patted her leg then resituated her skirts. “Let us see how your arms are faring today.”
Her fingers twitched and she closed her eyes. Clamping her teeth and scrunching her face with effort, she forced herself to lift them from the bed. Sucking in a gasp, the worthless limbs dropped back down. She glared at Brother Wesley. “They’re useless.”
He lifted her hand and held it in his palm, offering a serene smile as if he had not a care. “You raised them twice as far as yesterday. I am impressed with your progress.”
If only Gyllis could share in his subdued exuberance. If Brother Wesley were to raise one of his thick eyebrows, it would be an untoward display of emotion. “I most certainly am not pleased. Do you have any idea how miserable it is to lie on this cot hour upon hour unable to move?” And now she’d begun to suffer from bed sores.
“It must be very monotonous indeed.”
“’Tis unbearable.”
The monk frowned. “I shall continue to pray for you, Miss Gyllis.”
That’s all she’d heard since arriving at this miserable priory. “Praying? What good will that do? I cannot even feed myself—and the indignity of being changed like a bairn.” She turned her face toward the wall and groaned.
“I am sorry—I shall continue to try to help, though my efforts have not met with your satisfaction.”
Gyllis cringed. She’d just insulted the kindest, gentlest person she’d ever met. Devil’s bones, this illness turned her into a curmudgeon. “Apologies, I did not mean to imply your ministrations have not been met with my sincerest gratitude.” She took in a deep breath and willed the air to fill her limbs right through her fingers. With her exhale, her hands rose at least six inches. She chuckled and glanced at Brother Wesley.
“Praise be to God, Miss Gyllis.” He stood and clapped his palms together. “I do believe the Lord’s strength just showed the greatness of its power right through the tips of your fingers.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Let me try again.” She closed her eyes. Please, please, please. Once more her hands rose from the bed. They trembled a bit, but she’d done it. No matter how small the win, it was something. She splayed her fingers. Without telling Brother Wesley, she tried to wiggle her toes. Possibly the toes on the right foot moved. She couldn’t be certain.
The door opened and John stepped inside, holding a lute and a parcel. He grimaced at Brother Wesley and bowed his head. “Have I interrupted you?”
“I was just finishing.” The monk straightened and smiled. “Miss Gyllis lifted her arms further than ever before.”
John smiled. “Very good news.”
“Indeed.” Wesley bowed. “I should prepare for vespers.”
“I shall be in the nave shortly.” John sat on the stool beside her bed. “Mother sent a few things.”
Gyllis eyed the lute in his hands, her spirits again sinking. “I doubt I’ll ever have the wherewithal to play that again.”
The cell was so small, he simply leaned back to place the instrument in the corner across from the bed. “We’ll keep it here until you are ready.” He reached inside the satchel and pulled out a book. “You might start with this first. We can prop you up and I’ll wager you’ll be able to turn the pages since you can raise your arms a bit.”
Gyllis squinted at the title. The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle & other Romantic Tales. “My heavens, ’tis not the Holy Bible?”
John smoothed his palm over the leather binding—with light dun hair, her brother posed a handsome man. “I suppose Mother thought you’d prefer something lighter, though I’d be more than happy to replace this with a Bible from my own library.”
Gyllis’s fingers twitched, if only she could snatch the book from his hands and cradle it to her chest. She may never find romance for herself, but she certainly could live it through the text on the page. She’d read The Legend of King Arthur over and over until she could recite lengthy passages. “Please, can I start now?”
“Very well.” He glanced around the tiny cell. “Perhaps you’ll be able to read if I rest it in your lap.” He opened the book to the first page then lifted Gyllis’s arms and placed them across her lap.
Instantly she was transported by the mystical knight, Sir Gromer Somer Joure as he challenged King Arthur to discover what women desire most. Anxious to turn the page, her fingers twitched, her arm moved spasmodically and knocked the book from its perch.
John slid it back in place, but kept it open to the page she’d already read.
Grinding her teeth, Gyllis concentrated, focusing on the simple task of turning the page. When at last her feeble hand grasped the velum, her motion jerked, and the cursed book clattered to the stone floor. A cry caught in her throat. “Bless it, I am completely useless.”
“I’ll fetch it.” He retrieved the book and again set it on her lap.
Gyllis shook her head. “No. What use is it if I cannot turn the pages myself?” She looked at the ceiling and wailed. She couldn’t even clench her miserable fists. “My God, why has this happened to me? What did I do to deserve a life in purgatory?”
John placed his hand on her arm. “There, there. You mustn’t fret.”
“But I can do nothing without help.” A tear spilled down her cheek. “It would have been better if God had taken my life than to have left me paralyzed with no prospects of recovery.”
“I wouldn’t say that. You’ve made progress.”
“D-do you honestly believe that, John?” Uncontrollable sobs racked her body. It had been ages and ages since she fell ill—and she hated every moment of her confinement. “I am the most worthless lass who ever lived. I cannot even hold a miserable book. I’ll never walk again. I’ll never be courted by a dashing knight. I’ll never bear children.” She wiped her miserable nose on her shoulder because she couldn’t—possibly never would be able to—use a worthless kerchief. “I am nothing.”
8
Sean coul
dn’t remember the last time he’d been to Ardchattan Priory, but he was looking forward to the prospect of seeing John Campbell, the prior. After the untimely death of John and Duncan’s father, the younger son had left the Highland Enforcers to become a priest. Sean hated to see him go. He was a fine knight and a better friend.
He raised the blackened iron knocker on the cloister gate and rapped it twice.
Not long and a monk slid open the viewing panel. “Yes?”
“Sean MacDougall here, Chieftain of Dunollie. I’ve come to meet the Lord of Lorn, has he arrived as of yet?”
“Afraid not.” The monk moved to shut the screen.
Sean thrust the hilt of his dirk into the opening before it closed. “Then perhaps I may have a word with the prior. John Campbell and I were boyhood friends.”
A single eye peered through the gap. “I shall inquire if he is able to receive visitors.”
The monk slid the panel closed. To Sean’s surprise, the hinges on the big black gate creaked. When the door opened, the monk gestured to a bench in the cloister, walled on one side, hedged by a row of trimmed holly on the other. “Wait here.”
Sean sat as directed. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, folded his arms, whistled a tune and then he stood. Not one to be idle, he paced. Behind the hedge someone chuckled. A woman’s voice.
He peered over the shrubbery but saw no one. Only a few steps from the courtyard entrance, he walked to the break in the hedge and peeked around. A woman wrapped in blankets sat on a bench directly opposite from where Sean had been sitting. She wore a plain white veil atop her head and was looking down—in fact she was reading.
The book must have been interesting because her shoulders shook as if she might be laughing. If only he could see the joy upon her face, he’d enjoy a good laugh himself.
The woman’s hands trembled and she slowly reached to turn the page—as if she were very old—though her fine-boned hands appeared smooth and ageless. Her shoulders tensed as she struggled to grasp the vellum. Sean cringed at her effort.
What illness afflicts the lass?
When she finally had the page turned, the blasted thing flipped back the other way.
“Argh.” The agony in her voice clawed at Sean’s heart.
He strode forward and plucked the book from her fingers. “Please. Allow me.”
The woman gasped as if she’d been accosted.
Sean glanced at her face and froze. In that instant, his heart stopped, his mouth dried and his stomach plummeted to his toes.
He knew her. Cared for her. But something was terribly wrong. In that moment, she appeared so vexed and more so, stricken by horror. Christ, she was so skeletally thin, but he could never mistake the pair of mossy green eyes encircled by rings of navy blue.
He swallowed. “Gyllis?” he asked, his voice filled with disbelief.
She quickly averted her face. “Go away.”
“It is you.” Sean knelt beside her. “My God, what happened?”
Her shoulders tensed and she moved a trembling hand to block her face, seemingly afraid of catching a disease from him.
He wanted to place his palm upon her shoulder, but stopped himself by clutching the book tighter. “You’re so frail and thin.” He cast his mind back. “Yet a mere two months have passed since Beltane…”
“Please, return my book and leave me be.”
Why was she being so despondent? They were friends—more than friends, for the love of God. “Will you not look at me—tell me what ails you?”
She snapped her head around, tears welling in her eyes. Unimaginable pain and anguish stretched her features. “Must you taunt me?”
The words came out as if she’d slapped him. “I would never do that.” He knelt beside her. “Tell me what happened…why are you here?”
The fire that flashed through her eyes was akin to hate. What suffering had caused such bitterness? “As if you would care about me, Sean MacDougall. I’ll not have you make a mockery of me, not ever again.” Her voice choked. “Go. Live your life and forget I ever existed.”
Sean reached for her hand and squeezed. A mockery? Not ever again? She couldn’t possibly mean that? He’d always adored Gyllis, always thought of her as his… He blinked successively. Why was she acting thus? “Please—”
“Sir Sean.” A monk hastened toward him, brown robes billowing. “The Lord of Lorn has arrived. He’s asked to meet with you at once.”
“I must go.” Sean regarded Gyllis and placed the book on her lap. “I’d like to visit you again.”
She stared at the volume. “’Tis best if you did not.”
Sean’s heart twisted with her every bitter word. Never had she been discourteous toward him. Why did Lorn have to be in such a damned hurry? He would have liked to find out more, but presently the lass proved none too eager to talk.
He pursed his lips and grasped her hand. Bowing his head, he pondered at the frailty of the fingers in his palm, whilst he savored her sweet fragrance. It had always captivated him. Closing his eyes, he pictured the Gyllis he knew—the lass with the free spirit and easy laugh. He placed a gentle kiss on her hand and straightened. “Until we meet again, Miss Gyllis.”
The monk beckoned him. “This way. Prior John said he would attend you after.”
Walking away, Sean cast one last glimpse over his shoulder. Gyllis watched him out of the corner of her eye. That something dreadful had happened was a certainty. What, he intended to find out before he left.
Gyllis stared at the book in her hands, except she couldn’t see it through the tears filling her eyes. If she could have curled into a ball and died she would have. How long had Sir Sean been watching before she attempted to turn the page?
She never wanted anyone to see her feebly try to accomplish something she’d done with ease only months ago. Tears ran down her cheeks. She sucked in a deep breath to stifle her weeping, but it only served to heighten her remorse.
Had he any idea how much it tore her apart to see him again? And he made no mention of why he’d broken his promise to sit on her plaid. Aye, it was a simple matter, but it had been a savage cut to her heart. Why, I mightn’t have become so ill if it weren’t for my broken heart.
Her nose was running and it streamed over her lips, spreading an unwelcome, salty taste in her mouth. She opened and closed her fist. Blast it to hell. In one determined motion, she raised her hand and swiped it across her face. She blinked rapidly and stared at her fingers.
“Heaven’s stars.”
She raised the trembling hand again, but this time she missed her face altogether. That she’d first connected with her head at all must have been accidental.
Groaning, she cast her gaze to the clouds above. Everything about Sean MacDougall reminded her of the fool she’d been. Happiness was only a fleeting speck given the duration of one’s life. How could she have ever expected to live happily? She smirked at the book on her lap—the pages were full of fairytales—events that could never come true.
At least now she had no illusions. With life came pain and humiliation. She could not even visit the privy closet without assistance. How much worse can things become?
Forced to succumb to the monk’s ministrations like a bairn still in swaddling clothes, she hated being dependent on someone for her every need. Everyone around her shot pitying glances her way. She didn’t want pity, she wanted freedom.
This situation is untenable. She clenched her fists. I will walk again. With effort, she folded her hands and closed her eyes. God in heaven, give me strength to overcome this illness.
Pushing the book aside, she bore down and swung her legs over the side of the bench. Her head swooning with the effort, she took in a deep breath. Sliding to the edge, she placed her slippered feet on the ground, just as she’d done many times with the assistance of Brother Wesley.
But this time she was far more determined.
With her palms flush against the bench, she shifted her weight onto her legs and pushed up. Wobbli
ng with exertion, standing was excruciatingly slow. Her heart fluttered when, for the first time in two months, she stood unassisted.
Her legs shuddering, Gyllis eyed the grass before her. One step.
Swallowing, she inched her foot forward.
Her knee buckled. Gyllis cried out. Before she could fling her arms forward, she landed face-first in the moist grass.
“Miss Gyllis,” Brother Wesley cried as he hastened to her side. “Whatever are you doing?”
Her nose throbbed and she stretched her jaw to the side only to be met with a sharp pain. “My, that hurt.” Dear Brother Wesley, always rushing to her aid. If only she didn’t need his charity. He was a selfless and giving monk, and right now Gyllis needed him far more than she wanted to admit.
“You mustn’t do that again—not without assistance.” He gathered her in his beefy arms. “Let us see you back inside.”
She looked him in the eye. “Mark me—I will walk again and show Sir Sean MacDougall I can overcome anything.”
Concern creased Brother Wesley’s brow. “Did he upset you?”
The monk led Sean beyond the cloister walls to the stables where the Lord of Lorn waited with his men. Sean held out his hand in greeting. “Uncle, I must say I’m eager to hear what you have brewing, given the secrecy.”
With a grin, Lorn offered a firm handshake. “And I’m all too eager to share it with you.” He inclined his head to a path leading into the wood. “Come, walk with me—away from prying ears.”
Sean cast a sideways glance to Lorn’s men. Could the earl not trust his inner circle? I suppose I shall find out.
Together they walked into the wood along a well-kept path, one obviously used by the priory monks on a regular basis.
Lorn plucked a maple leaf and twirled it between his fingers. “How have you been coping since your father’s death?”
“Well enough.” Sean shrugged. “A few head of cattle have gone missing, but nothing too alarming.”
“How many head have disappeared?”
