The Knave and the Maiden Read online

  “What is this word?”

  “Neeca,” she said, swallowing.

  His brows crunched. “Why did you write that?”

  A lump lodged in her throat and she shook her head, neither able nor willing to speak.

  He put his hand on her chin and forced her eyes to his. “Why, Neeca?”

  Unable to add lying to her list of sins, she told him. “Because you called me that.”

  “It was so important?”

  She pursed her lips and nodded, braving his eyes. He looked at the parchment again, following the words with his finger, hovering over the last few. “And what did you write of last night, Neeca?”

  She bit her lip. He was too close, too close to knowing how important he had become.

  He cupped her head in his hand and tilted up her chin to force her to meet his eyes. Even her lips quivered, wanting to feel his again….

  Harlequin Historicals is proud to introduce debut author BLYTHE GIFFORD

  DON’T MISS THESE OTHER TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:

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  THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN

  BLYTHE GIFFORD

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and BLYTHE GIFFORD

  The Knave and the Maiden #688

  To Don and to Daddy I wish you were here to enjoy it.

  Thanks to Julie Beard, Michelle Hoppe, Lindsay Longford, Margaret Watson, Pat White and all the members of Chicago-North RWA.

  Without you, I would not be here.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter One

  Readington Castle, England, June 1357

  “God brought me back from the dead, Garren,” William said. “You were His instrument.”

  Garren looked at his friend, lying in his bed with the hollow cheeks of a corpse, and suppressed a snort. When William, Earl of Readington, sprawled among the scattered bodies on the battlefield at Poitiers, God had not lifted a finger.

  Now, watching the candlelight waver in benediction over William’s pale face, Garren wondered whether he should have, either. Death in the French dirt might have been kinder.

  But Garren would fight God for William’s life as long as he could.

  “You were the only one,” William said. “The others left me for dead.”

  Or left him for live French prisoners they could ransom.

  But William was not dead, although there had been days Garren was not certain the Earl lived. As the victorious troops traipsed across France and finally sailed back to England, William existed in an earthly purgatory, alive because Garren forced water and gruel and prechewed meat between his teeth. “I was just too stubborn to leave you.”

  “More than that.” Between each word, William gasped for a breath. “You carried me. On your back.”

  “You and your armor.” Garren smiled, tight-lipped, swinging a mock blow to William’s shoulder. “Don’t forget the armor.”

  Readington’s family had rejoiced more over the return of the armor than its wearer. While the rest of the English knights carried home booty, Garren carried only William. Carried William and left behind the wealth that had been the promise of the French campaign.

  It had all seemed worthwhile as William gained strength. But in the weeks since his homecoming, the retching had started. Some days were better, some worse. Now he lay on a deathbed curtained in red velvet, high in a tower overlooking a countryside of damp, fertile earth he would never ride again. His hands curled into useless claws. He ran red or brown all day from one end or the other. Servants changed the bed linens, a futile task, but a sign of respect. There was little else they could do.

  At least, Garren thought, William could die in his own bed.

  “One…more…thing I must ask.” His cold fingers clutched Garren’s with the strength of death.

  I gave you life, what more can I do? Garren thought, but as he looked at William, just past thirty and unable to rise from his bed, he was uncertain whether life had been such a valuable gift.

  “Go on the pilgrimage for me.”

  Pilgrimage. A prepayment to a God who never delivered as promised. A journey to a tomb that sheltered the bones of a woman and the feathers of an angel. “William, if God has not yet cured you, I doubt the Blessed Larina will.”

  “I will pay you.”

  Garren snatched his hand away. He had given up virtually everything for William, gladly. All he had left was his pride. “You can find fools aplenty to be your palmer on the journey.”

  Pain wrinkled William’s face. His left arm cradled his stomach, trying to hold back the next bout of retching. “Not…trust.”

  Garren mumbled something meant to be soothing, neither yes nor no. He cradled William’s bony hand in his large, square ones. How far they had come together since William had taken him on, a seventeen-year-old no one else wanted, much too old to start training as a squire. Everything he was he owed to this man.

  William clung to Garren’s arm, pulling himself up, half sitting. Only five years older than Garren, he looked as if he had lived four score years. After a glance around the chamber as if to reassure himself they were alone, William reached beneath his pillow and pulled out a folded parchment, no bigger than his hand. Red wax, indented with the Readington crest, doubly sealed the thin thread that pierced the layers. “For the monk. At the shrine.”

  Taking the message from William’s shaking fingers, Garren wondered how he had managed to hold a quill to write.

  William’s voice quavered, too. “The seal must be unbroken.”

  Garren smiled, silent. Even in the monastery, he had been a poor reader.

  William shook his arm, forcing his attention. Forcing an answer. “Please. There is no one else.”

  Garren looked into his friend’s eyes, eyes that had seen so much by his side, and knew that for as many weeks as William drew breath, he would say yes.

  He nodded, clearing his throat. “But I don’t want your money.” This journey should be a gift.

  William rolled his head no, leaving a new chunk of blond hair on the linen under his head. William knew his funds would take him no farther than the next battle. A weak smile curved his pale lips. “Take it. Buy me a lead feather.”

  A leaden pilgrim’s badge. Proof of the journey. A token to flaunt his faith. Garren gripped William’s fingers. “I’ll bring something better. Since you can’t travel to the shrine, I’ll bring the shrine to you. I’ll bring you a real feather.” Somehow it seemed appropriate, to violate a shrine to comfort a man with faith. At least you could see a feather. Hold it. Touch it. Not like the false promises of the Church.

  Skin already pale, blanched. “Sacrilege.”

  A chill skittered up Garren’s back. Stealing a relic. Violating a shrine. God would punish him. He nearly laughed at the t
hought, a residue of training over experience. Garren had seen the puny extent of God’s mercy. God’s punishment could scarcely be harsher. “Don’t worry. No one will miss a small one.”

  Still shaking his head, William closed his eyes and slipped into the near-death sleep that was his life.

  The door opened without a knock and the lilting voice of William’s younger brother Richard grated on Garren’s ears. Richard, who would not go on pilgrimage for his brother for love nor money. “Does he still breathe?”

  “You seem eager to hear me say ‘no.’”

  “It is just that this state can scarcely be called living, don’t you agree?”

  Garren did, but not for Richard’s reasons. “Perhaps. But as long as he breathes, he is the Earl of Readington.” Richard, however, need only wait. He would be Earl soon enough.

  “What is that?” Richard reached for the folded parchment as if he had the right.

  Garren shrugged and slipped it into his tunic. It nestled stiffly below his ribs. “It must be a petition to the saint.” Now that he had said yes, he dreaded the journey. Not the days of walking, but the company of all those trusting pilgrims who believed an invisible God would answer their prayers if they only paid His price. Garren knew better. “He asked me to go to the shrine and pray for his recovery.”

  Richard snickered. “By the time you arrive, you will be praying for his soul.”

  And by the time I return, Garren thought, I’ll be praying for my own.

  Kneeling before her private crucifix, the Prioress turned from contemplating the chipped paint on Christ’s left hand as the girl strode into her office, barely bending her knee in greeting.

  The Prioress rose with creaking knees, wondering why she had granted this audience, and settled into her own chair. Dominica was a slip of a girl who knew no better than to be grateful that the Priory had taken her in and raised her and given her useful work to do, the cleaning and the laundry and the cooking for the few who remained.

  The Death had taken its toll. There were too few serfs to plant the crops or to harvest what grew. Christian charity followed a full stomach. Of course, Lord Richard could have made it easier.

  Without asking permission to speak, the girl interrupted her thoughts. “Mother Julian, I want to accompany Sister Marian to the shrine of the Blessed Larina.”

  The Prioress shook her head to clear her ears. The request was so outrageous she thought she had misheard. No please. No begging. Just those piercing blue eyes, demanding. “What did you say, Dominica?”

  “I want to go on the pilgrimage. And when I return, I will take my vows as a novice.”

  “You want to join the order?” This was what came of raising the girl above the state in life that God had intended for her. She should have given the foundling to the collier’s wife when she had the chance. “You have no dowry.”

  “A dowry is not required,” the girl said, as if reciting the text on preaching. “Faith is required.”

  The Prioress bit her tongue. She was not going to argue theology with an orphan. It took more than faith to feed and clothe twenty women. “You cannot take the veil.”

  “Why not?” The girl lifted her chin as if she had the right to disagree. “I can copy the Latin manuscripts as well as Sister Marian.”

  Our Lord preached forgiveness, she reminded herself, trying to soften her tone of voice. “What makes you think you have a calling, Dominica?”

  The girl’s blue eyes burned with the fervor of a saint—or a madwoman. “God told me.”

  “God does not speak to abandoned foundlings.” The Prioress clenched her fingers in prayer until her knuckles turned white and her fingertips red. This was all her fault. She had let the girl sit with them at meals and listen to the Scripture readings. Likely the chit flattered herself that she understood God’s will because she had heard God’s words. “God speaks through His servants in the church. God has said nothing to me about your joining the order.”

  “But Mother Julian, I know I am meant to spread His word.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “I want to copy the texts into the common tongue, so the people can truly understand them.”

  The Prioress beat prayerful fingers against her lips. Heresy. I have a heretic living under my roof. If the Readingtons find out, I will never see another farthing from them. I should never have let her learn her letters.

  The girl was still speaking. “I belong here. I know it. And after I reach the shrine, you will know too because God will give me a sign.” Dominica’s face beamed with the kind of faith the Prioress had neither seen nor felt in many years. “Sister Marian will be my witness.”

  Sister Marian had always spoiled the girl. “Who will pay for this journey? For your cloak, your food? Who will do your work while you are gone?”

  “Sisters Catherine and Barbara and Margaret have said they will bear my load. And Sister Marian said she will pay for my food from her dowry.” She looked defiant. “I won’t eat much.”

  “Sister Marian’s dowry belongs to the Priory now.” The Prioress cradled her throbbing head in her hands. What had become of obedience? This was what came of allowing the Sisters to keep lapdogs.

  “Please, Mother Julian.” The girl fell to her knees, finally humbled. She tugged at the Prioress’s black habit with ink-stained fingers, nails bitten so close that the garden dirt had nowhere to cling. “I must make this journey.”

  Shocked, the Prioress looked into her eyes again. They burned with faith. Or fear.

  Suddenly, she could see where this could lead. The girl would never return once she discovered life beyond the walls. She had a shape most would envy, those who were not looking for a cloistered life. If only she’d tumble for the first man who flattered her. She’d come back with a swollen belly and there would be no question of her taking the veil.

  Mother Julian sighed. Maybe not. The searing intensity in those blue eyes would be more than most lads would fancy. Well, let it be God’s will. Better she go and take her dangerous ideas with her before the Abbot or the Earl found out, although that would leave the problem of who would do the laundry and the weeding. They could hardly afford to pay a village lass.

  “All right. Go. But speak no more of your heresy. If there is a hint of trouble on the journey, you will have no home here when you return, with or without a veil.”

  Dominica raised her hands and her eyes to heaven. “Thank you, Heavenly Father.” She ducked her head and scampered out without asking permission to leave.

  The Prioress shook her head. No thanks to me for my many kindnesses, she thought. Only to God. Well, God would have the care of her now.

  Dominica’s breath burst from her body. Relief lifted her on her toes, almost floating her down the hall. The soft, sure feeling settled over her. God always answered her prayers, even if she had to help Him a little. What the Prioress and Sister Marian did not know about this journey would keep.

  Sister Marian sat in the sunny cloister courtyard, teaching Innocent to sit up. Or trying to. Like Dominica, the shaggy black dog was a stray no one else wanted. Hard to love and hard to train.

  “She said ‘yes,’ she said ‘yes.’” Dominica swirled Sister around until her black robes billowed. Innocent barked. “I’m going, I’m going.”

  “Shhh, hush.” Sister tried to quiet both Dominica and the barking dog, who was running in a circle to catch his too-short tail. That was a trick Dominica had taught him.

  “Good boy,” Dominica scratched him behind his one remaining ear. The other was missing. “Don’t worry, Sister.” Dominica hugged her. “Everything will work out. God has told me.”

  Sister’s eyes widened and she glanced toward the corridor. “Don’t let Mother Julian hear you say God talks to you.”

  Dominica shrugged. No use telling Sister that Mother Julian already knew. “It’s like the scripture says: Knock and it shall be open to you,” she said in Latin.

  “And if she hears you spouting Latin, she will change her mind.”
br />   “But if God is trying to speak to us, why shouldn’t we open our ears to hear?”

  “Just be sure you aren’t putting your words on God’s lips.”

  Dominica sighed. God had given her ears, eyes, and a brain. Surely He expected her to use them. “Anyway, we’re going and when we come back, I shall take my vows.”

  Sister sat and gathered Dominica’s fingers in hers. Dominica loved the feel of Sister’s hands. Soft, for they did not have to wash or weed, the fingers of her right hand were set stiffly, permanently, in position to hold the quill. As a child, Dominica had envied Sister the writer’s bump on her middle finger, rubbing her own each day, hoping it would grow.

  “Just remember, my child, when God answers our prayers, He may not give us the answer we want.”

  “How could there be another answer? My whole life is here.” She loved the ordered, predictable days, the quiet of the chapel, where she could hear the hushed voice of God, the brilliant red, blue and gold ink that illuminated His words. All she ever wanted was to finally, fully belong. To be embraced as a Sister. “I can read better than Sister Margaret and copy better than anyone but you.”

  Sister sighed. “You are pushing again, Dominica. There is no guarantee that God will grant you what you seek.”

  “Oh, God I am sure of. It is the Prioress who worries me.”

  Sister raised her hands in submission. “When you have lived longer, you will be less sure of God. Come, let us gather our things.” She rose, slowly. Her hips were as accustomed to the writing bench as her hands. “We must be ready to leave tomorrow.”

  And when they returned, Dominica thought, the message would be safe in the right hands and she would never need to leave her home again.

  All that was required was faith. And action.

  “We need money, your Lordship.” The Prioress forced her neck to bend in supplication. Humility before Lord Richard did not come easily.

  She had trapped him into hearing her petition, approaching after the midday meal, when the Great Hall was still crowded with watching knights, squires and servants so he could not refuse. But the hall was empty now of everything but the smell of boiled mutton. Her stomach growled.