The Knave and the Maiden Read online

  “Why do you want money, Prioress?” Richard asked. Narrow of shoulder and of nose, he slouched in his chair and picked at his ear, then flipped the wax from under his nail. “I thought nuns had no need of worldly things.”

  She wondered if he showed such disrespect for all his petitioners. The donation she requested would be no hardship. “Food, ink and funds for the annual pilgrimage, your Lordship.”

  “Times are difficult.” Legs crossed, he swung his foot back and forth, studying it intently.

  “Your father was a great patron of our work at the Priory,” she reminded him. The old Earl’s tapestries still cloaked Readington’s Great Hall, though since his death, the place seemed colder. She never felt his loss more than when she looked at this dark-haired, sallow-skinned second son. “He promised to support our work of copying the word of God.”

  “My father is dead.”

  “Which is why I come to you.”

  “As you know, it is my brother you must petition. And it is impossible for me to allow that now.”

  “We pray for him daily. Does his health improve, your lordship?”

  Lord Richard tried to smother his smile with a grave expression. “Well, Prioress, perhaps you had better hurry to finish his Death Book. But, there is always hope.” He snickered. “The mercenary plays palmer for him on the pilgrimage.”

  She crossed herself. “The knight who brought your brother back from the dead?” The entire village knew the tale. She had even heard blasphemous talk of him as The Savior.

  Lord Richard flopped back in his chair with a pout. “If you believe his account. A man who fights for coin instead of for fealty can scarcely be trusted.”

  A curious criticism, she thought, since Lord Richard had managed to avoid fighting in France at all. “A landless knight must do what he can. God works in mysterious ways.”

  His lips curved. “Doesn’t He? Well, perhaps your prayers and the mercenary’s visit will soften Saint Larina’s heart to cure the lingering effects of my brother’s wounds.” Boredom saturated his voice. “Who goes to fulfill the perpetual vow this year?”

  “Sister Marian.” She hesitated for a moment. “And Dominica.”

  Lord Richard uncurled himself, spine straight, feet flat on the floor, and met her eyes for the first time. “The little scribe? Is she old enough to travel?”

  Did everyone know the girl could write? Pray God she had said nothing to him about her heretical ideas. “In her seventeenth year, my lord.”

  His nose twitched as a weasel’s might. “And still a virgin?”

  The Prioress drew herself to her full height. “Do you have so low an opinion of my stewardship?”

  “I’ll take that for a ‘yes.’ What does she seek on this pilgrimage?”

  Clasping her hands, she considered his curiosity. Perhaps she could use it. “She wants to join the order and she seeks a sign that God approves.”

  “Because you do not?”

  She assessed him for a moment. There might be a reason to tell him the truth. “No. I do not.”

  “Then we have something in common. I have another interest. In the mercenary,” he said. His dark eyes glowed. “My brother’s gratitude seems to extend to perpetual support, as if this Garren were a saint. I would have him see what kind of knave the man really is.”

  She already knew what kind of a knave Lord Richard was. No doubt his brother did, as well. The Prioress waited for his proposition. She did not think it would be a pleasant one.

  “Offer this Garren money if he will seduce the little virgin. He seems to do anything for a bit of coin. And when she accuses him, we shall each have something we want.”

  “Milord, I cannot—”

  “You don’t want her to be a nun. Neither do I. And once Garren is disgraced, William will have to throw him out.” He paused, smiling. “If he lives that long. If not, then I’ll be the righteous one. And then I’ll have a few personal tasks for the girl.” His smirk left no doubt that those tasks would take place in the bedchamber. “Don’t worry. She may still do laundry for you, Prioress, in her idle hours.”

  “Milord, how can you ask such a thing?” And how could she consider it? Because she was responsible for twenty lives besides Dominica’s. Lives already pledged to God. And when the Earl died, the fate of those lives would rest in Lord Richard’s hands.

  “If you do, I might be able to give you the support you need. And a generous incentive to the mercenary for his sin.”

  No hint of trouble, she had told the girl. This scheme would assure she never took the vows. Of course, hadn’t she herself wondered, nay, hoped for just such a thing? Perhaps God was answering her unspoken prayers. “And I’m sure your remembrance of the Priory will be generous.”

  He laughed, a chittering sound that rattled on the roof of his mouth. “Well, that all depends on how successful you and the Blessed Larina, are, doesn’t it?”

  The girl had the Devil’s own eyes. Maybe this was the fate God had meant for her. And the mercenary? He and God could wrestle for his soul.

  “I promise nothing,” she said, cautiously. “I can but prepare the table.” And pray for forgiveness.

  “I promise nothing, either.” He squinted at her. “Prepare it well.”

  Garren, though he had given up God as a lost cause, was still shocked when a nun asked him to violate a virgin.

  “Dominica is her name,” the Prioress said, settled in her shabby chamber as if it were a throne room. “Do you know her?”

  Speechless, he shook his head.

  “Come.” The Prioress beckoned him to the window overlooking the garden. “See for yourself.”

  The girl knelt in the dirt, facing away from him. Her hair lay like poured honey in a thick braid down her back. She hummed over her plants, a soothing sound, like the drone of a drowsy bee.

  Of its own accord, his heart thumped a little harder. Even from behind she had a pleasing shape. It would not be difficult to take her, but the idea rekindled a sense of outrage he thought long dead.

  “I’ll not force her.” He had seen too much force in France. Knights who took vows of chivalry and then took women like rutting boars. The remembrance churned in his stomach. He would starve first.

  “Use whatever methods you like.” The Prioress shrugged. “She must not return from this trip a virgin.”

  He looked back at the girl, digging up the weeds. He was no knight from a romance, but he had a way with women. Camp followers across France could attest to that. Every woman had a sweet spot if you took time to look. Where would this one’s be? Her shell-like ears? The curve of her neck?

  She stood and turned, smiling at him briefly and the purest blue eyes he had ever seen looked into his wretched soul. He felt as transparent as stained glass.

  And for a moment, he shook with fear he had never felt before a battle with the French.

  He shrugged off the feeling. There was no reason for it. She was not that remarkable. Tall. Rounded breasts. Freckles. A broad brow. Her mouth, the top lip serious, the bottom one with a sensual curve. And an overall air as if she were not quite of this earth.

  She turned away and kneeled to weed the next row.

  “Why?” He had asked God that question regularly without reply. He didn’t know why he expected a country Prioress to answer.

  The Prioress, broad of chest and hip, did not take the question theologically. Her dangling crucifix clanked like a sword as she strode away from the window, out of hearing of the happy hum. “You think me cruel.”

  “I have seen war, Mother Julian. Man’s inhumanity is no worse than God’s.” He had a sudden thought. The usual resolution to a tumble with a maid would find him married in a fortnight. “If it is a husband you need, I’m not the one. I cannot support a wife.”

  I can barely support myself.

  “You will not be asked to marry the girl.”

  He eyed a neatly stitched patch on her faded black habit and wondered whether she had the money she promised. “Nor
fined.”

  “If you had any money you would not be considering my offer. No, not fined, either. God has a different plan.”

  God again. The excuse for most of the ill done in the world. Hypocrites like this one had driven him from the Church. “If you do not care for my immortal soul, aren’t you concerned about hers? What will happen to her? Afterward?”

  Her eyes flickered over him, as if trying to decide whether he was worthy of an answer. “Her life will go on much as before.”

  He doubted that. But the money she offered would be enough for him to give William the gift of the pilgrimage. Enough and more. William would be dead soon. Garren would have no welcome under Richard’s reign. All he owned was his horse and his armor. With England and France at peace, he had no place to go.

  With what she offered, and the few coins he had left from France, he might find a corner of England no one else wanted, where he and God could ignore each other.

  “Can you pay me now?”

  “I’m a Prioress, not a fool. You’ll get your money when you return. If you succeed. Now, will you do it?”

  The girl’s happy hum still buzzed in his ear. What was one more sin to a God who punished only the righteous? Besides, the Church didn’t need this one. The Church had already taken enough.

  He nodded.

  “Sister Marian also goes to the shrine. She knows nothing of this. She wants the girl to fulfill her vow and return to the order.”

  “And you do not.”

  The Prioress crossed herself. A faint shudder ruffled the edge of her robe. “She is a foundling with the Devil’s own eyes. He can have her back.” Her smile was anything but holy. “And you will be His instrument.”

  Chapter Two

  “Look. There he is. The Savior.” Sister Marian’s words tickled Dominica’s ear. She whispered so no one would overhear the blasphemous nickname for the man who, like the true Savior, had raised a man from the dead.

  “Where? Which one?” Dominica did not bother to whisper. The entire household had gathered in the Readington Castle courtyard to witness the blessing of God’s simple pilgrims before they left on their journey. The sounds of braying asses, snorting horses and barking dogs assaulted her ears, accustomed to convent quiet. At Sister’s feet, Innocent barked fiercely at every one of God’s four-legged creatures.

  “Over there. By the big bay horse.”

  She gasped. He was the man she had seen through the Prioress’s window.

  He certainly did not look holy. His broad shoulders looked made to stand against the real world, not the spirit one. Dark brown curls, the color of well-worn leather, fought their way around his head and onto his cheeks, where he had begun to grow a pilgrim’s beard. His skin had lived with sun and wind.

  Then he met her eyes again. Just like the first time, something called to her, as strongly as if he had spoken. Surely this must be holiness.

  With an unholy bark, Innocent dashed across the courtyard, chasing a large, orange cat.

  “I’ll get him,” Dominica called, too late for Sister to object. It was going to be difficult to keep Innocent safe among the temptations of the world.

  Her first running steps tangled in her skirts, so she swooped them out of the way. Fresh air swirled between her legs. Laughing, she scampered around two asses, finally scooping Innocent up at the feet of a horse.

  A large bay horse. With a broad-shouldered man beside it.

  The Savior was taller than he looked from a distance. A soldier’s sword hung next to his pilgrim’s bowl and bag. Something hung around his neck hid beneath his tunic, not for the world to see. A private penance, perhaps.

  “Good morning,” she said, bending back her neck to meet his brown, no, green eyes. “I am Dominica.”

  He looked at her squarely, eyes wary and sad, as if God had given him many trials to make him worthy. “I know who you are.”

  At his glance, her blood bubbled through her fingers and around her stomach in an oddly pleasant way. “Did God tell you?” If God spoke to her, He must certainly have lengthy conversations with one so holy.

  He scowled. Or repressed a smile. “The Prioress told me.”

  She wondered what else the Prioress had told him. The dog wriggled in her arms. She scratched his head. “This is Innocent.”

  The smile broke through. “Named in honor of our Holy Father in Avignon, no doubt.”

  That, she was sure, the Prioress had not told him. Dominica raced on, not giving him time to wonder whether the name honored the Pope or mocked him. “We are all grateful to you for bringing the Earl back from the dead,” she said. “Did he stinketh like Lazarus?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The Bible says ‘Lazarus did stinketh because he hath been dead four days.’

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “You did not hear about Lazarus’s stench in one of the Abbot’s homilies.”

  Best not to tell him she had read it herself. “At the noon meal, the Sisters read the Scriptures and let me listen.” She waited for a sign of anger. Could one so touched by God discern her small deception?

  “The story of Lazarus hardly sounds appetizing,” he said. “But, yes, we both did stinketh by the time we got home.”

  “Of course, the Earl had not been dead for four days when you brought him back to life.”

  The amusement leaked away and his green eyes darkened to brown. “I did not bring him back from the dead. I simply would not let him die.”

  Dominica thought this a very fine theological distinction. “But you had faith in God’s power. ‘He that believeth in me though he were dead, yet shall he live.’”

  “Be careful who you believe in. Faith can be dangerous.”

  His words, bleak as his eyes, seemed as simple and as complex as scripture. She remembered the end of the Lazarus story. It was after the Pharisees learned what Jesus had done that they decided he must die.

  “You know my name, but I do not know yours, Sir…?”

  “Garren.”

  “Sir Garren of what?”

  “Sir Garren of nowhere. Sir Garren with nothing.” He bowed. “As befits a simple pilgrim.”

  “Have you no home?”

  He stroked the horse’s neck. “I have Roucoud de Readington.”

  “Readington?”

  “A gift from the Earl.” He frowned.

  Why would he frown at such a wonderful gift? Readington must value him highly to give him such a magnificent animal. “And you are at home on a horse?”

  “I have been a mercenary, paid to fight.”

  “And now?”

  “And now a palmer,” he muttered, “paid for this pilgrimage.”

  Dominica was not surprised to have a palmer on the journey. She was surprised that it was The Savior. “What poor dead soul left twenty sous in his will for a pilgrimage for his soul?”

  “Not a dead one—yet.”

  He must mean the Earl of Readington himself, she thought, relieved. The secret was in good hands, if she would only stop asking questions. “Forgive me,” she said. “Keep the secret of your holy journey in your heart.”

  “I am no holy man.”

  Her question seemed to irritate him. How could he deny he was touched by God? They all knew the story. Today he journeyed to the Blessed Larina’s shrine. By Michaelmas, Dominica thought, he was likely to have a shrine of his own. “God selected you as His instrument to save the Earl’s life.”

  He searched her eyes for a long, silent moment. “An instrument can serve many hands. God and the Devil both make use of fire.”

  She shivered.

  The bell tolled and like a flock of geese, the gray cloaked pilgrims fluttered toward the chapel door. She put Innocent down and he trotted back to Sister Marian, tail straight up. Dominica tried to follow, but her legs refused to walk away.

  “Please,” she whispered, “give me your blessing.”

  He shrugged into his gray scleverin as if the cloak were chain mail. “Get your blessing from the Abbot wit
h the rest of the pilgrims.”

  “But you are The Sav—” She bit her tongue. “You are special.”

  His eyes blazed, their mood as changeable as their color, and she felt a hint of the danger faith might bring.

  “I told you,” he said, “I am nothing holy. I can give you none of God’s blessing.”

  “Please.” She grabbed his large, square hands with trembling fingers. Kneeling in the dirt before him, she touched her lips to the fine dark hairs on his knuckles.

  He snatched his hands away.

  She grabbed them back, put his hands on her bowed head and pressed her palms over them, desperate to hold them there.

  His palm stiffened. Then, slowly, his hand cupped the curve of her head and slid down to the bare skin at the back of her neck. His fingers seared her like a brand. Her chest tightened and she tried to breathe. The smell of the courtyard dust mingled with a new scent, rich and rounded. One that came from him.

  The braying church bell faded, but the sense of peace she had expected did not come. Her heart beat in her ears, as if all four humours in her body were wildly out of balance.

  He jerked away, waving his hand in a gesture that could have been benediction, dismissal or disgust.

  “Thank you, Sir Garren of the Here and Now,” she whispered, running back to the safety of Sister and Innocent, afraid to look at him again, afraid she had already put too much of herself in his hands.

  Garren’s palms burned as if he had touched fire.

  God’s holy blood. She thinks I’m a saint.

  He laughed at the blasphemy of it.

  His body’s stiff response was a man’s, but the fall of the pilgrim’s cloak disguised that along with all his other sins.

  This job would be too easy. Too pleasant. His hands ached to touch her soft curves, but he winced at taking advantage of the burning faith in her eyes. She thought him touched by God somehow. What a disappointment it would be to discover how much of a man he was.