Page 100 of My Hero
“Garth!” Duncan called. “Are you going to introduce your ladylove to me?” He whirled his black cloak dramatically over one shoulder and waggled his eyebrows. “Or is your head so dazed you can’t remember your manners?”
“If it’s dazed,” Garth replied sourly, “it’s only from that too close brush with death.”
“Ha! If it weren’t for me, oh so holy Father,” Duncan fired, “you’d be roasting in hell even now!”
Cynthia swayed a little, weary with shock and disturbed by the vivid image his words conjured.
Linet jabbed Duncan in the stomach. “Mind your tongue, Duncan,” she muttered. “Can’t you see she’s in a delicate condition?”
Cynthia had to smile at that. No one had ever used the worddelicateto describe her. But Linet’s chiding worked. Duncan had the grace to look abashed.
Holden marched forward then, a mahogany-haired, more serious version of his brother, his helm stashed under his arm, his sword at the ready, a forbidding scowl furrowing his brow. But the eyes that met hers were calm and steady, and afforded her a high level of respect. “The Abbot’s soldiers have been subdued,” he told her. “What would you have me do with them?”
Cynthia blinked as he awaited her command. The man was speaking toher.God’s wounds—how would she know what to do with prisoners of war? Wendeville had never been under siege before. And besides, unlike his sword-wielding wife, she knew nothing of warfare.
Before she could frame a lame reply, Cambria came to her side. A smudge of someone else’s blood painted her cheek.
“I’d gather them in the great hall to secure their fealty,” she suggested, her voice arching over the words with a slight Scots lilt. “They appear to be misfits and halfwits, most of them, fairly harmless. And who knows? Maybe if they see your caring ways with your own vassals, they’ll come to love you and follow you in time.”
It was a wise suggestion. “Aye,” Cynthia said. “Thank you.”
Holden left at once to begin moving the prisoners.
“Now, I have just one more question,” Cambria said to the group when her husband had gone. “Where, my lords and ladies, has the Abbot gone?”
Cynthia’s breath flew quickly from her parted mouth. “He’s gone?” Her voice came out on a thin thread of sound.
Garth rested a solid hand aside her neck, pulling her toward him. “As long as I have breath in my body,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, “I swear that man won’t touch you again. I don’t care if he’s a priest or a cardinal or the Pope. He won’t lay a finger on you.”
The determination in Garth’s eyes made her believe him. She could trust him. He would protect her.
Cambria, however, wasn’t so convinced. She gave Garth a quick appraising glance from head to toe, probably remembering that castle she’d once taken out from under his nose.
“We’ll find him,” she said, “within the hour.”
Eventually, the fiery pyre dwindled into a mass of gray coals, its glowing crimson heart beating out the last of its life.
The de Ware force operated like a well-crafted loom. Holden and his knights rounded up prisoners while their squires stabled the horses. Pages collected discarded weapons, wiping them clean with rags before sorting them into neat piles. Linet directed two women in the repairing of the damaged wattle fence around the chickens while Garth tended the wounds of one of Cambria’s unfortunate victims. Duncan gathered a pack of distressed, sniffling children and kept them occupied, regaling them with some clever tale.
Cynthia surveyed the damage to the courtyard. Her herbs were crushed beyond saving, plowed under by horse hoof and cart wheel. The fire had scorched the sod. And what was left of her grass had been trampled into a muddy mess.
But the seasons would turn again. The ground could be repaired. By next spring, a whole new garden would grow up to replace…
Someone was sobbing.
She let her gaze drift along the castle wall. There, deep beneath the shadows of the dovecote’s eave, Mary sat upon her knees, rocking back and forth, crying as if her heart would break.
Slowly, Cynthia ambled over, dodging knights and pages packing weapons. As she neared, she could see something large and black writhing on Mary’s lap, some injured animal or…
“Oh, my lady,” Mary wailed. “Forgive me, my lady, and forgive him, I beg you.” Her young face was ugly with weeping. “Please forgive him.”
“Who, Mary?” Cynthia asked gently, coming closer.
Mary glanced down at her lap.
The Abbot. His cassock was drenched. He writhed in agony and groaned, gripping his stomach as if he would tear it out. Cynthia dropped down beside him.
All her fears, all her hatred were forgotten in that instant. A man was suffering. She had to help him.
