Page 101 of My Hero
“What happened?” she asked, brushing her shift aside.
“I didn’t mean…” Mary wailed.
She took Mary by the shoulders and shook her once. “Tell me what happened.”
Mary blinked her eyes. “I couldn’t let him do it, my lady. Don’t you see? It’s a mortal sin to kill an innocent babe. I couldn’t let the Abbot’s soul burn in the eternal fires of hell. I couldn’t!”
Cynthia glanced at the Abbot. His skin was a sickly shade, and blisters swelled and distorted his mouth. Poison. “What did you use, Mary? What did you give him?”
“Hellebore. Wine with black hellebore.” She laced her fingers over her face and began to cry again in earnest.
Cynthia slowly began to rub her palms together, though the sinking in her heart told her it was futile. Black hellebore was a powerful poison with no cure.
“Bloody hell.” It was Garth. “What’s happened to him? What…” Then, realizing Cynthia’s intent, he grabbed her abruptly by the arm. “Nay. Nay, Cynthia. You owe him nothing. Stay away from him. Stay away from the devil.”
She ignored him, focusing on the heat growing between her hands.
“He tried to slay you,” Garth reasoned. “Faith, he tried to kill our unborn child! How can you—”
“How can I not, Garth?” she answered without looking up. “Just as you’re a man of God, I’m a healer.”
He fell silent then, and as she worked she heard others gather behind her, but none uttered a word. She laid a hand upon the Abbot’s clammy brow and closed her eyes. He made small mewling sounds, twisting in pain as the poison seeped into his veins.
Finally, she withdrew her hand. As she suspected, it was too late to save him. But it wasn’t too late to relieve his agony.
“Fetch my opium wine from the cellar. Hurry!” she directed to no one in particular. Someone sped to do her bidding. To the Abbot, she said, “The pain will be over soon. The opium will ease your suffering.” She stroked his head gently with one hand and laid the flat of her other palm upon his cramping belly. Warmth filled her, stronger than she’d ever felt before, and she directed the energy toward the Abbot, moving it in soothing waves over his stomach.
Gradually his grimace relaxed, and his breathing, though shallow and rapid, was at least devoid of moaning. His onyx-dark gaze was puzzled as he raised it to her.
“I was…wrong, child,” he croaked, lifting one skeletal hand to lock onto her arm. “Not…a…witch.” His eyes grew distant for a moment, as if he glimpsed the world beyond. Then he looked at her one final time. “An angel.”
Garth knelt beside her then. He retrieved his once discarded wooden cross from inside his tunic and clutched it in one hand. With the other, he made the sign of blessing over the Abbot. He peeled the dying man’s hand from Cynthia’s arm and held it in his own, against the cross. Then, in a voice ringing with faith, he began the sacred words of the last rites.
By the time Linet and Cambria arrived with the opium wine, the Abbot was already gone, and they were startled to find their husbands uncharacteristically silent and solemn, staring in awe at Cynthia as if she’d performed a miracle.
Chapter 23
Cynthia took a deep breath of late October air. The leaves twirled and twisted on the gray branches of the canopy overhead, like ladies dancing in gowns of lemon and apricot and cerise. A few, caught by an unexpected puff of wind, swirled loose to flutter to the ground, flickering in the pale sunlight on their way. The scent of ripe apples permeated the brisk air, mixing with the odors of smoke and mulch to mull the wine of the autumn breeze.
Everyone waited for her within the privy garden, just past the gate—her betrothed, the priest, the few witnesses. But impulsively, Cynthia kicked off her boots and allowed the nurturing energy of the earth to seep up through the soles of her bare feet. She closed her eyes, letting the sun burnish her thoughts to a golden hue.
At long last, she took Roger the steward’s arm, giving it an affectionate squeeze, and they walked slowly forward through the gate, along the leafy path toward the man she was about to marry.
It was an intimate wedding, here in the lush quiet of the garden. The feast afterward, of course, would be enormous. The retinues of both de Ware brothers, her own castle folk, and the nearby villagers were invited to partake of a week’s worth of festivities, including, at Cambria’s insistence, a grand tournament. Elspeth had slaved for days organizing the great event. And Linet had wielded her creative authority, ordering the attire for the bride and groom with a practiced hand.
But the wedding ceremony itself was of Cynthia’s design.
Beneath the leafless peach tree, Prior Thomas from the monastery, Bible in hand, beamed at her. Near him, Elspeth blubbered into a linen kerchief. And on either side of the path, Garth’s closest kin stood, their faces a sweet blend of encouragement and acceptance.
Cynthia, however, only had eyes for Garth.
He wore a surcoat of rich, deep gray velvet overlaid with a fir green tabard that perfectly matched the smoky hue of his eyes. Around his neck hung the wooden cross proclaiming him a man of God. But it was the first time since he was a boy that Cynthia had seen him attired in clothing befitting the son of a noble. The silver link belt slung low on his hips caught the folds of fabric in a manner that accentuated his bold, lean figure, tripping her heart and turning her knees to pudding.
Cynthia swallowed hard. Were it not for the half dozen witnesses present, she might well have thrown herself at him, so intense was the wave of desire that washed over her as her handsome hero captured her gaze with his own.
She nervously fingered the soft material of the gown Linet had made up for her. It was of her finest Italian blue, Linet had said, claiming it set off Cynthia’s eyes like two pale sapphires set in a summer sky. At the moment, Cynthia didn’t care if it glowed with starlight. She didn’t plan to be wearing it long after the ceremony was over.
As if scolding her for impure thoughts, the babe inside her suddenly aimed a hearty kick at her ribs. She gasped, then giggled as five faces showed instant concern. How sweet it was, she decided, to garner such affection from those who’d shortly be her kin. She’d known them less than a fortnight, and already they looked after her like a baby sister. Linet fussed over her clothing as if Cynthia were a queen. Duncan flattered her mercilessly with odes to her virtues. Holden stood guard over her like a mastiff. And Cambria taught her the history of her own Gavin clan, of which she insisted Cynthia would soon be a part. Cynthia couldn’t be happier.
