Page 12 of My Hero
It was likely some lady’s mislaid wimple or perhaps a piece of knightly trapping, she reasoned. Certainly not the daffodils. It was far too early for daffodils. But despite all rhyme and reason, as she neared she could see, sure enough, a patch of the yellow blooms had miraculously sprung up through the frost-hardened ground to poke a defiant tongue out at winter.
Daffodils, in the very spot where she and John…
Her throat closed. Slowly, her eyes filled with tears. And in that vulnerable moment, as spring filled the world, drifting to the deepest shade of the orchard, the terrible truth smothered her.
John had known all along she didn’t love him. He’d known. Why else would he have exacted that terrible promise from her? Why would he have chosen those words?Swear to me you’ll marry again,he’d said.Swear to me you’ll marry…for love.
Hot tears spilled over her cheek. A choking agony cut off her breath. All at once, she felt John’s loss like a heavy rock pressing upon her chest.
Ah, God, he’d known.
Deep sorrow squeezed her heart, and guilt crushed her. She collapsed to her knees on the wet grass and buried her face in her hands. Then she wept—for John, for herself, for her blindness and his benevolence. Grief denied for too long rained upon her soul like the first winter shower upon scorched summer earth, stunning her, consuming her, drowning her.
Weeks and months of sorrow poured out, and it was a long while before the well of healing tears ran dry. But eventually her sobs subsided, leaving only a telltale hitch now and then to remind her of the storm’s passage…that and the daffodils, still cheerfully waving, merrily oblivious to her outburst.
How beautiful they were. There were enough to make a small bouquet. And, she thought as a tenuous smile trembled upon her lips, she knew just the place for them. She wiped her eyes, and then carefully cut the tender stems with her dagger.
What was past was past, she decided as she collected the blooms in the folds of her soiled apron. Whatever wrongs she’d committed, Johnhadgone to his grave a happy man. She had to believe that. Besides, he would never have stood for her blubbering days on end over him, not with the sun so warm, not with daffodils in bloom.
As for the promise… If she never found the strength to honor it, if she never found the will to diminish John’s memory by replacing her affection for him with some faint imitation of devotion for another, well, at least John would be none the wiser. And if, at her life’s end, she didn’t fulfill that promise, it was between her and God what would happen with her immortal soul. Nay, she never intended to marry another.
Her apron full, Cynthia made her way toward Wendeville’s chapel. She felt less like the lady of the castle and more like a pauper bringing a gift to the king as she walked across the sward in bare feet with the yellow blossoms cradled against her belly. And that feeling was only magnified by the impressive appearance of the chapel itself.
No matter how frequently she visited, the chapel never failed to fill her with awe. It was holy and quiet and serene—the oldest part of the castle. The afternoon sun streamed through the brilliant stained glass, leaving designs like bright fallen petals on the cool gray stone floor.
The new addition at the chancel of the chapel still startled her. The great stone tomb dominating the nave bore a carved effigy of Lord John Wendeville, the way he supposedly looked as a young man. But Cynthia saw only a stranger’s face when she gazed upon the reclining figure. The man was attired as a knight with a lion crouching at his feet, his hands pressed together in prayer. Atop these hands, hands that bore little resemblance to her late husband’s, she tenderly placed the daffodils.
“I’ve brought flowers, John,” she whispered, and still her voice seemed a shout in the death-quiet chapel. “The garden will be lovely this year. The long winter didn’t harm the roses at all.”
She carefully separated the blossoms, arranging them in a spray atop the tomb, then relegated her soiled apron to the floor.
“And I heard the first cuckoo today. It made me think of that song. How did it go?”
She bent her head over her hands to think, close enough for a bee traveling upon one of the daffodils to flit onto the bright blossom of her hair.
Then she began to hum softly, a song about a rude cuckoo who stole a robin’s supper, throwing in the words where she could remember them.
The bee meandered across her orange tresses in search of nectar. It staggered twice, fell to a lower curl, then lost its grasp completely and tumbled onto her shoulder.
Cynthia struggled through the last verse, then tossed her head back for the familiar refrain.
The dazed bee, annoyed and confused in the tangle of her hair, floundered onto its back. When it squirmed upright again, it stung her for all it was worth.
The song ended on a shriek. Cynthia clapped one hand to her shoulder, then one to her mouth, amazed not only by the sharp pain, but by the loudness of her own voice as it echoed against the stone walls. She jumped back, scattering the flowers over the edge of the effigy, and winced as her fingers brushed away the half-dead insect. It buzzed in an ineffectual circle on the floor, and she frowned down at it.
“A bee!” she said in wonder. It was scarcely spring. What was a bee doing…
A strange vibration tugged at the nape of her neck. Some long lost incident pushed upward at the crust of memory to be reborn. In all her years of gardening, she’d only been stung once before, long ago. But there was no forgetting that pain.
Suddenly, it was as clear to her as if it had happened yesterday—the de Ware garden, the roses, the honeybees…the boy.
All at once, the chapel door exploded inward.
She whipped round. Her heart tripped. The door struck and bounced off the plaster wall.
A tall, dark-haired stranger loomed in the doorway. His dark robe swirled about him, his shoulders squared with primed power, and he clenched his hands as if preparing for battle. His chest heaved with exertion, and he glared at her with fierce green eyes that seemed to condemn her.
Dust motes scattered riotously in the shock of sunlight, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The man’s chest rose and fell once, twice, and still she stood riveted to the spot by his gaze.
