Page 26 of My Hero
When the hole was about a foot deep, Garth held his hands out to accept Grizel’s burden. Cynthia gasped in empathy when she realized what it was. For weeks now, the child had been nursing a sick old dove in the mews. The bird must have finally succumbed.
Carefully, Garth placed the animal in the ground, then made the sign of the cross over the grave. Grizel knelt beside him, and they prayed together over clasped hands. But when he began to scoop dirt over the hole, Cynthia could hear the child’s mewl of protest. He stopped, then pointed to the sky. Whether he was trying to explain wordlessly that the dove must be buried to get to heaven or that the rain would get it wet if it wasn’t covered properly, Cynthia didn’t know. But the lass allowed him to finish covering the grave and even pressed the soil firm with her own hands.
The deed finished, Grizel threw herself at Garth, burying her face in his cassock to weep. For a moment, Garth seemed alarmed. Then he wrapped his arms about the lass, patting her back and stroking her hair.
Cynthia bit her lip and felt her eyes go all watery. What a comfort the priest must be to the child, who’d lost her mother a year ago. Cynthia remembered her own mother’s passing, how in the first months she’d missed her tender embraces and gentle words. Even now, it seemed a long while since someone had held her like that, drying her tears and smoothing her hair.
Damn, he’d seen her. He was staring at her over Grizel’s golden head, his expression too distant to read, but his eyes clearly locked with hers. She blushed, aware she’d been spying on him, intruding upon a private moment. She should go, she knew, but his gaze had frozen her to the spot.
She looked away first. She had to. Elspeth, with her usual unfortunate timing, marched up at that moment, nearly frightening her off the precipice of the wall walk.
“Ah, here you are, my lady!”
“El!” She tripped and made a grab for the embrasure, casting a quick embarrassed glance toward Garth.
“It’s slick with rain out here,” Elspeth scolded. “Why don’t you come in and dry yourself? Lord William and his retinue will arrive soon, and—”
“Who?” She rounded on her maid, scowling. “El, we’ve had visitors every day. What have you done? Sent a herald forth with news that the Holy Grail resides at Wendeville?”
Elspeth giggled rather too enthusiastically. “Oh, my lady! The Holy Grail indeed! Lord William’s retinue is just passing by. Surely you won’t deny them shelter from the storm.”
Cynthia lowered her brows. Of course she’d take them in. It was the hospitable thing to do. But she couldn’t shake the notion that crafty Elspeth was up to something.
A fat drop of rain splashed on her cheek, and a flash of lightning across the purpling clouds warned of the storm’s return. She cast one final glance over her shoulder as the downpour began. Garth had scooped up the little girl in his arms. Shielding her with his body, he strode briskly across the grass to return her to the shelter of the keep.
As it turned out, their visitors that afternoon were pleasant company indeed. Lord William was cordial and polite, neither too humble nor overbold. The rain had done nothing to dampen his good nature or his handsome countenance, and Cynthia instantly liked the man.
His knights, near a score in all, were honorable and chivalrous, and Cynthia watched several of Wendeville’s maids swoon and giggle in turns over the fine young men.
At supper, she shared a trencher with William. His manners were impeccable and his conversation interesting. He was fair of face and strong of bone, and his rust-colored hair flowed like molten copper to his wide shoulders. His brown eyes lit up when he spoke of hawking, his favorite pastime, and sparkled fondly when he recalled taking his youngest nephew riding for the first time.
After the meal, William’s men goaded him into strumming his lute, and Cynthia was amazed by his skill and the playful timbre of his voice as he sang a madrigal about the pleasures of spring. Watching the bobbing heads and listening to the laughter about her, Cynthia wondered if maybe the castle folk had suffered from the lack of visitors Lord John’s illness had caused. All of Wendeville seemed to enjoy the respite from grief that the presence of their cheery company afforded.
Then Cynthia spied Garth. While everyone about him banged heartily on the trestle table in rhythm with the music, he sat scowling, his arms crossed over his chest.
What was wrong with him? Did he disapprove of the tune? True, it wasn’t the somber plainsong of the monastery to which he was accustomed, but surely he didn’t condemn them for a bit of lighthearted music. The song wasn’t even lewd, as madrigals often were. She stared at him until she caught his eye, then lifted her brows in askance.
As if surprised by his own posture, he unfolded his arms and let his face relax. He didn’t exactly smile, but a sort of resignation settled over his features. She wished she could read his thoughts. What an enigma Garth de Ware was, she decided, and she grinned at him in spite of his dour countenance.
Garth tapped his fingers restlessly atop the table. He was glad Lady Cynthia was having a good time. Truly he was. The poor woman had lost her husband, after all. She deserved a little frivolity in her life. And if that frivolity came in the form of a handsome nobleman who sang like a nightingale and was currently dancing like he was born to it, what concern was it of his?
Garth held his breath as the gentleman appropriated Cynthia’s hand and led her about in a circle with the rest of the dancers. She looked so beautiful, so alive, so…happy.
Indeed, Garth couldn’t find fault with the man at all. Lord William was neither overbearing nor timid. He appeared to be well versed in the gentle arts, but by the breadth of his shoulders, Garth could see he was no mediocre warrior. And he could dance.
Garth, too, could dance. He’d been forced to learn alongside his brothers. Their mother never allowed the de Ware boys to indulge in the more violent sport of swordplay unless they practiced the courtly graces in equal measure. And if it weren’t for the fact that for the last four years, Garth had been a monk, forbidden to engage in such exhibitions, he’d prove it.
The air rushed out of him on an exasperated sigh. What the devil was he thinking? Not yet one week in the secular world, and already he felt the pricking of the sin of pride. What did it matter if he could dance? He was a priest. His legs were for kneeling in the worship of God. Anything else was vanity. Perhaps it was good that he was under a vow of silence, after all. In fact, he might be well advised to maintain that vow another fortnight.
He was staring into his flagon of wine, considering the merits of extending his vow to a lifetime of silence, when Cynthia jostled his elbow. Startled, he turned to catch her gaze, full force. Dear Heaven, she was breathtaking. Her face, framed by stray tendrils of her fiery hair, was flushed with delight. Her skin was misted with exertion, her cheeks rosy, her lips curved into a coy smile.
Intense longing bloomed inside him like wine warming his belly. His heart seemed to pulse to the beat of the timbrel, his lungs to breathe in the harmonies of the lute. He suddenly ached to join her, to join all of them, to share in their revelry, their humanity. For one terrible moment, his legs quivered in mutiny, threatening to move against his wishes.
Another dancer wheeled her away then, and the feeling passed. He swallowed back panic. How close had he come to taking that first step? To forgetting who he was, what he was? To violating his own principles?
Drawing the back of his hand across his perspiring lip, he rose on shaking legs. Measuring his pace to contradict the rhythm of the music, he made fists of his hands, steeled his jaw, and walked deliberately past the merrymakers.
He almost escaped. If he’d paid heed to the weaving pattern of the dancers, he might have cleared their path. But as fate would have it, as Cynthia rounded the wheel, he stepped left, square upon her toes.
