Page 29 of My Hero
He pulled the cassock off and flung it into the basin. The chill breeze sobered him as it blew against his naked skin. He scrubbed the wool with a brusque vengeance, shivering with cold all the while. But even though he wrung out the garment and spread it along the hooks in the wall, beside the other he’d unfortunately washed just hours earlier, he knew neither would dry by morn. Either cassock would be as uncomfortable as a hair shirt, and as appropriate, he thought morosely.
With a silent curse, he flounced back onto his bed and burrowed under the furs, praying no one would discover the castle chaplain sleeping in sinful nakedness.
Alas, Lady Cynthia came for him before he was awake.
“Garth? Psst. Garth?” The disembodied voice danced among his dreams. “Garth?”
He opened one eye.
“You know how to write, don’t you?” she asked.
With a sleepy scowl, he pushed up to his elbows. Lord, the lady had breezed into his private quarters like she belonged there, all green surcoat and clinging underdress, as fresh as an April meadow. She looked at him expectantly, as if it were a decent hour.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. It was tempting to dismiss her as part of a dream, to fall back onto his bed and go to sleep. After all, it couldn’t be far past Matins. Even if he did feel like he’d lain awake all night.
What was it she’d asked him—did he know how to write? He couldn’t help grimacing at that. How could a friar not write? It was what they did all day. He nodded.
“Good. Then stir yourself and dress. There’s much to be done in the garden.”
Her gaze flicked lower for an instant, and he saw her breath catch. It was then he remembered he was naked beneath the coverlet. A hasty glance at the wall revealed the twin cassocks condemning him. His bare shoulders rose brazenly above the coverlet, but it was too late to snatch the furs up. She’d already seen him. She already knew.
To his relief, she politely made no mention of it, clearing her throat instead and throwing back the shutters at his window. “What a layabed you are, Garth. I thought friars were accustomed to rising with the sun.”
He blinked against the light and swiveled his head to look outside. The storm clouds had scattered in the night, and the sun was already a full fist above the horizon.
“I’ve brought you something,” she said, holding up a pair of sturdy leather boots. “I saw one of yours had worn clear through. I noticed you have rather large feet, but these should fit you.”
She glanced down at his foot, which stuck out from the coverlet. He yanked it back beneath the furs, feeling even more violated. It was bad enough that she’d caught him without his cassock. Something as personal as the state of his clothing was not her affair. And she most definitely shouldn’t concern herself with the size of his feet.
“Please hurry,” she said with irritating cheer, setting the boots upon the floor. “Time is a-wasting. And don’t forget your quill and ink.” Then she swept out the door like a flirtatious spring zephyr.
Much to Garth’s chagrin, the boots were nearly a perfect fit. And he was grateful for them moments later as he trudged past a huge pile of malodorous earth at the west end of the outer garden.
A dozen men carted seasoned manure to the pile, and children mixed it into the wet soil with spades, when they weren’t hurling it at one another like ammunition from a trebuchet. Chatty young girls pulled at weeds, tossing them into a wheelbarrow. Elspeth presided over the herb garden, bleating out directions to several maids for the planting.
And there, beyond the herbs, the gate to the privy garden stood wide, as inviting and foreboding as Pandora’s box.
Cynthia squinted, scanning the garden for the perfect spot to plant the cowslip. Aye, she thought, plucking the seedling lovingly from the wheelbarrow, there, beside the west wall. She took a deep breath of fresh, damp garden air and began to hum.
An hour earlier, the sun had pushed up over the lavender hills like a lily blooming, the cloudless sky slowly turning the color of a robin’s egg. A dainty carpet of fairy’s tears had graced the sward as she made her way to the privy garden at dawn, making the day seem almost magical.
Still, none of it had left her as breathless as she’d felt creeping into Garth’s chambers. For longer than she cared to admit, she’d stood in his doorway, admiring the softness that slumber brought to his face, the provocative tangle of his hair, the way his nostrils flared gently as he inhaled the rarefied air of dreams.
Then he’d stirred in his sleep, flung an arm outward, and she discovered a salacious secret. Father Garth de Ware slept unclothed. It was, if not sinful, at least wicked. Yet it wasn’t condemnation she felt as she let her gaze rove over the sculpted contours of his bare shoulder. She’d bitten her lip against the surge of molten wonder that seeped into her blood.
What a mystery was her chaplain, and how that mystery called to her. The longer she watched him, the more she yearned to know what lay beneath that coverlet, to throw back the furs and…
She’d finally had to shake herself from her wayward thoughts. When she at last summoned the resolve to rouse him, it felt akin to waking a dozing dragon.
But she had more innocuous plans for Garth this morn. His indoctrination back into the secular world had to be handled delicately, without haste. Today she intended to remind him of what simple delights existed beyond the monastery. And so she’d laden a great basket full of palatable pleasures for him, a feast for the senses. Since she was certain monastic fare consisted of ubiquitous herring and coarse cheat bread, she took great pains to pack the very best that Wendeville’s stores and Cook could provide. Lent had begun, but that didn’t diminish the bounty of pickled eels, fresh grayling and shrimp kept cool in straw, and a loaf of very fine, white pandemayne, as well as candied orange peels, dried figs, gingerbread, and apple tarts spiced with cinnamon. She’d filled a skin with cool claret from the cellar, complete with two silver flagons.
Hopefully, as Elspeth was fond of saying, once a man’s belly was filled, he was like clay in a woman’s hands.
Overhead, a raven swooped out of the willow onto the garden wall, squawking in competition with Cynthia’s soft roundelay. Undaunted, Cynthia lifted her voice in a rollicking round of “fa-la-la’s.” She sang out the long, loud, final note of the tune, stuck her tongue out at the bird, and then turned to fetch another seedling from the wheelbarrow.
A dark shadow fell suddenly across her, driving her heart into her throat. For an instant, she imagined the raven had transformed itself into human form. Gasping sharply, she dropped the seedling and stumbled backward, unfortunately over the rake. She tripped and toppled onto her bottom, her legs sprawling every which way.
“Shite!” she cried, clasping a hand to her bosom. Looming over her, as brooding and silent as death, stood Garth. “I didn’t hear you.”
