Page 41 of My Hero
There was a rustling, as of parchment. Then Mary, the new maidservant, stepped forward timidly.
“My lady.” She bobbed her head.
“Mary, what are you doing here?”
“Nothing, my lady.” She looked as guilty as Judas. The candle trembled in her hand.
“What’s that you have there?” She nodded toward the bunch of leafy stems clutched in Mary’s fist.
Mary dropped the plant instantly to the earthen floor and took a step backward. “I…”
Cynthia scooped it up. “This is henbane, Mary.” She lowered her brows. “It’s poison. What were you—”
“I…I’ve been feeling poorly, my lady. My belly. I thought—”
“Come.” She motioned the girl closer.
Mary’s eyes widened. She fingered the amulet about her neck.
“Don’t fret. I’m not going to beat you,” Cynthia said. She restored the henbane to its niche on the shelf and began rubbing her palms together. What was one more ailing soul today?
“It’s n-nothing, my lady,” Mary stammered. “It’s gone now.” She curtseyed several times as she made her crabbed way toward the cellar door. “Th-thank you, my lady.” As an afterthought, she ducked back in and snatched a piece of parchment from the shelf, a parchment, Cynthia glimpsed, filled with words scrawled in an unschooled hand. “I’ll just go back to the k-kitchen then.” She nervously bobbled the candle into its wall sconce and scurried out the door.
Cynthia raised a brow. Her new servant was as skittish as a foal. Henbane for her belly? Cynthia shook her head. Henbane would most decidedly end her pains,allof them. It was fortunate she’d caught the girl.
Cynthia shook the tingling from her hands, and then scanned the shelf of herbal extracts and oils. Everything seemed to be in order. Some of the vials were stoppered with wood, others sealed with wax. A few, those rarely employed, had a layer of dust on their shoulders, and many were used so often that several identical bottles stood like a company of soldiers, ready at her command. At last she found what she sought in a small, unremarkable amber bottle. She snatched it up and smiled to herself.
Jasmine.
The first rays of the sun shot arrow-straight beams through the stained-glass windows of the chapel, making tapestries of color on the opposite wall. Smoking spices lent a fragrant mystery to the air. Standing in the arched nave before the rows of wooden benches, Garth fingered the worn edge of his Bible as worshippers straggled in in an awed hush of whispering voices and rustling skirts.
He was still discontent with the sermon, despite struggling with it again after Matins, scrawling out long lines of discourse one moment, only to cross them all out a moment later. He’d tried to focus his thoughts. Today was the Sabbath, after all, the busiest day of a priest’s week. And this would be the first sermon he’d ever deliver to his new congregation. It was important to make a good first impression. He’d ransacked his Bible looking for the right verses. He’d broken two quills writing. And he’d given himself an aching head, frowning in concentration over the ink-stained parchment.
But he hadn’t counted on the freckle-faced temptress intruding upon his every thought. He’d hoped the light of day would diffuse her image.
His palm dampened the leather binding of his Bible. Even here, even now, as the congregation slowly filed in, visions of Cynthia surrounded him.
The incense was faintly reminiscent of her sweet skin. The communion wine, poured into a deep silver chalice, rivaled the scarlet of her lips. The double glow of candles in the sun shone no brighter than her hair. Even outside the confines of the chapel, through the open doors to the morning beyond, she haunted him in the delicate hue of the sky, the song of the sparrow, the gentle breath of the breeze. Her face seemed imprinted on the stands of golden oaks. Her laughter echoed in the merry call of a meadowlark.
Yet this was the same wench who had torn his world asunder. She’d caused him more grief and aggravation in the past few days than he’d endured in four long years at the monastery. She’d completely mortified him. She’d unearthed a past he’d rather stay buried. She’d aroused feelings in him that no man of the cloth should ever have. There was no godly reason for him to wish to spend another moment in her company.
But he did.
Indeed, his heart tripped this morn every time someone in skirts came through the chapel door.
He twisted the parchment roll that contained the essence of his sermon. It was an inferior piece about the importance of attending chapel every Sabbath, truly a waste of breath, considering it would be spent on those already in attendance. But it was the best he could come up with in the lean hours on the wrong side of midnight.
He heaved a resigned sigh, stirring the flames on the beeswax candles before him. He let his eyes stray to one of the stained-glass windows, where the sun’s early light was just beginning to illuminate the artist’s scene. It was a portrayal of the Christ as a teacher, his arms outstretched, instructing the children assembled at his feet in the ways of God. A tiny bird perched on the shoulder of one of the children, a pretty girl wearing a garland of flowers in her hair, reminding him of…
Cynthia.
She seemed to float through the chapel doorway, a vision of golden light, a seraph, the sun haloing her snowy veil and blanching her eyes to translucent silver.
Heads bobbed, and maids sank into cursory curtseys as she passed, coming straight down the center aisle toward him. But she spared no one a glance. She only stared at him, a soft smile playing about her lips.
“Father Garth.” She knelt before him then, offering his repaired crucifix in one extended hand. “I believe you lost this.”
For a moment, he was paralyzed. It was strange, her kneeling to him. She was the lady of the castle, after all.
