Page 5 of My Hero
It was inevitable. Lord John wasn’t a young man. He’d known he was dying for weeks. But for Cynthia, seeing that dark, incontrovertible image in her mind’s eye…
John had already bid farewell to the others. The Abbot had performed last rites. Roger, John’s steward and dearest friend, stood sentry at the footpost of the bed like a loyal hound, iron gray and ramrod straight. Beside him, Elspeth dabbed at her bleary eyes with the corner of her apron. All that remained was for John to bid adieu to his wife.
Cynthia bit back a sob and clasped his cool fingers again. He frowned, and she leaned forward to catch his faint whisper, his final bidding. His soft words barely stirred the wayward curl that had fallen from her coif, but that made them no less offensive. She drew back sharply.
Grief burned her throat. “Nay,” she protested, “I can’t.”
His face contorted with disappointment, and it was all Cynthia could do to keep from dissolving into tears. But she swore she wouldn’t cry.
“Please, Cynthia.” His voice was as weak as wind through a cracked door.
She clamped her bottom lip between her teeth, determined to remain strong. How could she do it? How could she keep such an impossible vow? But how could she let him die without granting his final request? “All right,” she managed to choke out, squeezing his hand in reassurance. “I promise.”
He smiled faintly. And then he was gone.
The frail, gnarled fingers grew limp in her grasp. His old eyes glazed over with the dull patina of death. One final breath rattled out between his lips, and his body sank into the feather bed.
Long-repressed tears welled in Cynthia’s eyes, threatening to spill over. It didn’t matter that his death had been coming for months. It didn’t matter that he’d lived a long, rewarding life. Her husband, the kind and gentle man who’d given her he last two years of that precious life, was gone. And there had been nothing she could do about it.
She let John’s wrist drop gently upon his chest and reached across to close the lids over his eyes.
Behind her, Elspeth gulped out a single sob, then buried her face in Roger’s thick surcoat, muffling the rest.
Out of habit, Cynthia pulled the furs up to John’s neck and tucked them in around him. Then she gazed once more at his rugged, wrinkled face. Remarkably, there lingered at the corners of his slack mouth the vestiges of a smile.
Suddenly she was transported to the past spring, when they’d walked hand in hand through a meadow thick with new daffodils, the air fresh and sweet with a recent shower. What had he said to her then? That she was his salvation. That she’d taken his weed patch of a life and filled it with flowers. His smile had been so full of joy and so sincere that she was moved to prove her affection for him at once, spreading her mantle and coupling with him among the daffodils.
The seasons came and went, days spent in light and laughter. All told, they’d had only a score of months together. Still, this was how she’d remember John always—smiling as he had on that spring day.
She closed her eyes and waited for the hollow ache in her throat to subside. John wouldn’t want her weeping over him. His dying command proved that. And after all, he was at peace now. His long suffering was over. With that small consolation, she managed to swallow her sorrow. She kissed first his pale forehead, then his papery cheek in farewell.
The abrupt bark of the dour Abbot clearing his throat encroached upon her private ritual. She flinched, startled. She’d almost forgottenhewas there. In her vulnerable state, the last person she wanted to deal with was the ghoulish Abbot.
Reluctantly she faced him, suppressing a shiver. Today, he looked even more like a messenger of death. His dark robes contrasted starkly with his sickly pallor, and his sharp-boned face and sunken cheeks were almost skeletal.
“He is with God now, child,” he intoned soberly, folding his spidery fingers before him in a semblance of humility.
Child.How the word grated on her ears. Only the Abbot could make the endearment sound like an insult.
He’d never liked her. He’d made that clear from the beginning. And she’d made no pretense of affection for him. But for the sake of John, to whom the Abbot appeared singularly devoted, she’d kept her opinions to herself. She’d endured the man’s condescension, his hypocritical patronizing, his interminable sermons on the inferiority of females, and his resolute blindness to the fact that Cynthia was a grown woman with her own free will.
But now it was over. Now John was gone, and she no longer had to put up with the Abbot’s affectations of fatherly concern. He’d be leaving Wendeville soon. John had bequeathed him a holding at one of his neighboring estates. In a matter of days, the Abbot would be out of her life.
In the meantime, she dared not let him witness a hint of the disabling loss she felt with John’s passing. It would only fuel his criticism of her. She straightened her spine and gave him an indifferent glance.
“Please see to the blessing and entombment at once, Abbot. Then if you’ll pack your things…”
The Abbot stabbed her with a sharp, disapproving glare. Then, as quickly, he judiciously lowered his eyes, snuffing out their dark fury. “Of course. As you wish.” He steepled his fingers thoughtfully beneath his chin. “But, child, what about kinfolk who may want to see him before—”
“John had no kinfolk, save me.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m sure you knew that.”
He did. And as far as he was concerned, a wife of less than two years could hardly be called kin either. His blood boiled as he thought of all that Wendeville wealth in the hands of a child. Why, she hadn’t even the look of a proper grieving widow. She should be wailing like old Elspeth, wringing her hands, turning helplessly to the church, tohim, for comfort, for guidance.
Instead, her cheek was conspicuously dry, almost as if she were relieved. The golden flicker of the fire danced across her young, luminous face, turning her disheveled hair to flame, the devil’s fire. Aye, she definitely looked relieved, as if, when the old man’s soul was lifted from his body, a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
It wasn’t right. The wench was too much in control, too aloof. And far too clever for his taste. Lord John’s body was not yet cold, and already she planned to evicthim—a servant of God who’d neglected his own monasteries to remain steadfastly by the dying man’s side. She’d find a formidable foe if she thought getting rid of him would be easy. He had no intention of leaving her alone with the vast Wendeville fortune. One way or another, he’d receive his due.
He twisted his fingers in wordless irritation, resisting the urge to strangle the wayward wench into accord. But he knew ire was not the answer. Anger was never shrewd. Nay, he must be meek. After all, it was the meek who inherited…
