Page 56 of My Hero
He swallowed uncomfortably as she continued to stare at him. An eerie feeling overtook him, as if he looked into the eyes of a saint…or an enchantress—he wasn’t sure which. Her gaze remained steady, her faith unwavering. Satan’s ballocks—she believed she could foresee the girl’s fate. And her quiet confidence wore away at his doubt until he, too, began to believe.
“Please,” she said. “You can save her life.” She touched his sleeve. “Besides, are you so certain itisn’tGod’s will?”
He grimaced at the question. There was no proof it was God’s will, no proof at all. Yet Cynthia’s motives were genuine. And she’d been right yesterday about the infant and its poor mother.
He sighed. Certain he was about to step into waters over his head, he nonetheless nodded his consent.
Within the hour, Caitlin was packed and on her way atop a cart bound for Fryston, two of Lady Cynthia’s silver coins clasped in her fist and Garth’s blessing upon her head.
As for the other villagers, most of those Cynthia had treated were improved.
Little Tim atte Gate proved to be more stalwart than Garth had expected. Gone were the dark circles around his eyes. He even had a weary smile for Garth.
The motherless babe had survived the night on goat’s milk and the care of the three neighbor women, who fought over him like jealous aunts.
There were only two deaths—one elderly woman who had probably expired of old age and the village tanner, who’d refused to drink Cynthia’s egg broth during Lent.
The second death troubled Garth more than a little. Like a good Christian, the tanner had adhered to the strictures of Lent, even when it meant his own earthly demise. But somehow, as Garth comforted the weeping widow and her four children, all he felt was frustration. How could a man deprive his family of their livelihood, of his love? How could a man cast away the precious life God had granted him when the salvation for that life lay so close at hand? Aye, the observance of Lent was a covenant to be kept. But when a life hung in the balance…
He watched the smallest child, a tiny girl sitting listlessly against one grimy wall of the cottage, coughing. Her eyes were bright with fever, her face sallow. He glanced toward the fire. A cauldron of watery vegetable pottage bubbled on the hook. The thin gruel wasn’t enough to keep a babe alive, let alone four sickly children and their mother. Something had to be done.
He turned to the oldest boy. “Do you keep chickens?”
“Aye,” the boy sniffed.
He blew out a long breath. “Here’s what I want you to do.”
As he gave the boy directions, his heart raced deliriously, like that of a novitiate skipping his prayers. He explained to the lad how to make egg broth for his little sister and instructed him to add a few eggs to the pottage as well.
Though their eyes widened in surprise, the tanner’s kin never voiced a protest. Garth was a priest, after all. No one questioned the word of a priest.
Watching the eggs go into the pot, Garth felt as sinful as a lad throwing stones at chapel windows. The Abbot would have stripped him of his rank for such an act. But Garth also felt more alive than he had in years. Finally, he was doing some perceptible good. Blessings and prayers could only heal the spirit. These people needed healing for their bodies. And if he could save one soul to serve God on earth, what sin was there in that?
His heart still pulsed with quiet joy as he left the tanner’s cottage to see what further service he could render. To his wonder, the sun already declined toward the western hills, painting the green knolls with buttery light. Lady Cynthia would wish to leave soon.
Down the lane, he saw her speaking with a cluster of young women. As he strolled toward them, he overheard her urgent pleas.
“Wormwood most of all,” she said. “But in the days ahead, if you can find hellebore, nightshade, and monkshood…”
“I’ve seen nightshade at the far end of the meadow,” one maid offered.
“And monkshood usually grows near the brook,” another said.
A third woman shook her head. “But wormwood…”
Remorse stopped him in his tracks. The women of the village, grateful for Cynthia’s healing, were offering to replace the precious herbs missing from her garden—herbshe’dallowed to be ruthlessly plucked from it.
He’d make it up to her. He didn’t know how. But he had the long journey home on foot to think of a way.
Beyond Cynthia’s window, a fox yipped once, its voice muffled by the night fog. Somewhere in the distance, a wildcat warned off an intruder with a plaintive squall. And then the world grew silent. Mist made a white corona around the moon and crept between the shutters.
Cynthia kicked the coverlet off for the third time. She couldn’t decide if she was hot or cold. Every time she snuggled deep into her bed against the chill mist, her thoughts would stray to Garth—to how his fists locked when he was frustrated, how his emerald eyes softened with compassion, the unyielding line of his jaw, the gentle thunder of his voice, the wayward curl that was wont to spiral beneath his ear, the wool-apple-woodruff scent of him, the sinuous curve of his mouth, and the taste of him…oh, the taste of him.
She wanted more.
A wisp of a cloud passed before the moon, blowing ragged shadows across her naked skin. She shivered.
Garth had declined to ride with her on the journey home, instead trudging in silence as if he did penance for some imagined sin. Yet the only sin he’d committed, as far as Cynthia was concerned, was refusing her the comfort of his arms.
