Page 60 of My Hero
The young girl’s teeth chattered, but she managed a nod in the small pool of light cast by the single candle he held.
“The chaplain?” he repeated, unable to fathom it.
He’d selected Garth de Ware for Wendeville because of the man’s humility and his lack of ambition. Garth could hardly pose a threat to his plans. After all, the fool had thrown away his own chance at wealth and power for the seclusion of an impoverished monastery.
“You’re certain?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Aye, Father,” she said, bobbing her head like a nervous chicken. “And there’s…something else.”
The lass was reluctant to speak. She fidgeted with the edges of her cloak and wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Biting back peevishness, he reached out with false tolerance and gently cupped her chin, lifting it. Her skin was frigid to the touch. “Don’t be afraid, child. It’s God’s work you do.”
Her chin quaked, and she spoke barely above a whisper. “The chaplain…he…I saw him…with Lady Cynthia.”
His fingers tightened on her jaw. Nay. It couldn’t be. “Aye?” he goaded her. “Aye?”
“They were…kissing,” she breathed. Moisture filled her eyes, whether of shame or lust, he wasn’t certain. “He…he opened her cloak, and he…touched her…” Her hands fluttered awkwardly before her.
The Abbot struggled to keep the impatient edge from his voice. “He touched her bosom?”
She ducked her head.
“Go on,” he said.
“He…he kissed her…there.”
“And?”
She shook her head. “Elspeth came. He ran away.” She looked up hopefully, her soul unburdened at last. He could see by the glistening in her eyes that she wanted her reward now. But it would have to wait for another time. Her cold flesh and chattering teeth held no appeal for him tonight. Besides, he had much to think about.
He chewed at his lip. It seemed he’d misjudged the humble friar. It was too early to tell exactly how. But there were two possibilities. Either the man’s flesh was pitifully weak or Garth de Ware was perpetrating a play for power even more complex than his own.
The Abbot chuckled in self-mockery. It appeared Garth de Ware would either be the ruin of him or the designer of the most opportune twist of fate he’d ever fallen heir to.
Someone was shaking the bed. Garth couldn’t wake up enough to make them stop. He heard voices, but the low, somber murmurs were indistinguishable, as if a thick blanket enveloped him, separating him from the rest of the world. And yet he was cold, colder than he’d ever been. Cold to the marrow of his bones.
He drifted like a snowflake at the will of the winter wind, now floating toward the surface of awareness, now delving toward the frozen wasteland of oblivion. How long he wafted over the endless, icy landscapes, he didn’t know. Time had no meaning.
Once, his eyes fluttered open for just an instant, and he was aware of a vaguely familiar, comforting, parchment-colored expanse flickering above his head. And once, cool fingers rested upon his forehead, soothing him even as they chilled his shivering flesh. But before he could grasp and hold the recognizable images, he was plunged back into alien vistas of fathomless snow.
A moment, or hours, or days later, the sharp nick of a blade in his arm spurred him from his uneasy slumber. His eyes opened to narrow slits. On the inner side of his elbow, blood welled from a small cut and dripped slowly into a pewter bowl. He drew a shallow, shuddering breath. He had to stop the blood, stanch it with something, bind the wound. But he was too weak to move. Currents of panic rose around him, and the waters of unconsciousness closed over his head again.
When he awoke, his arm was bandaged with linen. The limb looked pale and foreign. He couldn’t move it. A rhythmic rasping rattled his ears, his own labored breathing. Every inch of his body ached. Still frozen with cold, he was too feeble even to shiver.
He catalogued his surroundings with his eyes alone, his eyeballs clicking as they jerked dryly about the room. It was his cell at the monastery. The plaster overhead glinted in the candlelight. His cloak dangled from the peg on the wall. Sweet smoke drifted from a spiced candle burning at the foot of the bed. A heavy tapestry from the prior’s office hung at the window, blocking out the light. If indeed there was light. He had no idea what the hour was. All he could remember was stumbling onto the steps of the monastery sometime in the dark hours before dawn, drenched with drizzle, shaking with cold, and weak as a fledgling bird.
He tried to recall more. Why had he been traveling in the middle of the night? Where had he gone? Why did he feel as if someone had beaten him with a mace? But his head began to throb with the effort of thought. Closing his eyes, he returned to the peace of oblivion.
The dreams began sometime soon after. Pleasant dreams and troubling ones.
Fragments of fond remembrances. Romping across a summer meadow with his brothers. Studying Latin in the checkered shade of the willow. Sitting by the fire, listening to the old knights of his father’s castle recount heroic deeds.
Then came memories he wished he could bury forever. Mariana’s bed. His own pathetic staff lolling upon his stomach, unable to rise. Tears of rage and humiliation burning behind his eyes as Mariana voiced her scorn. The shattering sound of her laughter as she sent him from her sight.
And then finally, new dreams washed over the old, like paint on plaster, obscuring the deep-seated cracks and imperfections. Jasmine scented these dreams, and the hum of bees ran through them. Dreams of luminous blue eyes and fragrant herbs, of copper-bright curls and the honeyed taste of summer. Dreams of the most beautiful woman in the world, walking toward him, her arms outstretched. Cynthia…
But then a terrible shadow cut across the dream. A black chasm opened up between the two of them, spreading like the devil’s smile, growing wider, separating them. Cynthia reached for him, her eyes wide with desperation. She screamed his name. He stretched his arm forward, but the farther he reached, the more distant she became.
