Page 68 of My Hero
Elspeth must have heard it. “We’ll get you fed when you’re cleaned up.”
The warm water helped to revive her body, but did nothing for her spirits. Even Elspeth’s gentle prodding couldn’t unearth the source of Cynthia’s melancholy.
She supposed she should be rejoicing. She’d won, after all. She’d singlehandedly vanquished almost certain despair, looked death in the eye and beat it back from the door.
But at what price?
“How are the villagers faring?” she asked.
“Not a one lost.” Elspeth beamed, continuing to scrub at Cynthia’s back. “A few are still weak as lambs, but they’ll be up and about in no time.”
Cynthia closed her eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks for that.
El sluiced a bucket of warm, clean water over Cynthia’s head to rinse out the soap. Then she bundled her hair in a linen towel and gave it a twist at the top.
“My lady,” she said, helping Cynthia from the bath and wrapping another towel around her, “may I speak my mind?”
Cynthia arched a brow at her. Since when did Elspeth ever ask to speak her mind?
She led Cynthia to a padded bench and sat beside her. “Wendeville is a rich estate with grand holdings. You can’t leave it like a helpless dove for all the greedy falcons circling about. You must get an heir eventually. Youknowthat, lass. And you must choose a good father for that heir.”
Cynthia said nothing. For once, she listened.
“I know Lord John hasn’t been long in the grave.” She paused to cross herself. “But I know he’d want this as well. He wouldn’t want to see his castle fall to ruin for want of an heir.”
Cynthia swallowed and looked out the narrow window, where the last soft, hazy sunlight of the day kissed the rolling hills a fond goodnight.
Elspeth was right. The promise John had extracted from her, to wed again for love, had been more than a gesture of magnanimity. John had wanted his legacy to continue, even if he didn’t survive to see it.
Once before, Cynthia had sacrificed her own selfish desires to please her father, her sisters, her king. She supposed such was the lot of a noblewoman. She was merely a pawn to be surrendered for the sake of those with greater need.
Perhaps sheshouldfind a lord for Wendeville. The least she could do for the castle folk was marry a kind and decent and fair overlord to ensure their future.
Her throat tightened at the thought, but she refused to let Elspeth see her cry. Weeping over such things was childish. Besides, her tears would only bewilder Elspeth. El would never understand, when she’d gone to such great pains to introduce Cynthia to every marriageable man in England, that the only man Cynthia was interested in, the only one who touched her heart and consumed her soul, was the one she could never have.
Garth would be damned if he’d take a week to heal from the murrain. He was, after all, of hale de Ware stock. After three days of the prior’s coddling him like stained glass, he was ready to tear down the walls of his hospitable prison, stone by stone.
But healing from his wounded heart…
He’d heard nothing from Cynthia since she’d fled his cell, as if when she was through with his sickness, she was through with him as well. And yet she’d done no more than follow what he’d preached to her all along. She’d repeated his wisdom plainly. The monastery was his home. Wendeville was hers. He belonged in this world. She belonged in another.
But the truth was, as he suffered through her absence, he began to believe that less and less.
Fine particles of dust sifted down through the sunbeam in the scriptorium, illuminating the half-finished parchment. Garth dipped his quill again into the ebony ink, then paused, his fingers tightening as he stared at the word he’d scribed across the page of Scripture.
Cynthia.
He sighed, vexed at his distraction. No matter how neat the penmanship,Cynthiadid not belong in the middle of the Psalms. He tossed the quill down in frustration. It made a stain on the page like a squashed spider.
“Something amiss?”
Garth scrabbled hastily at the parchment, crumpling it in his fist before Prior Thomas could see the mistake. How long had the stealthy old man been standing there?
“I…I need a new quill,” he invented. “This one is split.”
The prior picked up the quill, examining its point. “Hmm.” He eyed the parchment, wrinkled beneath Garth’s hand. Then he circled the scriptorium desk and set the quill down upon the edge.
“Brother Garth.” He steepled his stumpy fingers against his pursed lips. “Your body has healed well and quickly, with God’s blessing.”
