Page 70 of My Hero
“Nay, not banishing.” The prior scowled, patting his hand. “Pushing you…from the nest.”
Garth was outraged. Prior Thomas was tossing him out like a bothersome drunk from an alehouse. And yet…in his heart, he realized that the old man was right. Garth was clearly useless at the monastery. He couldn’t even scribe two consecutive verses properly, not while he was haunted by a pair of sapphire eyes.
Still, he couldn’t imagine how things would be any better at Wendeville.
“Don’t brood, Garth. God will guide you,” the prior said, clapping him on the shoulder, “in the manner He has all along.”
Garth smiled glumly. That was what he most feared.
By day’s end, Garth stood before the doors of the great hall of Wendeville, holding his breath. At worst, he expected a chilly reception from the castle denizens. After all, he had, in effect, deserted them—in the middle of Lent, in the midst of sickness. At best, he hoped for forgiveness in the form of a subdued but polite welcome. He never anticipated the desperation in Roger’s eyes as the steward swung the door wide.
The man looked absolutely stricken. Dark shadows bruised the flesh beneath his eyes, and the grim turn of his mouth had aged him a decade beyond his years.
Garth dropped his satchel to the stones. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Roger wrung his hands together as his weary eyes filled with tears. An eerie prickling coursed up Garth’s spine.
“Roger, tell me.”
Roger fretted at the sleeve of his surcoat. “I fear I have bad tidings.”
Garth’s pulse beat unnaturally loud in his ears. Was it Elspeth? Had something happened to Elspeth?
But Elspeth came scurrying up behind Roger, bleary-eyed and as worn as pauper’s linen, but alive.
“It’s Lady Cynthia,” she blurted, half-sobbing into her apron.
A sharp pain cut across Garth’s chest as his heart kicked a sudden macabre jig against his ribs.
Then, before he knew what he was doing, he’d clenched his fists in the steward’s surcoat and was hauling the poor man within inches of his scowling face.
“Nay!” he growled.
Roger’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened and closed twice, like a hooked trout’s.
“Stop it! Stop!” Elspeth cried.
Blinking in confusion, Garth instantly released Roger, at once sorry for his violent de Ware blood. “What…” he began, choking on the words. “What’s happened?”
Mercifully, Roger wasted no time restoring his composure. His garments still askew, he said, “She has the sickness. She may be…dying.”
Garth’s heart went cold. His jaw trembled, but not with sorrow. With rage—rage that God would dare let the dread sickness darken Cynthia’s threshold. Cynthia—who comforted the dying and brought new babes into the world, who selflessly battled the devil’s worst diseases, championing those with no strength to fight, whose life lay yet unbloomed before her. Rage burned inside him until his skin crackled with it.
“Take me to her,” he ground out. “Now.”
It was Cynthia who needed a champion now. She’d fought for everyone else. Lord, she’d fought forhim,saved his life. He owed her as much. Bloody hell—Godowed her as much.
With dread for a companion, he raced up the steps to her chamber, armed with nothing but his wits, his will, and a love that, he hoped to God, could conquer anything.
The Abbot listened with feigned patience as Mary tearfully blurted out her confession. Garth de Ware had returned to Wendeville. He’d been there two days already, threatening mayhem and wreaking havoc, according to Mary. Her whimpers disturbed the flame of the single candle he held, making shadows dance up the soot-darkened walls of the cottage like bats taking flight at twilight.
“Brother Garth went mad as a bull, Father! I had no choice but to fetch the herbs for him! I swear it! And when I refused to bring him the eggs, it being Lent and all, he…” She broke off with a sob, running grimy fingers under her nose. They came away slick. The Abbot curled his lip in distaste. “He told me I’d swing from the gallows if Lady Cynthia died.”
Died? Here was a surprise. “She’s that ill?”
“Aye, Father. She’s tossed with the fever for five days now. And Brother Garth, he’s never left her side. Won’t let anyone go near her either, except her maid and me. And now she lies still as death.” Mary’s brow fretted itself into an ugly contortion of suffering, and fresh tears coursed down her face. “Oh, Father! God will forgive me, won’t He? Ihadto fetch the herbs!” She grabbed two fistfuls of his cassock. He grimaced, remembering the condition of her hands. “Ihadto!”
“I will intercede on your behalf,” he said, more to shut her up than to give her solace.
