Page 71 of My Hero
It worked. She was reduced to raining tears and kisses upon the hem of his cassock.
He rapped his knuckle pensively against his teeth. Was Lady Cynthia dying? Even more significantly, was her death being hastened? Maybe he hadn’t given de Ware enough credit. Maybe the sly chaplain wasn’t without selfish motives after all. Mary had seen their sordid encounter in the garden. Could it be that the crafty monk had insinuated himself into Cynthia’s good graces with the intent of eliminating her?
Some of those devil’s herbs the chaplain had bade Mary fetch were poison. Was it possible that as soon as de Ware secured his inheritance of Wendeville, he intended to quietly finish Cynthia off with some deadly elixir?
The Abbot sighed unhappily. It niggled at him that he’d so misjudged the monk. Usually he could spot men of his own ilk, men of power and ambition, as readily as ink spilled on vellum. He’d missed this one.
De Ware might well succeed in eliminating the last remaining heir to Wendeville to claim the land for himself, usurping what rightfully belonged to the Abbot.
On the other hand, it might be of benefit to have Cynthia’s blood on de Ware’s hands rather than his own. The fool might actually relieve the Abbot of the burden of seeing to her disposal.
Of course, in the end, Garth would lose. The Abbot had played the game much longer. He had the tools to destroy Garth de Ware, to strip the cassock off his back and see him executed as a heretic.
He had the list of devil’s herbs.
He had proof that the strictures of Lent had been disobeyed.
And he had a witness, who even now groveled at his feet, to the chaplain’s midnight indiscretion with Lady Cynthia.
One way or another, both Cynthia Wendeville and Garth de Ware would pay for their sins.
Righteousness welled in him like a font, turning the dismal hovel suddenly bright with promise. Even his usually critical gaze, as he stared down at the wretch worshipping his garments, grew more charitable. Mary seemed less pathetic now. Her fat tears glistened like polished jewels on her pale cheek, and her hair wound sinuously over her quaking shoulders. Indeed, she seemed almost holy. Her hands clasped the edge of his cassock to her bosom as if it were the Christ’s. Murmurs of prayer fell from her reddened, sob-swollen lips.
The poor child was suffering. She needed him. Needed his forgiveness. His blessing. His offering.
He hardened at once.
Garth ran a shaky hand through his grimy hair. His eyes felt as gritty and raw as salted mussels. He was sure he stank of sweat and worry. His belly whimpered with hunger, but he couldn’t eat. Spots of color fluttered before him like moths, reminding him of the sleep he’d neglected too long. He scrubbed at his eyes, temporarily vanquishing the flitting lights. But he knew they’d be back, just like the gloom that visited him between bouts of hope.
For three days and nights, he’d stayed with her, watching her, fighting for her as she hovered on the brink of death. In all that time, he’d never voiced a single prayer, not because he lacked faith, but because he knew he would have just as willingly called upon the devil as God to save Cynthia if he thought it would work.
Already he’d violated Lent. Already he’d used herbs known to be the devil’s. And a hundred times he’d touched her intimately—bathing her fevered skin, changing her damp garments, brushing her hair back from her pale cheek. Nay, God wouldn’t listen to his sinner’s pleas now.
And yet he was desperate.
He reached out for Cynthia’s wrist. Beneath his fingers, her pulse was weak and slow, and her skin was clammy. He held his palm before her lips. Her breath made only the faintest stirring there. He swallowed hard, fighting off the despair that threatened to smother him.
Heshould be dying, not Cynthia.
Who was he? An empty vessel adrift on a nameless sea. Half a man who was good for neither church nor marriage. But Cynthia—Cynthia was full of life and love and purpose. She brought the omnipotence of God to men’s hearts more powerfully than any of his own hollow sermons ever would.
It was a travesty. She’d drained herself to save him, and now she lay dying.
His mouth twisted bitterly. On the table beside Cynthia’s bed, shriveled leaves and shredded bark lay in neat piles on a wooden platter. They were the weapons he’d meticulously prepared, mimicking as best he could Cynthia’s own, to fight off the demon attacking her. He’d believed they could save her, as they had the villagers. But now they seemed mere impotent weeds and chaff. Without Cynthia’s touch, without her healing gift to empower them, the herbs were useless.
Frustration fed the fury growing inside him, mocking him, tormenting him until it exploded in a storm of pain. Snarling a curse, he swept his arm violently across the tabletop, knocking aside the tray and scattering the herbs into the rushes. Futile tears of rage stood in his eyes, blurring his vision, and the need to bellow out the injustice of it all wrenched at his chest.
But in the end, the only words he could speak were ones that were as familiar to him as his own name. Broken, he clenched his eyes shut and surrendered to his fearsome God. He fell to his knees before Cynthia, clasped his fists together, and prayed for the Lord’s mercy upon her.
Over and over he said the words until, eventually, his fervent prayers diminished, becoming syllables murmured mindlessly as spots floated again before his eyes. Exhaustion overcame him. Three sleepless nights caught up with him and hauled him into the muddy waters of slumber.
One hour might have passed, or ten. He wasn’t certain. But some soft sound awakened him. He lifted his head from the wool coverlet and, for a moment, couldn’t remember where he was. His eyes were swollen, and his cheeks felt stiff from the salty tracks of his tears.
“Garth?”
He came wide awake in an instant. He’d know that dulcet voice anywhere.
“Cynthia?” he croaked.
