Page 73 of My Hero
His heart fluttered. He wanted her kiss. Her soft breath was a sweet caress across the back of his fingers.
“Then you must forget this hand,” he whispered harshly, reluctantly pulling away, knowing he crushed her. “It’s an instrument of God’s will, no more. That’s all it will ever be.”
He made the sign of the cross and walked stiffly toward the door, feeling the pain he’d inflicted all the way. Before he left, he turned to her once more. “It’s allIwill ever be.”
Chapter 17
In the following days, the sickness in the village foundered and died, and the air filled with the sweet scents of nature’s renewal. The sun coaxed tender shoots of grass up from the earth, and tightly curled leaves and buds tipped the dark branches with vivid green. By Easter, everyone, peasant and noble alike, was eager to crowd into the great hall of Wendeville for an enormous feast. Cynthia hired mummers to perform a St. George play, and Father Garth, promising loyal service to the castle henceforth, blessed the colorful pace eggs, as was his duty, for the men and women to exchange.
The days passed in subdued harmony while the garden erupted in a slow explosion of color. But for Cynthia, the blooms brought little joy. They were only a bright reminder of how dull her life had become in contrast.
Elspeth continued to bring candidates for Cynthia’s hand, and while she tried to greet them civilly, none of them seemed of adequate intellect or appropriate demeanor to take on the responsibility of Wendeville. Certainly none of them even remotely stirred her heart, and while it wasn’t necessarily a prerequisite for marriage, if she wanted an heir, she had to at least be willing to bed Wendeville’s lord.
The situation seemed hopeless, and having Garth nearby did nothing to remedy that. She compared every man to him. This lord’s eyes were not as bright. That lord’s smile was not as bewitching. This gentleman’s touch was not nearly as warm, that gentleman’s not nearly as firm.
But at last, on a brilliant morn in late April, when tufted clouds frolicked like lambs across the jewel-blue sky, he came.
His name was Philip.
He was perfect—not too handsome, not too plain, not overly extravagant, but far from miserly, fair-minded, polite, humble.
She didn’t love him. Far from it. But he was acceptable as lord for Wendeville. She could see he would be good for the people. Roger liked him. Elspeth liked him. The castle folk liked him. Everyone would be glad of a wedding between the two of them.
Everyone but Garth. Garth instantly hated Philip. And just as instantly prayed for forgiveness. There was no real reason to hate the man. He was perfect for Wendeville, perfect for Cynthia. But that ugly beast, jealousy, perched upon Garth’s shoulder.
It didn’t belong there. Garth had no claim upon Cynthia, none whatsoever. Since that blessed day when God had seen fit to save her life, Garth had dedicated himself wholly, devotedly to his religious duties, vowing to leave Cynthia to a more deserving man.
He made frequent visits to the town now. He knew the villagers by name and considered each soul his solemn responsibility. He’d even arranged, with the permission of Wendeville’s groom, to send palfreys each Sabbath to transport the elderly to Mass at the chapel.
He helped with the distribution of alms and trenchers and worn clothing to the poor, and even spent odd hours scrubbing plaster and polishing the stained glass of the chapel until it shone with heavenly luster.
He taught the children of the keep to read, and even indulged the falconer, who had no real use for letters, but who’d come to him with a longing so sincere he couldn’t refuse him. He tended to the sick, prayed for the destitute, blessed two newborn babes, and gave the old castle brewster last rites.
And through it all, he managed to keep apart from Lady Cynthia. She even obliged him by respecting his chosen detachment from her. Once he’d explained, once he’d made clear to her that her life had been bargained for upon his faith, she seemed to understand. She no longer summoned him to the garden or teased him at supper or wore the scent of jasmine in his presence.
Only when he passed one of the fragrant sprays of white and yellow blooms Cynthia cut and placed about the castle did a faint but persistent longing pierce his heart. Only when the scent of flowers wafted through his thoughts did he feel strangely bereft.
And if he sensed empathy in her, if she, too, seemed particularly wistful in idle moments, he told himself it was the loss of her husband that made her so, or a feminine longing for a child, or the simple restlessness of spring. It would have tortured him too much to hope she felt the same pangs as he.
As it turned out, he was mistaken about her melancholy. She wasted no time at all finding a new lord for Wendeville.
Elspeth, with her usual stubborn persistence, had continued to inflict eligible noblemen upon the castle, and, for a while, Cynthia had discarded them as casually as a fisherman throwing back too small catch.
It would have been a lie to say her actions disappointed Garth. In his eyes, none of the men had seemed good enough for her.
But then Sir Philip de Laval arrived.
He wasn’t nearly as flamboyant and engaging as Lord William had been, but then the man would never eclipse Cynthia’s light. Garth could see in his forthright gaze that Sir Philip was a good man.Hisspirit wasn’t troubled by doubt.Hewasn’t plagued by moral dilemmas. He was simply a decent, God-fearing, honorable man.
Apparently Cynthia thought so, too. Within days, she’d accepted his informal proposal of marriage.
It was probably for the best. She did look peaceful strolling about the courtyard on his arm. The smiles they exchanged at supper were fond, and the way Philip’s face glowed with quiet pleasure when she entered a room, Garth knew he’d treat her well.
In the occasional moments when envy surfaced among his thoughts, Garth pressed it down like an autumn apple, filtering the bitter seeds from the sweet cider. If his throat closed when he thought about having to be the one to seal their bond of marriage, he reminded himself that Cynthia deserved so much more thanhecould give her.
Thus it was that on days like today, the first of May, when all Wendeville was agog with feasting and merrymaking and festivity, Garth welcomed the chaos to which the castle was reduced, for he had no time to dwell on such troubling matters of the heart.
Indeed, his own exuberance amazed him as he stood at the edge of the wooden palisade constructed for the great May Day tournament. In the lists, Wendeville’s finest warriors kicked up swirling clouds of dust, battling afoot in the melee, wielding blunted swords and shouting aspersions against their foes.
