Page 81 of My Hero
She hoped she wasn’t lying as well. Over the last several days, Father Garth had made himself as scarce as a squirrel in January. His Sabbath offering had been an uninspiring sermon on the merits of going on pilgrimage. Even the chaplain himself could barely stay awake for it.
The Abbot glanced at her dismissively, the way he always did, and turned again to Roger.
“I hear congratulations may be in order for your lady. A wedding?”
Elspeth exchanged a quick, panicked glance with Roger, then cleared her throat. “There is a man come to call, a good gentleman, fine and honorable. Of course, he knows nothing’s to come of it for a while yet, not till the lady’s done her proper grieving for Lord John, God rest his soul.” She hastily crossed herself, more to seek forgiveness for the lie than to bless John.
“Of course.” The Abbot mimicked her motion with slow reverence.
Elspeth took a steadying breath. She wondered if the Abbot believed her. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be performing the ceremony anyway. By the time he learned of the wedding, the deed would be done by Wendeville’s own chaplain.
“Any…troubles?” the Abbot inquired.
“Troubles?” Roger repeated, taking a swig of ale and screwing his face into a thoughtful frown. “Nay. None that I know of…unless you count the last rabbit I snared wiggling out of the trap.” He guffawed and slopped a little of his ale over the cup.
The Abbot’s somber expression never changed. Elspeth wondered how soon they could get rid of him.
“Well,” the Abbot said, running a single bony finger around the rim of his untouched cup, “that’s all I came for. You know, I’ll always have a warm spot in my heart for this castle.” He looked around the hall, at the tapestries hung from the scrubbed plaster walls. “I’ll always think of Wendeville as my home.”
Elspeth doubted therewasa warm spot in the Abbot’s heart. And as for Wendeville being his home, was it her imagination, or was there a covetous glint in his eyes when he said that?
Fortunately, Roger had more tact than she.
“You’ll always have a place here, Abbot.”
The Abbot drained his drink all at once, and then sat back, staring into the gentle flames of the low fire as if he never planned to move again.
“Well,” Elspeth finally broke in, unable to stand the uneasy silence or the suspense any longer, “will you be staying then for supper?”
“It’s a long way home, and I fear my bones are weary from the ride. If I could burden you for one night, I’d like to meet this suitor of Lady Cynthia’s.”
“Of course,” Roger hastily replied.
“My thanks.” He handed his empty cup to Elspeth. It was a good thing he didn’t bother lifting his eyes to her, or else he would have immediately spotted the displeasure on her face.
Garth grimaced as another stone cut into the sole of his boot. A few more trips to the village and he’d have to buy another pair of shoes. His feet ached from the long walk home.
And yet it was a familiar ache, one he’d earned doing an honest day’s work, one he could salve with oil and herbs, nothing like the ache that pressed in on his chest, threatening to squeeze his heart till it burst.
That ache would never heal, no matter how many times he trudged to the village to preach to sinners, no matter how many babes he blessed, nor how many marriages he performed. That ache would live with him for the rest of his life. And only time would erode the sharp edges of such pain.
The sun perched on the hills like a giant eye, watching him as he walked briskly up the gravel path toward Wendeville.
He wondered what supper would be or if he’d be hungry for it tonight. Most of all, he wondered ifshewould be there.
She hadn’t come down to supper once since their unfortunate affair in the garden, which relieved him immensely. Between her confinement to her room and his trips to the village, supper and Sabbath were the only time they were likely to come face-to-face. And thus far, she’d avoided supper.
He’d considered confining himself to his quarters where he’d be certain of dining in peace. But both of them supping in seclusion would have been suspect. It would have endangered Cynthia. More than anything, he had to protect her.
So, his shoulders tight with anxiety, he passed through the massive oak doors of Wendeville, just in time for the late afternoon meal.
Once again, Cynthia had absented herself.
Instead, the Abbot, visiting from Charing, commanded the place of honor at the high table. To Garth’s chagrin, he also demanded the company of Wendeville’s chaplain.
The Abbot didn’t frighten Garth. Aye, he was as sober as the grave, and aye, he resembled the skeletal rendering of Death in the monastery Bible. But he was a man of flesh and blood, no matter how little of either he had.
It was his questions that were unsettling. The Abbot may be a mere man, but he was a powerful man, one who could exile and condemn with a mere sweep of his bony arm.
