Page 88 of My Hero
Peering up where the two had just disappeared into Cynthia’s chamber, Elspeth crept out and made her furtive way toward the steward’s quarters. If anyone knew what to do in such a coil, it was Roger.
He awoke most rudely, nearly lopping her head off with a flailed hand when she waggled his shoulder.
“Watch your fist!” she hissed. “You old fool. It’s me. Me. Elspeth!”
“What the devil?”
“Keep your voice down. I’ve got to speak with you.”
“Then light a candle,” he groused, “so I can at least be assured it’s you and not some other harpy come to torment me.”
She snatched up a candle stub and lit the wick from the banked fire at the foot of his bed. By the time she returned, Roger was sitting up, the covers pulled up to his neck, his hair askew, and his expression cross.
“What’s this about?”
“Ah, Roger, I hardly know where to begin.” But apparently she did, for the story spilled out of her with little difficulty. She told him about Cynthia’s melancholy, blushing as she skated over the subject of their conversation in the bath, and recounted what she’d seen in the great hall. “It’s a tragedy, Roger. What shall we do?”
Roger sat silent for a long while, his gray eyes thoughtful, his mouth stern.
“Nothing,” he finally said, flouncing over to go back to sleep.
“What!” Elspeth exploded, wrenching him back over. “How dare you…have you no…what do you mean, ‘nothing’?”
“I mean nothing. You’ve done enough already. You’ve taught her all she needs to know. She’s a grown woman, not a child.”
“But she can’t lie with the chaplain!” Elspeth screamed under her breath.
“And why not?”
“Because…because…he lived in a monastery. His vows expressly forbid—”
“He’s not a monk anymore, Elspeth. He’s a chaplain. It’s not entirely uncommon for a chaplain to take a wife.”
“A wife, aye, but a concubine? Our Cynthia?”
Roger glowered at her. “I’m sure he’ll do the right thing.” He yanked the coverlet back around his shoulders dismissively. “Besides, Garth de Ware is a far better man than those weasels you’ve been digging up from God-knows-where.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Lord Philip is a decent, God-fearing—”
“Didn’t you hear? Lord Philip’s apparently so God-fearing he’s let the Abbot convince him to go on pilgrimage instead of marrying.”
“What?”
“He’s leaving tomorrow.” Roger snorted. “As for the rest of the motley prospects, you know none of them have been good enough for our Cynthia,” he accused. “I’m surprised at you, Elspeth.”
She clapped her mouth shut again and planted her fists on her hips. “Well, I don’t seeyoubringing any gentlemen by.”
Roger snorted again. “I’d be well pleased to call a man as forthright as Garth de Ware lord and master of Wendeville. And I’m just as glad that Cynthia has the good judgment to think so, too.”
Whatever answer Elspeth sought in waking Roger, it was certainly not this.
“Then you’ll do nothing?” she asked. “Not even protect her from the gossips? From the Abbot?”
Roger eyed her from beneath his bushy brows, suddenly serious. “Do you think the Abbot knows?”
“I pray to God he doesn’t. But if we don’t watch out for her, for them…”
Roger nodded. “The Abbot will be on his way come sunrise. Until then, we’d best keep an eye on her.”
