Page 90 of My Hero
Holden de Ware was a ferocious warrior, unmatched in combat, a man who had garnered the confidence of the king with his skill in battle and his keen sense of diplomacy. That diplomacy had earned him his wife, Cambria Gavin, laird in her own right of a Scots clan. According to Garth, Holden’s mail-clad wife was as sly and savage a fighter as her husband. Of course, Cynthia had to admit, his opinion may have been colored by the fact that Cambria had once outwitted Garth.
Garth’s oldest brother, Duncan, was as kindhearted as Holden was fierce. Castle de Ware was nearly overrun with recipients of Duncan’s charity. Orphans and halfwits were drawn to him like iron filings to a lodestone. And yet he’d had to exercise considerable charm to win the heart of Linet de Montfort. She was a Flemish woolmaker, a member of the guild, competent and independent, sure she had no use for a husband. Apparently, Duncan convinced her otherwise aboard, of all things, a sea reiver’s ship.
They sounded charming, and she looked forward to meeting them…if Garth would have her. It was the one thing of which she was unsure. Garth seemed to care for her now, but when he learned of the child…
Everything could change in an instant. He could slam that great helm closed over his emotions again. He’d certainly had enough practice.
Still, she had to take the risk before anyone else found out. And hopefully, bathing in the refreshing waters of this special place, with the sun beaming down and birds warbling from the bushes, Garth would take the news well. Hopefully, he’d be pleased.
A rustling came from the nearby willows. She grinned and twirled in the water toward the sound.
“Garth?” she ventured.
No answer.
“Garth,” she said. “You can come out. It’s safe.”
The branches parted. It wasn’t Garth.
A portentous cold lump settled in Cynthia’s stomach as she looked into her maidservant’s wide and culpable eyes.
“Mary?” Cynthia’s voice quavered. That would never do. It would establish her guilt at once. Nay, she had to take charge. “Mary!” she scolded. “Return to the castle at once! This is my private domain! What the devil are you doing here?”
The branches parted further. Mary wasn’t alone. The lump in Cynthia’s belly congealed into a block of ice as she stared into familiar, cruel, hard features. The Abbot.
“Icommanded her to bring me to you.”
For a long, painful moment, she felt as stunned as a deer caught in an open meadow.
Then the brush surrounding the pool rattled, and four burly knights in the scarlet tabards of Charing emerged. At the Abbot’s command, they sloshed forward through the current toward her. She gasped, trying to shield herself from their greedy eyes, but still they came. She panicked, turning in the water, looking for escape. Finally, one knight clenched her arm in a steel gauntlet, dragging her forcibly forward.
“Stop it!” she ordered. “You’re hurting…”
Her words fell on deaf ears. Leather and mail scraped against her bare skin as the four brutes hauled her roughly from the water, ignoring her commands. And to add insult, all the while they struggled with their slippery prize, the Abbot loudly intoned some absurdity about herbs and witchcraft.
She shrieked in outrage, heat suffusing her face, as they set her naked upon the bank. While she stood, drenched and shivering, one of the men pressed a curved dagger to her throat. Another pinioned her arms behind her back, thrusting her breasts forward like an offering to the horrible man who continued to drone on and on about her supposed crimes, brandishing a silver cross and licking his lips like a wolf about to devour a rabbit.
And then he uttered something that struck terror into her soul.
“…proof that she bears the child of Lucifer himself.”
All too soon, before she could understand, one of the men clapped irons on her wrists.
“What is the meaning of—” she cried, earning a quick prick from the knife at her chin.
Panicked, she glanced at Mary. Surely she could find empathy there. But Mary only stared at the ground, guiltily worrying her knuckles.
“You,” she breathed. It was Mary’s doing. Somehow Mary had divined her secret. And she’d divulged it to the Abbot.
“Gag her,” the Abbot ordered, pointing one bony finger. “I won’t have her casting some witch’s spell upon you good men while you do God’s work.”
They stuffed linen between her teeth to silence her. It was hardly necessary. She doubted she had the power to speak with such outrage and disbelief rattling her mind.
What was the Abbot saying—that she was a witch? Did he truly believe that? And if he did, did he have the power to do anything about it? The church reigned supreme in spiritual matters, aye, but surely the false accusations of one man couldn’t… Dear God—what would he do with her? What would he do with Garth? And what, for the love of Christ, would he do with her child?
She closed her eyes, hardly noticing the slap of branches against her arms as she stumbled barefoot along the leafy path.
This wasn’t happening. Itcouldn’tbe.
