Page 91 of My Hero
Garth cursed mentally as he descended the stairs. He’d hoped to steal from the castle to Cynthia’s bathing pool without notice. But the great hall was brimming with people.
A handful of brawny knights wearing scarlet tabards muscled their way forward, hauling some burden he couldn’t make out. Probably a thief, he mused, or a poacher on Wendeville lands. As the men swaggered toward the center of the hall, the castle folk made way for them, gasping and falling back like an ocean wave around a formidable ship.
He frowned.
“My lady!” Elspeth shrieked suddenly from across the hall.
“Lady Cynthia!” Roger groaned from the dais, staring, then tearing his eyes away from the knight’s burden.
Fear catapulted Garth from the stairwell. He strode on wooden legs through the crowd of servants, the taste of dread bitter on his tongue.Please, God, don’t let her be…he prayed wildly, unable to even consider the possibility.Please don’t let her be…
His heart in his throat, he broke through the crowd and spun to face the knights.
For one brief moment, relief filled him like sweet nectar. Cynthia was alive—breathless, a little bloody, but alive. Thank God the knights had rescued her from…
His relief turned quickly to anger. Bloody hell—she was completely naked! Not one of the men who saw fit to call himself a knight had so much as offered her a cloak.
He opened his mouth to launch a scathing rebuke when Cynthia caught his eye. Her face was filled with despair—not shame, not disbelief, but despair.
Suddenly he realized the truth. These men were not her rescuers. They were her captors. And worse, behind them, looking on with morbid satisfaction, stood the Abbot.
He should have been fearful, but outrage took command. Garth drew himself up to his full height.
“Abbot!” he snapped, unmindful of the stir his dominating voice caused. “What is the meaning of this?”
The Abbot started visibly but recovered quickly enough. “I fear I bring unfortunate news.”
Before he could elaborate, Garth jostled a serving girl beside him. “Your cloak,” he demanded.
She sheepishly surrendered the careworn garment.
The Abbot took in a sharp breath. “I wouldn’t stand too close, Father Garth,” he warned, relishing every syllable. “You see, your lady, I’m afraid, is a servant of Satan.”
The castle folk gasped collectively, backing a pace further, then began to murmur speculatively among themselves.
“What?” Garth asked, incredulous. “What nonsense is this?”
He sneered and stepped forward to drape the cloak about Cynthia’s shoulders. The poor lass shivered with cold and fear. Her lips trembled. Her skin was as pale as vellum, and her hair hung in long mahogany strands that did little to conceal the puckered tips of her breasts. He clenched his jaw in ill-suppressed anger. Her hip and one thigh were badly abraded, and her cheek bore a small cut, clearly the marks of rough handling by the armored brutes. Damn, how he wished he had a blade in his hands.
“I warn you,” the Abbot intoned, “this woman is a witch. Approach her at your own peril.”
“That’s absurd! Lady Cynthia is no more a witch—”
“I should warn you also,” said the Abbot, holding up a subduing palm, “thatyourfaith, Father Garth, must be held up to the light.”
“My faith?” What was the Abbot spewing now? Cynthia stood, wet, terrified, quaking before him. What did his faith have to do with…
“Surely you recognize the signs of possession. You’re a man of God, after all.” The Abbot lifted his bony shoulders and let out a whispery sigh of feigned regret. “And yet you did nothing. She used devil’s herbs, and you turned a blind eye. She directed others to break the covenant of Lent, and you looked aside. And now—”
“This woman has saved countless lives. Who gives you the authority to condemn her?” Garth demanded. But already his heart beat madly in his temples. Hell—if the Abbot knew about the herbs and Lent…
“The Lord God,” the Abbot announced dramatically, “gives me the authority. Would you challenge His will?”
At a nod from the Abbot, three of the scarlet knights drew their swords. The crowd scattered back with muffled shrieks.
Garth wasn’t afraid. He was furious. In fact, if he’d had that sword in his hand, he was sure he could best a whole army of knights, so angry was he.
But he didn’t. And it would do Cynthia no good to spill his blood across the rushes. Then she would be left without a champion. Nay, he’d use his wits, not the blade.
