Page 96 of My Hero
“Chaplain!”
Garth looked up from the pile of timber he’d just split. The villagers still called him chaplain, though he kept his wooden cross inside his tunic and hadn’t delivered a sermon or spoken a prayer since the Abbot’s arrival.
It was Elspeth, and it was the first time he’d seen her on a horse. From the awkward gallop, it may have been the first time she’driddena horse. She bounced crazily in the saddle, her wimple flapping like a huge dove perched upon her head.
He brought the ax down one last time, wedging it into the thick oak stump, and then wiped callused hands on his nubby linen tunic. Stinging sweat dripped into his eye as he squinted toward the sun to watch the maidservant approach.
Every few days, Elspeth brought him news of Cynthia. It was the only way Garth kept from going mad, living here out of harm’s way in the leatherworker’s cottage. Even so, he suffered the anguish of hell, knowing Cynthia languished in a cold, dank dungeon.
He yearned to see her, to watch the babe,hisbabe, swell her belly. He craved her smell, her taste, her touch. He’d neither slept nor eaten properly for weeks, stretched to the limit upon the rack of waiting, and he’d distracted himself from that agony by strengthening his body for the battle to come. For hours on end, he split wood, drove oxen, built fences, practiced with a sword—anything to keep his mind off Cynthia’s ordeal.
Almost three months had passed since he’d penned the letter to his brother. Surely it had reached Holden by now. He’d sent three riders along to guarantee its delivery. Certainly the message—a cryptic invitation to Garth’s wedding requesting the full force of his army—would send Holden bolting for his steed. Any day now, his brother would gallop up to the walls of Wendeville with his entourage…his fierce, heavily armed entourage.
“Chaplain!” came El’s broken cry. “Chaplain!”
Garth frowned. Tears streamed down El’s florid cheeks as she reined the horse to a stumbling halt. Something must be wrong. Garth hurtled forward to help her down.
“Chaplain!” she sobbed. “You must come!”
He took her shoulders. “What’s happened?”
The poor maid could barely speak around her gasping and sobbing. “Your kin…are a half-day away.”
A sudden rush of sweet air filled Garth’s chest. He knew he could count on Holden. “But this isgoodnews, El!” He swooped her up and swung her around once.
But she shook her head and slapped at his arms till he put her down. “Nay,” she moaned, covering her face with her hands. “You don’t understand. The Abbot knows they’re coming. He’s not going to wait. He’s…he’s building a pyre.”
Garth’s heart stopped. “Now?”
She wailed.
Horror sucked the breath from Garth’s lungs.
“You have to save her,” Elspeth begged, clawing at his tunic. “You have to.”
Garth’s body took over while his mind reeled in shock. In one fluid movement, he mounted the horse and wheeled the steed about, giving Elspeth a grim, reassuring nod.
He hadn’t ridden at such a pace since he was a boy, but the skill came as readily to him now as the words of the Lord’s Prayer. Mile after mile, driven by the fuel of fury, man and horse chewed up the road, spitting out pebbles and dust behind them. Strangely, there was no sign of his brother’s knights and no time to wonder what had become of them. By the time Wendeville’s towers broke the horizon, the poor horse’s sides were heaving as it wheezed through its frothy mouth.
But the loyal palfrey galloped all the way up the long hill to the castle, past the barbican, and through the courtyard gate, stopping only when Garth tugged back on the reins to avoid the milling throng of humanity.
The courtyard overflowed with people—nobles, servants, peasants, merchants, and more scarlet-clad, mounted knights than he expected. Except for the merchants, who enthusiastically hawked their wares as if they’d gathered for a spring fair, a strange hush reigned over the crowd. Women talked behind their hands, and men shuffled their feet uncomfortably.
Was he too late? Was it over? Was she dead? His heart pounded against his chest. His eyes raced over the courtyard and lit on a single blackened pole pointing at the sky like an accusing finger. But the crowd was too thick with mounted knights to make out what lay at its base.
He pressed his mount forward, pushing between two quarreling boys, skirting by a pastry vendor, nudging aside a pushy wool merchant with a huge wagonload of fabric.
At last, he saw Cynthia. She was bound fast to the pole with heavy cord, her skin as pale as alabaster where it kissed the dark wood. The bones of her face stood prominent now, and her hair, dulled by filth, lay matted to her head, making her look frail and helpless. The cool October wind fluttered the edges of her grimy linen shift, causing her to shudder, and exposed in indecent relief the burgeoning swell of her belly.
Bitter rage filled his mouth, rage so deep he could find no words for it. He kicked his mount, intent on charging the scaffold and freeing Cynthia. But the horse was hemmed in. Someone clutched at Garth’s knee in the close quarters, but he ignored it, trying desperately to maneuver the steed forward. Now someone tugged insistently on his tunic, demanding his attention. He cursed and pulled hard on the reins, frustrated to madness. Standing in the stirrups, he swatted away the arm that continued to grab at him.
He’d considered dismounting altogether when someone made that decision for him, dragging him out of the saddle and onto the sod on his hindquarters. Shaking his dazed head, he prepared to give his attacker a tongue-lashing. But when he saw who towered over him in swirling burgundy velvet skirts, all he could manage was a stunned gasp.
“Do you want to save the lady or not?” the woman snapped, her eyes glittering.
Though her voice crackled with familiar sarcasm, he’d never heard sweeter words.
Despite the feast of fresh air, Cynthia could inhale only a thread of it between her compressed lips. Her betraying knees wobbled beneath her. It was only hunger, she tried to convince herself, and yet her belly roiled at the thought of food. It was the cold making her shiver, she insisted, though clammy sweat beaded her forehead. But it wasn’t fear. Never fear. After all, death had been a familiar companion. Death was nothing to fear. Death brought peace, an end to suffering.
