The Knave And The Maiden

“Neeca,” she said, swallowing.

His brows crunched. “Why did you write that?”

A lump lodged in her throat and she shook her head, neither able nor willing to speak.

He put his hand on her chin and forced her eyes to his. “Why, Neeca?”

Unable to add lying to her list of sins, she told him. “Because you called me that.”

“It was so important?”

She pursed her lips and nodded, braving his eyes. He looked at the parchment again, following the words with his finger, hovering over the last few. “And what did you write of last night, Neeca?”

She bit her lip. He was too close, too close to knowing how important he had become.

He cupped her head in his hand and tilted up her chin to force her to meet his eyes. Even her lips quivered, wanting to feel his again….

The Knave and the Maiden

Blythe Gifford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Don and to Daddy I wish you were here to enjoy it.

Thanks to Julie Beard, Michelle Hoppe, Lindsay Longford, Margaret Watson, Pat White and all the members of Chicago-North RWA.

Without you, I would not be here.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter One

Readington Castle, England, June 1357

“God brought me back from the dead, Garren,” William said. “You were His instrument.”

Garren looked at his friend, lying in his bed with the hollow cheeks of a corpse, and suppressed a snort. When William, Earl of Readington, sprawled among the scattered bodies on the battlefield at Poitiers, God had not lifted a finger.

Now, watching the candlelight waver in benediction over William’s pale face, Garren wondered whether he should have, either. Death in the French dirt might have been kinder.

But Garren would fight God for William’s life as long as he could.

“You were the only one,” William said. “The others left me for dead.”

Or left him for live French prisoners they could ransom.

But William was not dead, although there had been days Garren was not certain the Earl lived. As the victorious troops traipsed across France and finally sailed back to England, William existed in an earthly purgatory, alive because Garren forced water and gruel and prechewed meat between his teeth. “I was just too stubborn to leave you.”

“More than that.” Between each word, William gasped for a breath. “You carried me. On your back.”

“You and your armor.” Garren smiled, tight-lipped, swinging a mock blow to William’s shoulder. “Don’t forget the armor.”

Readington’s family had rejoiced more over the return of the armor than its wearer. While the rest of the English knights carried home booty, Garren carried only William. Carried William and left behind the wealth that had been the promise of the French campaign.

It had all seemed worthwhile as William gained strength. But in the weeks since his homecoming, the retching had started. Some days were better, some worse. Now he lay on a deathbed curtained in red velvet, high in a tower overlooking a countryside of damp, fertile earth he would never ride again. His hands curled into useless claws. He ran red or brown all day from one end or the other. Servants changed the bed linens, a futile task, but a sign of respect. There was little else they could do.

At least, Garren thought, William could die in his own bed.

“One…more…thing I must ask.” His cold fingers clutched Garren’s with the strength of death.

I gave you life, what more can I do? Garren thought, but as he looked at William, just past thirty and unable to rise from his bed, he was uncertain whether life had been such a valuable gift.

“Go on the pilgrimage for me.”

Pilgrimage. A prepayment to a God who never delivered as promised. A journey to a tomb that sheltered the bones of a woman and the feathers of an angel. “William, if God has not yet cured you, I doubt the Blessed Larina will.”

“I will pay you.”

Garren snatched his hand away. He had given up virtually everything for William, gladly. All he had left was his pride. “You can find fools aplenty to be your palmer on the journey.”

Pain wrinkled William’s face. His left arm cradled his stomach, trying to hold back the next bout of retching. “Not…trust.”

Garren mumbled something meant to be soothing, neither yes nor no. He cradled William’s bony hand in his large, square ones. How far they had come together since William had taken him on, a seventeen-year-old no one else wanted, much too old to start training as a squire. Everything he was he owed to this man.

William clung to Garren’s arm, pulling himself up, half sitting. Only five years older than Garren, he looked as if he had lived four score years. After a glance around the chamber as if to reassure himself they were alone, William reached beneath his pillow and pulled out a folded parchment, no bigger than his hand. Red wax, indented with the Readington crest, doubly sealed the thin thread that pierced the layers. “For the monk. At the shrine.”

Taking the message from William’s shaking fingers, Garren wondered how he had managed to hold a quill to write.

William’s voice quavered, too. “The seal must be unbroken.”

Garren smiled, silent. Even in the monastery, he had been a poor reader.

William shook his arm, forcing his attention. Forcing an answer. “Please. There is no one else.”

Garren looked into his friend’s eyes, eyes that had seen so much by his side, and knew that for as many weeks as William drew breath, he would say yes.

He nodded, clearing his throat. “But I don’t want your money.” This journey should be a gift.

William rolled his head no, leaving a new chunk of blond hair on the linen under his head. William knew his funds would take him no farther than the next battle. A weak smile curved his pale lips. “Take it. Buy me a lead feather.”

A leaden pilgrim’s badge. Proof of the journey. A token to flaunt his faith. Garren gripped William’s fingers. “I’ll bring something better. Since you can’t travel to the shrine, I’ll bring the shrine to you. I’ll bring you a real feather.” Somehow it seemed appropriate, to violate a shrine to comfort a man with faith. At least you could see a feather. Hold it. Touch it. Not like the false promises of the Church.

Skin already pale, blanched. “Sacrilege.”

A chill skittered up Garren’s back. Stealing a relic. Violating a shrine. God would punish him. He nearly laughed at the thought, a residue of training over experience. Garren had seen the puny extent of God’s mercy. God’s punishment could scarcely be harsher. “Don’t worry. No one will miss a small one.”

Still shaking his head, William closed his eyes and slipped into the near-death sleep that was his life.

The door opened without a knock and the lilting voice of William’s younger brother Richard grated on Garren’s ears. Richard, who would not go on pilgrimage for his brother for love nor money. “Does he still breathe?”

“You seem eager to hear me say ‘no.’”

“It is just that this state can scarcely be called living, don’t you agree?”

Garren did, but not for Richard’s reasons. “Perhaps. But as long as he breathes, he is the Earl of Readington.” Richard, however, need only wait. He would be Earl soon enough.

“What is that?” Richard reached for the folded parchment as if he had the right.

Garren shrugged and slipped it into his tunic. It nestled stiffly below his ribs. “It must be a petition to the saint.” Now that he had said yes, he dreaded the journey. Not the days of walking, but the company of all those trusting pilgrims who believed an invisible God would answer their prayers if they only paid His price. Garren knew better. “He asked me to go to the shrine and pray for his recovery.”

Richard snickered. “By the time you arrive, you will be praying for his soul.”

And by the time I return, Garren thought, I’ll be praying for my own.

Kneeling before her private crucifix, the Prioress turned from contemplating the chipped paint on Christ’s left hand as the girl strode into her office, barely bending her knee in greeting.

The Prioress rose with creaking knees, wondering why she had granted this audience, and settled into her own chair. Dominica was a slip of a girl who knew no better than to be grateful that the Priory had taken her in and raised her and given her useful work to do, the cleaning and the laundry and the cooking for the few who remained.

The Death had taken its toll. There were too few serfs to plant the crops or to harvest what grew. Christian charity followed a full stomach. Of course, Lord Richard could have made it easier.

Without asking permission to speak, the girl interrupted her thoughts. “Mother Julian, I want to accompany Sister Marian to the shrine of the Blessed Larina.”

The Prioress shook her head to clear her ears. The request was so outrageous she thought she had misheard. No please. No begging. Just those piercing blue eyes, demanding. “What did you say, Dominica?”

“I want to go on the pilgrimage. And when I return, I will take my vows as a novice.”

“You want to join the order?” This was what came of raising the girl above the state in life that God had intended for her. She should have given the foundling to the collier’s wife when she had the chance. “You have no dowry.”

“A dowry is not required,” the girl said, as if reciting the text on preaching. “Faith is required.”

The Prioress bit her tongue. She was not going to argue theology with an orphan. It took more than faith to feed and clothe twenty women. “You cannot take the veil.”

“Why not?” The girl lifted her chin as if she had the right to disagree. “I can copy the Latin manuscripts as well as Sister Marian.”

Our Lord preached forgiveness, she reminded herself, trying to soften her tone of voice. “What makes you think you have a calling, Dominica?”

The girl’s blue eyes burned with the fervor of a saint—or a madwoman. “God told me.”

“God does not speak to abandoned foundlings.” The Prioress clenched her fingers in prayer until her knuckles turned white and her fingertips red. This was all her fault. She had let the girl sit with them at meals and listen to the Scripture readings. Likely the chit flattered herself that she understood God’s will because she had heard God’s words. “God speaks through His servants in the church. God has said nothing to me about your joining the order.”

“But Mother Julian, I know I am meant to spread His word.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “I want to copy the texts into the common tongue, so the people can truly understand them.”

The Prioress beat prayerful fingers against her lips. Heresy. I have a heretic living under my roof. If the Readingtons find out, I will never see another farthing from them. I should never have let her learn her letters.

The girl was still speaking. “I belong here. I know it. And after I reach the shrine, you will know too because God will give me a sign.” Dominica’s face beamed with the kind of faith the Prioress had neither seen nor felt in many years. “Sister Marian will be my witness.”

Sister Marian had always spoiled the girl. “Who will pay for this journey? For your cloak, your food? Who will do your work while you are gone?”

“Sisters Catherine and Barbara and Margaret have said they will bear my load. And Sister Marian said she will pay for my food from her dowry.” She looked defiant. “I won’t eat much.”

“Sister Marian’s dowry belongs to the Priory now.” The Prioress cradled her throbbing head in her hands. What had become of obedience? This was what came of allowing the Sisters to keep lapdogs.

“Please, Mother Julian.” The girl fell to her knees, finally humbled. She tugged at the Prioress’s black habit with ink-stained fingers, nails bitten so close that the garden dirt had nowhere to cling. “I must make this journey.”

Shocked, the Prioress looked into her eyes again. They burned with faith. Or fear.

Suddenly, she could see where this could lead. The girl would never return once she discovered life beyond the walls. She had a shape most would envy, those who were not looking for a cloistered life. If only she’d tumble for the first man who flattered her. She’d come back with a swollen belly and there would be no question of her taking the veil.

Mother Julian sighed. Maybe not. The searing intensity in those blue eyes would be more than most lads would fancy. Well, let it be God’s will. Better she go and take her dangerous ideas with her before the Abbot or the Earl found out, although that would leave the problem of who would do the laundry and the weeding. They could hardly afford to pay a village lass.

“All right. Go. But speak no more of your heresy. If there is a hint of trouble on the journey, you will have no home here when you return, with or without a veil.”

Dominica raised her hands and her eyes to heaven. “Thank you, Heavenly Father.” She ducked her head and scampered out without asking permission to leave.

The Prioress shook her head. No thanks to me for my many kindnesses, she thought. Only to God. Well, God would have the care of her now.

Dominica’s breath burst from her body. Relief lifted her on her toes, almost floating her down the hall. The soft, sure feeling settled over her. God always answered her prayers, even if she had to help Him a little. What the Prioress and Sister Marian did not know about this journey would keep.

Sister Marian sat in the sunny cloister courtyard, teaching Innocent to sit up. Or trying to. Like Dominica, the shaggy black dog was a stray no one else wanted. Hard to love and hard to train.

“She said ‘yes,’ she said ‘yes.’” Dominica swirled Sister around until her black robes billowed. Innocent barked. “I’m going, I’m going.”

“Shhh, hush.” Sister tried to quiet both Dominica and the barking dog, who was running in a circle to catch his too-short tail. That was a trick Dominica had taught him.

“Good boy,” Dominica scratched him behind his one remaining ear. The other was missing. “Don’t worry, Sister.” Dominica hugged her. “Everything will work out. God has told me.”

Sister’s eyes widened and she glanced toward the corridor. “Don’t let Mother Julian hear you say God talks to you.”

Dominica shrugged. No use telling Sister that Mother Julian already knew. “It’s like the scripture says: Knock and it shall be open to you,” she said in Latin.

“And if she hears you spouting Latin, she will change her mind.”

“But if God is trying to speak to us, why shouldn’t we open our ears to hear?”

“Just be sure you aren’t putting your words on God’s lips.”

Dominica sighed. God had given her ears, eyes, and a brain. Surely He expected her to use them. “Anyway, we’re going and when we come back, I shall take my vows.”

Sister sat and gathered Dominica’s fingers in hers. Dominica loved the feel of Sister’s hands. Soft, for they did not have to wash or weed, the fingers of her right hand were set stiffly, permanently, in position to hold the quill. As a child, Dominica had envied Sister the writer’s bump on her middle finger, rubbing her own each day, hoping it would grow.

“Just remember, my child, when God answers our prayers, He may not give us the answer we want.”

“How could there be another answer? My whole life is here.” She loved the ordered, predictable days, the quiet of the chapel, where she could hear the hushed voice of God, the brilliant red, blue and gold ink that illuminated His words. All she ever wanted was to finally, fully belong. To be embraced as a Sister. “I can read better than Sister Margaret and copy better than anyone but you.”

Sister sighed. “You are pushing again, Dominica. There is no guarantee that God will grant you what you seek.”

“Oh, God I am sure of. It is the Prioress who worries me.”

Sister raised her hands in submission. “When you have lived longer, you will be less sure of God. Come, let us gather our things.” She rose, slowly. Her hips were as accustomed to the writing bench as her hands. “We must be ready to leave tomorrow.”

And when they returned, Dominica thought, the message would be safe in the right hands and she would never need to leave her home again.

All that was required was faith. And action.

“We need money, your Lordship.” The Prioress forced her neck to bend in supplication. Humility before Lord Richard did not come easily.

She had trapped him into hearing her petition, approaching after the midday meal, when the Great Hall was still crowded with watching knights, squires and servants so he could not refuse. But the hall was empty now of everything but the smell of boiled mutton. Her stomach growled.

“Why do you want money, Prioress?” Richard asked. Narrow of shoulder and of nose, he slouched in his chair and picked at his ear, then flipped the wax from under his nail. “I thought nuns had no need of worldly things.”

She wondered if he showed such disrespect for all his petitioners. The donation she requested would be no hardship. “Food, ink and funds for the annual pilgrimage, your Lordship.”

“Times are difficult.” Legs crossed, he swung his foot back and forth, studying it intently.

“Your father was a great patron of our work at the Priory,” she reminded him. The old Earl’s tapestries still cloaked Readington’s Great Hall, though since his death, the place seemed colder. She never felt his loss more than when she looked at this dark-haired, sallow-skinned second son. “He promised to support our work of copying the word of God.”

“My father is dead.”

“Which is why I come to you.”

“As you know, it is my brother you must petition. And it is impossible for me to allow that now.”

“We pray for him daily. Does his health improve, your lordship?”

Lord Richard tried to smother his smile with a grave expression. “Well, Prioress, perhaps you had better hurry to finish his Death Book. But, there is always hope.” He snickered. “The mercenary plays palmer for him on the pilgrimage.”

She crossed herself. “The knight who brought your brother back from the dead?” The entire village knew the tale. She had even heard blasphemous talk of him as The Savior.

Lord Richard flopped back in his chair with a pout. “If you believe his account. A man who fights for coin instead of for fealty can scarcely be trusted.”

A curious criticism, she thought, since Lord Richard had managed to avoid fighting in France at all. “A landless knight must do what he can. God works in mysterious ways.”

His lips curved. “Doesn’t He? Well, perhaps your prayers and the mercenary’s visit will soften Saint Larina’s heart to cure the lingering effects of my brother’s wounds.” Boredom saturated his voice. “Who goes to fulfill the perpetual vow this year?”

“Sister Marian.” She hesitated for a moment. “And Dominica.”

Lord Richard uncurled himself, spine straight, feet flat on the floor, and met her eyes for the first time. “The little scribe? Is she old enough to travel?”

Did everyone know the girl could write? Pray God she had said nothing to him about her heretical ideas. “In her seventeenth year, my lord.”

His nose twitched as a weasel’s might. “And still a virgin?”

The Prioress drew herself to her full height. “Do you have so low an opinion of my stewardship?”

“I’ll take that for a ‘yes.’ What does she seek on this pilgrimage?”

Clasping her hands, she considered his curiosity. Perhaps she could use it. “She wants to join the order and she seeks a sign that God approves.”

“Because you do not?”

She assessed him for a moment. There might be a reason to tell him the truth. “No. I do not.”

“Then we have something in common. I have another interest. In the mercenary,” he said. His dark eyes glowed. “My brother’s gratitude seems to extend to perpetual support, as if this Garren were a saint. I would have him see what kind of knave the man really is.”

She already knew what kind of a knave Lord Richard was. No doubt his brother did, as well. The Prioress waited for his proposition. She did not think it would be a pleasant one.

“Offer this Garren money if he will seduce the little virgin. He seems to do anything for a bit of coin. And when she accuses him, we shall each have something we want.”

“Milord, I cannot—”

“You don’t want her to be a nun. Neither do I. And once Garren is disgraced, William will have to throw him out.” He paused, smiling. “If he lives that long. If not, then I’ll be the righteous one. And then I’ll have a few personal tasks for the girl.” His smirk left no doubt that those tasks would take place in the bedchamber. “Don’t worry. She may still do laundry for you, Prioress, in her idle hours.”

“Milord, how can you ask such a thing?” And how could she consider it? Because she was responsible for twenty lives besides Dominica’s. Lives already pledged to God. And when the Earl died, the fate of those lives would rest in Lord Richard’s hands.

“If you do, I might be able to give you the support you need. And a generous incentive to the mercenary for his sin.”

No hint of trouble, she had told the girl. This scheme would assure she never took the vows. Of course, hadn’t she herself wondered, nay, hoped for just such a thing? Perhaps God was answering her unspoken prayers. “And I’m sure your remembrance of the Priory will be generous.”

He laughed, a chittering sound that rattled on the roof of his mouth. “Well, that all depends on how successful you and the Blessed Larina, are, doesn’t it?”

The girl had the Devil’s own eyes. Maybe this was the fate God had meant for her. And the mercenary? He and God could wrestle for his soul.

“I promise nothing,” she said, cautiously. “I can but prepare the table.” And pray for forgiveness.

“I promise nothing, either.” He squinted at her. “Prepare it well.”

Garren, though he had given up God as a lost cause, was still shocked when a nun asked him to violate a virgin.

“Dominica is her name,” the Prioress said, settled in her shabby chamber as if it were a throne room. “Do you know her?”

Speechless, he shook his head.

“Come.” The Prioress beckoned him to the window overlooking the garden. “See for yourself.”

The girl knelt in the dirt, facing away from him. Her hair lay like poured honey in a thick braid down her back. She hummed over her plants, a soothing sound, like the drone of a drowsy bee.