The Knave and the Maiden

Chapter Four

The Savior. You.

Garren stifled a laugh. The world even played jokes on God.

Morning sunlight polished ten expectant faces awaiting his answer. He could pick them out now, one by one. The little nun. The Gemini couple, holding hands. The merchant’s wife, a well-rounded woman with a well-used look. The brothers. The scar-faced man, scowling. A squire too young to earn his spurs. A tall, thin man the wind would blow over.

Dominica, lips parted, face glowing with faith.

In him.

Not one of them could wield a sword against thieves or find food in the forest. Not one knew how to survive.

He knew. France had taught him.

“I will lead you,” he said, “because I can get you there safely.” And bring you back quickly enough to see William one more time, he thought. “Not because I’m anyone’s Savior.”

“Savior? Who’ve ye saved?” the scar-faced man growled. There, at least, was one man who did not hold him in awe. White hair, coarse as straw, framed his battered face. He could have lived one score of years or three, but whatever the number, they had been hard ones. “No man can save me. Not even God can save me.” He stomped away.

Unease rippled through the pilgrims like wind through hay grass ready for cutting.

“What’s that?” The plump woman turned one ear toward him. “Say again? This is my deaf ear,” she said, loud enough to hear herself, patting her right ear. “And this one works,” she said, pointing to her left. “Speak up. Has anyone traveled this way before? When I went to the shrine of Saint James in Compostela, we had a new guide and we were lost in the Pyrenees for a week before we could get to Spain and nearly…”

As she rambled on, his shell pressed more heavily against his chest. He wondered whether God and Saint James had answered her prayers.

Dominica touched the woman’s arm to get her attention without shouting. “Sister Marian has been to the shrine of the Blessed Larina. More than once.”

The little nun plucked Dominica’s sleeve. “Neeca, please…”

Neeca. They called her Neeca. Garren said it silently, his tongue tickling the roof of his mouth.

The merchant’s wife, broad as two of the Sister, looked the little nun up and down. “More than once, has she? Then maybe the Sister should lead us instead of this Savior fellow.”

Garren let himself join the laughter that washed away the scar-faced man’s anger.

The merchant’s wife, still laughing, strolled over to him, the Compostela shell around her neck clanking against the gold cross and the pewter badge of St. Thomas Becket sitting sideways on a horse. She kneaded his arm muscles, as if she were sizing up a horse.

Dominica’s gasp at the disrespect amused him.

“You look like a trustworthy sort,” the woman said. “Broad shoulders. Strong arms. Fought at Poitiers?”

The word smelled like French dirt. He clenched his fist. “Yes.”

“A great victory. And you brought the Earl of Readington back to life.” She nodded her approval. “If God is watching so carefully over you, He will take care of us.”

God, he thought, shaking off her fingers, had nothing to do with it. “I’m a soldier, not a saint. Your souls are your own affair.” The muscle between his shoulder blades ached, as if he had hoisted a heavy sword along with the responsibility for their safety. “Pick up your food. Say your farewells. We leave within the hour.”

Except for Dominica and the Sister, they scattered like cooing pigeons. This Savior business was all the girl’s doing, he thought, and he was going to end it now. “Dominica,” he began.

She backed away from his frown. “I’ll get your food, Sister,” she called over her shoulder, running toward the kitchen, the shaggy black dog waddling at her heels.

The little nun spoke. “Her faith is an unwelcome burden to you, I think.”

He studied her for a moment. Her handed-down habit was long and full, giving the tiny woman the look of a child wearing her mother’s gown. Weariness tugged at her pale blue eyes. Sister Marian wants the girl to fulfill her vow, the Prioress said. He wondered if it were true.

“Thank you,” she continued, “for agreeing to lead us. This is not easy for you.”

He shuddered as if a spirit had spoken. He did not want her to think he sought the mantle. He was here for William, not for God or aggrandizement. “I am not what they think I am, Sister.”

“None of us is, my child.” No one had called him child in a long time. “Only God truly knows us.”

“Then God knows I am an impostor,” he said, with bravado he did not feel. “A fake. A fraud. I am a palmer, Sister,” he said, loudly, as if he were proud of it. “I’ll be paid for this journey.”

And for other things he did not want to share.

“Many pilgrims walk with secrets,” she said, as if she had heard all he had not said. Her melodic voice demanded no confession. “God loves us anyway, no matter what our secrets.”

He searched her face for a hidden meaning. No, this woman did not know what the Prioress had planned for her precious Neeca. “You have spent your life far from worldly temptations. What secrets can you have, Sister?”

“The ones God has helped me keep.”

He wondered why she told him this and he felt a twinge of envy for the certainty of her faith, a faith that had been forged not through reading the ritual, but in a pact between her heart and God’s. God had kept his promises to Sister Marian. So far.

If the Churchmen he had known had been so holy, he would still be in the cloister. And he would be content to leave Dominica there.

“You called her Neeca,” he said, beating back the guilt for what he would do.

Her pale skin turned paler, as if he had startled, or scared her. “What did you say?”

“I was speaking of something new. You called the girl Neeca. Why?”

A smile soothed the lines around her eyes. “I have known her since she was born. She called herself that when she was learning to talk.”

“Since she was born? I thought…” He stopped. No need to tell her he had spoken with the Prioress.

“Did I say born? I meant since God left her in our care.” Too short to reach his shoulder, she tapped his arm with gentle fingers. “And now she will be in yours.”

He wanted no more reminders of his betrayal. “So you have made this journey before, Sister.”

“Three times. I went the year of the Death to pray for all the souls in the Earl’s care. Only the Sister who traveled with me and the Earl himself died.” Her eyes still carried the shadow of that Death. “The Saint protected the rest of us. Now, we send someone every year to thank her. I went again the first year of Pope Innocent’s reign.”

“And the third time?”

She looked away from him and across the courtyard toward the kitchen. “Years before.” Picking up her staff, she leaned stiffly, into her first step. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must gather my things.”

He watched her, feeling the pain of each footfall. She might have made the journey before, but she had been younger then. “Sister, I would ask a favor.”

“Of me? What is it, my child?”

“I know you would prefer to walk the journey with the rest of us, but…” But what? What excuse could he find to spare her the aching steps? “…but my horse Roucoud is accustomed to a weight on his back. It will be hard for him to walk empty.” No need to tell her she was so small the warhorse would barely know she was there. “Besides, you have traveled the route before. If you rode, you could watch the road and help guide us.”

“Bless you, sir, for your kindness.” A dimple creased her cheek. “It is troublesome, is it not, to have a horse that needs weight on his back when you are weary of riding? I was just praying for God’s help on this journey and there you are.”

“Do not confuse my help and God’s, Sister. They are two entirely different things.” She would discover that later, he thought, to her regret.

“Sometimes God’s help comes from where you least expect it.”

And so does God’s punishment, he thought.

With Innocent at her heels, Dominica fled to the dark, smoky kitchen. Rabbits, wood pigeons and a fat goose, more meat than Dominica had ever seen, swung from the rafters. The smell of drying blood mixed with fresh-baked bread. Scullions scampered in and out, jumping at the cook’s shouts as quickly as she had jumped to escape The Savior’s anger.

He had frowned like Moses, as if he knew she had told the nice young man and his wife that he raised Lord William from death. Well, what if she had? If I had done something so wonderful, she thought, I would want everyone to know. Of course, as the Prioress always told her, Pride goeth before destruction. It was one of Mother Julian’s favorite Proverbs.

“Stand in line! Give me a minute!” the cook yelled. A young scullion boy ran in and added a loaf of yesterday’s bread to the odd collection of cheese and dirt-covered vegetables strewn atop the wooden table. The cook, muttering, was trying to divide them into eleven equal pouches. “I wish the Earl’s piety came with a day’s notice.”

Standing patiently at the end of the line next to the deaf woman, Dominica stifled covetous envy of her finely woven cloak. The woman ducked her head and smiled up through her eyelashes at the tall, thin man on her other side.

He smiled back, bending from his hips with a bounce.

Dropping her gaze, afraid to be caught staring, Dominica blinked at the sight of red hose hugging the woman’s ample ankles. Despite her bosom full of badges, this worldly woman looked nothing like a pilgrim. Could she be a repentant prostitute?

“The food is important,” the tall man said. “Good for balancing the humors.”

The woman cupped her hand around her good left ear. “Oh, you are a physician, good sir?”

“I am James Arderne,” the tall man said, folding his entire body into a bow. “I am a physician from near St. John’s.”

“Ah, well, we shall be glad of your company on the road.”

“Where is your home, Goodwife?” the Physician said.

“Bath,” she answered. “And it is Good Widow. Agnes Cropton.” The red-hosed widow wiggled her fingers in a wave as the physician bowed a farewell.

Widow. Judge not, Dominica reminded herself, repenting her wicked thoughts of the pious widow, that ye be not judged. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Which one?”

“Your husband who died. Oh, pardon, and for the loss of your hearing, as well.” Dominica sighed, longing for the silence of the convent. It was easier to talk to God than to strangers.

“I meant which husband.” The woman popped a piece of cheese in her mouth when the cook’s back was turned. “As for my hearing, it was my worthless second husband who made me deaf. Beat me about the head and shoulders one too many times. God struck him dead,” she said nodding emphatically. “But that was many years ago.”

“Next! Come along!” the cook yelled.

Dominica jumped.

The Widow’s words flowed on. “I’m glad we have a physician with us. Some terrible illness can strike on the road. When I was in…”

Cook jerked the Widow’s sleeve. “I said ‘come.’ Are you deaf?”

“Yes, I am,” the woman answered, raising her head and her eyebrows. “God keep you for your concern.”

Cook threw the packet of food at her, snarling. “And keep that dog away from the table!” he yelled at Dominica. “Look, he already ate a piece of cheese! I’m not feeding animals, too.”

The Widow winked.

Even stretched on his stubby legs, Innocent couldn’t reach the table, but she scooped him up with her left arm and took the last three parcels of food with her right. “For Sister Marian and The Savior,” she called back to the scowling cook as she walked out of the kitchen beside Widow Cropton. “Today, I wouldn’t mind having one deaf ear,” Dominica moaned.

“Well, it can be handy when I don’t want to be bored. What’s your name, dearie? Where are you from?”

“Dominica.” Squinting in the sunlight, she scanned the courtyard for Sister and The Savior as she set Innocent down. “I live at the Priory.”

“You don’t look like a nun.”

“I’m not yet. But I will be.” The very words made her smile.

The Widow harrumphed. “Not looking like you do.”

Dominica’s hand flew to her face, pressed her cheeks, touched her forehead, slid down her nose, tugged her ears. The Prioress said her eyes were frightening. Was there more? Was she deformed? “What’s wrong? We have no mirrors at the Priory.”

“Nothing when you smile.” She pinched Dominica’s cheek. “Smile more, girl. Show that dimple. Don’t worry. You’ll catch a husband.”

“But I don’t want a husband. I want to be a nun.”

Widow Cropton shook her head, as if she neither believed nor approved. “That’s a last resort, dearie. Pretty girl like you won’t need to waste away in a nunnery.”

It is not a waste to spread God’s word, she thought, but decided it was not her place to explain God’s plan to Widow Cropton. “Do you go on pilgrimage to ask the Blessed Larina to let you hear again?” she said instead.

The Widow snorted. “Well, I suppose.” She patted the badges on her ample bosom. “Although Saint James and Saint Thomas did no good. Perhaps a good woman saint can help.”

“So you’ve been on pilgrimage before?” She spotted The Savior and Sister, standing next to his big bay horse.

“Five times.” She laughed, heartily. “Once after each husband.”

“Five?” She turned back to the Widow in shock. “What happened to them?”

“Oh, they all died. They were much older than I, then.” She stroked her chin and neck, where the skin was losing its grip before disappearing into the folds of her wimple. “Men are such weak creatures, my dear. If they don’t get killed in battle they get smallpox or fall off a horse or drown in the river.” She shook her head.

Dominica was trying to listen, but she kept turning to watch Sir Garren. The Savior, she thought, did not look weak. Sleeves turned back to bare his sun-warmed arms, he hoisted a sack behind his horse’s saddle. The effort flexed muscles beneath his skin. In fact, he looked nothing like the thin, pale portraits of the saints on the Church walls. More like a strong, sheltering oak tree.

But the Widow obviously knew much more of men than she did. “So you are not married now?”

“No, or I wouldn’t be here. Or need to be. There’s more than one reason to visit the saints, dearie.” She winked. “Nothing ever happens in Bath, you know.”

“Nothing ever happens at the Priory either, but I wish I could stay there.” Safe with God and silence. “I’ve never been away before.”

“Oh, you have a treat ahead. You never know what each day on the road will bring, although if I had known this was such a backwater, I might have changed my mind. Everyone required to walk! Everyone still in gray cloaks! When I went to Saint James’s shrine in Compostela, Spain, I was carried by an ass every step of the way for nearly a year there and back and no one complained that I was not showing proper piety.”

Dominica nodded, watching Sister again, worried. They would be back before Saint Swithin’s Day, with luck, but Sister’s steps between the scriptorium and the chapel were slower than they once were and she had refused Dominica’s suggestion that she ride on the Priory’s extra ass.

“So,” the Widow said, loud enough to draw her back from her worries. “Well, this Savior fellow, what’s his name?”

“Sir Garren.”

“He reminds me of my fourth husband.” She patted Dominica’s arm. “He was my favorite. There’s much to be said for husbands, dearie, even the bad ones. Sometimes it is good to have a man to warm your bed and to whisper in your good ear.”

“But he’s The Savior!” The Widow’s words seemed blasphemous, but no more so than the feelings that stirred thinking about Sir Garren warming her bed. Dominica wanted to remind the Widow that she was going to be a nun and would have no need of men, but the Widow had noticed James Ardene across the courtyard and she lifted her hand to wave.

“Excuse me. I think I’ll ask the Physician if he brought any marjoram. I can tell you I’ll need a poultice for my swelling feet before we reach Exeter.”