Blythe Gifford - The Knave and the Maiden

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.”

Dominica turned to see Garren lifting Sister Marian onto the horse and tucking her into the high-backed saddle with a tenderness that reminded her of his care of Lord William.

She sighed, relieved that Sister would ride and wondering how he had persuaded her. But he was The Savior. Sister would listen to him.

She would thank him, even if she had to brave his frown. And her fears.

Standing next to the huge warhorse, Dominica stretched up to hand Sister her portion of food. Then, ducking her head to avoid meeting his eyes, she thrust the other bag at The Savior, who was tying supplies behind the saddle. She was not ready to say her speech of thanks. She needed to plan the words so she would not say the wrong thing.

As the sun reached its height, she and the rest of the chattering pilgrims followed The Savior across the Readington castle drawbridge and toward the west. Beside him, Sister swayed atop Roucoud, both her legs dangling to one side. Dominica walked on the other side of the huge warhorse, close to Sister, but hidden from The Savior. Innocent trotted at her feet, a safe distance from the horse’s hooves.

Between the castle and the Priory, the fields rolled yellow and green and familiar in every direction. West, beyond the Priory, each step carried her farther from all she had known. Widow Cropton’s drone tickled her ear, drowning out the lark’s song, as she described every detail of her past pilgrimages. By midafternoon, she had described the journey across the Channel to Calais. Dominica felt as if she, too, had traveled as far as France, for she no longer recognized the land around them.

Her thighs already ached and she envied Roucoud’s muscles, bunching and flexing beneath his reddish coat with every powerful step. She peeked around him. The Savior moved as powerfully as his horse, one step following another.

She silently mouthed several words of thanks she might say to him, wishing she could write them instead, but she had brought barely enough parchment to record the journey. Finally satisfied, she repeated them in rhythm with each step. She would not say them aloud until she could be alone with him and Sister could not hear. Sister never liked being fussed over.

Beneath her gray wool cloak, Dominica steamed like Cook’s baked bread by the time The Savior called a stop. When he lifted Sister Marian off Roucoud, Dominica saw damp stains under his arms. He’s hot, she thought, surprised. She had not expected a near saint to have a sinful body that sweated just as hers did.

She watched, surreptitiously, as he disappeared into the woods. He must have bodily needs, too. The shocking picture of The Savior relieving himself popped unbidden into her mind. More than the sun heated her cheeks and she held the wicked image a moment longer than she should have before begging God’s forgiveness.

After he returned and Sister went into the woods, Dominica walked over to him, ready to speak. She tilted her head back. She could meet many a man’s eye, but he was taller than the Abbot. Almost as tall as Lord William.

Taking a deep breath, she said the words she memorized. “Thank you for persuading Sister Marian to ride. In even this small way, you are a savior.”

“I am no one’s savior!” he said, through clenched teeth, glancing toward the other pilgrims. Only strong will, she thought, held back his shout. “Stop telling people I am.”

“But you saved Lord William!” She had practiced no more words, so the ones she had been told tumbled out. “At Poitiers, where our glorious Black Prince triumphed with God’s help.”

“Only if God created all Frenchmen cowards.” A scowl clung to his face like morning fog. She always seemed to make him angry.

“But it was a miracle!” She was sure that’s what she had been told about the glorious victory. “We were outnumbered, surrounded, and yet the French forces were scattered as if by an unseen hand.”

“I believe only in hands I can see.” He thrust his hands before her face. Large, square hands. Callused. And, she knew, oddly gentle. “These hands carried Readington home, not God’s.”

Dominica had pictured a white-gowned wraith, floating a few inches above the ground, stretching thin fingers toward Lord William, who simply rose and walked. This man hoisted Lord William over his shoulder like a sack of the Miller brothers’ flour.

“Carried him with God’s help.” Her hands made the sign of the cross. “Everyone knows that!”

He dropped his hands to his side, sighing with exasperation. “Everyone knows nothing. I did no more for him than he did for me.”

She blinked. “Lord William brought you back from the dead?” The Earl was strong and kind and God had certainly protected his people from the Death when many others were taken, but she had never heard rumors Lord William might bring them back to life. “I thought he gave you a horse.”

The man was silent, then, as if he had slipped into the past. “He gave me a new life.”

Wondering whether she should risk asking what he meant, she ignored Innocent’s bark until he ran in front of her, short legs churning, chasing a scampering rabbit across the road and into a field. The waving green wheat swallowed the rabbit, as well as Innocent’s plump, shaggy black haunches.

“Come back,” Dominica cried, lifting her skirts to run after him.