Blythe Gifford - The Knave and the Maiden

The Savior grabbed her arm. “He’s a terrier. You can’t run after him every time every time he runs after a rabbit.” A smile tugged at The Savior’s lips.

“He’ll get lost! He’s never been outside the convent before.” She did not even know where she was. How would Innocent find his way back? Less than a day away from home and the world suddenly seemed a frightening place.

Innocent’s bark faded.

The Widow called from behind her, laughing. “Tell him to bring back our dinner.”

“But he likes turnips,” she cried, thinking how many times she had pulled his dirt-covered nose out of her garden. She bit her lip. What if he didn’t come back? “Where will he find turnips if he runs away?”

The Savior’s fingers still curled around her wrist, warm on her skin. “Let him enjoy the chase.”

“What if he never comes back? How will he take care of himself?” She wished Sister would come back. Sister would understand.

“Any dog missing one ear has seen something of life,” he answered, not letting go of her arm. Her skin pulsed beneath his fingers.

His other ear made up for it, she thought. It stood up like a perky little unicorn’s horn and then flopped over at the top, bouncing when he chased his tail as she had taught him. Using turnips. And if he never came back she didn’t know how she would bear it.

She poured out the story to Sister, as The Savior lifted her back on the horse. “God will guide him back to us, if it is meant to be. Have you prayed?”

Dominica shook her head, ashamed she had not, but not at all certain that God had time to look for lost dogs.

Sneering at Dominica as he strode past her, the squire faced The Savior, chest to chest, close enough to prove he was a fighting man, too. Perhaps he feels he has something to prove, she thought, for he was beautiful as a blond, painted angel. “Sir Garren, let’s go. We’re not going to stay here waiting for a dog, are we?”

Sir Garren, though it was hard to think of him that way, smiled with the patience he seemed to show everyone but her. “We are going to stay here until I say it’s time to leave.” There was steel in his voice. Enough to remind Simon, to remind all of them, that he was the leader and accustomed to command. “Why don’t you check the woods to make sure we are all here, young Simon?”

The young squire’s ears turned red, but he stalked off into the woods.

Before Simon returned, Innocent, pink tongue panting between shaggy black whiskers, poked his nose out from the young wheat. Trotting back to her, he started to chase his tail, as if to cajole her forgiveness. Dominica snatched him up, squeezing him tight, comforted by the heaving bellows of his warm little chest against hers. “Bad dog.”

Sister scratched behind his good ear.

“Don’t reward him for running away! Next time he might not come back.”

“You see, Dominica. You must have faith in God.”

Or in The Savior, she thought to herself, who had delayed their departure long enough for Innocent to come back.

Dominica thrust the limp black bundle up to Sister. “Here. Carry him on the horse so he won’t run away again.”

Sister looked at The Savior for approval. “The horse may not like dogs, my child.”

“Roucoud is remarkably tolerant,” he said. A smile seemed to be hovering around his lips.

“He can’t ride horseback all the way to Cornwall,” Sister said, but she settled the dog in front of her. Exhausted, Innocent flopped over the saddle as the group resumed its walk.

Threats lurked everywhere, Dominica thought, striding ahead as if she might out-walk her worries. She knew the journey would have dangers, wild boars or even dragons but she never expected to lose Innocent.

The Savior caught up with her, shortening his stride to walk beside her. “Don’t worry about the dog.” Amusement gilded his voice. “Judging by that missing ear, he wasn’t raised in a convent. He had quite a life before he came to you.”

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. The more she saw him, the harder it was to picture him with wings. “So did you.”

He didn’t frown, exactly, but his face changed as if he had dropped a cloak over it. “Any soldier has.”

He was much more than a simple fighting man, but talk of his special relationship with God seemed to annoy him. “Have you see much of the world?”

“Enough.” He used words as sparingly as a monk.

“Tell me of God’s world.”

“You’ve never left the convent?”

“Only to go to the castle.” Trips she wanted to forget. At least the encounters with Sir Richard. “Is it true there are dragons at the edge of the sea?”

“I have only been as far as France. And the Widow Cropton has described the countryside in more detail than I ever could.” Amusement softened the lines etched in his face. Unlike the stern saints in the portraits, he seemed to tolerate human frailties. Except hers. “But let us enjoy today. War is no subject for a summer’s day stroll with a lovely lady.”

She studied his eyes to see if he made fun of her, but they were warm and no longer angry. She was no lady, but the word made her stand a little straighter and she lifted the hair that hung down in front of her and flipped it over her shoulder, wondering if that was the sin of vanity.

“What is a subject for a stroll with a lady?” she asked. “Talking is not allowed in the Priory.” And when she did talk, the Prioress always scolded her. When she wrote, she could ponder every word.

“The beauty of the day.” His voice turned husky. “The beauty of her eyes.”

Startled, she turned. His eyes, gazing into hers, were deep green, the dark lashes were straight and thick. And she felt as if he had reached inside of her and touched something around her heart. Or her stomach.

Some instinct kept her feet moving as she looked down at the footworn path. “The Prioress calls them Devil’s eyes.”

He muttered something she could not hear. “No chivalrous knight would do so. He would compare them to the brilliant blue of a predawn sky.”

“Yours are more like green leaves with the brown tree bark showing through.”

His laughter stung like a slap. She had said something wrong again.

“That is not the expected response,” he said, smiling.

Well, at least she had not made him angry again. “Why not? You said something about my eyes. Shouldn’t I say something about yours?”

“No. You should sigh and blush.”

She did both. “I’ve never talked to a man for very long.” “I don’t know all the rules. It seems very confusing.”

He squinted toward the sun. “The world is a confusing place.”

“Which is why I belong at the Priory. Perhaps talk of the Lord would please you,” she said, hopeful.

“Nothing would please me less.”

At least the Priory’s rule of silence prevented awkward situations such as this one. Perhaps he would want to talk about his home and family. “Where did you grow up?”

His look was sharp. “It doesn’t matter.”

Heat flushed her cheeks again, but instead of the sun or a blush, she felt the sin of anger. “Did I say something wrong again? You wanted to talk. Sighing and blushing do not lead to lengthy discourse.”

His glance, hot and brief, burned her cheeks. “Discourse is not why we talk.”

His meaning was as unfamiliar as Latin used to be. She did not belong here. She longed for the familiar routine, where she knew what to do every minute of the day. There was never any doubt about what words to chant to God. “My presence displeases you. I shall withdraw. Again, I thank you for your kindness to Sister Marian.”

She turned her back on him and walked the late afternoon hours beside the Widow Cropton, who did not expect her to talk. By supper, she had heard the widow recount her journey from Calais to Paris on her way to Compostela.