Blythe Gifford - The Knave and the Maiden

A red flush bloomed next to the white edge of the woman’s wimple. “The girl was not made for the veil. That should be evident. We had an agreement. Honor it.”

“Honor? A strange word, Prioress, for what you’ve asked.”

Her glance slid toward Richard. “God works in mysterious ways.”

“You seem eager to blame God for all the sins of man. I must take responsibility for my own.”

“Then do so. I trust the sum is persuasive enough.”

“It is.” He felt tainted at the words, but the sin could hardly be worse than what he had done for the King’s wages. He wondered again where she would get the money. And why it was worth so much to her. Another of God’s mysteries, no doubt.

Suddenly, he was anxious to leave, to get on with the journey, to breathe the wind, to do even this futile thing for William. He bowed to the Prioress and, without a word, strode out of the chapel into the sunny courtyard.

Dominica pointed to him. “There he is.”

His fellow travelers stared.

“Is he the one?”

“This is the man?”

One voice sounded like another. The faces looked at him expectantly, indistinguishable as a flock of dirty sheep.

Dominica nodded.

“We need a leader,” one curly haired young man said. Next to him, a woman, as like him as a Gemini twin, held his hand. “It should be The Savior.”

They paused, waiting for him to do something. He groaned. There would, of course, be piety required on a pilgrimage. “Yes,” he said, “I’m sure Our Lord Jesus will lead us every step of the way.” There. He had said the proper words in response.

“No,” the young man said. “The Savior. You.”

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.