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“Let us end with a prayer for Sir Garren’s success and Lord Readington’s recovery before I bless the staffs and distribute the testimoniales,” the Abbot said, quickly.
Garren walks for me, William had said. What would they think of him now?
Dominica smiled at him, but the rest looked awestruck, as if they really saw a man of God.
Everyone except the Prioress. And Richard.
Chapter Three
Dominica pressed her forehead against the altar rail, trying to concentrate on God instead of the Earl’s sudden appearance. Completing the ceremony, the Abbot kissed her staff and placed it, solid and balanced, in her outstretched hands. She pressed her lips against the raw wood, stripped of bark, then set it in front of her.
Next, the Abbot handed her the testimoniales, the scroll with the Bishop’s magic words that made her truly a pilgrim. Her fingers tingled as she slipped it into her bag, next to her own parchment and quill. Later, when no one could see, she would compare the copyist’s letters with her own.
Bowing her head into her hands, she searched for the voice of God inside her, trying to ignore The Savior on her left. She wondered if he was watching her. He was as solid as the staff in her hands. The kind of man you could lean on. She studied him through her fingers. Clutching his staff like a weapon, he looked like a man used to standing alone, not leaning on a staff. Nor a friend. Nor even God.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she brought her mind back to the reason for her journey.
Please God, give me a sign at the shrine that I am to keep my home in your service and help spread your word.
She wanted to add “in the common tongue,” but decided not to force that point with God just yet.
She opened her eyes and peeked through her fingers past Sister Marian on her right. A servant daubed sweat from the Earl’s forehead. God had spared him nearly ten years ago at the height of the Death and taken his father instead. She still remembered weeks of mourning when the old Earl died. Sister Marian’s eyes had been red for days. But God had spared the son. Surely God had sent The Savior to protect him again.
She added a prayer for the Earl who surely deserved God’s help. And hers.
The Abbot spoke his last amen and her fellow pilgrims rose, leaning on their staffs, and filed past the Earl on their way out of the chapel, giving thanks for his gift of food.
When Sister Marian stopped before him, he thanked her for her work on the Readington psalter, clutched in his white-spotted hand.
Sister brushed the thin, blond hair from his damp brow as if he were a child. Many were afraid to touch him now. They whispered “leprosy” when they saw the mottled black-and-pink-and-white spots on his skin.
Dominica quaked a little, too, when it was her turn to bend her knees before him. But he had been so nice to her as a child. Not like Richard.
He lifted a finger to his lips. “Remember. A secret.”
She pursed her lips, nodding, and looked for Lord Richard, still talking with Mother Julian and Abbot. Make sincere confession, the Abbot had said. Did keeping a secret require the same penance as a lie? She thought not. A lie had words. Words made it real.
As she moved on, The Savior knelt beside the Earl, clasping the dying man’s shoulder in a gesture that might have been called tender. Sir Garren will hurry, she thought, relieved. We’ll be there in time for The Blessed Larina to save him.
With Sister, Dominica circled back to the altar rail, kneeling for a final blessing from the Prioress. She wanted words that would keep her company until she was safe at home again. But instead of a kiss of peace, the Prioress hissed at her, too softly for anyone else to hear. “Remember, any hint of trouble and you will have no home with us.” Then, she turned her back, murmuring to Sister Marian in Latin.
Dominica gripped her staff. A knot in the wood scraped her palm. No home at the Priory meant she had no home at all.
Her own blessing complete, Sister Marian leaned on her staff and straightened her reluctant knees. She was not more than two score years, but copying had made her body old and chanting had kept her voice young.
Dominica, still shaking from Mother Julian’s words, offered her arm. Together, she and Sister shared slow steps toward the chapel door. Cool tears blurred her fellow pilgrims into a lumpy, gray cloud in the middle of the sunny courtyard. Surely God would not let the Prioress stand in the way of His plan for her life.
As they paused in the doorway, she swiped the one tear that escaped.
“What is the matter, child?” Sister patted Dominica’s arm with stiff fingers. “Why do you cry? Have you changed your mind? Do you want to stay here?”
More than anything, she thought, forcing a smile. No reason to disturb Sister Marian with words not meant for her. She shook her head and wiped the back of her hand against the scratchy wool. “Of course I want to stay here. That’s why I am going away, so I need never leave again.”
“Outside the Priory, the world is large. Many things can happen.”
“And I plan to write about them so I can remember when I return.” She patted the sack where her precious parchment and quill lay.
“You say that now.” Weary sadness shadowed Sister’s eyes. “Perhaps you will not want to come back.”
“Of course I will.” Even the thought of being abandoned to the world made her long for the comfort of the Priory. “I know every brick in the chapel, every branch on the tree in the garden. It is where I belong.”
Sister Marian blinked as they stepped into the sunshine. She reached up, squaring the scleverin on Dominica’s shoulders. Sister Barbara had stitched the rough gray wool cloak in loving haste, since Dominica’s fingers were better at copying than stitching and Sister Marian said the cloak she wore on pilgrimage five years ago was still perfectly fine and she did not need another.
“Have you ever missed having a mother, Neeca?”
She smiled to hear Sister use her baby name. “Dominica” had been too big for a little girl’s tongue. “I’ve had lots of mothers. You, Sister Barbara, Sister Catherine, Sister Margaret.” She laid her hand atop Sister’s, covering it easily.
Sister shook her head and flashed her dimple. “And none of us has been able to make you stop biting your nails.” The smile faded. “Have you missed having a father?”
“How can I miss something I have never had? Besides, I have our Heavenly Father. And I have promised my hands to Him to spread His holy word.” She raised her face to the sky, eyes closed, letting the sun’s warmth fade the Prioress’s words. “I know what God intends for me. Faith allows no doubts.”
Sister shook her head. “I could not teach you everything. Even the most faithful doubt. Faith is moving ahead in spite of doubt.”
Faith can be dangerous, The Savior had said. She looked back into the chapel where he still knelt, clutching the Earl’s hand. His broad shoulders cast a protective shadow over the pale, fading body.
Fides facit fidem, she answered, silently. “Faith makes faith.”
Garren squeezed William’s clammy palm, as if his own strength could force his friend back to health. William’s very skin was flaking away, his body dissolving to free his soul.
“I will deliver your message without asking why and bring back a feather even though it be a sin,” Garren said, looking over his shoulder. Richard still spoke to the Abbot and the Prioress whispered to the girl and the Sister, too far away to hear him. “But don’t pretend to these people I am some kind of prophet.”
A smile whispered on William’s lips. He seemed in less pain this morning. “Perhaps you are closer to God than you think, my friend.”
“You know better,” Garren said, shaking his head. “If God listened to my prayers, you would be going on this pilgrimage.” Bracing his elbow against William’s, he pushed as if to arm wrestle. The weight of his arm pressed William’s down without effort. “When I get back, we’ll arm wrestle for the palmer’s fee. Winner pays.”
“I thought dice was your game.”
“I won’t leave this win to chance.”
“The palmer’s fee is little enough compared to what you gave up for me.”
“And a pilgrimage is little enough compared to what you did for me.” Anything he had to do to repay him would be worth it. Anything. He blocked out the thought of Dominica humming.
Whatever strength had raised William from his bed had drained away. Pale skin stretched across his broad forehead, tight as on a skull. “Besides, unless you hurry, I shall not be here for you to argue with.”
“You had better be,” Garren said, through clenched teeth. “You’ll want to see the saint’s feather I’m going to bring you.”
William shook his head, muttering against a blasphemous act, but Garren did not listen. He owed William more than he owed God. I’ll do whatever I have to do to get there and back in time to see him again. In time to give back some of what I owe.
He could feel God laughing at his vow.
A soft rustle behind him announced the black robed Prioress. “How good to see you outside your room, Lord Readington. It is an answer to our constant prayers.”
Garren had no doubt that was true. Beneficences from the Readingtons meant their livelihood and Richard was not known as a generous patron.
“Thank you for your prayers, Prioress.” William nodded toward Dominica, lending her arm to the Sister as they walked to the door. “Dominica goes, too?”
Curious. Garren was not even aware William knew her.
“She begged me to let her go, my lord.” The Prioress raised her eyebrows. “We shall see where God leads her as she sees the world for the first time.”
Garren looked at the Prioress in disgust, but she refused his glance. It was not God who would lead the girl astray. “Who is she, William?”
This time, the Prioress threw him a sharp look.
Though William’s eyes had faded like an overwashed tunic, there was still a flash of humor left. “You’ve savored your share of ladies, Garren. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed this one. Yellow hair. Twilight eyes.”
“It sounds as if you have noticed her yourself,” Garren countered. Framed in the open door, the Sister straightened her cloak. Sunlight stroked her hair. William was wrong. It wasn’t yellow. It was more the color of sweet ale, when the light from the fire shone through it.
“My family is responsible for the Priory and all who dwell there.”
A chill settled on his back. What if William had an interest in the girl? He shrugged off the thought. More likely William would be dead by the time they returned and never know her fate. The thought did not comfort him. “William—” he began.
“Well, my Lord,” the Prioress interrupted, “since you are well enough to leave your room, I have been seeking an audience to ask…”
“Brother, how foolish of you.” Richard rushed over, leaving the Abbot alone, and nearly knocking the Prioress aside with his elbow. “The effort has obviously been too much. Niccolo, come!”
Garren started as the Italian materialized out of the shadows. He wondered how long the man had lurked there.
All nose and lips, Niccolo had been left behind by one of the Lombardy moneylenders. It was their money the King had borrowed to pay mercenaries like himself who fought in France. Richard had given the man a room. No one was quite certain what he did there. Practiced alchemy, Garren suspected. Lead into gold. A fool’s errand.
Richard claimed Niccolo was searching for the right golden elixir to cure William’s wasting illness. Strange how many ills gold could cure.
Niccolo kept his head bowed and his eyes hidden. “Yes, Lord Richard.”
“He should never have been allowed to leave his room in this condition,” Richard said. “I think he needs another of your healing remedies.”
Niccolo clapped and the two attendants stepped forward. William’s fingers slid from Garren’s as they lifted the litter.
“Hurry back, Garren.”
“Farewell, brother,” Garren whispered, wondering whether he would ever see William alive again.
He turned to the Prioress as Richard trailed after the litter. “You did not tell me the Earl had a care for Dominica.” It was the first time he had said her name aloud. It filled his mouth.
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.”
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.
