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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.
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.
And Dominica had picked out a few words she would write about The Savior.
He had made a mess of it, Garren thought, trudging alone toward the west-moving sun. She would never talk to him again.
Habit kept his eyes flickering from one side of the road to the other; kept his ears open for the clop of unfamiliar hooves. Even here, on Readington lands, thieves might prey on pilgrims. But today, he saw only yellow buttercups bobbing atop tall, thin green stems; heard only sparrows cheeping cheerily.
No one approached him. Behind him, the pilgrims clustered around the Widow, listening to her prattle. Was it Dominica who chuckled? He should have been the one to coax her laughter.
Instead, he had growled like an irascible wild boar and she fled. The charm that had captivated the women of France deserted him.
Well, it wasn’t entirely his fault. How was he to seduce a woman who knew nothing of the game? How could he bed one who kept her eyes on God instead of on the wonders of life before her?
He filled his lungs with sweet English air, savoring the moment of peace. Today was all he had. The past was too painful. And the future? He knew the futility of trying to earn your place in heaven. God snatched away the good as quickly as the wicked.
And she was definitely one of the good. Or perhaps she had never faced temptation. He would tempt her. When he looked at those fathomless deep blue eyes, he knew someone would. It might as well be him.
He let his mind drift. Neeca in his arms, her hair flowing over him like honey, her breasts, round and full and responding to his lips… He was grateful that he walked ahead of the crowd, where no one could see his member respond to the thought.
It was nice that he was attracted to her. Nice, but not necessary. He was doing this for money, just as if he plied his trade with the strumpets on Rose Street.
The thought made him feel unclean.
No, not for money. Everyone wanted to make him either saint or sinner. An instrument of God or a money-grubbing mercenary. He was neither. Despite what they thought, it was not money he wanted.
I belong at the Priory, she said. Where did he belong? Not at the monastery. Where did you grow up? Garren of nowhere. Garren who had no home.
Home. He could hardly remember the look of it. Gray stone under gray skies. Brooding green trees, never changing with the seasons. One tower, or was it two? Always on the lookout. Waiting for an attack from either side of an ever shifting border. The English soldiers screaming as loudly as the Scots. He had left at age six, as each child must, never returning until those awful weeks eleven years later when Death soaked the walls like a black, winter rain.
Sometimes, a whiff of heather would take him back. His mother had loved that smell. She had stuffed some in a little pillow for him to sit on while he listened to her tell him how Christ turned water into wine and made many loaves from few.
Fairy stories. He found that out just in time, just before he would have promised his life to poverty, chastity and obedience.
He shrugged off the unwelcome memories. Past is past. Look at today. He looked out on William’s land again. Green fields hugged gently rolling hills, each field stitched neatly to its neighbor with greener trees. Blue and copper butterflies clustered as thickly as the yellow and white flowers they sat on. What would it be like to have a home in a lush, sweet land like this? No invaders had ripped the land apart for nine generations. No stink of blood soaked the soil. No savage soldiers’ cries, living or dead, drowned out the twitter of sparrows.
He envied William the land he walked on. He wanted his own earth beneath his feet. Maybe, after he had repaid William. Maybe, after William died and Richard forced him to leave. Maybe, he could find some land, abandoned or unattended. Some land that with a strong arm he could make his own.
But first, that meant taking the girl to bed. Next time, he would be gallant and charming and eventually she would tumble like a tavern maid. He would not have to face her eyes when she rolled beneath him.
Stand straight and speak kindly.
He shook his head. It was as if his mother spoke in his ear. He was six again and she was saying goodbye as he sat atop the horse that would carry him away.
The thought distracted him as he called a halt for the day beneath a grove of trees beside a cold spring and assigned guard duties for the night. No sense tiring them all at once, especially Sister. They had many days of walking ahead.
He splashed cold spring water on his face and down the back of his neck. He would talk to the girl again.
Stand straight and speak kindly. God will watch over you.
God had some things to answer for. But he might try his mother’s advice on the young Dominica.
Chapter Six
Standing just beyond the reach of the fire’s warmth, Dominica scanned the group, looking for The Savior, or Sir Garren, if that’s what he insisted she call him. Not that she wanted to call him anything at all. She was looking for him so she could avoid him. And if she saw him, she would refuse to speak to him. Why should she? Everything she said made him scowl.
