The Knave and the Maiden. Blythe Gifford

catch his too-short tail. That was a trick Dominica had taught him.

      “Good boy,” Dominica scratched him behind his one remaining ear. The other was missing. “Don’t worry, Sister.” Dominica hugged her. “Everything will work out. God has told me.”

      Sister’s eyes widened and she glanced toward the corridor. “Don’t let Mother Julian hear you say God talks to you.”

      Dominica shrugged. No use telling Sister that Mother Julian already knew. “It’s like the scripture says: Knock and it shall be open to you,” she said in Latin.

      “And if she hears you spouting Latin, she will change her mind.”

      “But if God is trying to speak to us, why shouldn’t we open our ears to hear?”

      “Just be sure you aren’t putting your words on God’s lips.”

      Dominica sighed. God had given her ears, eyes, and a brain. Surely He expected her to use them. “Anyway, we’re going and when we come back, I shall take my vows.”

      Sister sat and gathered Dominica’s fingers in hers. Dominica loved the feel of Sister’s hands. Soft, for they did not have to wash or weed, the fingers of her right hand were set stiffly, permanently, in position to hold the quill. As a child, Dominica had envied Sister the writer’s bump on her middle finger, rubbing her own each day, hoping it would grow.

      “Just remember, my child, when God answers our prayers, He may not give us the answer we want.”

      “How could there be another answer? My whole life is here.” She loved the ordered, predictable days, the quiet of the chapel, where she could hear the hushed voice of God, the brilliant red, blue and gold ink that illuminated His words. All she ever wanted was to finally, fully belong. To be embraced as a Sister. “I can read better than Sister Margaret and copy better than anyone but you.”

      Sister sighed. “You are pushing again, Dominica. There is no guarantee that God will grant you what you seek.”

      “Oh, God I am sure of. It is the Prioress who worries me.”

      Sister raised her hands in submission. “When you have lived longer, you will be less sure of God. Come, let us gather our things.” She rose, slowly. Her hips were as accustomed to the writing bench as her hands. “We must be ready to leave tomorrow.”

      And when they returned, Dominica thought, the message would be safe in the right hands and she would never need to leave her home again.

      All that was required was faith. And action.

      “We need money, your Lordship.” The Prioress forced her neck to bend in supplication. Humility before Lord Richard did not come easily.

      She had trapped him into hearing her petition, approaching after the midday meal, when the Great Hall was still crowded with watching knights, squires and servants so he could not refuse. But the hall was empty now of everything but the smell of boiled mutton. Her stomach growled.

      “Why do you want money, Prioress?” Richard asked. Narrow of shoulder and of nose, he slouched in his chair and picked at his ear, then flipped the wax from under his nail. “I thought nuns had no need of worldly things.”

      She wondered if he showed such disrespect for all his petitioners. The donation she requested would be no hardship. “Food, ink and funds for the annual pilgrimage, your Lordship.”

      “Times are difficult.” Legs crossed, he swung his foot back and forth, studying it intently.

      “Your father was a great patron of our work at the Priory,” she reminded him. The old Earl’s tapestries still cloaked Readington’s Great Hall, though since his death, the place seemed colder. She never felt his loss more than when she looked at this dark-haired, sallow-skinned second son. “He promised to support our work of copying the word of God.”

      “My father is dead.”

      “Which is why I come to you.”

      “As you know, it is my brother you must petition. And it is impossible for me to allow that now.”

      “We pray for him daily. Does his health improve, your lordship?”

      Lord Richard tried to smother his smile with a grave expression. “Well, Prioress, perhaps you had better hurry to finish his Death Book. But, there is always hope.” He snickered. “The mercenary plays palmer for him on the pilgrimage.”

      She crossed herself. “The knight who brought your brother back from the dead?” The entire village knew the tale. She had even heard blasphemous talk of him as The Savior.

      Lord Richard flopped back in his chair with a pout. “If you believe his account. A man who fights for coin instead of for fealty can scarcely be trusted.”

      A curious criticism, she thought, since Lord Richard had managed to avoid fighting in France at all. “A landless knight must do what he can. God works in mysterious ways.”

      His lips curved. “Doesn’t He? Well, perhaps your prayers and the mercenary’s visit will soften Saint Larina’s heart to cure the lingering effects of my brother’s wounds.” Boredom saturated his voice. “Who goes to fulfill the perpetual vow this year?”

      “Sister Marian.” She hesitated for a moment. “And Dominica.”

      Lord Richard uncurled himself, spine straight, feet flat on the floor, and met her eyes for the first time. “The little scribe? Is she old enough to travel?”

      Did everyone know the girl could write? Pray God she had said nothing to him about her heretical ideas. “In her seventeenth year, my lord.”

      His nose twitched as a weasel’s might. “And still a virgin?”

      The Prioress drew herself to her full height. “Do you have so low an opinion of my stewardship?”

      “I’ll take that for a ‘yes.’ What does she seek on this pilgrimage?”

      Clasping her hands, she considered his curiosity. Perhaps she could use it. “She wants to join the order and she seeks a sign that God approves.”

      “Because you do not?”

      She assessed him for a moment. There might be a reason to tell him the truth. “No. I do not.”

      “Then we have something in common. I have another interest. In the mercenary,” he said. His dark eyes glowed. “My brother’s gratitude seems to extend to perpetual support, as if this Garren were a saint. I would have him see what kind of knave the man really is.”

      She already knew what kind of a knave Lord Richard was. No doubt his brother did, as well. The Prioress waited for his proposition. She did not think it would be a pleasant one.

      “Offer this Garren money if he will seduce the little virgin. He seems to do anything for a bit of coin. And when she accuses him, we shall each have something we want.”

      “Milord, I cannot—”

      “You don’t want her to be a nun. Neither do I. And once Garren is disgraced, William will have to throw him out.” He paused, smiling. “If he lives that long. If not, then I’ll be the righteous one. And then I’ll have a few personal tasks for the girl.” His smirk left no doubt that those tasks would take place in the bedchamber. “Don’t worry. She may still do laundry for you, Prioress, in her idle hours.”

      “Milord, how can you ask such a thing?” And how could she consider it? Because she was responsible for twenty lives besides Dominica’s. Lives already pledged to God. And when the Earl died, the fate of those lives would rest in Lord Richard’s hands.

      “If you do, I might be able to give you the support you need. And a generous incentive to the mercenary for his sin.”

      No hint of trouble, she had told the girl. This scheme would assure she never took the vows. Of course, hadn’t she herself wondered, nay, hoped for just such a thing?