The Knave and the Maiden. Blythe Gifford

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.

      She tossed back her hair and bit her lip. It was probably sinful to hold a grudge against one with a special relationship with God, but he was so rude today, she felt justified in ignoring him.

      He had settled the group early for the night. After the evening meal, Sister Marian gathered the pilgrims into a mismatched choir. It was strange to hear singing that did not echo on stone. But Sister Marian, her clear voice praising God with each note, led them with enthusiasm, even for the Widow, whose deaf ear let her sing happily in her own rhythm. At least when she was singing, she wasn’t talking.

      “Your faith gives you wings to fly like Larina

      To fly