The Knave and the Maiden. Blythe Gifford

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      “What is this word?”

      “Neeca,” she said, swallowing.

      His brows crunched. “Why did you write that?”

      A lump lodged in her throat and she shook her head, neither able nor willing to speak.

      He put his hand on her chin and forced her eyes to his. “Why, Neeca?”

      Unable to add lying to her list of sins, she told him. “Because you called me that.”

      “It was so important?”

      She pursed her lips and nodded, braving his eyes. He looked at the parchment again, following the words with his finger, hovering over the last few. “And what did you write of last night, Neeca?”

      She bit her lip. He was too close, too close to knowing how important he had become.

      He cupped her head in his hand and tilted up her chin to force her to meet his eyes. Even her lips quivered, wanting to feel his again….

      The Knave and the Maiden

      Blythe Gifford

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      To Don and to Daddy I wish you were here to enjoy it.

      Thanks to Julie Beard, Michelle Hoppe, Lindsay Longford, Margaret Watson, Pat White and all the members of Chicago-North RWA.

       Without you, I would not be here.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter One

      Readington Castle, England, June 1357

      “God brought me back from the dead, Garren,” William said. “You were His instrument.”

      Garren looked at his friend, lying in his bed with the hollow cheeks of a corpse, and suppressed a snort. When William, Earl of Readington, sprawled among the scattered bodies on the battlefield at Poitiers, God had not lifted a finger.

      Now, watching the candlelight waver in benediction over William’s pale face, Garren wondered whether he should have, either. Death in the French dirt might have been kinder.

      But Garren would fight God for William’s life as long as he could.

      “You were the only one,” William said. “The others left me for dead.”

      Or left him for live French prisoners they could ransom.

      But William was not dead, although there had been days Garren was not certain the Earl lived. As the victorious troops traipsed across France and finally sailed back to England, William existed in an earthly purgatory, alive because Garren forced water and gruel and prechewed meat between his teeth. “I was just too stubborn to leave you.”

      “More than that.” Between each word, William gasped for a breath. “You carried me. On your back.”

      “You and your armor.” Garren smiled, tight-lipped, swinging a mock blow to William’s shoulder. “Don’t forget the armor.”

      Readington’s family had rejoiced more over the return of the armor than its wearer. While the rest of the English knights carried home booty, Garren carried only William. Carried William and left behind the wealth that had been the promise of the French campaign.

      It had all seemed worthwhile as William gained strength. But in the weeks since his homecoming, the retching had started. Some days were better, some worse. Now he lay on a deathbed curtained in red velvet, high in a tower overlooking a countryside of damp, fertile earth he would never ride again. His hands curled into useless claws. He ran red or brown all day from one end or the other. Servants changed the bed linens, a futile task, but a sign of respect. There was little else they could do.

      At least, Garren thought, William could die in his own bed.

      “One…more…thing I must ask.” His cold fingers clutched Garren’s with the strength of death.

      I gave you life, what more can I do? Garren thought, but as he looked at William, just past thirty and unable to rise from his bed, he was uncertain whether life had been such a valuable gift.

      “Go on the pilgrimage for me.”

      Pilgrimage. A prepayment to a God who never delivered as promised. A journey to a tomb that sheltered the bones of a woman and the feathers of an angel. “William, if God has not yet cured you, I doubt the Blessed Larina will.”

      “I will pay you.”

      Garren snatched his hand away. He had given up virtually everything for William, gladly. All he had left was his pride. “You can find fools aplenty to be your palmer on the journey.”

      Pain wrinkled William’s face. His left arm cradled his stomach, trying to hold back the next bout of retching. “Not…trust.”

      Garren mumbled something meant to be soothing, neither yes nor no. He cradled William’s bony hand in his large, square ones. How far they had come together since William had taken him on, a seventeen-year-old no one else wanted, much too old to start training as a squire. Everything he was he owed to this man.

      William clung to Garren’s arm, pulling himself up, half sitting. Only five years older than Garren, he looked as if he had lived four score years. After a glance around the chamber as if to reassure himself they were alone, William reached beneath his pillow and pulled out a folded parchment, no bigger than his hand. Red wax, indented with the Readington crest, doubly sealed the thin thread that pierced the layers. “For the monk. At the shrine.”

      Taking