The Knave and the Maiden. Blythe Gifford

      “Good morning,” she said, bending back her neck to meet his brown, no, green eyes. “I am Dominica.”

      He looked at her squarely, eyes wary and sad, as if God had given him many trials to make him worthy. “I know who you are.”

      At his glance, her blood bubbled through her fingers and around her stomach in an oddly pleasant way. “Did God tell you?” If God spoke to her, He must certainly have lengthy conversations with one so holy.

      He scowled. Or repressed a smile. “The Prioress told me.”

      She wondered what else the Prioress had told him. The dog wriggled in her arms. She scratched his head. “This is Innocent.”

      The smile broke through. “Named in honor of our Holy Father in Avignon, no doubt.”

      That, she was sure, the Prioress had not told him. Dominica raced on, not giving him time to wonder whether the name honored the Pope or mocked him. “We are all grateful to you for bringing the Earl back from the dead,” she said. “Did he stinketh like Lazarus?”

      “Pardon?”

      “The Bible says ‘Lazarus did stinketh because he hath been dead four days.’

      The corner of his mouth twitched. “You did not hear about Lazarus’s stench in one of the Abbot’s homilies.”

      Best not to tell him she had read it herself. “At the noon meal, the Sisters read the Scriptures and let me listen.” She waited for a sign of anger. Could one so touched by God discern her small deception?

      “The story of Lazarus hardly sounds appetizing,” he said. “But, yes, we both did stinketh by the time we got home.”

      “Of course, the Earl had not been dead for four days when you brought him back to life.”

      The amusement leaked away and his green eyes darkened to brown. “I did not bring him back from the dead. I simply would not let him die.”

      Dominica thought this a very fine theological distinction. “But you had faith in God’s power. ‘He that believeth in me though he were dead, yet shall he live.’”

      “Be careful who you believe in. Faith can be dangerous.”

      His words, bleak as his eyes, seemed as simple and as complex as scripture. She remembered the end of the Lazarus story. It was after the Pharisees learned what Jesus had done that they decided he must die.

      “You know my name, but I do not know yours, Sir…?”

      “Garren.”

      “Sir Garren of what?”

      “Sir Garren of nowhere. Sir Garren with nothing.” He bowed. “As befits a simple pilgrim.”

      “Have you no home?”

      He stroked the horse’s neck. “I have Roucoud de Readington.”

      “Readington?”

      “A gift from the Earl.” He frowned.

      Why would he frown at such a wonderful gift? Readington must value him highly to give him such a magnificent animal. “And you are at home on a horse?”

      “I have been a mercenary, paid to fight.”

      “And now?”

      “And now a palmer,” he muttered, “paid for this pilgrimage.”

      Dominica was not surprised to have a palmer on the journey. She was surprised that it was The Savior. “What poor dead soul left twenty sous in his will for a pilgrimage for his soul?”

      “Not a dead one—yet.”

      He must mean the Earl of Readington himself, she thought, relieved. The secret was in good hands, if she would only stop asking questions. “Forgive me,” she said. “Keep the secret of your holy journey in your heart.”

      “I am no holy man.”

      Her question seemed to irritate him. How could he deny he was touched by God? They all knew the story. Today he journeyed to the Blessed Larina’s shrine. By Michaelmas, Dominica thought, he was likely to have a shrine of his own. “God selected you as His instrument to save the Earl’s life.”

      He searched her eyes for a long, silent moment. “An instrument can serve many hands. God and the Devil both make use of fire.”

      She shivered.

      The bell tolled and like a flock of geese, the gray cloaked pilgrims fluttered toward the chapel door. She put Innocent down and he trotted back to Sister Marian, tail straight up. Dominica tried to follow, but her legs refused to walk away.

      “Please,” she whispered, “give me your blessing.”

      He shrugged into his gray scleverin as if the cloak were chain mail. “Get your blessing from the Abbot with the rest of the pilgrims.”

      “But you are The Sav—” She bit her tongue. “You are special.”

      His eyes blazed, their mood as changeable as their color, and she felt a hint of the danger faith might bring.

      “I told you,” he said, “I am nothing holy. I can give you none of God’s blessing.”

      “Please.” She grabbed his large, square hands with trembling fingers. Kneeling in the dirt before him, she touched her lips to the fine dark hairs on his knuckles.

      He snatched his hands away.

      She grabbed them back, put his hands on her bowed head and pressed her palms over them, desperate to hold them there.

      His palm stiffened. Then, slowly, his hand cupped the curve of her head and slid down to the bare skin at the back of her neck. His fingers seared her like a brand. Her chest tightened and she tried to breathe. The smell of the courtyard dust mingled with a new scent, rich and rounded. One that came from him.

      The braying church bell faded, but the sense of peace she had expected did not come. Her heart beat in her ears, as if all four humours in her body were wildly out of balance.

      He jerked away, waving his hand in a gesture that could have been benediction, dismissal or disgust.

      “Thank you, Sir Garren of the Here and Now,” she whispered, running back to the safety of Sister and Innocent, afraid to look at him again, afraid she had already put too much of herself in his hands.

      Garren’s palms burned as if he had touched fire.

      God’s holy blood. She thinks I’m a saint.

      He laughed at the blasphemy of it.

      His body’s stiff response was a man’s, but the fall of the pilgrim’s cloak disguised that along with all his other sins.

      This job would be too easy. Too pleasant. His hands ached to touch her soft curves, but he winced at taking advantage of the burning faith in her eyes. She thought him touched by God somehow. What a disappointment it would be to discover how much of a man he was.

      He shook off the guilt. She had to learn eventually, just as he had. Faith was a trap for fools.

      Garren turned to see the Prioress, standing before the chapel door, smiling as if she had seen the entire scene. As if she wanted to see him take the girl here in the dust of the courtyard.

      The girl, with her wide-eyed faith, was no match for the Prioress. The thought angered him. Maybe he could even the odds. Maybe he would cheat the Church. Tell the Prioress he had taken the girl and take the Church’s money for a sin he did not commit. Naturally, the girl would say she remained pure, but she would be damaged just as if he had taken her. But free. She would be free from the clutches of the Church.

      Smiling, Garren patted Roucoud, handed the horse’s reins to a waiting page, then joined the other pilgrims. Maids, knights, squires, cooks, pages, even the Prioress and Richard stood respectfully aside as they walked