The Knave and the Maiden. Blythe Gifford

place of the Earl of Readington.

      Aware of his fellow travelers for the first time, Garren counted the group as they walked through the church door. There were less than a dozen. A young couple holding hands. A scar-faced man with an off-center nose. A plump woman, a merchant’s wife by the weave of her cloak. Two men, brothers by the cut of their chins. A few others.

      Each was adorned with a cross, either sewn into the long, gray cloak or, for the merchant’s wife, hung around her neck.

      Dominica, a head taller than the little nun beside her, walked with those sea-blue eyes focused on God, ignoring the wiggling dog in her arms. The dog’s left ear flopped in time to his wagging tail, but the right one was missing, bitten off, no doubt, by a cornered fox. At the church door, she put him down and turned back three times to make him stay. Garren grinned. The dog, as least, was not reverent.

      As Dominica passed into the shadow of the chapel, Richard laid his hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear. She pulled away, hurrying ahead without even glancing at him.

      Garren clenched his fist, then deliberately stretched his fingers. He needed no more reasons to hate Richard.

      Richard and the Prioress turned to Garren, the only pilgrim still in the courtyard. A breathless household stood aside, lining a path for him to enter the Readington chapel.

      The wooden doors seemed miles away.

      He trudged past them on leaden feet, eyes on the stone peak above the door, trying to ignore their stares and whispers. His cape with its cross, stitched on at William’s insistence, the relic case around his neck, all seemed a costume borrowed from a miracle player. William’s mysterious message lay coiled against his chest.

      Only his sword and the shell around his neck felt familiar. The lead shell clanking against the reliquary was a souvenir of the family snatched away by a God who had not saved them, even though they had paid His price.

      “Come, Garren.” Richard never honored him with Sir. “God and the Abbot await.”

      Dust motes chased themselves in the stream of late morning sun that stopped short of the altar. Garren knelt next to Dominica at the altar rail. Her eyes on the Abbot, she spared him no more of a glance than she had Richard.

      The Abbot, who had traveled all the way from White Wood to give the blessing, intoned in Latin, designed to make him sound closer to God’s deaf ears than the rest of us, Garren thought.

      The girl moved her lips with his words, almost as if she understood them. Her hair shimmered around her head like a halo. She was young and vulnerable and untouched by the world and he had the strangest sensation that despite it all, she was stronger than he. He suddenly wondered whether he could touch her and remain the same person.

      The Abbot switched to the common tongue. “Those who have gathered to go on pilgrimage, are you ready for this journey? Have you set aside worldly goods to travel simply, as did Our Lord?”

      Garren watched Dominica nod, wondering what worldly goods she owned. He had few enough. In nine years, he had amassed no more than he could carry.

      “When you reach the shrine, you must make sincere confession or your journey will not find favor in the sight of God and the saints. Will you all make your confessions?”

      Murmured yeses rustled like dry leaves. Garren held his tongue. He would confess to God when God returned the favor.

      “And particularly Lord Richard asks that each of you pray for his beloved brother, the Earl of Readington, who was saved from death only to live in a state too near to heaven and too far from earth.”

      A faint, forceful voice, William’s own, interrupted. “I thank my brother, but I shall ask for my own salvation.”

      “What the—?” Richard sputtered.

      Garren half rose, wanting to believe in miracles, wanting to see William standing tall and strong again. Shielding his eyes against the sun, Garren turned toward the church door. A reclining figure, almost too tall for the litter, lay silhouetted against the sunlight. William, pale and thin as a wraith, was carried on his pallet by two footmen, one holding a pewter pan in case of need.

      The crowd inhaled with a single breath. Then, hands fluttered from foreheads to shoulders, making the sign of the cross against a spirit raised from the dead.

      William waved his two servants forward. The crowd parted as he was carried to the altar rail, where the Prioress bent over him. Richard, with petulant lips and pitiless eyes, stood erect.

      The Abbot, flustered, rolled his eyes to Heaven for guidance. There was no ceremony for this occasion. “Already God has given the Earl strength from your pure intentions.” His voice swelled. “You who take this journey, pray for a miracle!”

      William lifted a hand. “Thank you for…prayers.”

      Garren’s heart twisted at the sound of William’s voice. Once so strong in battle, it quavered as one twice his age.

      “I have ordered,” he continued, “first day’s food for all.”

      “A magnificent gesture, my Lord Readington,” the Abbot said.

      Richard scowled.

      William waved his hand as if brushing away a wisp of smoke. “And let it be known,” he stopped for a breath. “Garren walks for me and carries my petition to the Blessed Larina.”

      William grabbed his stomach and turned, retching, just in time to hit the pewter pan. Garren closed his eyes, as if William’s pain would not exist if he did not see it. As if he could close his eyes and bring back the past.

      “Let us end with a prayer for Sir Garren’s success and Lord Readington’s recovery before I bless the staffs and distribute the testimoniales,” the Abbot said, quickly.

      Garren walks for me, William had said. What would they think of him now?

      Dominica smiled at him, but the rest looked awestruck, as if they really saw a man of God.

      Everyone except the Prioress. And Richard.

      Chapter Three

      Dominica pressed her forehead against the altar rail, trying to concentrate on God instead of the Earl’s sudden appearance. Completing the ceremony, the Abbot kissed her staff and placed it, solid and balanced, in her outstretched hands. She pressed her lips against the raw wood, stripped of bark, then set it in front of her.

      Next, the Abbot handed her the testimoniales, the scroll with the Bishop’s magic words that made her truly a pilgrim. Her fingers tingled as she slipped it into her bag, next to her own parchment and quill. Later, when no one could see, she would compare the copyist’s letters with her own.

      Bowing her head into her hands, she searched for the voice of God inside her, trying to ignore The Savior on her left. She wondered if he was watching her. He was as solid as the staff in her hands. The kind of man you could lean on. She studied him through her fingers. Clutching his staff like a weapon, he looked like a man used to standing alone, not leaning on a staff. Nor a friend. Nor even God.

      Squeezing her eyes shut, she brought her mind back to the reason for her journey.

      Please God, give me a sign at the shrine that I am to keep my home in your service and help spread your word.

      She wanted to add “in the common tongue,” but decided not to force that point with God just yet.

      She opened her eyes and peeked through her fingers past Sister Marian on her right. A servant daubed sweat from the Earl’s forehead. God had spared him nearly ten years ago at the height of the Death and taken his father instead. She still remembered weeks of mourning when the old Earl died. Sister Marian’s eyes had been red for days. But God had spared the son. Surely God had sent The Savior to protect him again.

      She added a prayer for the Earl who surely deserved God’s help. And hers.

      The Abbot spoke his