The Knave and the Maiden. Blythe Gifford

toward the kitchen, the shaggy black dog waddling at her heels.

      The little nun spoke. “Her faith is an unwelcome burden to you, I think.”

      He studied her for a moment. Her handed-down habit was long and full, giving the tiny woman the look of a child wearing her mother’s gown. Weariness tugged at her pale blue eyes. Sister Marian wants the girl to fulfill her vow, the Prioress said. He wondered if it were true.

      “Thank you,” she continued, “for agreeing to lead us. This is not easy for you.”

      He shuddered as if a spirit had spoken. He did not want her to think he sought the mantle. He was here for William, not for God or aggrandizement. “I am not what they think I am, Sister.”

      “None of us is, my child.” No one had called him child in a long time. “Only God truly knows us.”

      “Then God knows I am an impostor,” he said, with bravado he did not feel. “A fake. A fraud. I am a palmer, Sister,” he said, loudly, as if he were proud of it. “I’ll be paid for this journey.”

      And for other things he did not want to share.

      “Many pilgrims walk with secrets,” she said, as if she had heard all he had not said. Her melodic voice demanded no confession. “God loves us anyway, no matter what our secrets.”

      He searched her face for a hidden meaning. No, this woman did not know what the Prioress had planned for her precious Neeca. “You have spent your life far from worldly temptations. What secrets can you have, Sister?”

      “The ones God has helped me keep.”

      He wondered why she told him this and he felt a twinge of envy for the certainty of her faith, a faith that had been forged not through reading the ritual, but in a pact between her heart and God’s. God had kept his promises to Sister Marian. So far.

      If the Churchmen he had known had been so holy, he would still be in the cloister. And he would be content to leave Dominica there.

      “You called her Neeca,” he said, beating back the guilt for what he would do.

      Her pale skin turned paler, as if he had startled, or scared her. “What did you say?”

      “I was speaking of something new. You called the girl Neeca. Why?”

      A smile soothed the lines around her eyes. “I have known her since she was born. She called herself that when she was learning to talk.”

      “Since she was born? I thought…” He stopped. No need to tell her he had spoken with the Prioress.

      “Did I say born? I meant since God left her in our care.” Too short to reach his shoulder, she tapped his arm with gentle fingers. “And now she will be in yours.”

      He wanted no more reminders of his betrayal. “So you have made this journey before, Sister.”

      “Three times. I went the year of the Death to pray for all the souls in the Earl’s care. Only the Sister who traveled with me and the Earl himself died.” Her eyes still carried the shadow of that Death. “The Saint protected the rest of us. Now, we send someone every year to thank her. I went again the first year of Pope Innocent’s reign.”

      “And the third time?”

      She looked away from him and across the courtyard toward the kitchen. “Years before.” Picking up her staff, she leaned stiffly, into her first step. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must gather my things.”

      He watched her, feeling the pain of each footfall. She might have made the journey before, but she had been younger then. “Sister, I would ask a favor.”

      “Of me? What is it, my child?”

      “I know you would prefer to walk the journey with the rest of us, but…” But what? What excuse could he find to spare her the aching steps? “…but my horse Roucoud is accustomed to a weight on his back. It will be hard for him to walk empty.” No need to tell her she was so small the warhorse would barely know she was there. “Besides, you have traveled the route before. If you rode, you could watch the road and help guide us.”

      “Bless you, sir, for your kindness.” A dimple creased her cheek. “It is troublesome, is it not, to have a horse that needs weight on his back when you are weary of riding? I was just praying for God’s help on this journey and there you are.”

      “Do not confuse my help and God’s, Sister. They are two entirely different things.” She would discover that later, he thought, to her regret.

      “Sometimes God’s help comes from where you least expect it.”

      And so does God’s punishment, he thought.

      With Innocent at her heels, Dominica fled to the dark, smoky kitchen. Rabbits, wood pigeons and a fat goose, more meat than Dominica had ever seen, swung from the rafters. The smell of drying blood mixed with fresh-baked bread. Scullions scampered in and out, jumping at the cook’s shouts as quickly as she had jumped to escape The Savior’s anger.

      He had frowned like Moses, as if he knew she had told the nice young man and his wife that he raised Lord William from death. Well, what if she had? If I had done something so wonderful, she thought, I would want everyone to know. Of course, as the Prioress always told her, Pride goeth before destruction. It was one of Mother Julian’s favorite Proverbs.

      “Stand in line! Give me a minute!” the cook yelled. A young scullion boy ran in and added a loaf of yesterday’s bread to the odd collection of cheese and dirt-covered vegetables strewn atop the wooden table. The cook, muttering, was trying to divide them into eleven equal pouches. “I wish the Earl’s piety came with a day’s notice.”

      Standing patiently at the end of the line next to the deaf woman, Dominica stifled covetous envy of her finely woven cloak. The woman ducked her head and smiled up through her eyelashes at the tall, thin man on her other side.

      He smiled back, bending from his hips with a bounce.

      Dropping her gaze, afraid to be caught staring, Dominica blinked at the sight of red hose hugging the woman’s ample ankles. Despite her bosom full of badges, this worldly woman looked nothing like a pilgrim. Could she be a repentant prostitute?

      “The food is important,” the tall man said. “Good for balancing the humors.”

      The woman cupped her hand around her good left ear. “Oh, you are a physician, good sir?”

      “I am James Arderne,” the tall man said, folding his entire body into a bow. “I am a physician from near St. John’s.”

      “Ah, well, we shall be glad of your company on the road.”

      “Where is your home, Goodwife?” the Physician said.

      “Bath,” she answered. “And it is Good Widow. Agnes Cropton.” The red-hosed widow wiggled her fingers in a wave as the physician bowed a farewell.

      Widow. Judge not, Dominica reminded herself, repenting her wicked thoughts of the pious widow, that ye be not judged. “I am sorry for your loss.”

      “Which one?”

      “Your husband who died. Oh, pardon, and for the loss of your hearing, as well.” Dominica sighed, longing for the silence of the convent. It was easier to talk to God than to strangers.

      “I meant which husband.” The woman popped a piece of cheese in her mouth when the cook’s back was turned. “As for my hearing, it was my worthless second husband who made me deaf. Beat me about the head and shoulders one too many times. God struck him dead,” she said nodding emphatically. “But that was many years ago.”

      “Next! Come along!” the cook yelled.

      Dominica jumped.

      The Widow’s words flowed on. “I’m glad we have a physician with us. Some terrible illness can strike on the road. When I was in…”

      Cook