“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

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 the message from William’s shaking fingers, Garren wondered how he had managed to hold a quill to write.

William’s voice quavered, too. “The seal must be unbroken.”

Garren smiled, silent. Even in the monastery, he had been a poor reader.

William shook his arm, forcing his attention. Forcing an answer. “Please. There is no one else.”

Garren looked into his friend’s eyes, eyes that had seen so much by his side, and knew that for as many weeks as William drew breath, he would say yes.

He nodded, clearing his throat. “But I don’t want your money.” This journey should be a gift.

William rolled his head no, leaving a new chunk of blond hair on the linen under his head. William knew his funds would take him no farther than the next battle. A weak smile curved his pale lips. “Take it. Buy me a lead feather.”

A leaden pilgrim’s badge. Proof of the journey. A token to flaunt his faith. Garren gripped William’s fingers. “I’ll bring something better. Since you can’t travel to the shrine, I’ll bring the shrine to you. I’ll bring you a real feather.” Somehow it seemed appropriate, to violate a shrine to comfort a man with faith. At least you could see a feather. Hold it. Touch it. Not like the false promises of the Church.

Skin already pale, blanched. “Sacrilege.”

A chill skittered up Garren’s back. Stealing a relic. Violating a shrine. God would punish him. He nearly laughed at the thought, a residue of training over experience. Garren had seen the puny extent of God’s mercy. God’s punishment could scarcely be harsher. “Don’t worry. No one will miss a small one.”

Still shaking his head, William closed his eyes and slipped into the near-death sleep that was his life.

The door opened without a knock and the lilting voice of William’s younger brother Richard grated on Garren’s ears. Richard, who would not go on pilgrimage for his brother for love nor money. “Does he still breathe?”

“You seem eager to hear me say ‘no.’”

“It is just that this state can scarcely be called living, don’t you agree?”

Garren did, but not for Richard’s reasons. “Perhaps. But as long as he breathes, he is the Earl of Readington.” Richard, however, need only wait. He would be Earl soon enough.

“What is that?” Richard reached for the folded parchment as if he had the right.

Garren shrugged and slipped it into his tunic. It nestled stiffly below his ribs. “It must be a petition to the saint.” Now that he had said yes, he dreaded the journey. Not the days of walking, but the company of all those trusting pilgrims who believed an invisible God would answer their prayers if they only paid His price. Garren knew better. “He asked me to go to the shrine and pray for his recovery.”

Richard snickered. “By the time you arrive, you will be praying for his soul.”

And by the time I return, Garren thought, I’ll be praying for my own.

Kneeling before her private crucifix, the Prioress turned from contemplating the chipped paint on Christ’s left hand as the girl strode into her office, barely bending her knee in greeting.

The Prioress rose with creaking knees, wondering why she had granted this audience, and settled into her own chair. Dominica was a slip of a girl who knew no better than to be grateful that the Priory had taken her in and raised her and given her useful work to do, the cleaning and the laundry and the cooking for the few who remained.

The Death had taken its toll. There were too few serfs to plant the crops or to harvest what grew. Christian charity followed a full stomach. Of course, Lord Richard could have made it easier.

Without asking permission to speak, the girl interrupted her thoughts. “Mother Julian, I want to accompany Sister Marian to the shrine of the Blessed Larina.”

The Prioress shook her head to clear her ears. The request was so outrageous she thought she had misheard. No please. No begging. Just those piercing blue eyes, demanding. “What did you say, Dominica?”

“I want to go on the pilgrimage. And when I return, I will take my vows as a novice.”

“You want to join the order?” This was what came of raising the girl above the state in life that God had intended for her. She should have given the foundling to the collier’s wife when she had the chance. “You have no dowry.”

“A dowry is not required,” the girl said, as if reciting the text on preaching. “Faith is required.”

The Prioress bit her tongue. She was not going to argue theology with an orphan. It took more than faith to feed and clothe twenty women. “You cannot take the veil.”

“Why not?” The girl lifted her chin as if she had the right to disagree. “I can copy the Latin manuscripts as well as Sister Marian.”

Our Lord preached forgiveness, she reminded herself, trying to soften her tone of voice. “What makes you think you have a calling, Dominica?”

The girl’s blue eyes burned with the fervor of a saint—or a madwoman. “God told me.”

“God does not speak to abandoned foundlings.” The Prioress clenched her fingers in prayer until her knuckles turned white and her fingertips red. This was all her fault. She had let the girl sit with them at meals and listen to the Scripture readings. Likely the chit flattered herself that she understood God’s will because she had heard God’s words. “God speaks through His servants in the church. God has said nothing to me about your joining the order.”

“But Mother Julian, I know I am meant to spread His word.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “I want to copy the texts into the common tongue, so the people can truly understand them.”

The Prioress beat prayerful fingers against her lips. Heresy. I have a heretic living under my roof. If the Readingtons find out, I will never see another farthing from them. I should never have let her learn her letters.

The girl was still speaking. “I belong here. I know it. And after I reach the shrine, you will know too because God will give me a sign.” Dominica’s face beamed with the kind of faith the Prioress had neither seen nor felt in many years. “Sister Marian will be my witness.”

Sister Marian had always spoiled the girl. “Who will pay for this journey? For your cloak, your food? Who will do your work while you are gone?”

“Sisters Catherine and Barbara and Margaret have said they will bear my load. And Sister Marian said she will pay for my food from her dowry.” She looked defiant. “I won’t eat much.”

“Sister Marian’s dowry belongs to the Priory now.” The Prioress cradled her throbbing head in her hands. What had become of obedience? This was what came of allowing the Sisters to keep lapdogs.

“Please, Mother Julian.” The girl fell to her knees, finally humbled. She tugged at the Prioress’s black habit with ink-stained fingers, nails bitten so close that the garden dirt had nowhere to cling. “I must make this journey.”

Shocked, the Prioress looked into her eyes again. They burned with faith. Or fear.

Suddenly, she could see where this could lead. The girl would never return once she discovered life beyond the walls. She had a shape most would envy, those who were not looking for a cloistered life. If only she’d tumble for the first man who flattered her. She’d come back with a swollen belly and there would be no question of her taking the veil.

Mother Julian sighed. Maybe not. The searing intensity in those blue eyes would be more than most lads would fancy. Well, let it be God’s will. Better she go and take her dangerous ideas with her before the Abbot or the Earl found out, although that would leave the problem of who would do the laundry and the weeding. They could hardly afford to pay a village lass.

“All right. Go. But speak no more of your heresy. If there is a hint of trouble on the journey, you will have no home here when you return, with or without a veil.”

Dominica raised her hands and her eyes to heaven. “Thank you, Heavenly Father.” She ducked her head and scampered out without asking permission to leave.

The Prioress shook her head. No thanks to me for my many kindnesses, she thought. Only to God. Well, God would have the care of her now.

Dominica’s breath burst from her body. Relief lifted her on her toes, almost floating her down the hall. The soft, sure feeling settled over her. God always answered her prayers, even if she had to help Him a little. What the Prioress and Sister Marian did not know about this journey would keep.

Sister Marian sat in the sunny cloister courtyard, teaching Innocent to sit up. Or trying to. Like Dominica, the shaggy black dog was a stray no one else wanted. Hard to love and hard to train.

“She said ‘yes,’ she said ‘yes.’” Dominica swirled Sister around until her black robes billowed. Innocent barked. “I’m going, I’m going.”

“Shhh, hush.” Sister tried to quiet both Dominica and the barking dog, who was running in a circle to catch his too-short tail. That was a trick Dominica had taught him.

“Good boy,” Dominica scratched him behind his one remaining ear. The other was missing. “Don’t worry, Sister.” Dominica hugged her. “Everything will work out. God has told me.”

Sister’s eyes widened and she glanced toward the corridor. “Don’t let Mother Julian hear you say God talks to you.”

Dominica shrugged. No use telling Sister that Mother Julian already knew. “It’s like the scripture says: Knock and it shall be open to you,” she said in Latin.

“And if she hears you spouting Latin, she will change her mind.”

“But if God is trying to speak to us, why shouldn’t we open our ears to hear?”

“Just be sure you aren’t putting your words on God’s lips.”

Dominica sighed. God had given her ears, eyes, and a brain. Surely He expected her to use them. “Anyway, we’re going and when we come back, I shall take my vows.”

Sister sat and gathered Dominica’s fingers in hers. Dominica loved the feel of Sister’s hands. Soft, for they did not have to wash or weed, the fingers of her right hand were set stiffly, permanently, in position to hold the quill. As a child, Dominica had envied Sister the writer’s bump on her middle finger, rubbing her own each day, hoping it would grow.

“Just remember, my child, when God answers our prayers, He may not give us the answer we want.”

“How could there be another answer? My whole life is here.” She loved the ordered, predictable days, the quiet of the chapel, where she could hear the hushed voice of God, the brilliant red, blue and gold ink that illuminated His words. All she ever wanted was to finally, fully belong. To be embraced as a Sister. “I can read better than Sister Margaret and copy better than anyone but you.”

Sister sighed. “You are pushing again, Dominica. There is no guarantee that God will grant you what you seek.”

“Oh, God I am sure of. It is the Prioress who worries me.”

Sister raised her hands in submission. “When you have lived longer, you will be less sure of God. Come, let us gather our things.” She rose, slowly. Her hips were as accustomed to the writing bench as her hands. “We must be ready to leave tomorrow.”

And when they returned, Dominica thought, the message would be safe in the right hands and she would never need to leave her home again.

All that was required was faith. And action.

“We need money, your Lordship.” The Prioress forced her neck to bend in supplication. Humility before Lord Richard did not come easily.

She had trapped him into hearing her petition, approaching after the midday meal, when the Great Hall was still crowded with watching knights, squires and servants so he could not refuse. But the hall was empty now of everything but the smell of boiled mutton. Her stomach growled.

“Why do you want money, Prioress?” Richard asked. Narrow of shoulder and of nose, he slouched in his chair and picked at his ear, then flipped the wax from under his nail. “I thought nuns had no need of worldly things.”

She wondered if he showed such disrespect for all his petitioners. The donation she requested would be no hardship. “Food, ink and funds for the annual pilgrimage, your Lordship.”

“Times are difficult.” Legs crossed, he swung his foot back and forth, studying it intently.

“Your father was a great patron of our work at the Priory,” she reminded him. The old Earl’s tapestries still cloaked Readington’s Great Hall, though since his death, the place seemed colder. She never felt his loss more than when she looked at this dark-haired, sallow-skinned second son. “He promised to support our work of copying the word of God.”

“My father is dead.”

“Which is why I come to you.”

“As you know, it is my brother you must petition. And it is impossible for me to allow that now.”

“We pray for him daily. Does his health improve, your lordship?”

Lord Richard tried to smother his smile with a grave expression. “Well, Prioress, perhaps you had better hurry to finish his Death Book. But, there is always hope.” He snickered. “The mercenary plays palmer for him on the pilgrimage.”

She crossed herself. “The knight who brought your brother back from the dead?” The entire village knew the tale. She had even heard blasphemous talk of him as The Savior.

Lord Richard flopped back in his chair with a pout. “If you believe his account. A man who fights for coin instead of for fealty can scarcely be trusted.”

A curious criticism, she thought, since Lord Richard had managed to avoid fighting in France at all. “A landless knight must do what he can. God works in mysterious ways.”

His lips curved. “Doesn’t He? Well, perhaps your prayers and the mercenary’s visit will soften Saint Larina’s heart to cure the lingering effects of my brother’s wounds.” Boredom saturated his voice. “Who goes to fulfill the perpetual vow this year?”

“Sister Marian.” She hesitated for a moment. “And Dominica.”

Lord Richard uncurled himself, spine straight, feet flat on the floor, and met her eyes for the first time. “The little scribe? Is she old enough to travel?”

Did everyone know the girl could write? Pray God she had said nothing to him about her heretical ideas. “In her seventeenth year, my lord.”

His nose twitched as a weasel’s might. “And still a virgin?”

The Prioress drew herself to her full height. “Do you have so low an opinion of my stewardship?”

“I’ll take that for a ‘yes.’ What does she seek on this pilgrimage?”

Clasping her hands, she considered his curiosity. Perhaps she could use it. “She wants to join the order and she seeks a sign that God approves.”

“Because you do not?”

She assessed him for a moment. There might be a reason to tell him the truth. “No. I do not.”

“Then we have something in common. I have another interest. In the mercenary,” he said. His dark eyes glowed. “My brother’s gratitude seems to extend to perpetual support, as if this Garren were a saint. I would have him see what kind of knave the man really is.”

She already knew what kind of a knave Lord Richard was. No doubt his brother did, as well. The Prioress waited for his proposition. She did not think it would be a pleasant one.

“Offer this Garren money if he will seduce the little virgin. He seems to do anything for a bit of coin. And when she accuses him, we shall each have something we want.”

“Milord, I cannot—”

“You don’t want her to be a nun. Neither do I. And once Garren is disgraced, William will have to throw him out.” He paused, smiling. “If he lives that long. If not, then I’ll be the righteous one. And then I’ll have a few personal tasks for the girl.” His smirk left no doubt that those tasks would take place in the bedchamber. “Don’t worry. She may still do laundry for you, Prioress, in her idle hours.”

“Milord, how can you ask such a thing?” And how could she consider it? Because she was responsible for twenty lives besides Dominica’s. Lives already pledged to God. And when the Earl died, the fate of those lives would rest in Lord Richard’s hands.

“If you do, I might be able to give you the support you need. And a generous incentive to the mercenary for his sin.”

No hint of trouble, she had told the girl. This scheme would assure she never took the vows. Of course, hadn’t she herself wondered, nay, hoped for just such a thing? Perhaps God was answering her unspoken prayers. “And I’m sure your remembrance of the Priory will be generous.”

He laughed, a chittering sound that rattled on the roof of his mouth. “Well, that all depends on how successful you and the Blessed Larina, are, doesn’t it?”

The girl had the Devil’s own eyes. Maybe this was the fate God had meant for her. And the mercenary? He and God could wrestle for his soul.

“I promise nothing,” she said, cautiously. “I can but prepare the table.” And pray for forgiveness.

“I promise nothing, either.” He squinted at her. “Prepare it well.”

Garren, though he had given up God as a lost cause, was still shocked when a nun asked him to violate a virgin.

“Dominica is her name,” the Prioress said, settled in her shabby chamber as if it were a throne room. “Do you know her?”

Speechless, he shook his head.

“Come.” The Prioress beckoned him to the window overlooking the garden. “See for yourself.”

The girl knelt in the dirt, facing away from him. Her hair lay like poured honey in a thick braid down her back. She hummed over her plants, a soothing sound, like the drone of a drowsy bee.

Of its own accord, his heart thumped a little harder. Even from behind she had a pleasing shape. It would not be difficult to take her, but the idea rekindled a sense of outrage he thought long dead.

“I’ll not force her.” He had seen too much force in France. Knights who took vows of chivalry and then took women like rutting boars. The remembrance churned in his stomach. He would starve first.

“Use whatever methods you like.” The Prioress shrugged. “She must not return from this trip a virgin.”

He looked back at the girl, digging up the weeds. He was no knight from a romance, but he had a way with women. Camp followers across France could attest to that. Every woman had a sweet spot if you took time to look. Where would this one’s be? Her shell-like ears? The curve of her neck?

She stood and turned, smiling at him briefly and the purest blue eyes he had ever seen looked into his wretched soul. He felt as transparent as stained glass.

And for a moment, he shook with fear he had never felt before a battle with the French.

He shrugged off the feeling. There was no reason for it. She was not that remarkable. Tall. Rounded breasts. Freckles. A broad brow. Her mouth, the top lip serious, the bottom one with a sensual curve. And an overall air as if she were not quite of this earth.

She turned away and kneeled to weed the next row.

“Why?” He had asked God that question regularly without reply. He didn’t know why he expected a country Prioress to answer.

The Prioress, broad of chest and hip, did not take the question theologically. Her dangling crucifix clanked like a sword as she strode away from the window, out of hearing of the happy hum. “You think me cruel.”

“I have seen war, Mother Julian. Man’s inhumanity is no worse than God’s.” He had a sudden thought. The usual resolution to a tumble with a maid would find him married in a fortnight. “If it is a husband you need, I’m not the one. I cannot support a wife.”

I can barely support myself.

“You will not be asked to marry the girl.”

He eyed a neatly stitched patch on her faded black habit and wondered whether she had the money she promised. “Nor fined.”

“If you had any money you would not be considering my offer. No, not fined, either. God has a different plan.”

God again. The excuse for most of the ill done in the world. Hypocrites like this one had driven him from the Church. “If you do not care for my immortal soul, aren’t you concerned about hers? What will happen to her? Afterward?”

Her eyes flickered over him, as if trying to decide whether he was worthy of an answer. “Her life will go on much as before.”

He doubted that. But the money she offered would be enough for him to give William the gift of the pilgrimage. Enough and more. William would be dead soon. Garren would have no welcome under Richard’s reign. All he owned was his horse and his armor. With England and France at peace, he had no place to go.

With what she offered, and the few coins he had left from France, he might find a corner of England no one else wanted, where he and God could ignore each other.

“Can you pay me now?”

“I’m a Prioress, not a fool. You’ll get your money when you return. If you succeed. Now, will you do it?”

The girl’s happy hum still buzzed in his ear. What was one more sin to a God who punished only the righteous? Besides, the Church didn’t need this one. The Church had already taken enough.

He nodded.

“Sister Marian also goes to the shrine. She knows nothing of this. She wants the girl to fulfill her vow and return to the order.”

“And you do not.”

The Prioress crossed herself. A faint shudder ruffled the edge of her robe. “She is a foundling with the Devil’s own eyes. He can have her back.” Her smile was anything but holy. “And you will be His instrument.”

Chapter Two

“Look. There he is. The Savior.” Sister Marian’s words tickled Dominica’s ear. She whispered so no one would overhear the blasphemous nickname for the man who, like the true Savior, had raised a man from the dead.

“Where? Which one?” Dominica did not bother to whisper. The entire household had gathered in the Readington Castle courtyard to witness the blessing of God’s simple pilgrims before they left on their journey. The sounds of braying asses, snorting horses and barking dogs assaulted her ears, accustomed to convent quiet. At Sister’s feet, Innocent barked fiercely at every one of God’s four-legged creatures.

“Over there. By the big bay horse.”

She gasped. He was the man she had seen through the Prioress’s window.

He certainly did not look holy. His broad shoulders looked made to stand against the real world, not the spirit one. Dark brown curls, the color of well-worn leather, fought their way around his head and onto his cheeks, where he had begun to grow a pilgrim’s beard. His skin had lived with sun and wind.

Then he met her eyes again. Just like the first time, something called to her, as strongly as if he had spoken. Surely this must be holiness.

With an unholy bark, Innocent dashed across the courtyard, chasing a large, orange cat.

“I’ll get him,” Dominica called, too late for Sister to object. It was going to be difficult to keep Innocent safe among the temptations of the world.

Her first running steps tangled in her skirts, so she swooped them out of the way. Fresh air swirled between her legs. Laughing, she scampered around two asses, finally scooping Innocent up at the feet of a horse.

A large bay horse. With a broad-shouldered man beside it.

The Savior was taller than he looked from a distance. A soldier’s sword hung next to his pilgrim’s bowl and bag. Something hung around his neck hid beneath his tunic, not for the world to see. A private penance, perhaps.

“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 across the courtyard to the chapel. He hoped William could not see from his window as Richard usurped the rightful 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 last amen and her fellow pilgrims rose, leaning on their staffs, and filed past the Earl on their way out of the chapel, giving thanks for his gift of food.

When Sister Marian stopped before him, he thanked her for her work on the Readington psalter, clutched in his white-spotted hand.

Sister brushed the thin, blond hair from his damp brow as if he were a child. Many were afraid to touch him now. They whispered “leprosy” when they saw the mottled black-and-pink-and-white spots on his skin.

Dominica quaked a little, too, when it was her turn to bend her knees before him. But he had been so nice to her as a child. Not like Richard.

He lifted a finger to his lips. “Remember. A secret.”

She pursed her lips, nodding, and looked for Lord Richard, still talking with Mother Julian and Abbot. Make sincere confession, the Abbot had said. Did keeping a secret require the same penance as a lie? She thought not. A lie had words. Words made it real.

As she moved on, The Savior knelt beside the Earl, clasping the dying man’s shoulder in a gesture that might have been called tender. Sir Garren will hurry, she thought, relieved. We’ll be there in time for The Blessed Larina to save him.

With Sister, Dominica circled back to the altar rail, kneeling for a final blessing from the Prioress. She wanted words that would keep her company until she was safe at home again. But instead of a kiss of peace, the Prioress hissed at her, too softly for anyone else to hear. “Remember, any hint of trouble and you will have no home with us.” Then, she turned her back, murmuring to Sister Marian in Latin.

Dominica gripped her staff. A knot in the wood scraped her palm. No home at the Priory meant she had no home at all.

Her own blessing complete, Sister Marian leaned on her staff and straightened her reluctant knees. She was not more than two score years, but copying had made her body old and chanting had kept her voice young.

Dominica, still shaking from Mother Julian’s words, offered her arm. Together, she and Sister shared slow steps toward the chapel door. Cool tears blurred her fellow pilgrims into a lumpy, gray cloud in the middle of the sunny courtyard. Surely God would not let the Prioress stand in the way of His plan for her life.

As they paused in the doorway, she swiped the one tear that escaped.

“What is the matter, child?” Sister patted Dominica’s arm with stiff fingers. “Why do you cry? Have you changed your mind? Do you want to stay here?”

More than anything, she thought, forcing a smile. No reason to disturb Sister Marian with words not meant for her. She shook her head and wiped the back of her hand against the scratchy wool. “Of course I want to stay here. That’s why I am going away, so I need never leave again.”

“Outside the Priory, the world is large. Many things can happen.”

“And I plan to write about them so I can remember when I return.” She patted the sack where her precious parchment and quill lay.

“You say that now.” Weary sadness shadowed Sister’s eyes. “Perhaps you will not want to come back.”

“Of course I will.” Even the thought of being abandoned to the world made her long for the comfort of the Priory. “I know every brick in the chapel, every branch on the tree in the garden. It is where I belong.”

Sister Marian blinked as they stepped into the sunshine. She reached up, squaring the scleverin on Dominica’s shoulders. Sister Barbara had stitched the rough gray wool cloak in loving haste, since Dominica’s fingers were better at copying than stitching and Sister Marian said the cloak she wore on pilgrimage five years ago was still perfectly fine and she did not need another.

“Have you ever missed having a mother, Neeca?”

She smiled to hear Sister use her baby name. “Dominica” had been too big for a little girl’s tongue. “I’ve had lots of mothers. You, Sister Barbara, Sister Catherine, Sister Margaret.” She laid her hand atop Sister’s, covering it easily.

Sister shook her head and flashed her dimple. “And none of us has been able to make you stop biting your nails.” The smile faded. “Have you missed having a father?”

“How can I miss something I have never had? Besides, I have our Heavenly Father. And I have promised my hands to Him to spread His holy word.” She raised her face to the sky, eyes closed, letting the sun’s warmth fade the Prioress’s words. “I know what God intends for me. Faith allows no doubts.”

Sister shook her head. “I could not teach you everything. Even the most faithful doubt. Faith is moving ahead in spite of doubt.”

Faith can be dangerous, The Savior had said. She looked back into the chapel where he still knelt, clutching the Earl’s hand. His broad shoulders cast a protective shadow over the pale, fading body.

Fides facit fidem, she answered, silently. “Faith makes faith.”

Garren squeezed William’s clammy palm, as if his own strength could force his friend back to health. William’s very skin was flaking away, his body dissolving to free his soul.

“I will deliver your message without asking why and bring back a feather even though it be a sin,” Garren said, looking over his shoulder. Richard still spoke to the Abbot and the Prioress whispered to the girl and the Sister, too far away to hear him. “But don’t pretend to these people I am some kind of prophet.”

A smile whispered on William’s lips. He seemed in less pain this morning. “Perhaps you are closer to God than you think, my friend.”

“You know better,” Garren said, shaking his head. “If God listened to my prayers, you would be going on this pilgrimage.” Bracing his elbow against William’s, he pushed as if to arm wrestle. The weight of his arm pressed William’s down without effort. “When I get back, we’ll arm wrestle for the palmer’s fee. Winner pays.”

“I thought dice was your game.”

“I won’t leave this win to chance.”

“The palmer’s fee is little enough compared to what you gave up for me.”

“And a pilgrimage is little enough compared to what you did for me.” Anything he had to do to repay him would be worth it. Anything. He blocked out the thought of Dominica humming.

Whatever strength had raised William from his bed had drained away. Pale skin stretched across his broad forehead, tight as on a skull. “Besides, unless you hurry, I shall not be here for you to argue with.”

“You had better be,” Garren said, through clenched teeth. “You’ll want to see the saint’s feather I’m going to bring you.”

William shook his head, muttering against a blasphemous act, but Garren did not listen. He owed William more than he owed God. I’ll do whatever I have to do to get there and back in time to see him again. In time to give back some of what I owe.

He could feel God laughing at his vow.

A soft rustle behind him announced the black robed Prioress. “How good to see you outside your room, Lord Readington. It is an answer to our constant prayers.”

Garren had no doubt that was true. Beneficences from the Readingtons meant their livelihood and Richard was not known as a generous patron.

“Thank you for your prayers, Prioress.” William nodded toward Dominica, lending her arm to the Sister as they walked to the door. “Dominica goes, too?”

Curious. Garren was not even aware William knew her.

“She begged me to let her go, my lord.” The Prioress raised her eyebrows. “We shall see where God leads her as she sees the world for the first time.”

Garren looked at the Prioress in disgust, but she refused his glance. It was not God who would lead the girl astray. “Who is she, William?”

This time, the Prioress threw him a sharp look.

Though William’s eyes had faded like an overwashed tunic, there was still a flash of humor left. “You’ve savored your share of ladies, Garren. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed this one. Yellow hair. Twilight eyes.”

“It sounds as if you have noticed her yourself,” Garren countered. Framed in the open door, the Sister straightened her cloak. Sunlight stroked her hair. William was wrong. It wasn’t yellow. It was more the color of sweet ale, when the light from the fire shone through it.

“My family is responsible for the Priory and all who dwell there.”

A chill settled on his back. What if William had an interest in the girl? He shrugged off the thought. More likely William would be dead by the time they returned and never know her fate. The thought did not comfort him. “William—” he began.

“Well, my Lord,” the Prioress interrupted, “since you are well enough to leave your room, I have been seeking an audience to ask…”

“Brother, how foolish of you.” Richard rushed over, leaving the Abbot alone, and nearly knocking the Prioress aside with his elbow. “The effort has obviously been too much. Niccolo, come!”

Garren started as the Italian materialized out of the shadows. He wondered how long the man had lurked there.

All nose and lips, Niccolo had been left behind by one of the Lombardy moneylenders. It was their money the King had borrowed to pay mercenaries like himself who fought in France. Richard had given the man a room. No one was quite certain what he did there. Practiced alchemy, Garren suspected. Lead into gold. A fool’s errand.

Richard claimed Niccolo was searching for the right golden elixir to cure William’s wasting illness. Strange how many ills gold could cure.

Niccolo kept his head bowed and his eyes hidden. “Yes, Lord Richard.”

“He should never have been allowed to leave his room in this condition,” Richard said. “I think he needs another of your healing remedies.”

Niccolo clapped and the two attendants stepped forward. William’s fingers slid from Garren’s as they lifted the litter.

“Hurry back, Garren.”

“Farewell, brother,” Garren whispered, wondering whether he would ever see William alive again.

He turned to the Prioress as Richard trailed after the litter. “You did not tell me the Earl had a care for Dominica.” It was the first time he had said her name aloud. It filled his mouth.

A red flush bloomed next to the white edge of the woman’s wimple. “The girl was not made for the veil. That should be evident. We had an agreement. Honor it.”

“Honor? A strange word, Prioress, for what you’ve asked.”

Her glance slid toward Richard. “God works in mysterious ways.”

“You seem eager to blame God for all the sins of man. I must take responsibility for my own.”

“Then do so. I trust the sum is persuasive enough.”

“It is.” He felt tainted at the words, but the sin could hardly be worse than what he had done for the King’s wages. He wondered again where she would get the money. And why it was worth so much to her. Another of God’s mysteries, no doubt.

Suddenly, he was anxious to leave, to get on with the journey, to breathe the wind, to do even this futile thing for William. He bowed to the Prioress and, without a word, strode out of the chapel into the sunny courtyard.

Dominica pointed to him. “There he is.”

His fellow travelers stared.

“Is he the one?”

“This is the man?”

One voice sounded like another. The faces looked at him expectantly, indistinguishable as a flock of dirty sheep.

Dominica nodded.

“We need a leader,” one curly haired young man said. Next to him, a woman, as like him as a Gemini twin, held his hand. “It should be The Savior.”

They paused, waiting for him to do something. He groaned. There would, of course, be piety required on a pilgrimage. “Yes,” he said, “I’m sure Our Lord Jesus will lead us every step of the way.” There. He had said the proper words in response.

“No,” the young man said. “The Savior. You.”

Chapter Four

The Savior. You.

Garren stifled a laugh. The world even played jokes on God.

Morning sunlight polished ten expectant faces awaiting his answer. He could pick them out now, one by one. The little nun. The Gemini couple, holding hands. The merchant’s wife, a well-rounded woman with a well-used look. The brothers. The scar-faced man, scowling. A squire too young to earn his spurs. A tall, thin man the wind would blow over.

Dominica, lips parted, face glowing with faith.

In him.

Not one of them could wield a sword against thieves or find food in the forest. Not one knew how to survive.

He knew. France had taught him.

“I will lead you,” he said, “because I can get you there safely.” And bring you back quickly enough to see William one more time, he thought. “Not because I’m anyone’s Savior.”

“Savior? Who’ve ye saved?” the scar-faced man growled. There, at least, was one man who did not hold him in awe. White hair, coarse as straw, framed his battered face. He could have lived one score of years or three, but whatever the number, they had been hard ones. “No man can save me. Not even God can save me.” He stomped away.

Unease rippled through the pilgrims like wind through hay grass ready for cutting.

“What’s that?” The plump woman turned one ear toward him. “Say again? This is my deaf ear,” she said, loud enough to hear herself, patting her right ear. “And this one works,” she said, pointing to her left. “Speak up. Has anyone traveled this way before? When I went to the shrine of Saint James in Compostela, we had a new guide and we were lost in the Pyrenees for a week before we could get to Spain and nearly…”

As she rambled on, his shell pressed more heavily against his chest. He wondered whether God and Saint James had answered her prayers.

Dominica touched the woman’s arm to get her attention without shouting. “Sister Marian has been to the shrine of the Blessed Larina. More than once.”

The little nun plucked Dominica’s sleeve. “Neeca, please…”

Neeca. They called her Neeca. Garren said it silently, his tongue tickling the roof of his mouth.

The merchant’s wife, broad as two of the Sister, looked the little nun up and down. “More than once, has she? Then maybe the Sister should lead us instead of this Savior fellow.”

Garren let himself join the laughter that washed away the scar-faced man’s anger.

The merchant’s wife, still laughing, strolled over to him, the Compostela shell around her neck clanking against the gold cross and the pewter badge of St. Thomas Becket sitting sideways on a horse. She kneaded his arm muscles, as if she were sizing up a horse.

Dominica’s gasp at the disrespect amused him.

“You look like a trustworthy sort,” the woman said. “Broad shoulders. Strong arms. Fought at Poitiers?”

The word smelled like French dirt. He clenched his fist. “Yes.”

“A great victory. And you brought the Earl of Readington back to life.” She nodded her approval. “If God is watching so carefully over you, He will take care of us.”

God, he thought, shaking off her fingers, had nothing to do with it. “I’m a soldier, not a saint. Your souls are your own affair.” The muscle between his shoulder blades ached, as if he had hoisted a heavy sword along with the responsibility for their safety. “Pick up your food. Say your farewells. We leave within the hour.”

Except for Dominica and the Sister, they scattered like cooing pigeons. This Savior business was all the girl’s doing, he thought, and he was going to end it now. “Dominica,” he began.

She backed away from his frown. “I’ll get your food, Sister,” she called over her shoulder, running 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 jerked the Widow’s sleeve. “I said ‘come.’ Are you deaf?”

“Yes, I am,” the woman answered, raising her head and her eyebrows. “God keep you for your concern.”

Cook threw the packet of food at her, snarling. “And keep that dog away from the table!” he yelled at Dominica. “Look, he already ate a piece of cheese! I’m not feeding animals, too.”

The Widow winked.

Even stretched on his stubby legs, Innocent couldn’t reach the table, but she scooped him up with her left arm and took the last three parcels of food with her right. “For Sister Marian and The Savior,” she called back to the scowling cook as she walked out of the kitchen beside Widow Cropton. “Today, I wouldn’t mind having one deaf ear,” Dominica moaned.

“Well, it can be handy when I don’t want to be bored. What’s your name, dearie? Where are you from?”

“Dominica.” Squinting in the sunlight, she scanned the courtyard for Sister and The Savior as she set Innocent down. “I live at the Priory.”

“You don’t look like a nun.”

“I’m not yet. But I will be.” The very words made her smile.

The Widow harrumphed. “Not looking like you do.”

Dominica’s hand flew to her face, pressed her cheeks, touched her forehead, slid down her nose, tugged her ears. The Prioress said her eyes were frightening. Was there more? Was she deformed? “What’s wrong? We have no mirrors at the Priory.”

“Nothing when you smile.” She pinched Dominica’s cheek. “Smile more, girl. Show that dimple. Don’t worry. You’ll catch a husband.”

“But I don’t want a husband. I want to be a nun.”

Widow Cropton shook her head, as if she neither believed nor approved. “That’s a last resort, dearie. Pretty girl like you won’t need to waste away in a nunnery.”

It is not a waste to spread God’s word, she thought, but decided it was not her place to explain God’s plan to Widow Cropton. “Do you go on pilgrimage to ask the Blessed Larina to let you hear again?” she said instead.

The Widow snorted. “Well, I suppose.” She patted the badges on her ample bosom. “Although Saint James and Saint Thomas did no good. Perhaps a good woman saint can help.”

“So you’ve been on pilgrimage before?” She spotted The Savior and Sister, standing next to his big bay horse.

“Five times.” She laughed, heartily. “Once after each husband.”

“Five?” She turned back to the Widow in shock. “What happened to them?”

“Oh, they all died. They were much older than I, then.” She stroked her chin and neck, where the skin was losing its grip before disappearing into the folds of her wimple. “Men are such weak creatures, my dear. If they don’t get killed in battle they get smallpox or fall off a horse or drown in the river.” She shook her head.

Dominica was trying to listen, but she kept turning to watch Sir Garren. The Savior, she thought, did not look weak. Sleeves turned back to bare his sun-warmed arms, he hoisted a sack behind his horse’s saddle. The effort flexed muscles beneath his skin. In fact, he looked nothing like the thin, pale portraits of the saints on the Church walls. More like a strong, sheltering oak tree.

But the Widow obviously knew much more of men than she did. “So you are not married now?”

“No, or I wouldn’t be here. Or need to be. There’s more than one reason to visit the saints, dearie.” She winked. “Nothing ever happens in Bath, you know.”

“Nothing ever happens at the Priory either, but I wish I could stay there.” Safe with God and silence. “I’ve never been away before.”

“Oh, you have a treat ahead. You never know what each day on the road will bring, although if I had known this was such a backwater, I might have changed my mind. Everyone required to walk! Everyone still in gray cloaks! When I went to Saint James’s shrine in Compostela, Spain, I was carried by an ass every step of the way for nearly a year there and back and no one complained that I was not showing proper piety.”

Dominica nodded, watching Sister again, worried. They would be back before Saint Swithin’s Day, with luck, but Sister’s steps between the scriptorium and the chapel were slower than they once were and she had refused Dominica’s suggestion that she ride on the Priory’s extra ass.

“So,” the Widow said, loud enough to draw her back from her worries. “Well, this Savior fellow, what’s his name?”

“Sir Garren.”

“He reminds me of my fourth husband.” She patted Dominica’s arm. “He was my favorite. There’s much to be said for husbands, dearie, even the bad ones. Sometimes it is good to have a man to warm your bed and to whisper in your good ear.”

“But he’s The Savior!” The Widow’s words seemed blasphemous, but no more so than the feelings that stirred thinking about Sir Garren warming her bed. Dominica wanted to remind the Widow that she was going to be a nun and would have no need of men, but the Widow had noticed James Ardene across the courtyard and she lifted her hand to wave.

“Excuse me. I think I’ll ask the Physician if he brought any marjoram. I can tell you I’ll need a poultice for my swelling feet before we reach Exeter.”

Dominica turned to see Garren lifting Sister Marian onto the horse and tucking her into the high-backed saddle with a tenderness that reminded her of his care of Lord William.

She sighed, relieved that Sister would ride and wondering how he had persuaded her. But he was The Savior. Sister would listen to him.

She would thank him, even if she had to brave his frown. And her fears.

Chapter Five

Standing next to the huge warhorse, Dominica stretched up to hand Sister her portion of food. Then, ducking her head to avoid meeting his eyes, she thrust the other bag at The Savior, who was tying supplies behind the saddle. She was not ready to say her speech of thanks. She needed to plan the words so she would not say the wrong thing.

As the sun reached its height, she and the rest of the chattering pilgrims followed The Savior across the Readington castle drawbridge and toward the west. Beside him, Sister swayed atop Roucoud, both her legs dangling to one side. Dominica walked on the other side of the huge warhorse, close to Sister, but hidden from The Savior. Innocent trotted at her feet, a safe distance from the horse’s hooves.

Between the castle and the Priory, the fields rolled yellow and green and familiar in every direction. West, beyond the Priory, each step carried her farther from all she had known. Widow Cropton’s drone tickled her ear, drowning out the lark’s song, as she described every detail of her past pilgrimages. By midafternoon, she had described the journey across the Channel to Calais. Dominica felt as if she, too, had traveled as far as France, for she no longer recognized the land around them.

Her thighs already ached and she envied Roucoud’s muscles, bunching and flexing beneath his reddish coat with every powerful step. She peeked around him. The Savior moved as powerfully as his horse, one step following another.

She silently mouthed several words of thanks she might say to him, wishing she could write them instead, but she had brought barely enough parchment to record the journey. Finally satisfied, she repeated them in rhythm with each step. She would not say them aloud until she could be alone with him and Sister could not hear. Sister never liked being fussed over.

Beneath her gray wool cloak, Dominica steamed like Cook’s baked bread by the time The Savior called a stop. When he lifted Sister Marian off Roucoud, Dominica saw damp stains under his arms. He’s hot, she thought, surprised. She had not expected a near saint to have a sinful body that sweated just as hers did.

She watched, surreptitiously, as he disappeared into the woods. He must have bodily needs, too. The shocking picture of The Savior relieving himself popped unbidden into her mind. More than the sun heated her cheeks and she held the wicked image a moment longer than she should have before begging God’s forgiveness.

After he returned and Sister went into the woods, Dominica walked over to him, ready to speak. She tilted her head back. She could meet many a man’s eye, but he was taller than the Abbot. Almost as tall as Lord William.

Taking a deep breath, she said the words she memorized. “Thank you for persuading Sister Marian to ride. In even this small way, you are a savior.”

“I am no one’s savior!” he said, through clenched teeth, glancing toward the other pilgrims. Only strong will, she thought, held back his shout. “Stop telling people I am.”

“But you saved Lord William!” She had practiced no more words, so the ones she had been told tumbled out. “At Poitiers, where our glorious Black Prince triumphed with God’s help.”

“Only if God created all Frenchmen cowards.” A scowl clung to his face like morning fog. She always seemed to make him angry.

“But it was a miracle!” She was sure that’s what she had been told about the glorious victory. “We were outnumbered, surrounded, and yet the French forces were scattered as if by an unseen hand.”

“I believe only in hands I can see.” He thrust his hands before her face. Large, square hands. Callused. And, she knew, oddly gentle. “These hands carried Readington home, not God’s.”

Dominica had pictured a white-gowned wraith, floating a few inches above the ground, stretching thin fingers toward Lord William, who simply rose and walked. This man hoisted Lord William over his shoulder like a sack of the Miller brothers’ flour.

“Carried him with God’s help.” Her hands made the sign of the cross. “Everyone knows that!”

He dropped his hands to his side, sighing with exasperation. “Everyone knows nothing. I did no more for him than he did for me.”

She blinked. “Lord William brought you back from the dead?” The Earl was strong and kind and God had certainly protected his people from the Death when many others were taken, but she had never heard rumors Lord William might bring them back to life. “I thought he gave you a horse.”

The man was silent, then, as if he had slipped into the past. “He gave me a new life.”

Wondering whether she should risk asking what he meant, she ignored Innocent’s bark until he ran in front of her, short legs churning, chasing a scampering rabbit across the road and into a field. The waving green wheat swallowed the rabbit, as well as Innocent’s plump, shaggy black haunches.

“Come back,” Dominica cried, lifting her skirts to run after him.

The Savior grabbed her arm. “He’s a terrier. You can’t run after him every time every time he runs after a rabbit.” A smile tugged at The Savior’s lips.

“He’ll get lost! He’s never been outside the convent before.” She did not even know where she was. How would Innocent find his way back? Less than a day away from home and the world suddenly seemed a frightening place.

Innocent’s bark faded.

The Widow called from behind her, laughing. “Tell him to bring back our dinner.”

“But he likes turnips,” she cried, thinking how many times she had pulled his dirt-covered nose out of her garden. She bit her lip. What if he didn’t come back? “Where will he find turnips if he runs away?”

The Savior’s fingers still curled around her wrist, warm on her skin. “Let him enjoy the chase.”

“What if he never comes back? How will he take care of himself?” She wished Sister would come back. Sister would understand.

“Any dog missing one ear has seen something of life,” he answered, not letting go of her arm. Her skin pulsed beneath his fingers.

His other ear made up for it, she thought. It stood up like a perky little unicorn’s horn and then flopped over at the top, bouncing when he chased his tail as she had taught him. Using turnips. And if he never came back she didn’t know how she would bear it.

She poured out the story to Sister, as The Savior lifted her back on the horse. “God will guide him back to us, if it is meant to be. Have you prayed?”

Dominica shook her head, ashamed she had not, but not at all certain that God had time to look for lost dogs.

Sneering at Dominica as he strode past her, the squire faced The Savior, chest to chest, close enough to prove he was a fighting man, too. Perhaps he feels he has something to prove, she thought, for he was beautiful as a blond, painted angel. “Sir Garren, let’s go. We’re not going to stay here waiting for a dog, are we?”

Sir Garren, though it was hard to think of him that way, smiled with the patience he seemed to show everyone but her. “We are going to stay here until I say it’s time to leave.” There was steel in his voice. Enough to remind Simon, to remind all of them, that he was the leader and accustomed to command. “Why don’t you check the woods to make sure we are all here, young Simon?”

The young squire’s ears turned red, but he stalked off into the woods.

Before Simon returned, Innocent, pink tongue panting between shaggy black whiskers, poked his nose out from the young wheat. Trotting back to her, he started to chase his tail, as if to cajole her forgiveness. Dominica snatched him up, squeezing him tight, comforted by the heaving bellows of his warm little chest against hers. “Bad dog.”

Sister scratched behind his good ear.

“Don’t reward him for running away! Next time he might not come back.”

“You see, Dominica. You must have faith in God.”

Or in The Savior, she thought to herself, who had delayed their departure long enough for Innocent to come back.

Dominica thrust the limp black bundle up to Sister. “Here. Carry him on the horse so he won’t run away again.”

Sister looked at The Savior for approval. “The horse may not like dogs, my child.”

“Roucoud is remarkably tolerant,” he said. A smile seemed to be hovering around his lips.

“He can’t ride horseback all the way to Cornwall,” Sister said, but she settled the dog in front of her. Exhausted, Innocent flopped over the saddle as the group resumed its walk.

Threats lurked everywhere, Dominica thought, striding ahead as if she might out-walk her worries. She knew the journey would have dangers, wild boars or even dragons but she never expected to lose Innocent.

The Savior caught up with her, shortening his stride to walk beside her. “Don’t worry about the dog.” Amusement gilded his voice. “Judging by that missing ear, he wasn’t raised in a convent. He had quite a life before he came to you.”

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. The more she saw him, the harder it was to picture him with wings. “So did you.”

He didn’t frown, exactly, but his face changed as if he had dropped a cloak over it. “Any soldier has.”

He was much more than a simple fighting man, but talk of his special relationship with God seemed to annoy him. “Have you see much of the world?”

“Enough.” He used words as sparingly as a monk.

“Tell me of God’s world.”

“You’ve never left the convent?”

“Only to go to the castle.” Trips she wanted to forget. At least the encounters with Sir Richard. “Is it true there are dragons at the edge of the sea?”

“I have only been as far as France. And the Widow Cropton has described the countryside in more detail than I ever could.” Amusement softened the lines etched in his face. Unlike the stern saints in the portraits, he seemed to tolerate human frailties. Except hers. “But let us enjoy today. War is no subject for a summer’s day stroll with a lovely lady.”

She studied his eyes to see if he made fun of her, but they were warm and no longer angry. She was no lady, but the word made her stand a little straighter and she lifted the hair that hung down in front of her and flipped it over her shoulder, wondering if that was the sin of vanity.

“What is a subject for a stroll with a lady?” she asked. “Talking is not allowed in the Priory.” And when she did talk, the Prioress always scolded her. When she wrote, she could ponder every word.

“The beauty of the day.” His voice turned husky. “The beauty of her eyes.”

Startled, she turned. His eyes, gazing into hers, were deep green, the dark lashes were straight and thick. And she felt as if he had reached inside of her and touched something around her heart. Or her stomach.

Some instinct kept her feet moving as she looked down at the footworn path. “The Prioress calls them Devil’s eyes.”

He muttered something she could not hear. “No chivalrous knight would 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 like Larina, to fly like Larina;

Your faith gives you wings to fly like Larina

Into the arms of the Lord.”

Dominica hummed along, tapping one foot, happily reminded why she was here and what she would find at the end of her journey: a sign from God that she could go home.

She counted the singers. Sir Garren was not among them, nor were Simon and Ralf. Perhaps he was standing guard with them.

She felt a shield at her back, blocking the wind, and turned. Sir Garren loomed behind her, tall and straight as a tree. “You do not join the singing?”

Her throat clutched the hum. She was not going to speak to him. She was not certain she could speak to him. But he had asked her a direct question. She had to say something. “Singing is not my talent. Mother Julian has always been clear about that.”

A frown creased his brow. Everything she said brought a frown. He smiled at Sister. He even smiled at Innocent. What was it about her that made him frown? “You dislike singing?” she ventured.

“I dislike announcing our presence to thieves.”

A gust of wind rustled the ragged oak leaves behind her. Hand-shaped shadows waved along the ground. Dominica swallowed. Thieves. Something new to fear. Bravery had been easy when, sheltered by cloistered walls, all she had to fear was Mother Julian. “God protects pilgrims.” And it is your task to protect us, she thought.

He opened his mouth and then shut it with a deliberate smile. “Don’t worry.” He brushed a lock of hair back from her forehead. She shivered at the touch of his fingers, yet she felt reassured. “We are still close to William’s land.”

At least he had not frowned.

This time, however, she would not speak. Ignoring him, she looked back at the singers and hummed through closed lips waiting for him to go away.

He stayed. Back straight as a soldier, he stood so close to her she could sense the rise and fall of his chest. She wondered whether it were covered by the same dark brown hair as his fingers, scolding herself for the thought. Even if he were no saint, she should not think of him as a man. Nuns never thought of men that way.

She jumped when he spoke again, his voice soft somewhere above her left ear. “I must ask your forgiveness. I spoke like the rudest peasant instead of a chivalrous knight.”

Refusing to look at him, she kept her gaze on the fire, hoping he could not see her satisfied smile. “I know little of chivalry.”

Large, warm hands cupped her shoulders. He turned her, gently, but firmly, to face him. Firelight flickered over his face, softening the rough edge of his chin and the harsh lines around his eyes. “I am sorry. I have no excuse for ill treatment of another.”

She chose her words carefully, trying to resist the pleading look in his eyes. “It is not my place to judge a man who is one of God’s messengers.”

His chest rose with an inheld breath, as if he were ready to berate her again, but sighed instead. “At least you are no longer calling me The Savior.” He shook his head. “Life treats us ill enough. We should be kind to each other.”

Sorrow lurked in his voice. Chagrined, she regretted her petty game. He preached kindness, just as the Savior did. And practiced it, too. She had seen it in his care of Sister and all of them. He had asked for forgiveness. Surely she could forgive ill manners. “I forgive you.”

Some of the pain behind his eyes dissolved. “Thank you.”

She couldn’t look away. Her chest rose and fell with his, and she had a strange, dizzy sensation that they breathed as one person.

Behind her, the singing dissolved in laughter. She stepped away from him and looked back at the fire.

He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you talk now?”

She did not want to talk to him. She did not want to stand near him. She did not want to feel so shaky and uncertain. She filled her chest with air, relieved that her breath was her own again. “I am not experienced with talking. At the Priory, we speak only with permission.” No need to tell him she didn’t always wait for permission.

“I give you permission.” It sounded more like a command.

What did he want of her? She turned and let her words fly without planning. “What should I say? I am not to speak of your eyes or your home and family or the war or God. I cannot speak of my travels, because I have none.”

Now he was the one who kept his eyes on the fire, refusing to face her. The singers started a round, and completed the three parts. Still, he did not answer. For a man who wanted to talk, it seemed to come no more easily to him than to her. “Tell me of your life at the Priory,” he said, finally.

She smiled, happy to talk of home. “I tend the garden, do the wash, clean.” No scowls this time. A determined smile carved his face. Should she tell him about her writing?

A cold, wet nose nudged her ankle. She picked up Innocent, burying her nose in his fur, smelling the unfamiliar earth he had explored. “And I feed the dog.” He washed her face with a scratchy tongue. “Find any turnips, boy?”

Sir Garren scratched behind the shaggy black ear and Innocent busied his tongue with the broad palm instead of Dominica’s face. Laughing, she turned back to The Savior, or whoever he was. “Did you have a dog as a child?”

“I don’t remember.”

At first she thought that he didn’t want to speak of his childhood. Then, the puzzlement in his voice hit her ear.

He could not remember. This was a man who had not been a child for a long, long time.

She watched in wonder as he patiently let Innocent’s pink tongue clean every one of his fingers. “How came you to know Lord William?” she asked, finally.

“He took me as his squire when I was seventeen.”

“Seventeen? A knight’s training begins as a child.”

“I had much to learn. My training was…interrupted.” The words came through lips narrowed by a harsh life.

“Interrupted by what?”

“I had just left the monastery.”

A shudder chilled her spine. Had he broken his vows? Was he an outcast monk? “Were you defrocked?”

“I was just completing my novice year. I had not taken my vows.” A haunted look lurked about his eyes. “All I could offer was a rusty sword arm, not even a sword.”

He gave me a new life, he said of the Earl of Readington, with the fierce loyalty men normally reserve for God. Even she knew how generous the Earl had been to take on a penniless, ill-trained squire. “Why did you leave the monastery?”

He was silent while the crackling fire shot a shower of sparks into the twilight sky, blue as if it had been ground from azurite. The first star blinked. “This was after the Death,” he said, finally.

She crossed herself. He had not answered, but she understood. Many strange events had come upon the land seized by that terror almost ten years ago. God had nearly destroyed the world. She still did not understand how the comforting God who spoke to her could let such a plague loose upon his people. “God punished us so harshly. We must strive to do his will each day so tomorrow will not bring such a punishment again.”

He shook his head. “We must strive to enjoy today because God may snatch us away before tomorrow comes.”

“But if He does, there’s a reason. There is always a reason for God’s plan.”

“Can you explain it?”

She searched his eyes, wondering whether God had sent him to test her faith. There must be words she could say to convince him of the rightness of God’s plan. “Sola fide.”

“What?”

He did not understand her Latin. She must have mispronounced the words. “By faith alone.”

Light from the fire flickered over his face. Shadows from his strong brows concealed his eyes. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Don’t you?”

The Miller brothers, one with a low voice and one higher, filled the silence with their harmonies. Faith is a trap for fools, he had said, this man who saved people but walked away from God.

“I believe,” he whispered, staring at the fire, “that we owe each other more than we owe God.”

She realized she had not breathed, waiting for his answer.

Day One: Faire weather. Walked until vespers. Pleasant land.

Lip out, Dominica watched the morning sun spill pink over the horizon. One sheet of paper lay atop a rock. Her letters, small and tight, filled the precious page edge to edge, as she’d been taught.

But were they the right words?

Just one day away from the Priory, she was farther away from home than she had ever been. She could not even name the place they had slept. Everything was fresh and unseen and untried and she was exhausted with the newness of it all.

The cheeping sparrows hopped close enough to touch. She must enjoy this time. These days. Write them down so she could remember later. When she would never be able even to speak of them without permission.

She wanted to write about how funny Innocent had looked chasing the rabbit and the way the young married couple walked holding hands and that she was worried about how tired Sister had seemed last night.

She wanted to write about him.

She dipped the quill into the ink and tapped out the excess.

Smooth straight path. Slept under stars.

Stars. How inadequate. Thousands and thousands of tiny candle flames lit by God. She could hardly bear to shut her eyes for the wonder of sleeping under such a ceiling.

She added a word. Many.

She frowned at her stingy parchment, a rescraped and reused scrap no one wanted any more, not good enough to copy God’s words. She had room for only a word or two to help her remember later.

What word would she choose for him?

The Savior was too blasphemous. Garren too personal.

The Man, she wrote.

She stared in horror, then struck through the words, blunting the point of her quill, hiding them with an ugly black blot, wishing she could blot them out of her mind.

He must be more than a man. For if he were only a man, she might be only reacting to him as a woman.

Alone in the shelter of the small grove before the day’s journey began, Garren thought about his plan. He did not know whether it was a good one.

He took the tarnished, dented silver reliquary from around his neck. Unwrapping the scrap of leather tied around it, he pulled apart the slender, silver tube. Inside, he had hidden three goose down feathers he would exchange for feathers from the shrine. Somehow. When no one was looking.

He thought again of just giving William the goose down. After all, there must be enough true feathers of the Blessed Larina to fly to heaven. Most relics were frauds. William would never know.

But a promise made to William bound him more tightly than an oath made to God.

A branch snapped and he pulled his dagger.

Dominica stood transfixed, staring at the feathers nestled in their white linen shroud. The skin behind her freckles paled. Then, she looked at him, blue eyes so piercing he feared she could see him plucking the goose down from the aviary dust.

“It is a blessed feather from Saint Larina’s wings,” she whispered. “The wings God gave her.”

Well, what harm would it do to a girl who already believed sola fide. She must not know his real plans. “Yes, yes it is.” He lifted a finger to his lips. “But you must tell no one.” He rocked the feather as if it were a precious child. “I’m to deliver it to the shrine, but the fewer who know, the better. You understand.”

Her blue eyes, already wide and round, grew larger. Both eyebrows lifted. One, he noticed, arched like a bird’s wing. The other ended as if the wing had been broken. “Where did you find it?” Her whisper’s echo turned the grove into a chapel.

“I am not free to tell you.” he intoned, mimicking a priestly monotone. “You understand.”

She smiled with a sigh that sounded like relief. “I knew you were special the minute I saw you in the Prioress’s office. I had a warm feeling, like when I pray in front of the stained glass window.”

I had a warm feeling too, he thought, but it had nothing to do with prayer.

She uttered some Latin words, solemnly.

He blinked and nodded, trying to look as if he were striving to remember the exact chapter and verse she recited. Even at the monastery, he had been a poor student.

“That’s ‘Give all honor to God’s messenger,’” she said, with a self-satisfied grin. “I wrote that one.”

“You what?”

“Well, sometimes, I put the words together into sayings of my own.” She ducked her head. “Please correct me if I get it wrong.”

He nodded, sagely. No reason for her to know the limitations of his Latin.

He nodded to the cloth. “You must tell no one about the feathers,” he said. No need to spread another fable about his special link with God.

She peered at them, but kept her hands behind her back. “A relic carries all the power of the saint. It can work a miracle.”

Miracles. The girl believed in miracles. “Have you ever witnessed a miracle like that?”

“I know all the stories.”

“What if they are only stories?”

“How can you ask that?”

“There are more pilgrims than miracles.”

“God helps those who believe.”

“So if you aren’t cured it’s your fault because you didn’t believe, not God’s because He doesn’t care?”

The fierce blue eyes flashed. “There are many miracles. There’s the miller’s son who drowned but was revived by Thomas of Cantilupe and the monk who wrapped his swollen arm in Becket’s stole and was cured and…”

“And the miraculous resurrection of The Earl of Readington at Poitiers,” he said.

“Yes. It was a miracle, what you did.” She reached for the feather, her finger hovering above it, as if it were giving off heat. “May I…may I touch it?”

You may pick it up and throw it on the ground and stomp it in the dirt from which I plucked it, for all the holiness it carries, he thought, jealous for a moment that she looked at the feather with the kind of desire a man would like to see directed at him.

“Touch it gently,” he said.

“I have a very important request of God.” She impaled him with her eyes. “Will the Blessed Larina help me?”

He knew how God answered prayers. He had begged God for his parents’ lives. God answered no.

“God listens to our prayers,” he said, bitterly. “He just may not give us the answers we desire.”

She nodded, sighing. “That’s what Sister Marian says. That’s why I want Larina’s help. Sometimes, God needs a little push.”

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