When she finally looked up, Hugh had
disappeared. His cup still sat on the table, she had not heard him
move from the bench, the door to the workroom was closed, but he
was gone.
“Truly, he is a great mage,” she said to
Minn. “And though he tried to reassure me, I am more afraid than
ever.”
In the guest room Giles was feeding the
brazier with charcoal. Two maidservants had brought the brazier and
the fuel for it, along with the mattress and quilts that Mirielle
had promised, a pitcher of water, a basin for washing, and a small
oil lamp, which did no more to chase away the dark than the brazier
did to send the damp cold of the stone-walled room into retreat.
Giles glanced up as Hugh entered, but he did not speak until Hugh
had closed the door.
“Were you able to learn anything useful?”
Giles asked.
“I spoke with Lady Mirielle.”
“Did you?” Giles found his friend’s look a
bit too sharp. To avoid Hugh’s eyes, he turned back to the brazier.
“I had forgotten how uncomfortable an English castle can be. I have
grown soft in foreign lands.”
“We need not shiver. I think it is too late
for anyone to disturb us. All but the sentries seem to be
abed.”
“Including Sir Brice and Lady Alda.” Giles’s
voice was bitter.
“You knew the stories before we came here,”
Hugh said. “I thought you had made your peace with them—and made
your decision.”
“It is quite another matter to have the
evidence before my eyes,” Giles said.`
“Would warmth improve your mood?” Hugh
stretched out his arms, holding his long staff as always in his
left hand. A slight breeze swirled about the room, stirring the
sleeves and the hem of Hugh’s dark robe. The air in the room turned
noticeably warmer. Hugh tilted the staff in the direction of the
brazier and flames leapt upward from the charcoal, providing a
smokeless torch to light the tiny chamber. Another motion of Hugh’s
wrist banished the smell of mildew in favor of the tang of
fresh-cut cedarwood.
“Thank you.” Giles sat down on the bench.
Hugh joined him, still holding his staff.
“Mirielle knows we are not mere pilgrims as
we claim,” Hugh said. “More than that, the girl is a healer with a
talent for my own art, and she is far better trained than she
realizes.”
“Then she may prove to be a hindrance to us,”
Giles said. “Her loyalty to Sir Brice is obvious. She will protect
him if she can.”
“Were we to remain at Wroxley for a few
days,” Hugh spoke slowly, considering all possibilities, “I might
bring her to a point at which I could confide our true purpose to
her. She possesses a strong conscience. She will see the justice in
what we do.”
“We dare not forget that Mirielle lives every
day in Alda’s company,” Giles said. “Do not imagine that Alda has
no influence on her—or her cousin, Brice. Whether she has a
conscience or no, we cannot rely on her, Hugh. Be careful what you
teach her.”
“I am always careful.”
“I apologize, my friend. That was not meant
as a reproach. You know I trust your judgment. But we tread a
dangerous path here. We cannot depend on anyone at Wroxley.”
“Of that I am not certain,” Hugh responded.
“The situation is more complicated than we realized. After you quit
the great hall in such haste this evening, I spoke with several
men-at-arms and then I betook myself to the kitchen. In any
household the servants always know more of what is transpiring than
their masters do. This axiom holds true in every land.”
“And?” Ordinarily, Giles would have chuckled
at Hugh’s last remarks. Not tonight. He understood the gentle
censure in Hugh’s words. The plan had been for the two of them to
ask questions but he had allowed himself to be overcome by anger
and by a more primitive emotion. He and Hugh had become close
friends because Giles had seen the damage uncontrolled rage could
do. Sickened by battle and by the religious intolerance of both
sides in the war in the Holy Land, Giles had known he must mend his
soul or go mad. Too much blood had been spilled in the various
names of God, too many bodies had been dismembered, too many women
raped… In desperation he had asked Hugh how it was possible to find
peace within himself, only to learn that Hugh was also seeking
inner peace.
“The people of Wroxley are divided,” Hugh
said. “One camp consists of those who are still loyal to the memory
of Lord Udo and who await the return of his son and heir, Gavin. A
small cohort favors Lady Alda and will do whatever she commands.
The largest group has been won over by the improvements in their
lives during the year since Sir Brice came here as seneschal.”
“From what I learned from Mirielle,” Giles
said, “I suspect much of the improvement is her doing. Certainly,
Lady Alda is not of a character disposed to care for common
folk.”
“I think Lady Mirielle is careful to give all
the credit to Sir Brice.”
Giles nodded his agreement with this
statement. Rising, he began to prowl around the room as if it were
a cage.
“Sir Brice has been captured by the charms of
a certain woman,” Hugh remarked.
“We already knew that. I do not need to hear
it again.” Giles paused to send his friend a frowning look before
he resumed his pacing.
“Lady Alda is not Brice’s only interest,”
Hugh said. “There is another woman.”
“What?” Giles swung around to stare,
disbelief written on his face.
“Obviously, Lady Alda does not guess at the
affair, else the woman would be dead or, at the very least, turned
out of Wroxley wearing only her shift.” Hugh’s tone was dry.
“I do not doubt your information, Hugh, but
how did you come by it?”
“As I told you, the kitchen servants know
exactly what goes on in any household and, invariably, they love an
excuse to gossip. A soft word, a cup of wine containing just a
pinch of the right powder, and an understanding companion who
listens well can work wonders in loosening a tongue already more
than willing.” Hugh’s smile came and went.
“This mission grows more complicated by the
hour,” Giles exclaimed. “Now there are three women involved.”
“One of these women is honest, though not on
our side,” Hugh said. “Of the other two, one is false, as we
know.”
“Even if the third woman should prove
honest,” Giles added, “especially if she is honest, then she, too,
will be opposed to what we do.”
“As I am your advisor in this,” Hugh said,
his quick smile appearing again, “I would suggest that you befriend
the honest women, while perhaps you ought to make love to the
dishonest ones.”
“The problem,” Giles mused, “lies in
discovering which woman is which.”
We have followed too much the devices and
desires of our own hearts…we have done
those things which we ought not to have
done…
General confession
Book of Common Prayer.
Certain herbal medicines require frequent
attention during preparation. On the morning following her
conversation with Hugh, Mirielle was once again in her private room
working on a distillation when a knock came at the door. Without
waiting for her response the door swung open.
“Come in, Robin,” Mirielle said, recognizing
the boy. With great care she set down the bottle she had just
finished filling and stoppered it. After wiping both the bottle and
her hands on a cloth she gave Robin her full attention. “I trust
you have not come to me with an injury or an illness. You look well
enough.”
“No, my lady. I mean, yes, my lady.” Robin
would have gone to his knees before her had Mirielle not caught his
shoulders to keep him on his feet. The boy’s cheeks turned bright
pink at her touch and he stammered as he spoke. “It’s not me, my—my
lady. It—it’s the blacksmith.”
“He has not burnt his hand again?”
“No, Lady Mirielle. It’s his forearm, and
Ewain says ‘tis not serious. He would think nothing of it save that
you have warned him about burns festering. He asks if you could
send a bit of the same ointment you gave him to use last time?”
“It is one of the preparations I am making
this morning, but the fresh batch is not quite ready. You may tell
Ewain I will send a pot of ointment shortly, or I’ll carry it to
him myself. Assure him he will not have long to wait. In the
meantime, he can put clear, cold water on the burn.”
“I will tell him. Thank you, my lady.” With a
wide-eyed look around at the bunches and jars of herbs and the
glass vessels, Robin left.
Minn, who had opened one languid golden eye
when the door opened and had lifted her head at Robin’s familiar
voice, snuggled down again in her favorite warm spot near the
furnace and went back to sleep.
Mirielle also went back to what she had been
doing before Robin’s interruption. It was not often that the
superstitious castle folk knocked on the door of her workroom. Most
preferred to stop her while she went about her daily chores
elsewhere to ask for the herbal medicines she provided. Only Robin,
his mother Donada, Ewain the blacksmith, and one or two others were
brave enough to come directly to the workroom when they needed
help. Therefore, when a new knock sounded at the door Mirielle at
first assumed that Robin had forgotten part of the message for the
blacksmith and had returned to ask her to repeat it. With her back
to the door while she stirred the bowl of burn ointment, she called
out to the boy.
“Come in again, Robin. What have you
forgotten? No matter, if you can delay a few minutes longer, I will
give you the ointment to take with you. It is almost ready.”
“If you mean the lad from the stable, the one
who has it in him to be far more than a stableboy, he has run off
to the bailey. We passed him on our way.”
“Master Hugh.” Mirielle turned to greet him.
She nearly dropped the bowl she was holding when she saw that Giles
was with him. Her heart began to pound. Giles’s eyes were on her
face with a look that said he was recalling how close he had been
to kissing her on the previous evening. It took some effort to
remember her manners. “Good day to you both.”
“We have interrupted you.” Hugh crossed the
room to see what she was doing. Mirielle explained about the
blacksmith’s injury.
“If you like, I will take the ointment to
him,” Hugh offered. “It will serve as an introduction, since
wherever I go I try to converse with others who also work with
metals.”
“I imagined you were here to tell me more
about the wonderful things you have learned on your travels,”
Mirielle said, to hide her dismay at the thought of being left
alone with Giles.
“I only came to guide my friend to your
door,” Hugh replied. “Thanks to this cold and rainy day, the wound
that forced us to stop here at Wroxley is even more painful this
morning and it will require treatment. But it is not necessary for
me to stay if there is an errand I can do for you. We two can talk
later, after you are free of your duties.” Hugh put out his
hand.
With a sense of inevitability Mirielle set
into it the small jar into which she had scooped a supply of the
ointment. The workroom was quiet after Hugh had left. Giles’s gaze
was still fixed on Mirielle’s face, while she tried to look
anywhere but at him.
“What is this wound that so troubles you, Sir
Giles?” she asked when she could bear the silence no longer.
“Must you see it?” He looked unhappy at the
prospect.
“I cannot relieve your pain if I do not know
what causes it,” Mirielle said with an inward sigh. If only he
would go away, she could breathe properly again and her heart might
resume its normal rhythm. She would be as quick as she possibly
could about treating his wound and hope he would leave as soon as
she was done.
“Very well. Hugh promised that you would be
able to help me.” Giles unbuckled his belt and tossed it onto the
table. He pulled off his woolen tunic and then his linen undershirt
to reveal on his right side a thick ridge of scar tissue across his
lower rib cage.
“This is an old wound and a well-healed one.”
Mirielle pursed her lips, studying the scar, trying to keep her
eyes on the problem rather than allowing them to stray to the
strong muscles of Giles’s arms and shoulders or the taut line of
his manly torso. With a single finger she poked at the scar. “From
your complaints, I expected to find an open, suppurating sore.”
“Lady, I think you expected to find nothing,”
Giles said. “I think you believed my wound did not exist.”
“It is not my habit to disbelieve a holy
pilgrim,” she snapped, irritated because he was right.
“I am in truth a pilgrim, my lady.” He
sounded amused. “All my sins were expiated at Compostela, save for
those I have committed since I left that shrine—or those I may
commit in the future.”
“Sir, you are close to speaking blasphemy.”
Mirielle refused to look into Giles’s eyes to discover if he was
laughing at her as she suspected he was. She considered the
possibility that Hugh had used his art to conjure up the appearance
of a wound on Giles’s side, and then dismissed the idea as unworthy
of that honest mage. The injury was real and it might have cost
Giles his life.
“How did you come by this wound?” she asked
in a gentler voice.
“In battle against the Saracens,” he
answered. “I had raised my sword arm to strike an opponent, when a
second man ran against me, slashing with his scimitar.”
“Yes, I can see just how the blade cut
through your flesh. It was a painful wound, Sir Giles, and it might
have been fatal.”
“At the time it happened, I was too busy to
notice whether it was painful or not.”
“What you mean by that is, you killed both
Saracens,” she said.
“It was kill them or die myself.” A simple
enough statement spoken in a calm voice, but when Mirielle at last
lifted her eyes to his she saw in his face and his tormented look
all the anguish of that old battle, and she knew that for Giles,
killing would never be as easy as it was for some men. She found
the realization comforting.