Free Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero by Glynnis Campbell

required the close inspection of the cook and all of the serving lads. The bustling courtyard quieted when Garth made his way past the armorer’s shed and the mews and the swine’s pen. Even the squires busied themselves with brushing the horses when he ducked into the stables. And everywhere, giggling children followed him, nervously poking and prodding each other while he suffered their unguarded scrutiny.
    He supposed he was rich fodder for their jests. After all, everyone had heard of his renowned brothers, Duncan and Holden. They were two of the finest knights in England. Surely the castle folk expected Garth to be no less. It must pique their morbid curiosity to see a de Ware reduced to the level of a lowly friar. And no doubt his vow of silence and the unfortunate incident in the lists added fuel to the fire.
    Whatever their intent, they succeeded in destroying his peace and shredding his dignity. He wanted nothing more than to crawl away like a wounded animal, to return to the chapel, to his quarters.
    But he was a de Ware. His blood refused to let him turn tail like a coward. He supposed he’d just have to armor himself against the onslaught.
    In the meantime, he needed to find a place of temporary refuge, where he could escape the haranguing mob, if only briefly, and order his thoughts.
    He ducked into the tiny room he’d sought out, alone at last. He spread the burgundy velvet curtain closed behind him and leaned back against the cold stone wall, heaving a sigh of relief. Then he smirked. It was utterly absurd that the only peace he could secure in the vast Wendeville estate was in a garderobe.
    He shivered in the drafty chamber and loosened the cord around his cassock, idly wondering how long he could remain sequestered here before someone suspected him of an ailment of the bowels. He bunched up the voluminous robe, deftly untied the points of his braes with one hand, and aimed a stream of piss into the dark, dank hole.
    How he’d survive the day, let alone the weeks and months to come, he didn’t know. Isolation had become a way of life for him, his religion a comfort. Being thrust into the secular world again so abruptly with its chaos and disorder and…temptations was like yanking a hapless bat into the blinding sunlight. He wondered if he’d ever grow accustomed to the glare.
    With a final shake, he hitched up his leggings and tied the points of his braes. He smoothed down his cassock, then, knotting the cord, he blew out a resigned breath and reluctantly shouldered the garderobe curtain aside.
    “Ah-ha!”
    Garth’s heart vaulted into his throat. A plump old bird of a woman in russet skirts charged forward, startling him so that if he hadn’t just finished relieving himself, he would surely have done so on the spot.
    “There you are!”
    The wench had the round, wrinkled face of a shriveled apple, but there was an animated spark in her brown eyes. She glanced quickly about for witnesses, then smacked a small but efficient palm in the middle of his chest and shoved him back into the garderobe, snapping the curtain closed after her.
    Garth staggered back, resisting the urge to make the sign of the cross against the lunatic woman. She gave no quarter, blatantly inspecting him from head to toe like a farmer sizing up a plowhorse.
    “I’m Elspeth,” she finally announced, drawing herself up proudly to her full height, which brought the top of her stiff-wimpled head to the middle of his chest. “Lady Cynthia’s maid. Have been since she was a babe in swaddling.”
    Garth blinked. Had the daft woman barged into the garderobe just to introduce herself? He slipped his gaze uneasily toward the curtain.
    “Pah! No one’s seen us,” she assured him. “I need to talk to you in private.” She winked without smiling. “Can you think of a more private place?”
    He wished he had.
    She measured him with a glare once more, like a mother sparrow with its feathers fluffed, about to scold the crows from her