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

nest. “So you’re the new chaplain.” She nodded toward his face. “That where she cuffed you?”
    He raised a hang self-consciously to his lip.
    “Hmph.” Then she shrugged. “Well, it appears she’s put you in your place, then. At least you’ve got a little more life in you than the whey-faced cadaver we had before.” The woman certainly minced no words. “But I’m here to give you a warning.”
    Garth didn’t like the sound of that. He had just enough nobility left in him that the tone of an impertinent servant tweaked his ear. He straightened and folded his arms sternly across his chest.
    “Now don’t be getting your cassock in a twist,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “It’s about Lady Cynthia.”
    He uncrossed his arms.
    “Heed me well, lad,” she commanded with unrelenting insolence. She poked at his chest, apparently not intimidated in the least by the fact that he outweighed her at least two and a half times over. “I made a vow to Lord John, Lady Cynthia’s husband, God rest his soul.” She paused to make the sign of the cross.
    Garth absently followed suit.
    She lowered her voice. “On his deathbed, he made me swear to find her a husband within the year.”
    Garth frowned.
    “Now I know it goes against the custom of grieving and all,” she continued, “and I’m sure the Abbot wouldn’t approve. But it’s a promise made on the man’s deathbed. Mark you well, it’s not as if my Cynthia didn’t have a care for John. She was with him till the end, wiping his forehead and…and holding his hand…” The woman’s eyes watered over, and her chin quivered.
    At a loss, Garth dug in his pouch for a linen square and awkwardly handed it to her.
    “Bless you,” she squeaked. Then she blew her nose soundly, crumpled the linen into a ball, and handed it back to him.
    He chivalrously cached the thing.
    She sniffed and lifted her chin, plucky once more. “He said it was to be a man of her heart. After all, Lady Cynthia spent two of her young years caring for an old soldier with one greave in the grave. And he wouldn’t see her do it again, do you hear? Nor will I. Not while she’s still hale enough to snare a fine young buck.” She dusted her hands together as if to say that was that.
    Garth stared hard at the woman. Why was she telling him all this? Surely Lady Cynthia’s romantic affairs had nothing to do with him, even if the maidservant’s frank words somehow sawed at him against the grain. He was a man of the cloth, concerned with matters of the soul. What did he know of matters of the heart?
    “So here’s the crux of it,” she confided. “I’ll do everything in my power to bring Lady Cynthia the pick of the litter. She deserves no less. But a year’s not much time. So I say we dispense with the grieving and get on with the gaiety. I’ve already put word out there’ll be dancing and singing in the castle again within the week.” She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him. “This is what I’d have from you. It’s plain. Swear me an oath that you won’t plague my lady with undue remorse. No sermons on grief or chastity or honoring her husband’s memory. Nothing to harden her heart or stand in the way of her courting.” She clucked her tongue. “Lord knows you men of God like to burden a body with sin at every turn, but I’m asking you this once to forbear.” She waved an impatient hand at him. “Aye, I know all about your vow of silence, but you can nod your head as well as any man. And I’ll have your nod on it right now.”
    Garth bristled at the maid’s demanding tone. Lord, the conniving old woman possessed no sense of propriety. Never had he encountered such unabashed candor in a mere servant. It was outrageous. And yet he found himself willing to overlook her faults, for curiously enough, this chittering bird of a wench had just offered him a glimpse of salvation.
    Oh aye, he’d swear that oath, on the Holy Scriptures, if need be. He’d be only