Page 18 of The Falcon Laird
“Hmph,” John said. “If they must come, then, the lass could drive the cart so I can ride.”
“We will do well to have her with us, John,” Gavin said.
“Bah. We’d do better to have her horse.”
Gavin held up his hand. “Listen.” A faint sound had caught his attention. “What is that?”
“Bells!” John said. “Is this a feast day?”
“No feast day,” Dominy answered. “As I was leaving the castle, some bishops rode through the town, with their cloth-of-gold and their mitres. The bells are ringing in the cathedral. I know not what they celebrate so early, at dawn. But surely it must be important.”
Suddenly Gavin knew. “It is no celebration—and very important. Dominy, we must find a priest.”
“There’s a village church just that way, and the priest lives beside it. Oh, sir! Is the lady worsening? Must the last rites be spoken over her now?”
“Not yet. Something else. I heard that the bishops came into Carlisle to excommunicate Robert Bruce and his supporters,” he explained. “If the bells are ringing, it will be done soon. We must hurry.”
John frowned. “Hurry to do what?”
“I mean to marry the lady, as the king ordered. When that excommunication ritual is complete, Lady Christian will be cast out from Holy Church—her name is on the list. A priest must fix the marriage now, before the bells stop ringing, or it cannot be done at all. I cannot protect her otherwise.” He tugged on the reins. “Come ahead!”
Chapter Four
Ahand, leanand strong, gripped hers. Christian held on with what little strength she had, afraid to let go. She was surrounded by dark and cold and filled with discomfort, but the hand held her safe.
Her chest hurt with each breath, and her head ached so badly that she kept her eyes closed much of the time. Sir Gavin’s hand, warm and steady, remained over hers. She listened as he spoke quietly, his voice deep and calm. But her muddled, fevered mind could make little sense of his words.
He had carried her inside a building, a church, dimly lit by candles. She could smell stale incense, sensed deep peace. Others were with her in the church—she heard Dominy’s voice, then one or two men. One spoke in a quick blur of Latin. A priest, she thought foggily.
The priest asked her a question, then another. Striving to understand, Christian said aye, and aye, holding fiercely to Gavin’s hand, thinking she was asked if she repented her sins. She desperately wanted absolution—she was afraid she might die of the illness that was dragging her down into fog.
The voices went on, low and fast. She heard a blessing as she drifted in and out of awareness. Sir Gavin’s hand, and the warm timbre of his murmuring voice, formed her anchor.
The priest asked her if she agreed, and she nodded, exhausted. She heard Sir Gavin answer softly too.
Then the knight leaned to touch his lips to her brow in a dry, quick kiss. Surprised, she tried to speak, but began to cough,deep and congested, fighting for breath until the fit passed. She clung to his hand. He did not let go.
After a while, he picked her up in his arms and carried her out of the church. “Rest, my lady,” he said. “You are safe now, with me.”
She dreamed ofcomfort and warmth, of soothing touches, of music like heaven. But she woke to a painful, wracking cough, and to cold air, and the bumping cart. The pleasant dream vanished.
From somewhere nearby, she heard Sir Gavin’s deep voice, and realized that he rode his horse just beside the cart, as if he was keeping watch. She felt safe. Closing her eyes, she slipped into a dark and dreamless sleep.
Sometime later, she felt someone lift her, carry her, but she could not grasp the vague words around her. Yet the voices and hands were comforting as she sank into a feverish darkness.
Christian opened hereyes to soft daylight and perfect quiet. Blinking, she saw a small, simply furnished room. Thick blankets covered her, and she lay tucked into linen sheets on a deep straw mattress with pillows that supported her like a cloud. She felt clean and warm, and exceedingly weak.
She did not know if hours or whole days had passed since Sir Gavin had lifted her from the cart. The weakness that filled her limbs was profound. Her head ached, her chest hurt with each breath, and she scarcely had the strength to lift her hand.
The door creaked open, and quiet footsteps padded across the floor. Christian looked up as Dominy entered the little room, followed by a thin man clothed in a brown robe.
“How does the lady now?” the man asked Dominy softly.
“Very weak, Brother Richard.” Dominy laid a hand on Christian’s brow. “Still fevered.”
Christian peered at them. “Where am I?” she croaked, her voice weak and raw.
“You are at Sweetheart Abbey, my lady,” the monk said. “I am Brother Richard, the infirmarer.”
