My Lady Faye (8 page)

“Nay.” He hunched over the bed of the cart, his expression hidden from her. “It is I who must beg your pardon.”

Faye’s outburst exhausted all her words. She used the continuing journey to tuck away all the messy tendrils of emotion that swirled about her. Thank God, Gregory kept silent about her appalling behavior. As the miles passed, the tension eased. She must keep a closer watch on her mouth and her emotions. God alone knew what could come out if she didn’t.

Day bled into evening with a glorious display of red and orange flung across the sky in lavish abandon.

“The inn is a hard by.” Gregory pointed to a small branch in the road. “We will stop for the night.”

Faye nodded. Tomorrow they would arrive at Calder Castle and the greatest challenge of her life. There was no choice but to rise to the challenge. William’s knife pressed against her ankle.

“We will sleep in the common room.” Gregory cleared his throat. “It is not what I would like for you, but anything else will cause interest.”

A night in a common inn, another new experience to tuck into her memory for when this was done. Beatrice had said something similar about her adventure. How she had discovered a world far removed from life within keep walls.

The forest grew thick through this section of road. Tree limbs soared overhead and blocked the waning daylight. The reedy call of pipes twined with the rise of wood smoke in the evening air. The noise grew louder as the bullocks plodded forward. The hum of voices underscored the pipes as the tavern wove into view.

A drab, squat building huddled in a small clearing between the trees. People spilled out of the door and onto the benches set against the wall. A few heads turned their way as Gregory drew the cart to the side.

Other carts littered the space to the side of the inn. A few horses sheltered beneath a makeshift barn. None of them had the look of a destrier and Faye relaxed. A nobleman might mean recognition, but these were all mean beasts, meant more for plowing than riding.

“Do you know how to unharness a bullock?” Gregory kept his voice low.

“Nay.” The Lady Faye in a bullock cart stretched credulity far enough.

“It will look strange if you do not help.”

“Indeed.” She had never so much as saddled her own palfrey. Needs must. Copying Gregory, she hopped from the wagon.

“Good evening, Father.” From behind a nearby cart a rough looking man appeared.

“My son.” Gregory nodded in return.

Faye hastened to nod her greeting. She dropped her gaze to the ground. Hopefully she looked meek and obedient and not sly. Excitement tiptoed up her spine. Her quest overshadowed everything, but this new adventure was so far removed from her life.

“Good, keep your head down,” Gregory said as he loosened the traces.

Faye studied his actions and tried to, at least, appear as if she knew what she was doing.

Gregory removed the neck yoke. “See that they are watered.”

The bullocks stood and looked at her, their tails swished back and forth. Goblets of saliva dangled from the their lips, mixed with green and brown bits that made her stomach churn. She shuddered and inched her hand forward, grabbed the head harness and led the beasts toward a water trough. The disgusting, sticky mess coated the back of her hand as they trundled along after her. She breathed through her mouth to lessen the stench.

Gregory tossed her a lightning quick grin. Aye, he could well grin, he was not covered in cow spit.

Once the beasts were settled, Faye trailed Gregory into the inn.

The noise hit her like a wall. People filled the rough benches and tables and even crouched along the walls. All eating and bellowing at each other.

A portly man slammed his tankard on the table. “Watch yourselves, you blaspheming sons of whores. We have a good father with us.”

Silent people turned in their direction. The stench of unwashed bodies pressed in proximity fought the ale’s malty sweetness.

Gregory’s broad shoulders made a good shield. “God bless all here.”

The noise resumed.

“Here you are, Father.” A thin woman, meanly dressed in rough wool, shoved her son from the bench. “You can sit here.”

The boy leapt to his feet and dipped his head to Gregory.

“Finish your meal.” Gregory’s hand engulfed the boy’s thin shoulder. “Go on, lad. My…the boy and I will find a corner and be content there.”

The boy swallowed and edged back into his seat. “Thank you, Father.”

“Would you bless us, Father?” The woman pressed her hands together in prayer.

Gregory crossed himself and the small family bowed their heads as he delivered the blessing. The Latin words rolled smooth and rich as velvet from his tongue. His conviction shone from his beautiful face like the church paintings of the martyrs. People stilled around him and listened. He would be a wonderful priest. The knowledge lodged like a thorn in Faye’s chest. He was not hers, never hers. When would she get that into her dull head?

Gregory finished his prayer, took her elbow and led her through the crowd. People shifted to make way and they found a quiet spot near the wall beside an open window. Fresh air provided a brief reprieve from the heat and the oily tang of goat meat.

She sank to the ground beside him relieved to be below the heavy cloud of taper smoke hanging above their heads.

“Are you well?” Gregory stretched his legs out.

Faye didn’t want to risk tripping someone and kept her knees tight to her chest, her robes tucked beneath her toes. “Aye.”

“I brought our food.” His shoulder pressed against her as he rummaged in his sack.

“Is there enough?” The meat pie he held was only enough for one large man. Faye didn’t fancy the pungent goat the inn offered.

“Oh, dear Lord, Father.” On the bench nearest them a plump man turned and pointed to the pie. “You cannot starve a growing lad. That tidy little morsel will barely fill your belly. Great big man like you.” He clicked his tongue and turned back to his table. “Mother, here, give us some of that nut loaf of yours for the good father and his boy.”

The farmwife rose from the other side of the table. “Aye, indeed, Heart. And I have a peach tart to sweeten their journey.” She beamed at Faye, her apple cheeks pink and shiny. “Oh, and look at the lad, Heart. Such a sweet-faced young thing.”

Gregory shifted beside her.

The entire family looked at her and Faye reminded herself to act like a boy postulant traveling with a monk. She smiled and waggled her fingers.

A curvaceous young girl, a younger version of the woman, returned her smile with a wink. The brazen little strumpet.

Gregory would swallow his tongue if Faye winked at him like that. She ducked her head and hid her grin, her mind flooded with winking ladies and gaping knights.

“And so young.” The woman bustled over and frowned into her face. “You are taking them into the monastery with their mother’s milk still wet on their lips, Father. Such a shame. Why his mother must miss his pretty face every day of her life.” The woman cupped Faye’s face in plump, rough hands. “And his cheeks are still soft and smooth as a babe.”

Oh, Good Lord. If her face grew any hotter it would explode. People did not cup the Lady Faye’s chin. Most of them would hesitate to touch her mantle. Faye lifted her chin out of the woman’s grasp. All the attention hung like a lead weight on her. She needed to do something fast.

“Step away from him, my good woman.” Gregory pressed the woman’s hand away. “His pretty face hides the soul of a very devil.”

The woman jerked her hands back and clutched them to her bosom. “Nay.”

“Aye.” Gregory nodded. “His mother brought him to St. Margaret’s herself. Three days she walked to bring him to us.”

“What did he do?” The farmwife gaped and stepped away from Faye.

Faye dearly wanted to hear the answer to that question, too. She bowed her head penitently.

“I would not soil your ears with his misdeeds,” Gregory said.

The woman’s shoulders sagged and she sighed.

“Should we feed him?” The husband peered around his wife at Faye.

Faye’s stomach clenched in objection as the nut loaf hovered out of her grasp.

“We are all God’s creatures.” Gregory clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Our Good Lord broke bread with saints and sinners alike.”

“Aye, Father.” The woman did not sound sure.

Faye would smack him if he talked their way out of that loaf. The smell of fresh baking and nuts tormented her tongue.

“Mother, feed the young knave.” The husband clapped his hands together. “The good priest looks to be just the man to have him well in hand.”

Skirting Faye, the woman handed the bread to Gregory. She added her peach tart and a large round of cheese. Her feet pattered beneath her skirt back to the table.

Faye pressed her lips together to stop her smile. “What were my sins?”

“Heinous.” His eyes twinkled. “Debauchery is the very least of it.”

Faye basked in his smile. It warmed the empty place inside her. They had not had many occasions for laughter betwixt them. She returned the smile. “You have been warned.”

“Still.” He glanced at the table. “It would be for the best if we stayed quiet until we depart.”

“We will sleep here?” The wall pressed hard against her back. At Anglesea, she had a huge bed, draped in peacock-blue silk and embroidered with swathes of flowers. The same bed little Arthur would rest in tonight. She sent a quick prayer homeward to him.

“It will grow quieter.” Gregory split the loaf and handed her half. “Once people have eaten, many will clear for the night and we can stretch out.”

With her buttocks aching from the dirt floor, she could muster no enthusiasm for the idea. “Indeed.”

* * * *

Warm and soft, Faye rested against his side, the fragrance of her hair teasing him. She was awake. Lids lowered, staring at the inn about them.

As the evening settled into dark it grew quieter. Many of the occupants chose to sleep outside or to travel through the night.

Her delicate hands were tucked between her knees. He could hold both her hands in one of his. A fierce wave of protectiveness shook him. His to protect and cherish. Nay, she was not his. She had never been his and could never be. The knowledge gripped like a fist in his gut.

A group of men drank cup after cup of strong mead beside the empty hearth. Gregory would wager they were not farmers. Their tunics were dirty, but finer than most of the folk in the tavern. Tradesmen or guildsmen were his best guess and getting drunker as the night drew on. They bore watching.

People spread on the benches throughout the tavern, soft grunts and snores rose in the air. A family, two parents and their five offspring, huddled closest to him and Faye. The children slept beside their mother, but the father stayed awake, his glower on the group by the hearth.

He nodded to Gregory. He watched the group, too.

The ground beneath his ass was cold and hard.

Faye shifted and settled. His lady was not accustomed to such rough treatment. If he could, he would see her resting on silk and velvet.

Laughter rose from the drinking men and Faye started. One of them stumbled to his feet and staggered toward them. His foot tangled in a sleeper in his path, he tripped, and cursed the air blue about him. The sleeper raised his head, grumbled and settled down again. The drunk wove with exaggerated care through the bodies littering the floor. “Need to piss.”

He lurched to a stop beside Faye and pulled out his tool.

Dear God, Faye shouldn’t see this.

Faye stiffened and pressed her face against his shoulder. Gregory tugged her closer as the man aimed a stream of piss through the window. Faye’s trembling shook through him. A lady such as Faye was too delicate for a place like this.

A sparkling blue eye peered up at him, alight with mischief. She was laughing.

The man put himself away and wiped his hand down his tunic.

A smile tugged at Gregory’s mouth. He should have known better than to think she would wilt into a lump of matronly outrage. He forgot the spine of steel that ran through her.

Her hair tickled his chin. The color of clearest mead and softer than silk, her new curls clustered about her face like a naughty cherubyn. A delicious, tempting cherubyn with the lush curves of a woman grown. Now he tortured himself and to no good purpose.

She raised her head from his shoulder, her blue eyes twinkled up at him. “At least his aim was straight.

Sweet Heaven, but her smile slayed him. The sedate loveliness of Faye’s features warmed and sweetened, her full, red mouth invited him to join her. Gregory chuckled and turned his head away. Far safer not to get drawn into the magic of her. “The place is fairly basic.”

She snorted and settled. “I wish the floor were not so hard.”

A thankful streak of wisdom stopped him from offering her his lap. She was already too close for comfort. And the Lord only knew what the good tavern folk would make of a priest with a postulant cuddled in his arms. A pretend priest with no tonsure. Fuel for confession on his return to the Abbey.

A woman giggled to his left. Clothes rustled, more giggling and whispering. A sigh, a man’s voice and an unmistakable grunt. The Lord had a perverse sense of humor at times. The corner of his eye twitched as his blood stirred in response to the rutting couple. Desire. Nay, he could not risk that with Faye right here. Priests did not rut. However much they wanted to.

Faye leant forward and gasped. “Gregory.” She tugged at his sleeve. “That couple…they are…Gregory!” Her face flamed as she stared, wide-eyed past him.

The grunting increased, interspersed with soft feminine moans.

Enough. He leapt to his feet and tugged Faye with him. A woman murmured in her sleep as he hauled Faye through the inn.

She tripped, her gaze still locked on the fornicating couple.

Gregory righted her and placed her in front of him. With a shove, he got her moving toward the door.

“Gregory.” She gawked as she spun toward him. “They were—”

“Aye.” He didn’t need to hear it. His face burned, but his shaft reacted in a predictable and disgraceful manner. He marched Faye away from the door. “We will sleep beneath the cart.”