Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero Read Online Free Page A

beside the bed. A wisp of smoke rose upward, flirting with the gold brocade bed curtains.
    Theirs had been a marriage of convenience. Neither of them had deluded themselves about that. Cynthia’s father was land-poor, widowed, and sonless, with an eldest daughter whose countenance could only be described as “healthy” at best. When the wealthy but feeble Lord John Wendeville offered for Cynthia’s hand, le Wyte hastily arranged for her sacrifice to the heirless lord in order to increase the family fortune.
    Cynthia was never bitter. She knew and accepted that marriage was often a practical arrangement. She’d hardened herself to circumstance long years ago, upon her mother’s death. At eighteen, she’d realized she was no great beauty. Nor did she possess the kind of holdings to tempt a suitor. Therefore, she entered into the union with Lord John with pragmatic grace, if not enthusiasm.
    And John was quite pleasant, as it turned out. He was patient and kind, sweet and generous. He dressed her in velvet, showered her with emeralds, put up with impertinent old Elspeth, even allowed her to fulfill her dream of owning a pleasure garden, from which she picked him daily bouquets.
    John knew he was dying. He simply wanted companionship in his final years.
    Cynthia gave him far more than that. She was a wife in every sense of the word, surprising him with a devotion he swore rejuvenated him. It delighted her to see him weep in gratitude as she pleasured him with unwavering patience in their bed. And it wasn’t for lack of trying that she never conceived an heir for him.
    In their months together, as Cynthia’s garden flourished beneath her loving hands, so did her husband. The fact that he would die soon didn’t stop her from caring for him. He was like the annuals she set out each spring. She nurtured them, coaxed the beds to blossom in joyous profusion, then accepted their withering and dying. It was an accustomed cycle. And it was a matter of pride with Cynthia that not once in the old man’s short life with her did she falter in her tending of him.
    That care, to the Abbot’s quite vocal consternation, included the use of a great many potions and poultices concocted from the massive herb garden she’d planted in the castle courtyard.
    The Abbot was scowling even now at the mazer of ground herbs with which she’d liberally dosed John’s wine for the past two days to relieve him of pain. No doubt the Abbot thought she’d poisoned her own husband with what he referred to as “devil’s medicine.”
    It didn’t matter. That “devil’s medicine” had cured many a vassal and servant in John’s household. Her knowledge of herbs and the gift of healing she’d acquired at the time of her first blood had convinced even the folk of the surrounding villages to trust in her miracles. Besides, she didn’t care what the Abbot thought. He’d be gone by week’s end.
    “Lord John recognized your…loyalty and service, Abbot,” she said, trying to keep the edge from her voice. “He’s been quite generous.”
    “Oh?” His casual tone belied the interest in his piercing black gaze.
    “He bequeathed to you the holding at Charing and the fields surrounding.”
    The Abbot blinked. “Charing?”
    “Aye.”
    “How kind.” His voice broke. His chin trembled.
    Cynthia felt a twinge of remorse. Perhaps she’d been too hasty, too judgmental. Perhaps the Abbot wasn’t as unfeeling as he seemed. Perhaps he was touched after all by the loss of his benefactor, no matter how he despised her . She tried to think of some small word of consolation. But staring at the pasty, somber man looming in deathly dark robes before her, her mind came up empty.
    “After the ceremony,” she said as gently as possible, “I’ll send along two servants to help you get settled at Charing.”
    In the awkward silence that ensued, she retreated from the shadowy chamber with Roger and Elspeth, closing the door with finality on both the Abbot and