he had chased after his king and left her alone. She would miss him.
His hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it.
Desire rose inside her. Tonight she would make sure he would miss her.
Her hand touched the doorjamb, brushing the ancient symbols of protection she had painted there in pigment cut with her own menstrual blood. It was old superstition, woman’s magic passed from mother to daughter. Not the right-hand path of the hedgewitches and the herbalists, but the left-hand path of darkness. It was something she had done after the birth of Robin, a ward against allowing him entrance to this room, and he never had crossed the threshold. Her husband had no use for witchery, but tolerated it for her.
He did not understand its origin.
Energy crackled under her fingers, running up her arm and into her chest. It made her head swim like too much wine. Her mouth tasted of clover.
That was new.
She stared at the symbols in wonder until her husband’s voice called her to bed.
CHAPTER NINE
F riar Tuck woke feeling sticky and damp against the thin pad of his bedroll. His skull buzzed like a beehive, proof that he definitely had taken too much to drink the night before. That in itself was no mean feat. Noblemen, warriors, peasants, bishops… he had yet to meet the man who could drink as much as he, and still remain standing.
Not that he imbibed often, but when the opportunity presented he gave himself to it body and soul. There was no harm in it… well, what was the point in going to confession if you never had anything to confess?
He had missed morning prayers, and, when he presented himself to the cardinal, the man looked him over with a roll of his eyes.
“Are you aware that gluttony is a sin?” the cardinal asked.
“No greater than lying,” Friar Tuck replied. “You told me you had no idea what the king’s announcement would be.”
There were few above his station to whom he would ever speak that way, but Tuck had known Francis since his assignment to the monastery as a child. The man had been a mentor and a guide in the path to becoming a man of faith. More than that, the friar considered him a friend.
“It was an omission of necessity, I’m afraid.” The cardinal’s sigh had an edge of frustration. “The king wished it kept absolutely quiet until last night. We…
he
needed to see everyone’s reactions upon hearing the news.”
Tuck wondered at that. The king answered to no one except the pope, so fear of disapproval couldn’t have been what concerned him. The nobles had no choice but to follow his lead in this, as in all things. So, why would he need to see their reaction?
“What was he looking for?” Tuck asked. The cardinal eyed him for a long minute before answering.
“Treachery,” he said, dropping his voice. “Or signs thereof. A few of his loyal knights and servants were spread throughout the hall, observing the reactions of those who were present.”
Tuck gave this a moment to sink in.
“Did they find anything suspicious?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” the cardinal said.
The king’s announcement weighed heavily on Tuck’s mind, which was part of the reason he’d overindulged. The journey would be filled with danger, the destination even more so. He was a man who enjoyed comfort, such as it was, but here was a way to serve the church in a manner he would never before have conceived. An idea had taken hold of him, and would not let go.
“I wish to go on Crusade with the king and his men,” the friar said. “To attend to their spiritual needs, and help with the battle that awaits them.” There, he had said it. The words shimmered in the air between them.
When first he had been pressed into the service of the Lord as a child, he’d prayed almost ceaselessly that God would not send him to the corners of the earth, ministering to the heathens, but would allow him to stay in England and tend those who were already among the Lord’s flock.
How the years could change a
His hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it.
Desire rose inside her. Tonight she would make sure he would miss her.
Her hand touched the doorjamb, brushing the ancient symbols of protection she had painted there in pigment cut with her own menstrual blood. It was old superstition, woman’s magic passed from mother to daughter. Not the right-hand path of the hedgewitches and the herbalists, but the left-hand path of darkness. It was something she had done after the birth of Robin, a ward against allowing him entrance to this room, and he never had crossed the threshold. Her husband had no use for witchery, but tolerated it for her.
He did not understand its origin.
Energy crackled under her fingers, running up her arm and into her chest. It made her head swim like too much wine. Her mouth tasted of clover.
That was new.
She stared at the symbols in wonder until her husband’s voice called her to bed.
CHAPTER NINE
F riar Tuck woke feeling sticky and damp against the thin pad of his bedroll. His skull buzzed like a beehive, proof that he definitely had taken too much to drink the night before. That in itself was no mean feat. Noblemen, warriors, peasants, bishops… he had yet to meet the man who could drink as much as he, and still remain standing.
Not that he imbibed often, but when the opportunity presented he gave himself to it body and soul. There was no harm in it… well, what was the point in going to confession if you never had anything to confess?
He had missed morning prayers, and, when he presented himself to the cardinal, the man looked him over with a roll of his eyes.
“Are you aware that gluttony is a sin?” the cardinal asked.
“No greater than lying,” Friar Tuck replied. “You told me you had no idea what the king’s announcement would be.”
There were few above his station to whom he would ever speak that way, but Tuck had known Francis since his assignment to the monastery as a child. The man had been a mentor and a guide in the path to becoming a man of faith. More than that, the friar considered him a friend.
“It was an omission of necessity, I’m afraid.” The cardinal’s sigh had an edge of frustration. “The king wished it kept absolutely quiet until last night. We…
he
needed to see everyone’s reactions upon hearing the news.”
Tuck wondered at that. The king answered to no one except the pope, so fear of disapproval couldn’t have been what concerned him. The nobles had no choice but to follow his lead in this, as in all things. So, why would he need to see their reaction?
“What was he looking for?” Tuck asked. The cardinal eyed him for a long minute before answering.
“Treachery,” he said, dropping his voice. “Or signs thereof. A few of his loyal knights and servants were spread throughout the hall, observing the reactions of those who were present.”
Tuck gave this a moment to sink in.
“Did they find anything suspicious?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” the cardinal said.
The king’s announcement weighed heavily on Tuck’s mind, which was part of the reason he’d overindulged. The journey would be filled with danger, the destination even more so. He was a man who enjoyed comfort, such as it was, but here was a way to serve the church in a manner he would never before have conceived. An idea had taken hold of him, and would not let go.
“I wish to go on Crusade with the king and his men,” the friar said. “To attend to their spiritual needs, and help with the battle that awaits them.” There, he had said it. The words shimmered in the air between them.
When first he had been pressed into the service of the Lord as a child, he’d prayed almost ceaselessly that God would not send him to the corners of the earth, ministering to the heathens, but would allow him to stay in England and tend those who were already among the Lord’s flock.
How the years could change a
Similar Books
