Roman by Heather Grothaus Page B

“I am in penance for the crimes of my previous life. It is why my superior thought me the best to transport our ill brother to his eternal rest in our holy city.”
    â€œIll brother, eh?” the snide man commented, and the sound of his horse drew even nearer. “What’s in the sack?”
    â€œResin,” Roman said. “For the censer.”
    â€œWhat’s he ill of?” the young man asked.
    â€œHe’s a leper,” Roman said. “At least he was this morn. He could be dead by now. I was hoping to draw nearer the city before that happened. Bodies tend to stink even in this cool weather.” Isra heard a rustling. “Here is a letter from my abbot, giving me permission to be away from the abbey.”
    â€œMelk, eh?” the first man mused after a moment. Isra heard more rustling and the cart rocked. “What are you doing?”
    When Roman answered, he was alongside the cart, even with Isra’s head. “I’m taking up the canvas so you can see the grisly mess yourselves. You won’t be swayed by my word or the vow of my abbot, so . . .” He broke off, and Isra heard the dusty scrape of sandals on the road.
    â€œYes, open it up,” the snide man encouraged. “I’ll be pleased to cleave your skull when I see with my own eyes a cart full of golden chalices and silken robes.”
    â€œYou’d better put down that ax before you hurt yourself,” Roman said good-naturedly.
    Isra began to panic. They were going to remove the canvas. Her face and body were covered, true, but did her wrapped figure closely enough resemble the corpse of a monk? What would happen if they suspected her? What if the man chose to test her by striking her with the ax? Or striking Roman?
    What if they were caught and traced back to Melk?
    What would happen to Roman’s friends?
    What would they do to Isra, if they didn’t kill her?
    What if they decided to keep her?
    She gripped the handle of the dagger and shimmied it higher on her palm in the instant before a corner of the canvas above her feet flapped and then was thrown back in a bright triangle.
    â€œOnly a moment while I get the other side,” Roman said amicably.
    Isra saw a shadow flit across the open section of the bed. “Ezzer, I think he speaks true. Look.”
    More footsteps drew near as it seemed Roman was taking his time with the other corner of the canvas.
    â€œOh, hell—look at that!” a man cried out in disgust. “Cover it back up, man! Cover it up! Is it your wish to taint the entire village?”
    â€œNot at all, brother,” Roman replied and—in a much quicker fashion than that in which he’d undone it—the corner of the canvas was once more secure. “I could use a bite, though. Perhaps I might take my rest at yonder tavern and inquire as to whether they have a room to let.”
    â€œThe bloody hell you will,” the snide man said. “You’ll get your great arse back in your cart and take your damned rot with you and not come back.”
    â€œYou’ll show no charity to a brother of God on a mission of mercy?” Roman needled.
    â€œHere,” the younger voice called out, and Isra heard a slight clink. “For your trouble, friar. Godspeed to you.”
    â€œThe Lord’s blessing upon your merciful heart, lad,” Roman said, and Isra could hear the sincerity in his voice.
    â€œGo on, then!” the first man demanded. “Go! Be swift! Go!”
    The cart rocked and then lurched forward with a skull-jarring jerk, and the road passed beneath her with a fury that brought only peace.
    Isra released the handle of the blade and brought her hands up to cover her face, her heart racing and her breath heaving in and out of her at last. They had almost been caught already, only hours after leaving.
    â€œIsra?” she heard Roman call from beyond the canvas.
    She swallowed. “Yes?”
    â€œAre you all