Chapter Three #5
Again, she shrugged. “I have no one to ask other than Mother Benedicta,” she said. “She would not lie to me.”
A faint smile on his lips, Gates leaned against the wall behind him in a casual position even though he still had surcoats draped over his arms.
“Neither would I,” he said. “I am a knight. I come from a long line of knights. My great-great-grandfather was the greatest knight who has ever lived. Therefore, I do not fabricate and I will tell you the truth about everything, should you ask. I am beyond contestation. Why not ask me about the world?”
Kathalin had to admit, it was tempting. Frightening, but tempting.
As she sat there, indecisive and fidgeting with her dirty clothing, Gates pulled one of the feather-soft shifts out of the basket and tossed it to her.
It landed over her head and she yanked it off, irritated, but the moment she touched it, something in her expression changed. Gates was sharp enough to see it.
“Do you feel that wonderful garment?” he asked quietly. “How in the world can that be wicked? Imagine how warm and lovely it would feel against your skin. Would you not like to wear it instead of the scratchy garment you are wearing now that feels more like tree bark than clothing?”
Kathalin was inspecting the shift quite seriously. Timidly, she rubbed it against her cheek. “It feels like a cloud.”
Gates smiled at her interest. “It does,” he said, looking into the basket.
“There is another one just like it and hose for your legs that are soft as well. How can these things be wicked, Lady Kathalin? It is not wicked to be warm and comfortable, and that is why I brought you these things. I realize you have spent your entire life wearing woolen garments and believing that the discomfort of it was the will of God, but let me assure you God makes some very fine things as well. I would like to believe that He would be happy for you to be warm and comfortable.”
Kathalin was still rubbing the shift on her cheek, enchanted with the feel of something she had never known to exist. Gates pushed himself off the wall and made his way over to her, crouching down and holding up his arms again so she could see the fine surcoats he had draped over them.
He could see the awe and wonder in her expression and he thought it all quite sweet as well as pathetic; the young woman had grown up without any luxuries at all and had been told that such things were wicked.
Well, they weren’t. He decided at that moment that he was going to show her things of comfort and luxury that weren’t wicked at all.
Much like educating a baby on how to talk, he could see that Kathalin needed much of an education on life outside of the priory walls and, oddly enough, his determination to educate her had nothing to do with making another conquest. Quite the contrary; under the circumstances, he would feel ashamed in doing so and he was quite certain that Jasper would have his hide, so he considered Lady Kathalin off-limits.
More than that, there was something too pristine and lovely about her to want to soil her in any fashion.
It was a shocking realization to a man who usually thought only of himself.
“I… I have only always made my own clothing,” Kathalin said, breaking his train of thought.
“We have herds of sheep that we sheer in the spring and in the fall, and then there are sisters who spin the wool and others who weave the fabric. I was one of the ones who would sew the clothing for the others.”
Gates watched her as she moved from rubbing the shift against her cheek to fingering the lavender wool. “So you learned how to sew and how to manage the kitchen,” he said. “Surely you were taught more than that?”
Kathalin nodded, setting the shift aside so she could inspect the workmanship on the blue patchwork dress. “I have been taught to read and to write in Latin and in French,” she said. “I have copied many pages of the Prioress’ Bible, the one her father gave to her.”
He watched her very pretty hands as they moved over the garment. “Were you taught to do things other young ladies do?” he asked. “Poetry and painting and drawing?”
She shook her head. “Nay,” she replied. “Why on earth would I be taught such vain things?”
“Because God created art and literature and it is quite beautiful.”
She looked at him, thinking on his words, as she drew her hand away from the blue surcoat. “That is true,” she said. “But I would have no use for them as a nun.”
He stood up, moving back to the basket and carefully putting the garments back inside, but not before taking out the pot of calendula salve that the seamstress had given him.
“Why do you want to be a nun so badly?” he asked. “Does the world scare you so much that you would hide from it?”
Kathalin considered his question. “It does not frighten me,” she said. “But why would I not want to live my life in a place of blessing and piety and joy. Why would I not want to serve God?”
He turned to look at her. “You were happy there?”
She nodded, thinking on St. Milburga’s and trying not to tear up. “Aye,” she said. “My friends are there. It is my home.”
She hung her head and he could see that the conversation was about to take a downward turn.
Quickly, he sought to distract her. “I am sure your parents will be very happy to see you,” he said.
“I have served your father for many years. In fact, I came into his service as a squire shortly after you were sent away to foster. I was fifteen years of age and attached to a knight who had seen to my education for about six years. When he came into de Lara’s service, I did, too. ”
Kathalin looked up at him, blinking, and he could see that her eyes were still moist from thoughts of St. Milburga’s. “The knight was your master?”
“Aye.”
“Is he still with my father?”
Gates shook his head. “Nay,” he replied. “He died in France about ten years ago and I received a battlefield commission to fight in his stead. Being knighted in the midst of a battle is quite harrowing.”
“That is how you became a knight?”
“Indeed it is.”
Kathalin was becoming interested in this enormous knight whose manner had returned to the man she had first met at St. Milburga’s, the man who had saved her from the Welsh.
This side of him seemed quite kind and considerate.
In spite of her sworn hatred towards him, she seemed to have conveniently forgotten about that at the moment.
“Have you fought many battles, then?” she asked.
He nodded, casually scratching at his stubbled chin. “Enough,” he said. “I only just returned from France where I have been for the past several months. I was at Poitiers, in fact.”
“What is at Poitiers?”
He looked at her, thinking it very strange that she should not know about the major battles going on, but then he reminded himself of the fact that the woman had been living in a convent.
Current battles and politics were probably not among the things they knew about in their insulated little world.
“There was a very big battle there back in September,” he told her. “The English were triumphant over the French king.”
It was a simple explanation for a much more complex situation, but it seemed to satisfy her.
Her gaze moved over his body, the red de Lara tunic and the portions of mail and plate armor beneath.
He didn’t wear a full suit of armor, merely pieces on his forearms and chest that were fastened on with leather straps.
“I suppose you have seen a good deal of evil in your time,” she said quietly. “Men are evil to one another.”
He nodded. “An excellent summation of a much more complicated world,” he said. “But as I said before, there are many people in this world and not all are evil. I have seen many good men in my time.”
“But you kill,” she said, regarding him carefully. “You kill because you are ordered to kill.”
He lifted his eyebrows as if to concede her point. “I kill because some men need killing,” he said. “I kill because men are trying to kill me. I kill because it must be done and for no other reason than that.”
He didn’t sound as if he enjoyed it, which eased Kathalin somewhat.
She knew that there were wars and killing, and she furthermore knew that knights such as de Wolfe were ultimately sworn to the church and to God.
But she wondered if that was really true.
She wondered if their service to God won out over their pride as warriors.
Increasingly, she was curious about de Wolfe and his background, and she also found herself just a bit more curious about the world in general.
Now that he’d brought it up, she couldn’t help but wonder.
“Then… then mayhap you will tell me of your travels and battles sometime,” she said. “Since we are evidently to spend some time together, I would like to hear of the world as you know it. Mayhap it will not seem so evil from your perspective.”
He smiled at her, the de Wolfe dimples running deep. “I would be honored, my lady,” he said. “But first, will you please do something for me?”
She was somewhat wary. “What is that?”
He pointed to the basket full of clothing.
“Will you please do me the favor of dressing in something very warm and comfortable for the remainder of our journey?” he asked.
“I should not like to return you to your parents bedraggled, cold, and possibly ill. Your father will think I have failed at my duty to protect you and I should not wish for that to happen. I am not one to fail at my duties, under any circumstances.”
Kathalin looked at the basket, remembering the soft feel of the shift against her cheek. She could feel herself relenting as she was given the choice between something soft and lovely, and something scratchy and dirty.
Soft and lovely won out.
“Aye,” she said reluctantly. “I will do that.”
His smile broadened and he suddenly remembered that he was still holding the calendula salve in his hand.
He extended it to her. “You have my thanks,” he said, “and this is a salve that will help heal the welts around your wrists. I am very sorry I tied them so tightly, but I could not take the chance that you would escape me. My apologies if I have been less than chivalrous towards you. I never meant you harm.”
Hate.
Kathalin wasn’t so sure she was feeling that any longer.
De Wolfe was doing everything he could to make up for the poor travel and the uncomfortable conditions.
He was behaving civilized again, like he had when she had first met him at St. Milburga’s, before everything took a turn for the worse.
She had been belligerent and resistant, that was true, but two days later, she was mostly resigned.
She knew that escape was futile and it would be foolish to try, so she put that thought out of her mind.
It was that thought that had brought about red, bleeding wrists.
Even if she managed to run back to St. Milburga’s, he would only track her down and bring her back.
Faintly, she sighed.
“You did not harm me,” she said. “But I would be grateful if you did not tie my hands together any longer. I promise that I will not try to escape if you will simply leave the ropes off.”
He regarded her a moment, not entirely certain he believed her. It seemed like too rapid a change in behavior for him, but he would not insult her with a contradiction. “If I have your word as a lady,” he said quietly, “then I will not bind you.”
“You have it,” she said, eyeing her wrists. “Besides… I do not think my skin can take those ropes for another day. Surely my hands will fall off if I have to endure anymore.”
Gates didn’t say anything more at that point because there was a soft knock on the door and he opened it to find the innkeeper and hot water on the other side.
As the male servant in the ratty clothing dragged in, literally, half of a barrel lined with linen, the serving wenches were lugging buckets of hot water behind him.
It took several trips from the kitchen to fill the barrel up to a bathing level but when it was adequately filled, Gates chased everyone from the chamber to allow Kathalin her privacy, for which she was grateful.
When Gates himself left, Kathalin leapt from her position in the corner and stuck her finger into the water, delighted that it was very hot.
Exhibiting energy she hadn’t shown in two days, she realized that she had forgotten about the food that the serving wench had brought earlier and she ripped off the cloth that covered it, digging in to the bread even as she struggled to undress with one hand.
But she couldn’t do it with only one hand so she shoved the brown, gritty bread into her mouth and yanked off her dirty clothing.
Food and warmth. She was almost giddy with it.
She was about to climb into the barrel, still with bread in her mouth, when she remembered that Gates had mentioned he’d procured some soap for her.
She found the soap in the bottom of the basket, smelling like sweet rosemary, and she climbed into the hot barrel of water, blissfully, and submerged herself completely.
After two days of hell, the experience was pure heaven.
And thoughts of Gates de Wolfe were no longer filled with hate. She had no idea why she felt like smiling every time she looked at the basket full of clothing, but she did.