Chapter Eight #2
Ian smiled before he threw back the curtain and hurried down the aisle, his new purpose driving his feet forward at a quick pace.
But he only took a few strides before he was forced to slow down and pick his way through the crowded nave.
Avoiding a cluster of nuns, he skirted around one of the ornately carved columns and ran headlong into a cloaked figure.
Small hands darted to the hood and threw it back.
“Tis ye,” he exclaimed, recognizing the heart-shaped face and flashing, mismatched eyes.
THE MASSIVE MAN WITH wild red hair and sky-blue eyes was someone she had hoped never to see again. If it were not for him and his friend, she wouldn’t be homeless and penniless.
If it were not for him, she would have had the coin to pay for a proper burial for her mother.
Gripped by desperation and despair, she spun away from him only to feel his hand close around her arm.
Scowling, she glanced back. “How dare you!”
His red brows pinched together. “Please,” he said, his tone beseeching. “I am truly sorry about what happened. I went back the next morning, to make things right, but your landlord said you’d moved out.”
“Moved out?” she scoffed. Then her brow furrowed deeper. “I was thrown out thanks to you. He blamed me for the damage you and your friends caused. Now, do as I say and unhand me!”
“I mean ye no harm,” he assured, releasing her arm straight away.
She wasted no time. Turning, she maneuvered through the dense crowd filling the nave. Glancing back, she saw a determined glint in the man’s sky-blue eyes as he moved through the crowd after her, but his large frame slowed his progress while she easily darted through the gaps.
Stepping through the south door, she dashed across the courtyard where the Priory monks were walking, their heads bowed solemnly. She crossed to the covered walkway and slid down behind one of the large columns and laid her head against the cool stone and closed her eyes.
Keep breathing.
Keep fighting.
She fisted her hands against the deep pain in her chest, an ache that had gripped her heart from the moment her mother expelled her last breath. With every passing moment the pain grew, swelling inside her, threatening to choke the very life from her body.
Not that her life was worth very much. She shook her head, furious at her weakness.
Sure, she was penniless, homeless, and worst of all, so very alone, but she was a Fergusson and made of stronger stuff than most!
But without her loom, she had no way to improve her circumstances.
Damn that red-haired giant!
Fury, as swift as an arrow, pierced her despair, engulfing her sorrowful heart in bitter flames.
Looking down, she stared at her empty hands.
She had nothing, just like so many other women she had seen walking the streets of Durham, having to resort to selling the only thing they could—their bodies.
She took a deep breath. She had not come to Durham Cathedral to pray for herself. She had come to mourn her mother.
“Please, God,” she prayed. “Take care of her. Tell her not to worry about me.”
“My child.”
She glanced up and saw an old man with a rim of white hair around his bald head.
His robe was crisp white and about his neck draped an emerald-green stole.
He was an important clergyman, whether a priest or a deacon, she did not know.
Quickly, she dropped her gaze and stood up, then dipped in a low curtsy.
“Forgive me,” she said, keeping her gaze downcast.
“And what grievous act have you committed that you require my forgiveness?” he asked, his fatherly tone soothing her heart.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, still maintaining her pious stance, but then she realized she’d just lied. “Well, truthfully, I did have wicked thoughts about someone a few moments ago.”
He chuckled softly. “Such thoughts race through all men’s heads, even my own, but you needn’t seek forgiveness now. When next you go to confession, you can mention your thoughts again. Now, what did this person do to vex you?”
Clenching her fists, she resisted kicking at the stone on the ground as fury pulsed through her. Not meeting the holy man’s gaze, she gritted out. “He and his companions destroyed my loom, my livelihood.”
“Well, that is, indeed, a grievous offense. Did these men act maliciously?”
She lifted her shoulders. “I do not know what manner of men they are or what motivated their actions. What I do know is that I am hungry and no longer have a way to earn my keep.”
Keeping her head bowed, she waited for his response. As more time passed, and he still had said naught, she assumed he was dismissing her. “Thank you, Father—”
“Bishop,” he interjected.
She rounded her shoulders, sinking her head lower still. “Forgive me, Bishop. I did not know.”
This time he laughed outright. “If only all God’s children sought contrition as frequently as you.
” He gently laid his hand on her bowed head.
“I am sorry for the loss of your loom and the insecurity you now face, but I can feel your sorrow. It runs deeper than the worries of the flesh. Something else troubles you.”
My mother is dead, her heart screamed.
A knot formed in her throat.
“Breathe,” she whispered, chasing away her tears. “Fight.”
But what did she have left to fight for?
“I did not hear your words, my child. My ears are old.”