A Bit of Heaven on Earth Read online

  Suddenly, the words ceased. The priest whispered, “Do you know Latin? Can you imitate me?”

  He nodded, a little unsure since it had been so long. The priest started off, and he followed his lead, taking over. Gavin didn’t know the entire ritual, but he thought he could fake it. Who would know? The guards were uneducated, and none were even in sight.

  Father Janus stood and took off his cloak, then began to shed his garments. He indicated for Gavin to do the same. As Gavin murmured the Latin words, they switched clothing and re-dressed themselves. Gavin was in shock. He didn’t think they could pull off such a deception.

  He switched to passages from Homer. He figured it was close enough, and he was much more familiar with it since it had been a boyhood favorite of his. As he spoke, the priest whispered to him and instructed him on exactly what to do.

  CHAPTER 5

  Gustave appeared. Gavin’s knees quaked. The guard unlocked the cell door, though, not even passing a cursory glance in his direction. He simply motioned him out.

  Gavin tried to move slowly, as if he were the elderly priest. He in no way wanted to tip his hand to the Frenchman. As he began to shuffle along in Father Janus’s familiar gait, he realized he didn’t know the way out from this prison.

  He’d been brought here unconscious from the place he and Robert had originally been kept when they were hostages to be ransomed. Gavin had fought the guards that came to remove him from that long-ago place of simple comfort, not knowing if he went to his death.

  So how would he find the direction he should take?

  As he moved along the dark hallway, lit only by a few torches, he saw a staircase in front of him. He’d never made it this far before in his escape attempts. Excitement rushed through him. He could hear the pounding of blood in his right ear. He quelled the tremble in his limbs and followed Gustave up the stairs.

  At the top, the guard unlocked the door and pushed it open. Gavin, his head bowed, stepped through without pausing. Behind him the clang of metal and the grinding of a lock echoed. It was the sound of locking steel that almost unnerved him. His knees buckled, and he stumbled. He threw out a hand and clutched at the wall. No one saw him, though. The long passageway before him was empty.

  He followed it to daylight. The sun! How long had it been since he’d seen it? He kept his joy in check, though, and continued in a slow shuffle. The dark cowl pulled over his head remained close, his face all but invisible, as he counted each step.

  Then he was free. Gavin stepped through an unlocked door. Outside, a crisp wind blew in the open courtyard. Clasping the worn robe tightly about him, he looked simply as if he prepared to face the elements. He harnessed in the feelings of exultation, his movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to call attention to himself in any way. At the gate a guard called out to him.

  “Greetings, Father!”

  Panic filled him. He understood and even spoke French, but he sounded nothing like Father Janus. The minute he acknowledged the gatekeeper, the ruse would be discovered.

  He stopped at the gate and waved up at the guard. His alarm spread as the man motioned to his companion and began descending the ladder, coming straight for him. Fear rippled through his body at the thought of being caught and returned to his hellhole. He would go down fighting and welcome death before returning to that cell.

  In desperation, he offered up a last, desperate prayer to God to see him through this ordeal. He held the cowl more closely and dipped his head.

  The man arrived before him and rattled off several sentences in a thick, peasant dialect. Gavin only caught a few phrases, but he surmised the guard had a sick daughter. He wanted the priest to accompany him to his hut.

  He saw no way out of the situation, so he nodded. If need be, he would kill this guard in the privacy of his home before he would allow the man to sound an alarm. The sentinel turned and hurried off. Gavin followed at a slower pace.

  The hut wasn’t but a hundred paces from the prison’s gate. He suppressed the desire to wrap his arm about the guard’s neck and snap it. He hoped he could go through the motions this man expected to see and hear and successfully continue his escape attempt.

  As they entered the man’s home, Gavin was hit by smells from long ago—a warm fire crackling noisily, stew bubbling in a cauldron, rushes on the floor. Underneath, however, permeated the smell of death, something he was all too familiar with these past two years during his imprisonment.

  He saw a young girl about four years of age, lying upon a pallet near the fire. Tiny and blond, her unnatural brightness told him she was flushed with fever. He went to her and knelt. Taking her hand, he smiled at her.

  In that moment a powerful connection was forged. Gavin sensed it running through their linked fingers. “What is your name, child?” he asked her in French, deliberately keeping his voice in a whisper.

  She smiled weakly at him, her eyes full of hope. “Lisette.”

  He began to speak in Latin then, soft and low, as he rested his palm against her brow. For some minutes he told her of Odysseus and how revered he was far and wide. He told her of the great journey Odysseus would embark upon and how it would cost him what was most dear. Lisette began to drift off to sleep.

  When he would go, she held tightly onto his hand for a moment, her eyes closed but a smile upon her thin lips. The gesture moved Gavin. He felt more alive than he had since that last day on the battlefield. To have contact, to be treated as a human being and not an animal, brought tears to his eyes.

  He squeezed her hand in return, and gradually Lisette dropped off to sleep. She looked so peaceful resting before the fire. He made the sign of the cross over her and stood.

  The guard, who’d remained by the door, thanked him over and over. Gavin mumbled in Latin, “The pig jumped over the fence, chased by the fox.” It was the only phrase that came to mind. He made the sign of the cross again and left, not daring to look back.

  “Don’t hurry,” he muttered under his breath. “Pace yourself.”

  The wind chilled him as he walked. Did he used to notice things such as that before, or was it all war, wenches, and wine? At least the cold ache of his numb fingers let him know he was alive.

  He reached the outskirts of a town and had to cross through it to reach where Father Janus had told him the horse lay in wait. He listened to snippets of conversation as he shuffled along but never caught the name of where he was. He longed to stop and speak with someone, touch someone, as he had little Lisette.

  Yet he realized no stopping could be allowed. He couldn’t wonder what was happening in the war or if his squire Dace now fought for England on the battlefield. He wouldn’t think about his family, which brought an ache and keen sense of betrayal. He must get out. He must find the horse and make his escape from France.

  He must survive.

  He no longer knew how much time had passed. Had he walked an hour or the entire afternoon? What if the old priest had been out of his head as his life ebbed away? Gavin shuddered and pushed everything aside except the need to go on.

  He reached a wooded area and heard the sound of running water with his good ear. He dared not look about him as he ventured into the woods at the maddeningly slow pace that he forced himself to keep. The sound of the water grew louder, and then the brook appeared. Gavin walked to the water’s edge and plunged his hands into the clear stream.

  The frigid water numbed his hands instantly, but that didn’t stop him. He greedily drank his fill of the water and then splashed it over his face and neck, knowing it would take heated water and hours of scrubbing to remove the layers of grime. Reluctant to leave the stream, he let the chilled water run across his hands until they lost all feeling, trying to remove some of the filth buried deeply in his flesh. He must be a fright. Perhaps he could pass himself off as a priest gone mad. He could roar in Latin to keep ot
hers away.

  Gavin drank again. Never would anything again taste as good to him as the water from this brook. He stood at last and crossed over to the opposite bank, ready to search for the promised horse.

  Then he heard the cry for help. He froze, unsure what to do. But the sound was fairly insistent. As if his feet had a mind of their own, he turned in the direction of the noise. In a set of thorned bushes, he spied the mewling kitten, struggling to be freed. Without thought to the pain, Gavin reached into the bramble and pulled the scrawny animal to safety.

  He brought it close to inspect it, and the kitten leaned its paws upon his shoulders and nuzzled his neck, purring loudly in thanks. The gesture did him in. He collapsed in a heap, bringing his knees close to his chest. He cradled the kitten and cried, blubbering like a babe or jilted lover. Great tears fell down his cheeks and onto the small fur ball, who began kneading its paws into him.

  He set the grateful creature down and wiped his eyes, but still more tears came. The kitten jumped back into his lap and scrambled up his chest. It leaned up, its paws going once again onto his shoulders. This time a sandpaper tongue darted out and began to lick the tears from his cheeks. Gavin stroked the thin animal, who gave him unfettered love.

  He picked it up again and stroked it. Though Gavin could feel the animal’s ribs and its coat was as dirty as his rags, the kitten looked like a fighter. It was a smoky gray with large, amber eyes. He supposed it wandered off from its mother or had even been abandoned. In that instant, he hitched his fate to the kitten. If it survived, so would he. He would do whatever it took to keep this small creature alive. He was a little superstitious in that respect.

  With the purring cat cradled in his palm, Gavin set out to find the horse. When he did, it looked as scrawny and underfed as his new pet. He hoped it would carry his weight. He had to find out now where he was and where he could go. Mounting the horse, he lightly kicked its sides and took off. He breathed in the fresh air.

  It was the first day of his new life.

  CHAPTER 6

  Kentwood, 1358

  “Lord Aldred has a wish for blackmanger, Cook. But less almonds and more sugar this time, I think,” Elizabeth mused, considering how her husband was beginning to have difficulty in chewing. She’d also be sure the chicken in the dish was thinly sliced before Aldred received it.

  “And some frumenty pudding,” she added.

  The toothless woman grinned. “Ye needn’t worry, me lady. I’ll take fine care of his lordship. Best be about me business then.” She ambled off, her large girth shifting from side to side as she hobbled back to the kitchens.

  Elizabeth signaled to Nelia, and the servant glided over.

  “How is Lord Aldred today, my lady? He is in my prayers every night.”

  “Better than yesterday. These bouts with his stomach are tiresome for him, though. He got very little sleep last eve.”

  “And for you, my lady?” Nelia observed her carefully, her eyebrows raised. “Shouldn’t you get some rest yourself?”

  She sighed. Nelia had tried to mother her ever since she arrived at Kentwood half a score ago.

  “I’m well, Nelia. You needn’t coddle me. I’m a grown woman of eight and twenty, not a small child. Let’s see to today’s business.”

  She patted the servant’s shoulder, not wanting the woman to be upset. “First, I’d like the sweeping and mopping to occur throughout the downstairs and then fresh rushes laid in the Great Hall. We also need to churn more butter, and I want to check on our candle supply. We may have to make more a little ahead of schedule.”

  After running through her list of tasks to accomplish that day, Elizabeth added, “I will be with Cedd if you need me. That will be all.”

  She ignored the look Nelia shot her way. The servant had worked inside the castle walls all her life and thought her mistress handling the accounts was most unladylike. Domestic chores and needlework were all Nelia deemed acceptable for a noblewoman to do.

  Yet how would Kentwood have survived if she hadn’t stepped in?

  Cedd waited for her in the room where all estate business originated. He smiled at his mistress, his good eye directly upon her. The other wandered off in all directions. It unsettled her when she’d first arrived at her husband’s home, but she soon learned what a decent man Cedd was and how much Aldred depended upon his experience and advice. Now she rarely noticed the problem.

  “Good morning, my lady. We have much to discuss.”

  Elizabeth shot him a concerned look. “Is there a problem I’m not aware of?”

  “Nay, my lady,” Cedd reassured her. “Three good harvests in a row? All is going smoothly. But there are a few matters that will need your prompt attention.”

  Hours later, she tipped her head back and then from side to side, stretching the muscles in her neck that ached from the time bent over the accounts.

  “I’m satisfied for now, Cedd, and ‘tis my time to spend with Lord Aldred.” She stood. “Would you have Nelia check the wood supply?”

  “I will check it myself, my lady.” The steward pushed back his chair and stood. “You take on too much. I will see that ‘tis done and to your usual standards.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Thank you, Cedd.” She left the room, running her fingers through her hair, trying to smooth down the unruly curls. She broke with tradition and rarely wore a veil inside the castle. Aldred thought her auburn hair too beautiful to be hidden.

  She smiled at the thought of pleasing her husband with such a simple gesture. After so long a time together, she looked fondly upon him and hoped she’d brought a spark of happiness to his final years. He’d taught her so much. How to read and write. To read even Latin, and better than any priest. They conversed in French regularly, and Aldred claimed she sounded like a native. If the French should ever invade southern England because of this bloody war, she’d spy upon them and see that every Frenchman that landed anywhere in the whole of Kent would be drawn and quartered.

  Moreover, Aldred indulged her in many ways. She hunted now and had a keener sense than most men as to when and where a prey would move. She oversaw the accounts. She visited their tenants and knew every name, down to each small babe, the last born only two days before.

  Elizabeth overcame her fears and now assisted in childbirths across the estate. She still was uncomfortable with the idea, but she realized it would never be her turn to give birth. This helped detach her from the process, and she’d become quite skilled at midwifery. After all, it was expected of Lord Aldred’s wife. The people looked to her for leadership and assurance. She’d learned to be strong in all areas.

  Her husband had even turned over disputes to her. When the people gathered once a month, she and Aldred sat together to hear their petitions, but it was now she who made every decision on her own. In the beginning, Aldred started by guiding the judgments in private.

  He had his wife tell him her reasoning when she arrived at a solution. Eventually satisfied with her sound conclusions, he pronounced all rulings would come from her. Elizabeth learned to stand upon keen listening and to trust her own common sense.

  She had made a good wife to her husband. The only place she’d failed was in keeping his children alive. His eldest son had died in battle before their marriage, and the second boy fell from his horse during a hunt. Only five and ten, he’d lost the use of both his legs and arms. ‘Twas a painful two years he spent before dying of the fever, and she’d agonized that she couldn’t save the genial young man.

  Aldred’s only daughter succumbed to the same fever at ten and four. Elizabeth did everything she could, staying day and night with the girl as she slowly wasted away. After that, the spirit seemed to go out of her husband, especially knowing they would not have children of their own. She was grateful, though, not to endure lying with him. The few kisses they’d shared behi
nd closed doors, meant to be intimate, only repulsed her. She would grimace inwardly but put a brave smile on the outside.

  She didn’t mind his public displays of affection. He held her hand. Kissed her cheek. She liked the little kindnesses and truly had an affection for him. Knowing how wretched her life would have been if her father had made good and put her away in a convent made her appreciate Aldred’s generosity all the more.

  To think nuns took a vow of poverty. Elizabeth shuddered. She’d grown to enjoy the finer things in life. She had fertile land with good harvests, jewels, money, position, power. Why mumble prayers all day, performing menial tasks, when she could use her intelligence to succeed in a man’s world? She had everything she wanted, her every wish fulfilled, the respect of her people.