not for money. Everyone wanted to make him either saint or sinner. An instrument of God or a money-grubbing mercenary. He was neither. Despite what they thought, it was not money he wanted.
I belong at the Priory, she said. Where did he belong? Not at the monastery. Where did you grow up? Garren of nowhere. Garren who had no home.
Home. He could hardly remember the look of it. Gray stone under gray skies. Brooding green trees, never changing with the seasons. One tower, or was it two? Always on the lookout. Waiting for an attack from either side of an ever shifting border. The English soldiers screaming as loudly as the Scots. He had left at age six, as each child must, never returning until those awful weeks eleven years later when Death soaked the walls like a black, winter rain.
Sometimes, a whiff of heather would take him back. His mother had loved that smell. She had stuffed some in a little pillow for him to sit on while he listened to her tell him how Christ turned water into wine and made many loaves from few.
Fairy stories. He found that out just in time, just before he would have promised his life to poverty, chastity and obedience.
He shrugged off the unwelcome memories. Past is past. Look at today. He looked out on William’s land again. Green fields hugged gently rolling hills, each field stitched neatly to its neighbor with greener trees. Blue and copper butterflies clustered as thickly as the yellow and white flowers they sat on. What would it be like to have a home in a lush, sweet land like this? No invaders had ripped the land apart for nine generations. No stink of blood soaked the soil. No savage soldiers’ cries, living or dead, drowned out the twitter of sparrows.
He envied William the land he walked on. He wanted his own earth beneath his feet. Maybe, after he had repaid William. Maybe, after William died and Richard forced him to leave. Maybe, he could find some land, abandoned or unattended. Some land that with a strong arm he could make his own.
But first, that meant taking the girl to bed. Next time, he would be gallant and charming and eventually she would tumble like a tavern maid. He would not have to face her eyes when she rolled beneath him.
Stand straight and speak kindly.
He shook his head. It was as if his mother spoke in his ear. He was six again and she was saying goodbye as he sat atop the horse that would carry him away.
The thought distracted him as he called a halt for the day beneath a grove of trees beside a cold spring and assigned guard duties for the night. No sense tiring them all at once, especially Sister. They had many days of walking ahead.
He splashed cold spring water on his face and down the back of his neck. He would talk to the girl again.
Stand straight and speak kindly. God will watch over you.
God had some things to answer for. But he might try his mother’s advice on the young Dominica.
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