Dark Maiden by Lindsay Townsend Page A

whisk the jug away, in the blink of an eye, somewhere into the shadows. “Usually by meditation and prayer.”
    “But you have been too weary and distracted,” he supplied.
    “Not because of you,” she said quickly, and he chuckled.
    “Bless you, cariad , but I do know that. You dread the test will be too great, yes? That you may fail yourself and others, yes?” He smacked his thighs. “All honest nerves before a performance.”
    “It is more than that!” she flared, and he showed his white teeth.
    “Excellent. We shall have you a haughty black cat before the day is out and you can scratch these enemies to hell.”
    “I am no beast but I cannot be gentle or show womanly mercy.” She dreaded what he might think of her by the end of this day. “I may have to do things that are dreadful to customary sight.”
    She stopped as he put his hand out, palm upward. In the center of it was a dainty cross.
    “Made from the cross here,” Geraint explained. “Taken with permission of the abbot. Do your best and certainly do not be gentle. I shall not think badly of you, Yolande. You will be the scourge. I shall carry your whips.”
    Unable to help herself, she threw back her head and laughed. “You delight in saying things to me that suggest other things.”
    He shrugged, utterly unabashed. “I desire you greatly so I pay court to you in any way I can. Do you dislike it?”
    I would be lying if I said I did. “I must remain chaste—”
    “And words alone do not breach your chastity, cariad . Did your mother never tell you that?”
    “But am I holy enough?” How can I be holy when I also desire him? She looked at him. He was all fire and sinews, standing one foot on top of the other like a child, but with the strength and power of the acrobat sparking in his rangy limbs. Helplessly, her loins tingled in response.
    “Ah, and now we come to it.” He wrapped her fingers about the new cross. “With God, all is possible. You could be as mighty as Saint Benedict himself, but if God is not with you, your charisma and chastity are nothing.”
    Is God with me? She dared not ask but Geraint was already answering.
    “You dreamed of the two saints, did you not?”
    She poked him in the chest. “What made you so wise?”
    He winked at her. “I am a tumbler, remember? Beloved of the Marys.”
    “Come, beloved . We should make haste.”
    He held out the quiver of arrows. “I am at your service.”
    “You are incorrigible.”
    “And I am still your servant today. Shall we meet in the orchard? I have some stuff to pick up from the kitchen, I believe, and you from the church.” Amazingly, considering the cramped space in the cell, he threw off a backflip, coming up with a grin as bright as a torch. “Perhaps, while you are in there, a few more prayers to our two saints might be in order?”
    “Go on.” Yolande tried to be stern as the coming fight demanded but could not stop herself from smiling as she spoke.
    * * * * *
     
    Yolande had withdrawn inside herself. Geraint could tell it by the fluid way she strode around the apple trees toward him, moving as if the world around her had become insubstantial, not quite solid. She looked at him coolly, already at a distance.
    He was the same, he knew, before he attempted a particularly difficult trick, so he merely fell into step alongside her.
    She did not speak or glance at him to see if he had the honey and bread and milk. It heartened him that she trusted him enough not to ask or look.
    Yolande had combed her hair and flicked it with water, brushed down her clothes. Her boots were freshly cleaned. He fell back a step or two and licked his fingers to smear through his own messy hair, patting off his tunic and leggings. When he lengthened his stride and caught up, she nodded her approval.
    Perhaps the dead like the living to be tidy.
    “Put this next to your heart.” Her voice was low and thoughtful.
    He took the parchment packet and tucked it into his tunic. He wondered