though I expect nothing less. Ye are a Campbell. We dinna shy away from our duty.” David stood with his hands on his hips.
“Nay, indeed.”
“Considering the seriousness of yer actions, I will banish ye from the games.”
“Nay! I’ve been so looking forward to seeing the joust!” cried Gwyn, forgetting herself.
“Aye. Ye must sit alone, pray, and consider yer actions.”
Gwyn took a deep breath, remembering that this might actually work to her advantage. “Aye, David. I understand.” She walked back to the chapel tower slowly. It would be helpful to be able to spend all her time with Jack without question, but to miss the tournament games was a hard blow. She sighed, hoping that someday someone would appreciate her sacrifice.
Gwyn returned to the tower, entering the storeroom where Jack lay. He was still hot to the touch and appeared asleep or unconscious. She stroked his head, free to do so since no one—not even he—was awake to catch her. Even ill, he was an attractive man, and she hoped he would be hearty. How could she explain it if he should die?
The thought left her cold. He could not die…could he?
She propped him up once more and uncorked the bottle of medicine with her teeth. “Drink this!” she commanded through the gritted teeth.
His eyes fluttered and he obeyed. “Do anything you wish,” he mumbled.
She gave him a healthy draught and eased him back down. She went over in her head what Isabelle would do. She sighed. There was nothing else that could be done. He would either recover or he wouldn’t. Gwyn began to pace the room, unsure what to do next. She preferred action. Great feats of skill and bravery had always appealed, even if these were not particularly prized in a lass. Yet now she could do nothing but wait.
Tired of pacing back and forth, she wandered up the spiral stone steps to the floor above, entering the small chapel. With the games beginning in the courtyard, the chapel was empty, though many lit candles revealed the numerous prayers of the castle residents, most likely praying to bring a resolution to the trouble of the English army at their gate. Gwyn may have the key to the solution in her makeshift sickroom, if he survived to be of use.
Gwyn was no enemy to the church, but neither had she been a particular friend. Services were usually long and dull for an active-minded lass. The long liturgy in Latin was a particular chore. Her elders had attempted to teach her Latin, but she was a hopeless case. She had not the mind for it nor the discipline to learn. She could pick out a few words and phrases, but otherwise it was a jumbled mash of nonsense. She preferred to worship God riding through the heather on a fast horse or climbing a snowcapped peak. These expressions of faith, however, were not endorsed by her family, who corrected her catechism and chastised her for squirming in the pew.
The empty chapel was new to her. She had been in the chapel before, squashed in between her siblings on the pew, but never had she been alone. She felt oddly shy, as if being alone in the chapel allowed God to notice her for the first time. She walked up to the altar and gave her best curtsy. She lit a candle and went to her knees before the altar as she had seen her sisters do.
At this point, her sisters would close their eyes, bow their heads, and silently pray. Herein lay the problem. What was she to say? She cleared her throat, an unnecessary gesture when praying silently. She could not think of what to say. “Hello,” she finally said out loud. “I…I am sorry for no’ praying much before, for all the wrong stuff I’ve done, and that probably most of it I have’na confessed the way I should because I dinna care to pray the rosary as much as Father Thomas would make me do if he knew what I’ve done.”
Gwyn shook her head. This was a poor beginning. She wished she had been better at confession, maybe then she would have a chance at the Good Lord hearing her prayer. “I
“Nay, indeed.”
“Considering the seriousness of yer actions, I will banish ye from the games.”
“Nay! I’ve been so looking forward to seeing the joust!” cried Gwyn, forgetting herself.
“Aye. Ye must sit alone, pray, and consider yer actions.”
Gwyn took a deep breath, remembering that this might actually work to her advantage. “Aye, David. I understand.” She walked back to the chapel tower slowly. It would be helpful to be able to spend all her time with Jack without question, but to miss the tournament games was a hard blow. She sighed, hoping that someday someone would appreciate her sacrifice.
Gwyn returned to the tower, entering the storeroom where Jack lay. He was still hot to the touch and appeared asleep or unconscious. She stroked his head, free to do so since no one—not even he—was awake to catch her. Even ill, he was an attractive man, and she hoped he would be hearty. How could she explain it if he should die?
The thought left her cold. He could not die…could he?
She propped him up once more and uncorked the bottle of medicine with her teeth. “Drink this!” she commanded through the gritted teeth.
His eyes fluttered and he obeyed. “Do anything you wish,” he mumbled.
She gave him a healthy draught and eased him back down. She went over in her head what Isabelle would do. She sighed. There was nothing else that could be done. He would either recover or he wouldn’t. Gwyn began to pace the room, unsure what to do next. She preferred action. Great feats of skill and bravery had always appealed, even if these were not particularly prized in a lass. Yet now she could do nothing but wait.
Tired of pacing back and forth, she wandered up the spiral stone steps to the floor above, entering the small chapel. With the games beginning in the courtyard, the chapel was empty, though many lit candles revealed the numerous prayers of the castle residents, most likely praying to bring a resolution to the trouble of the English army at their gate. Gwyn may have the key to the solution in her makeshift sickroom, if he survived to be of use.
Gwyn was no enemy to the church, but neither had she been a particular friend. Services were usually long and dull for an active-minded lass. The long liturgy in Latin was a particular chore. Her elders had attempted to teach her Latin, but she was a hopeless case. She had not the mind for it nor the discipline to learn. She could pick out a few words and phrases, but otherwise it was a jumbled mash of nonsense. She preferred to worship God riding through the heather on a fast horse or climbing a snowcapped peak. These expressions of faith, however, were not endorsed by her family, who corrected her catechism and chastised her for squirming in the pew.
The empty chapel was new to her. She had been in the chapel before, squashed in between her siblings on the pew, but never had she been alone. She felt oddly shy, as if being alone in the chapel allowed God to notice her for the first time. She walked up to the altar and gave her best curtsy. She lit a candle and went to her knees before the altar as she had seen her sisters do.
At this point, her sisters would close their eyes, bow their heads, and silently pray. Herein lay the problem. What was she to say? She cleared her throat, an unnecessary gesture when praying silently. She could not think of what to say. “Hello,” she finally said out loud. “I…I am sorry for no’ praying much before, for all the wrong stuff I’ve done, and that probably most of it I have’na confessed the way I should because I dinna care to pray the rosary as much as Father Thomas would make me do if he knew what I’ve done.”
Gwyn shook her head. This was a poor beginning. She wished she had been better at confession, maybe then she would have a chance at the Good Lord hearing her prayer. “I
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