*
The lady wasvery ill.
The monk watched her sleeping fitfully, her head on the old table, and wondered what he should do. His superior was on a trip to Bracknell and would not return for several days. Meanwhile, it was the monk and a couple of orphans to take care of the small church. Now he was faced with the added burden of an ill woman.
The sun was starting to set, signaling the onset of Vespers. He would soon open the sanctuary for the faithful that would come for their evening prayers. The lady was in the small alcove directly off the main sanctuary and he did not wish for her to be seen.
Uncertain and fidgety bordering on panic, he closed the door to the alcove and was horrified when he could still hear her coughing through the closed door. He wondered if any of thefaithful would hear her and report to his superior that he had allowed a woman in the place during his absence. He would be whipped for sure.
The two orphans, boys around ten and twelve years of age, had begun to light the tapers around the small, barren sanctuary. The weak light from the setting sun permeated the thin lancet windows carved all around the top of the sanctuary. Even with the glow of the candles, it was a gloomy place. A crude wooden altar served as the divine brokerage for God’s holy blessings.
The monk donned his crude service robe and went to stand in the sanctuary as the faithful began to trickle in. It was mostly elderly, crossing themselves at the door before wandering further into the chapel for their prayers. They were the poor, the servants of the nobles that comprised the congregation of his poverty-ridden church.
The monk had dreams long ago of being a great bishop in a great cathedral, but his dreams had only brought him here. Sometimes he was angry at God for placing him in this destitute place, but in truth, he had become fond of his parishioners. He stood next to the door, watching them filter in, hearing the faint coughing of the lady in the room behind him. It got to the point when she would cough, he would cough, hoping to cover up her sounds.
More people began to enter as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. When he was sure most of the faithful had arrived, he moved to close the door. But blocking his path was an armored man so massive, so terrifying, that he filled up the entire entry.
The monk screamed like a woman. Then he slapped a hand over his mouth to silence himself as the helmed head turned in his direction.
“You.” A massive gloved finger was beckoning to him. “Come here.”
The monk forced his quaking legs to move. “Yes, my lord?”
The knight’s armor creaked and groaned as he moved towards him. He sounded, and looked, like the Devil himself.
“I am looking for a woman,” he said. “She may have passed through this church, or possibly this town. Have you seen any strange women about, well dressed and fine?”
The monk thought of the lady’s orders to him earlier:tell no one you have seen me. But even as he mulled over her command, thoughts of the massive knight snapping his skinny neck came on far more strongly. He had no intention of dying for a woman he did not know. With a squeak in his voice, he threw his arm in the general direction of the alcove.
“In there,” he croaked.
The enormous knight blew past him, practically kicking open the door. The small, cramped room displayed the lady in the middle of it as if a light shined directly down on her, pointing her out. The knight threw back his visor as he went down on one knee beside her.
Alixandrea’s face was flushed, beads of sweat on her forehead. Gaston could see that she was gravely ill. He ripped off a gauntlet and put a hand to her face.
“Christ,” he hissed.
“Yes?” The monk replied, hovering back in the doorway.
Gaston shot him an irritated glare. “Not you,” he hissed. “I meant her; she’s burning up. How long has she been like this?”
The monk was wringing his hands. The faithful, having seen the knight enter, now began to crowd up behind the monk. It was a nervous little group.
“I… I do not know, my lord,” he said truthfully. “She came to me early this morning and told me that she was in trouble. I allowed her to come in and dry herself.”
Gaston had heard enough. Looking around, he spied some manner of blanket thrown in a heap in the corner. It was filthy but it would have to do. He grabbed the material and tossed it around the lady’s shoulders. Gently pulling her up into a seated position, he tried to wrap her in it but she awoke, groggy and disoriented.
“Hands off me,” she did not recognize Gaston and slapped him straight across the face. “Unhand me this moment!”
Her strike stung, but he did not flinch. He knew she wasn’t thinking clearly.
“’Tis all right, Lady Wellesbourne,” he said quietly. “I am taking you home to your husband.”
Her eyes were wide, unfocused, as he swept her up into his arms. “Husband?” she repeated as if she did not recognize the word. By the time Gaston had her out into the sanctuary, she began to struggle. “I cannot go home. No! Put me down!”
“You must go home,” Gaston said calmly. “Matthew is worried sick.”
“No,” she gasped. “Please do not take me home. I cannot go!”
