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TO ACHIEVE A PEACEFUL life, one must be at peace with themselves.
—Mother Seema, Cathuran monk
* * *
LEANING FORWARD, THE young man offered Gwen his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Let me help you up, Sister.”
Gwen fought with the robe to untangle herself while she sized him up. Though he had a sword, he’d secured it in its scabbard. He hadn’t given her any looks that made her uncomfortable, and he hadn’t acted rudely or in a threatening manner. Still, she thought exercising caution the wiser course. “I can get up by myself, thank you, and I don’t need any company. So you can just be on your way.”
“Please,” he said, offering his hand again and topping his offer with an irresistible smile upstaging a cut and bruise under his left eye. He didn’t wait for an answer. Stepping closer, he reached down, hooked his arms under Gwen’s armpits, and lifted her onto her feet without effort.
Her robe fell into place, and there she stood not a long step from him, face-to-face, close enough to smell the musky scent of a traveler’s sweat. Gwen reached for her hair and blushed when she realized it was barely more than dark stubble.
“Thank you,” she said.
He stepped back, looked around on the ground near them, then bent over and picked up the quill. Examining it, he said, “Looks like it didn’t survive, Sister. I can make you a new one.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Sure it is. It’s my fault it got broken. It’s the least I can do after giving you a fright like that.”
The thought of having nothing to write with annoyed her, and she frowned.
“Was I right?”
“Right about what?”
He nodded toward the gathering basket. “Broadleaf plantain. That’s what you were drawing, right?”
“Oh. Yes.” She tried to gather her thoughts, but his voice, which carried an unusual accent, clouded them. “It’s broadleaf plantain.”
“Good for the gut if I remember correctly?”
“Among other uses, yes.”
His dark eyes lit up with interest. “Other uses? Such as?”
“It depends on the part of the plant you’re using, of course, but leaf extracts stop bleeding and encourage healing without scars.”
He scratched his chin. “Hmm. And other uses?”
“In the Westland, wet leaf compresses have been used with some success to draw out snake venom . . . the degree of success dependent on the species of snake, of course. I’m not sure what purposes Sister Brunhilda has in mind for it, though. Now that I think of it, I’m not sure the Northern Wastes have any snakes. It’s probably too cold for them.”
He broke into a grin and shoved his hand toward her. “Benjin Hawk.”
“Gwendolin Ahlgren. Gwen,” she said, placing her hand in his. When he shook her hand instead of kissing it, she drew her hand back and looked at it, embarrassment warming her cheeks.
“I thought monks gave up their surnames.”
“I’m not a monk. Well, not yet.” He lifted an eyebrow, and Gwen felt compelled to explain. “I haven’t taken any vows. In fact, I just learned that I might be going home and not becoming a monk at all.” She wanted to bite her tongue. Why was she telling this stranger something so personal?
Thunder rolled in the distance.
“Just my luck,” Benjin said. “I was hoping to get to shelter. The past week’s been one storm after another, I swear.”
She knew it broke every rule of safety to invite strangers into one’s home, every rule of propriety to be alone with a man she didn’t know, and every rule of hospitality to bring a stranger to a home that didn’t belong to her, even if it was one of the homes of her order. She broke the rules anyway because it also seemed inhumane to leave a stranger out in a storm when she could offer shelter. “We’ve a barn. It’s not very large, an enclosed pen, really. And you’ll have to share it with Tinkles and the chickens, but you’re welcome to stay there until the rain has passed.”
“Tinkles?” he asked.
“The cow.”
“Your cow’s named Tinkles?”
“Well, she isn’t my cow, but that’s what I call her.”
“Tinkles?”
What started as a giggle turned into full-blown laughter, and Gwen’s heart swelled. “What’s wrong with Tinkles? She likes it!”
Her protest made Benjin laugh harder, and Gwen soon found herself laughing with him.
“We’d best get you back, Sister . . . Gwen. Weather happens fast here. I’ve never seen it blow in so fast as it does in the Southland.”
Benjin helped Gwen gather her belongings, and she pointed in the direction of the cabin. As they walked, she asked, “Where is your home, Benjin Hawk?”
“To the east.”
His accent didn’t sound like any she’d heard from Endland, nor from Astor, the only lands east of the outpost, except for the eastern reaches of the Southland, and Benjin’s comment about the weather had made it clear the Southland wasn’t his home.
“Where in the east?”
“Across the sea,” he said. He stopped walking and reached out to touch her arm. “Please don’t tell anyone. I’m just tryin’ to get home.”
Home, she thought. Home. Before the Zjhon. Before . . . She shut off the memories. “What brought you to the Southland?”
The light-hearted expression she’d seen earlier disappeared, replaced by a troubled frown. “A fella back home. Damned fool. I should’ve stayed put and let him come alone.”
He resumed walking. Gwen caught avoidance in his downcast eyes and anger or something like it in his plodding steps. “What is your trade, Benjin Hawk?”
“A little of this. A little of that. I never studied anything for long. I can farm and hunt and track and fish, and I suppose I can defend myself if I have to. I’m a pretty decent herbalist, but my knowledge is limited. I’d like to learn more.”
“Would you?” she asked. “Truly?”
“Oh, yes, miss. What you said earlier about the plantains made me want to take down some notes. My memory’s awful and I wouldn’t want to get a concoction wrong. I’ve seen what can happen.”
He gave a shudder, but his darker emotions—the avoidance and anger she’d seen—had disappeared, displaced by liveliness and genuine interest despite the dark subject of overdosing. Gwen found herself longing to nourish the positive feelings he now expressed so freely. “Well, then. Perhaps while you’re waiting out the storm, we can talk about some of the plants from your homeland and mine.”
“I’d like that,” he said and gave her another of his devastating smiles. “If our chat won’t keep Tinkles awake, that is.” He winked at her, and Gwen laughed.
By the time they reached the cabin, the clouds had gathered, darkened, and let loose a fury of lightning, thunder, and rain. They were still laughing as they entered the modest log cabin.
Benjin looked around. “You’re alone.”
Gwen walked to the fireplace and picked up the poker, stabbing at the logs the monks kept at a slow burn. “The others will return.”
“They left you alone here? Don’t they know the Zjhon have patrols combing the countryside for unprotected spots just like this one? They take what they want.”
“This is a Cathuran outpost. They wouldn’t dare—”
He interrupted her. “If you believe that, miss, you’re making a grave mistake. The Zjhon respect no property, persons, or gods but their own.”
She didn’t want to admit he was right, but Gwen knew he spoke truth. She’d seen the forceful way they preached their religion in Sutherhold and the way they’d recruited young men for their army. “I’ll be just fine,” she said, reassuring herself if not him. “Would you like some tea?”
“Tea.” He said the word with the fondness one has for something long unexperienced but once loved.
Gwen smiled and leaned the poker against the stone face of the fireplace. “I know just the thing.” She’d spotted some chamomile leaves in the cupboard, and so she crushed them and steeped them in the hot water the monks had left in a kettle hanging over the fire that morning. After straining them, she poured the liquid into clay mugs and set one down for Benjin.
He closed his eyes and leaned forward over the mug, letting the steam rise into his nostrils. “Chamomile. Calming, soothing.”
“That’s right. You’ve a good nose, Benjin.”
“It’s one of my favorites. I’d forgotten how much so.”
“Would you like some honey in it?”
He shook his head and took a slow, long sip of the tea. “Perfect just the way it is.”
Gwen grinned.
“You’ve a knack for working with plants. I’ve tasted chamomile tea so bitter it made me spit it out, but this is perfect. Utterly perfect. Thank you, Sister.”
“Just Gwen.”
“Thank you, just Gwen.”
They laughed, and while they drank, they shared some of their favorite recipes for combination teas. The storm raged through their teatime conversation and through a light evening meal of bread, broth, and fruit, which Gwen prepared and shared with Benjin.
“How did you injure your eye?” she asked him.
“I fought someone’s fist with my face.”
“After dinner, you should let me take a look at it. Comfrey root will help it heal more quickly. The cut looks like it’s on the verge of infection.”
Benjin rubbed the spot. “I’ll give it a good wash. It’ll be fine.”
“Now you’re the one being silly,” she said.
He shook his head. “Do all women do that?”
“Do what?”
“Remember every word a fella says and use those words against him?”
Gwen chuckled but didn’t answer. She couldn’t speak for other women. For her, though, Benjin’s every word landed in her memory as naturally as the raindrops falling on the rooftop. And in her thoughts, she already played them over and over again.
When dinner was over, Benjin volunteered to wash the dishes, and Gwen retrieved the comfrey root she’d found in the cupboard. Standing beside him, she worked in a clean spot on the counter next to the washbasin, and all the while he watched her work. She chopped the raw root with a cleaver and used a wooden mallet to mash it into coarse mush, which she mixed with a small amount of honey in a crude stone bowl she found in the cupboard as well. She made a mental note to have a proper mortar and pestle sent to the monks in gratitude for their hospitality. By the time she finished the preparation, Benjin had dried and put away the dishes.
“Sit down and pull up a chair in front of you so I can see what I’m doing.” She set the mixture on the table, retrieved a clean cloth from the cupboard and dampened it with water from the kettle, turned up the fire in the oil lamp sitting on the table, and took the chair he’d positioned in front of his own. Knee to knee, they faced each other as Gwen brought the wet cloth up to Benjin’s face and dabbed at the cut.
He squinted but didn’t flinch.
“It’s painful, isn’t it?”
“A little,” he said, averting his gaze.
“Because it’s getting infected, and it doesn’t hurt a little. It hurts a lot. There’s pus around the cut.”
She pressed the cloth against the wound. “Hold this for a moment. I’ll have to lance it to drain the infection.”
“Uh. You sure that’s necessary? It’s just a little cut.”
She got up and returned with the sharpest knife she could find in the cupboard. While she thought the knife would suffice, she wished she had one of her father’s knives, all of which he kept sharpened to a fine edge, which would make the lancing quicker and less painful. Nothing hurt worse than a dull knife, and the last thing she wanted was to hurt Benjin. Placing the tip of the knife in the flame of the oil lamp, she heated it until it glowed red then sat down facing Benjin once more. “Move the cloth,” she said calmly.
Benjin’s eyes looked wild, like those of a spooked horse.
“I’ll be quick about it. My father is a butcher. I can handle a knife. I promise.”
As he was letting out a sigh betraying his nervousness, she reached up and slashed the cut with the tip of the knife. Blood and pus spilled out of it, and he pulled back. She tossed the knife on the table and grabbed the cloth out of his hand, placing it beneath the cut to catch the ooze dripping from the wound. Then she pressed all around the incision and bruise, making sure all of the infection came out of the cut.
“Ouch,” he said, wincing and trying to get away from the pressure she applied. “I thought you said it wouldn’t hurt.”
“That’s not what I said. I said I’d be quick about it.” She pulled the cloth away and inspected the wound. “It looks better already.”
“It stings.”
“The poultice will fix that,” she said, putting the cloth aside and dipping her fingers into the sticky preparation of comfrey and honey. She smeared it on the bruise and the cut and added another layer of the mixture on top of the first before Benjin said anything.
“You’re right. It does feel better. Less pressure around my eye.”
“Yes. I’m afraid if left unchecked the infection would have blinded you, if not worse.”
Benjin’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”
She nodded. “Infection can spread quickly, particularly near the eyes.” She leaned back and looked at her handiwork. “I made only a small cut, and the comfrey root will heal it without a scar.” That thought pleased her, as she hated to think she’d be responsible for scarring such a handsome face.
Benjin took her hands in his. “Thank you, Gwen.”
That was when the vision took over. She saw the blow landing above his cheekbone and the brawl that had ensued, along with flashes of a beautiful young woman standing off to the side yelling at Benjin and the man hitting him to stop. Then Benjin was on the ground alone, the woman comforting the other man and yelling at Benjin. “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you just be happy for us?”
“Gwen? Gwen? What’s wrong?” Benjin’s voice grew louder as the vision faded.
She blinked and looked down at the hands holding hers.
“You’re shaking,” Benjin said.
Her eyes filled with tears as she understood what had caused the fight. The woman Benjin loved didn’t love him back.
“I’m fine,” she said, rising and gathering the supplies she’d used. Standing in front of the washbasin, she looked out the window and listened. “The storm has stopped. You can take my bedroll to the barn.” She pointed to the roll she’d left beside the door.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.
She nodded but couldn’t bring herself to look directly at him. She needed to think. “Good night, Benjin.”
“Good night, Gwen,” he said, rising from the table and repositioning the chairs before he picked up the bedroll and left the cabin.
Once he’d shut the door, Gwen grabbed the edge of the counter and braced herself. For the next hour, tears streamed down her face and she sobbed quietly, as much for herself as for the pain Benjin carried. Sleepless, she tossed and turned on one of the mats the monks usually slept on, but by morning, she had resolved to make Benjin forget about the woman who’d rejected him. She knew now why Gilly and Thomlin had acted the way they did. Love didn’t let lovers choose. It chose for them. And on its own terms. For Gwendolin, that realization had come too late. She’d already fallen in love with Benjin Hawk.