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There was a texture to silence, different qualities and sensations to it, uses for it he would never have guessed if he did not put his own reactions aside and consider, instead, why she so rarely spoke. He had begun to understand it as they were preparing to leave Lincoln. She had stood before Hal with a small purse of coins in her hand and asked how she might have it safely conveyed to Bargate Bettie.
“I will see that it is done,” said Hal.
She nodded, satisfied, and handed over the coins. “I would have her told this is payment for the debt owed to her, so there’s no need to come looking for them that owed it.”
“Is there no other message you would send?” asked Hal, who had seen her embrace Bettie and weep with happiness to find her. His voice held a faint concern, an incredulity that she intended such a cold exchange as her parting with her sister.
Instead of shaking her head, or answering no, Nan only let her silence speak. There was something in it, in the way she stood still and did not raise her eyes to Hal, that was a clear rebuke. It was a silence calculated to silence him, to make him understand that whatever was between the sisters was not his to question, that she would not have any words put in her mouth or forced from her lips. She had nothing more to say to her sister, and his judgment on that was not welcome.
She would never say these things aloud, because she was too aware of her station in relation to Hal and too grateful to him for his hospitality. But she achieved the same thing by saying nothing at all for exactly the right length of time, before thanking him most humbly for his aid.
Moments later, as Gryff said his farewell to his friend, she seemed to disappear entirely. It was only later that he reflected on how she had cloaked herself in silence to give the illusion she was not there at all. In fact she had been near enough to hear his promise to send word from Aderinyth when he was settled there, so that Hal might send Tiffin to him. Nan had stood in plain sight, but the quality of her silence made him forget she was there, and so he had said the name of his home. He had not meant to let her hear it until she must.
At the priory, he watched her carefully put words and silence together in just the right way to gain an audience with the prioress. The sister who had greeted them looked severely at her and the redheaded girl, instructing them to apply to the almoner after the nones prayer, like they were common beggars. Gryff had stepped forward, prepared to use a less humble approach so that they would be heard, but there was no need. A meek Nan said, “We will gladly do as you say, if the prioress wants us to wait.” She pulled a folded piece of parchment from the wallet at her belt and waited in silence while the sister glanced at it, sucked in her breath, and ushered them inside.
It must be something that showed she was from Morency, to have commanded such immediate respect. And yet Nan had not said the name, nor seemed at all boastful or proud of her connection. She was a mute supplicant who let the paper speak for her, and it was an attitude that served her well. The prioress granted her a private meeting, accepted the girl into the priory, and sent Nan on her way with provisions and wishes for a safe journey.
Now as they made their way west he let the silence grow between them, acquiescing to it every day, feeling himself bound to her more and more because they shared it together. He did not try to fill it, as he had felt compelled to do when they journeyed before.
Instead he decided to ask her one thing every day, one carefully chosen query. He passed the hours in stealing glances at her, trying to forget the feel of her breath against his lips, and deciding what question he would put to her.
“Where in Wales do you go?” he had asked at the end of the first day.
“Well north of Aderinyth,” she answered, after only a little pause.
He waited, watching her, resisting the urge to press for a more specific answer. This was the more common use of silence, more familiar to him – to allow the weight of it to force a response. No matter how reluctant to talk, the natural aversion to silence could so easily coax words from anyone. Maybe even her.
He could feel the tension rise in her, see the way her jaw clenched against saying more as she avoided his eyes. It was a relief to know she was not immune. But then she looked up, and that was the end of his relief.
Her gaze landed on his mouth, at first by chance and then resting there too long to be accidental. Her own lips parted as she stared at his, and fire shot through his veins. It seemed to last forever, long enough for him to wonder if she did it intentionally – to hope against hope it was intentional – as his blood pounded and his mouth remembered the feel of hers, hot and pliant, delicious.
And then she blinked, ending it. She turned her face down to search through her bag, but could not hide the delicate pink that suffused her cheeks or the way her hands fumbled, unusually clumsy as she set out the food. The knowledge that it affected her sent lust coursing through him.
She must know what her look did to a man. What it did to him. He told himself it was just a moment. A strange moment where she remembered their kiss and perhaps did not entirely regret it. That was all, and he should be glad she blushed at the memory instead of gutting him.
The next day she paused in the afternoon to look in the direction of the main road. They kept it in sight but did not travel on it. By an unspoken agreement, they had again skirted villages and slept under the trees instead of finding an inn or guest house. It was safer for him, of course, to avoid as many people as possible, but he had expected her to prefer the company of other travelers.
But then he remembered how she had looked when she had asked why men always came at her, and he understood why she did not suggest joining a larger party. To travel alone was better for them both, even if it meant he would spend the nights listening to her sleeping breath, remembering her look, burning for her.
Now she led them further away from the road, decisive in her steps. They walked a narrow, barely visible path, wading through flax growing at the edge of a field until they reached a river. This must be the route Hal had suggested – they should follow the river north before striking west, to avoid a forest notorious for its outlaws. But Hal had directed them to find the river flowing through a village much farther down the main road.
This was undoubtedly the river he meant, and it baffled Gryff that she had so easily found it despite her disregard for the instruction given.
“How knew you the path was there, and that it leads to the river? Do you know this place?”
He had broken the silence without thinking, without first considering whether he should spend words on it. She seemed surprised at the question, but did not lift her eyes to his face.
“I may have known it, when I were a babe.” She shrugged, uncertain. “But nay, I do not recognize it.”
That was all the answer he was likely to get, and he spent several minutes walking beside her, trying to decipher the meaning of this particular silence. She did not seem angry that he had asked it, nor did she have the air of hiding something from him. He thought it was born instead of a simple disinclination to speak at length on something she thought insignificant.
But then she spoke again, and he saw it was only that she had been looking for words to explain.
“There are always other ways.” She still did not look at him. “The king makes roads, and the Church, and lords and towns – them that have authority, they make roads so you will go the way they tell you to go. But there are some as would choose their own way, and make a path that suits them. Like how a bird will fly direct across the sky, and pay no mind to the roads men build.”
“A bird sees all paths from above, but you are no bird,” he observed. “How did you know the way?”
She frowned a little. “It’s only sense. We are far from any market town here, and for as many as must lead their cattle along the main road, there must be a path to take them to water. And so I kept my eyes open until I seen a little dirt track, and it goes past the fields and toward these trees that are like to grow near water.”
He looked back at where they had come from and wondered aloud, “How is it that I saw naught?”
She made no answer, and when he turned back he found her eyes on him. She looked away quickly, but he could feel the heat of it on his skin, a fire along his throat and jaw where her gaze had been fixed.
The bloom of color across her cheek told him it was not his imagination. The way she kept her eyes down as she resumed walking just a touch too quickly said more than words ever could.
“You’ve not needed to see it,” she said finally, in a hushed voice. There was something awkward in it, something like embarrassment. “It’s the lowly who must search out hidden ways, and stray from the path set out for them, to survive.”
If he were daring, he would ask if she meant her sister or herself when she spoke of straying from paths. But he did not, because he only wanted her unease to pass. Whether it was because she had met Hal or because she had a sister who shamed her, she seemed to be more conscious of how he was not as lowborn as she. It was another reason to be glad they journeyed alone and avoided civilization. They traveled the same path now, and it was not the one the world had set out for either of them.
“I am in the muck now, as you said to me.” He smiled to put her at ease, even as he felt her silence descending on them again. “Before this journey is done, I think me I will have learned very well how to search out secret ways.”
After that, the quiet between them was comfortable again – or as comfortable as it could be, when he spent every moment remembering her eyes on him, wondering what would happen if he ever dared to touch her again. He did not let himself think beyond that, but it was enough to fill his mind for hours. He imagined brushing his hand against hers, and how she might tremble as she had before. He allowed himself the fantasy of putting his fingertips to the inside of her wrist, where he had put his mouth days ago, and feeling her pulse leap with excitement.
They were innocent enough thoughts as she walked silently beside him, but at night his dreams took them further, until he was sure he would roast in hell for the sins he committed in his sleep.
At the end of the day she washed the dirt from herself as she always did, lifting her hem to bare her feet, her ankles, her calves to the water. Wet skin, just within his reach. The firelight played against her throat as she bent over the flames and his mouth watered, remembering the taste of her, the feel of his tongue sliding over her neck.
It was madness. He had been a fool to think he should travel alone with her for days, for weeks. He would go mad.
The next day he ignored the tendril of hair that had escaped her kerchief, and the look of her mouth when she gave a soft smile to her dog, and the faint scent of her that might only be his hopeful imagination. Instead he made himself look at the blades ranged along her forearms. They were short, small, deadly – like her. He thought they must have been made specially for her. The letter E was stamped into the metal at the base of each one, and he considered asking her what the meaning of it was, as his query for the day. Or perhaps why one was missing.
But the rain came down before he could ask anything, a light smattering that turned into a downpour just as they were preparing to light a fire and eat their evening meal. There was no easy place to shelter here beside the river, but they had passed a small building not long before stopping, an empty cowshed at the far edge of a field. Now they gathered their things and ran to it.
It was empty because it was half in ruins. There was still some of the roof overhead, thatching that needed repair but held out the rain in one corner. Gryff looked around and saw nothing but beaten earth, blessedly dry where they stood – a patch large enough to build a fire.
He watched Fuss shake the rain off and imitated him, shaking his head, wiping his hands over his face and through his wet hair. When he turned to her all he could see was how the rain-splattered dress showed the outline of her legs more clearly. The edge of linen beneath it clung to the skin at her collarbone, droplets chasing each other down her chest.
He knew he was staring. He could not seem to tear his eyes away from that pale crescent moon of flesh showing through the soaked linen. When he finally did, it was to find her looking at his mouth again. He held his breath as she moved her eyes restlessly, glancing over the floor and the dog and the walls but always returning to him.
Instinct made him walk to her, slowly, prepared with every step to halt. She only watched him as he came closer, her eyes trained at the base of his throat as he advanced. He stopped inches before her, the slightest bit too close, near enough to just barely feel the heat that rose from her body.
He reached very carefully to take the bag from her hand. There was a stiffness in her, a quivering tension, but she did not move away from him. He spoke softly, as though sharing a secret.
“Would you have me build a fire?”
She swallowed, and nodded. He reached behind her with slow and controlled movements, attuned to her every breath, and pulled her cloak forward over her shoulders. He drew the edges together over her chest to cover her fully, hiding the sight of her damp skin, savoring the little shiver that came from her.
Then he stepped away and built the fire, not regretting that he had spent his day’s words on such a mundane question, preparing himself for another torturous night of unfulfilled lust.
