Chapter Four

The minstrels danced into the royal city of Athlone. Padraig Smallpipe led the troupe, the ragged hem of his tunic twirling, his bare feet thudding upon the fresh spring grass, rat-tatting his tabor and piping a wheeling jig. Maguire Mudman, sporting a devil’s mask, darted here and there among the crowd, acting the wild man. The twins, Slaine and Sinead Shortskirts, tumbled on either side of the donkeys, flashing bare thighs for the world to see. Colin sauntered behind, sporting only a loose, belted tunic and braies on this fine warm spring day, winking at pretty women as the sun gleamed off his hair.

Maura walked among them, mimicking their jaunty stride as best as she could. The pregnant minstrel, Matilda Makejoy, had rustled up a string of bells for her, so Maura would at least have the appearance of a minstrel as they made their noisy way into the city. Now the chimes jangled from her waist and banged her knees with each step. Despite the noise around her, despite the flash of swords Matilda hefted into the air, despite the scent of burning pitch emanating from Arnaud’s torch, Maura’s gaze fixed upon another sight, stranger than any she’d seen before: An enormous city.

This place bore no resemblance to the kind of village that clung to the walls of her old convent—that was just a cluster of houses, a baker and a butcher and a beekeeper, the sort of traders the sisters did business with. Sure, her home village swelled during the harvest time, when laborers drifted through to help bring in the hay for the cows’ winter fodder. But what she was looking at now, from across the River Shannon, was no makeshift collection of hovels, but a sea of thatched-roofed houses.

The troupe crossed the stone bridge and danced into the thick of it. Scents assaulted her—the metallic taste of the air outside the blacksmith’s shop, the stench of rotting carcasses around the tannery, the sweet scent of honey outside the waferer. In the narrow confines of the smoky convent kitchens, she’d long become used to the richness of conflicting fragrances. But here, the odors mixed and churned in the streets like a stew over-spiced, sickening to the smell. She tilted her head back to stare at the blue sky … and caught sight of a church spire.

Ah yes, she thought. She was long overdue for confession.

The street narrowed. Matilda, absorbed in her sword-dancing, paid her no mind. Arnaud’s attention was fixed on the crowd. The others danced and piped and tumbled with no care for her. She wasn’t expected to do anything now, anyway. Not until Arnaud scoured the alehouses frequented by the wealthy English of the place and found the one willing to give him the heftiest cut of the night’s profits for their entertainment.

She saw an alley of opportunity and knew she wouldn’t be missed at all.

In one swift movement, she took two steps sideways into the crowd. Pushing her way through the horde proved harder than she expected. Such a crowd, so many people! The Irish around the convent lived in scattered settlements, with huge tracts of pasture between them to graze their cows and plow under enough land to feed their families. She wondered how the meager fields she’d seen around this settlement produced enough food to feed all the beefy Englishmen she passed.

With the soaring spire as her guide, she wove her way through the streets as the piper’s music dimmed and the push of the crowd eased. She slipped down a narrow alleyway and then turned into another. Finally, light streamed through an opening ahead, and she found herself in a courtyard facing a stone church.

She hiked her skirts, climbed the stairs, and pushed open the doors. The familiar coolness enveloped her. She paused to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. The scent of incense lingered in the air as if a Mass had just been said. She released a trembling breath, and it was as if something stiff and tight unwound within her. She’d been gone from the convent for only two days, yet standing here in the echoing presence of the church she felt safe for the first time.

Of course, this church was nothing like the small stone chapel that stood on the convent grounds and on the best of days could only fit a dozen sisters. Here, a rosette of colored light poured down from above the nave and shimmered upon the rush-covered floor. She’d never seen such colored glass before. She’d never seen such a high-roofed church, so much space.

“You, girl, what do you want?”

The slap-slap of hard-bottomed shoes drew her attention to a young man in a long brown tunic making his way toward her.

“Good day, father,” she began, bobbing in a curtsy. “I’ve come—”

“By God!” The cleric stopped short. “Are there minstrels in town again?”

Maura jerked in surprise. The cleric’s hair hung to his shoulders, not shorn in a clergyman’s tonsure, a sure sign that he’d not yet taken his vows of priesthood. Yet surely even a priest-in-training wasn’t encouraged to use the Lord’s name in vain.

“Oh, father,” she said, “I’m not a minstrel.”

“Are those sacramental bells, to be used at Mass?” he said, pointing at the chain of chimes looped over her hips. “And that stain on your face, is that the blood of the Virgin?”

She touched her face. She’d forgotten the waxy red spots Matilda had painted upon her cheeks. She’d forgotten that she hadn’t worn her coif and that her hair hung loose. Suddenly she felt Nutmeg squirming to wakefulness in the basket slung across her shoulder.

“I’ve come,” she said, with as much humility as she could muster, “to seek pardon for my sins.”

“I’ve no doubt those sins are many and mortal.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but a rush of mortification stilled her tongue. Of sinful thoughts, she had many. But a hundred times worse was the vivid, sinful dream she’d had only last night. A dream where Colin was a persistent minstrel and she a wayward woman far prettier than the girl-cook she was.

“I know why you’ve come,” the cleric continued. “You’re here to confess your sins, listen to what good Father William says, mimic your penance—and then ridicule the whole sacrament later in the alehouses of Athlone.”

She sputtered, “I’ll do no such thing.”

“Such vehemence. You play your part well.”

It’s not a part. She wasn’t a minstrel. Not a real one, anyway. Yet she would not deny that she’d sought refuge among them. Nor would she speak ill of them, for they had taken her in when she would have foolishly set out on the road alone. Conflicted into silence, she cast her eyes down and twisted the ring on her finger and wished she’d scrubbed her face and worn her white coif and her plain wool tunic.

It just didn’t seem right that she’d be judged by how she looked, rather than what was in her heart.

“Father William is at his table now, he won’t see you.” The cleric turn away and then relented, his mouth thinning. “If you must know, he takes confessions after Nones.”

Maura’s heart sank. By Nones, she’d be deep in an alehouse, working off the price of the minstrel’s protection in a way yet to be determined.

“If you are truly repentant,” the cleric said, taking her by the arm, “then you will return at the appointed time. Dressed more humbly, I trust.”

Then suddenly she was standing in the blinding light of the square, the door of the church slammed shut behind her, listening to the scrape of the bolt into the sleeve. She turned and stared at the closed doors. A weakness spread through her as she realized she’d been denied the grace of the church.

Just then a crowd burst from one of the narrow streets. The horde exploded into the square to reveal the reeling progression of the minstrel troupe. Padraig Smallpipe and the Shortskirts twins twirled to one side, a whirl of flying yellow silk. Maguire Mudman donned his devil’s mask and grasped his own crotch, as he raced through the crowd, doffing his hat for tribute.

And there Colin stood. Too vibrant in the sunlight, all wicked blue eyes and crooked smile as he caught sight of her. The full-fleshed embodiment of the shadowy, ardent man who, in her dreams, had slipped his rough fingers in the valley between her breasts and then cupped one in his hand.

Her weakness tightened to fury.

“I told them I’d find you here.” Colin held out his hand. “Come, little repentant. It’s time for you to earn your keep.”

She curled her hands into fists. “I won’t do it, Colin.”

No, she wouldn’t play the harlot. She’d rather disguise herself on the roads as a boy—or an old woman—than get another greeting like the one she just had at the door to this church.

“Forsooth,” he said softly. “You must.”

“You can’t force me.”

“I’d never force a lady.” He tucked a blue marsh-violet behind her ear so swiftly she didn’t have a chance to jerk away. “But I promise to make it as painless as possible.”

“Painless?”

“The first time is always painful … but pleasure soon follows.”

Someone tittered nearby. Maura looked past him and caught sight of a gaggle of young women. With a spurt of anger, Maura wondered which one would have the privilege of feeling Colin’s hand on her breast tonight.

She turned on him. “You’re nothing but a common seducer, Colin.”

“You wound me, lass.” He clasped both hands over his heart.

“It’s the truth that hurts.”

“Faith, what have I done for you to think so badly of me?”

“You don’t remember yesterday?”

“Ahh, yes.” A gleam came into his eye. “I remember yesterday.”

Another ripple of laughter through the crowd, a ripple that annoyed her. What game was Colin playing? He was talking too loud. He was making people think there was more to what she was saying than what she was saying.

She hiked her hands on her hips and addressed the gossips. “I’ll have you all know that nothing happened yesterday.”

“It’s true.” He cast a sad gaze their way. “Nothing happened, to my eternal regret.”

“We were just practicing—”

“Yes, yes, practicing,” Colin interrupted, “for it takes some practice to get it right, doesn’t it my friends?”

Amidst the laughter, she hissed, “Stop this. Stop it right now.” The circle of observers had thickened and they were all ears. How could he do this in the shadow of a church spire, while the cleric’s words still rang in her head? “You’ve had your fun. I’ll have no more of this foolishness, and none of you.”

He caught her before she could shoot past him, a grip of iron on her upper arm. “You had enough of me yesterday, then?”

“More than enough.”

“It’s true that there’s enough of me to be had.”

If a smile could dance off a face, Colin’s would be bouncing a jig on the paving stones. The crowd around them was all but choking in hilarity. Her fury started to curdle. He was the reason she couldn’t be absolved for her sins, and yet here he was, making fun of her before all of Athlone.

Well, she could play that game too, if she put her mind to it.

She yanked out of his grasp and turned toward the crowd. “Aren’t men,” she said, meeting the gazes of the women, “always so full of themselves?”

She was gifted with shouts of agreement.

“Be that as it may,” Colin responded, “I’d rather be full in you, lass.”

“Seems to me,” she said, whirling to face him, “that you believe shepherds were looking upon you when you were born.”

“I may not be God’s gift to the world, lass, but many a woman would say I’ve got a worldly gift.”

“A gift, you say? Truth be told, yesterday you came up a bit short.”

Colin paused for a moment—a second’s hesitation—watching her with a gleam in his eye. She took some pleasure in knowing that the laughter now rolling around them was finally at his expense.

“Lady.” He bowed before her. “You surprise me.”

“Has no lass found the heart to tell you this before?”

“None with so angelic a face.”

“Then I’ll be more blunt.” She remembered something one of the milkmaids had laughed about after slipping behind a haystack with a day-laborer. Maura only had the vaguest idea of what it meant. “I can’t help but notice that your beard—” she said, scraping a finger across his clean-shaven jaw, “—is little more than fuzz.”

“Is it not a fine thing for a man to be free of thatch?”

“A lass can judge by the thickness of the hay whether the pitchfork is any good.” The crowd laughed and she felt a trill of satisfaction.

“Remember,” he countered, “grass does not grow thick on a well-beaten path.”

“If the path is so well beaten, then perhaps your pitchfork is like a spindle—worn out by the using.”

“Rather,” he countered, “it grows smooth and hard and well-polished.”

“And thin and short. And like all old spindles,” she said, flinging her hand in the air, “it’s best tossed out for a new one.”

In the laughter that ensued, Maura turned her back to him, intending to escape, but his fingers curled around her arm again and he brought her up short. The next thing she knew, he’d swung her into his arms, thrust her hips against his, and forced her head back so she had no choice but to stare up at his face, inches from hers.

There, it was happening again—that strange sliding feeling deep in her belly, as if the world was slipping away beneath her. The laughter of the crowd faded to a rumbling in the distance. The sun shone bright on his head, sheening his black hair—more like a halo than the horns he deserved. And she couldn’t help staring at that face, at those smiling lips with the sharp, white scar that cut across the lower edge, glowing white now with how wide he was grinning. She watched that grin while they breathed in the same air, and she once again smelled that exotic and unfamiliar fragrance—oranges, cardamom—the one that made the back of her knees soften.

He’s going to kiss me.

She waited for it to happen, staring into those intense blue eyes, and for a moment she felt like she was a child at Christmastide, aching for the moment the feast wound down so the waferer would come out to disperse his honey-dipped sweets that melted in one’s mouth. But when his lips finally descended, he didn’t aim for her own swollen, waiting lips. His mouth fell upon her earlobe instead.

Once there, he sucked it in.

Had lightning flashed down from the sky, she doubted it could thrust more rippling exhilaration through her than the feel of his hot mouth upon her ear. She clawed her fingers into his tunic as his tongue rolled rough and he drew in more. Seized by spasms of sensation, she didn’t realize that Nutmeg had clambered out of his basket until she felt the bite of his tiny paws on her shoulder.

“Nutmeg,” she mumbled. “Nutmeg!”

Colin pulled back. The crowd barked in surprise. Nutmeg squealed at the noise. With a chirr and a flurry of whiskers, the squirrel ripped threads down her back as he lunged for the paving stones. Frozen by his hard landing, he twitched his whiskers, and then tore through the legs of the scattering onlookers to some distant, quieter place.

“By God’s Nails, woman,” Colin said in a booming voice, “what sort of rats have you been lying with?”

The laughter was deafening. But she couldn’t speak—she could barely think—so she focused on Nutmeg, her terrified pet heading off to places unknown. Tearing away from Colin, Maura scanned the square. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a furry blur dart into an alleyway. She headed after Nutmeg while slapping her ear, trying to rub away the tingling sensation Colin caused in more hollows than her ear.

He was only play-acting, she told herself, as she raced mindlessly after Nutmeg. She was a fool to think his kiss meant anything more than that.

Far down the alleyway, she glimpsed a reddish tail hanging from the thatch of a roof. “Nutmeg?”

The squirrel poked a black nose over the edge, chirring down at her.

“Come, Nutmeg.” She riffled in her pocket where a few spring seeds remained from the squirrel’s hurried breakfast. “You’ll find few enough trees here, and most of them already occupied.”

The squirrel sniffed the air, then shot away when a woman threw open shutters just beneath his perch. Maura saw him leap onto the next roof. She followed him, house to house, trying to entice her pet down.

“He’ll come down sooner or later.”

She turned to see Colin striding down an alleyway in pursuit, squinting up at the squirrel cowering in the thatch.

“You!” She couldn’t look at those blue eyes, still ashamed at her body’s reaction to the touch of his tongue. “You scared Nutmeg near to death with your antics.”

“Even the most skittish creatures always come around.” He had the audacity to grin at her.

“Does everything you say have a double meaning?”

“Not everything. Sometimes I speak the truth.”

“Stop, just stop,” she said. “I went to church this morning, Colin. I met a cleric. Do you know what he did?”

“He turned you away.”

She flattened her hand on a wall, cut down at the knees by his knowledge.

Colin shrugged. “A church is the one place our kind isn’t always greeted with open arms.”

“I’m not a minstrel.”

He raised a brow. “In that square, you played the part as if you were born to it.”

“I played the part,” she argued, “because I foolishly wanted to give back to you the teasing you forced upon me. Vengeance is a sin, too. Another I won’t be able to confess until I find a pardoner willing to hear me.” She crossed her arms. “It’s sure you have no concern for the state of your soul.”

“Ah, Maura.” His laugh was gentle. “I lost my soul a long time ago.”

She opened her mouth but no sound came out, because she didn’t know how to respond to such a blasphemy. Her entire existence had been focused on the protection of her immortal soul—filling her days with prayers, confession, absolution, grace, especially to avoid the kind of sin that had crept into her dreams last night.

“Here.” Colin tugged the tippet of his hood over his shoulder and reached into its length. “I followed you to give you this.”

He pulled out a battered leather pouch, crisscrossed with patches. He reached out, uncurled her hand, and settled the pouch in it. A few coins spilled out. English coins, stamped with the visage of King Edward I. They gleamed dirty in the midday sun.

“Your first earnings as a minstrel.” Colin raised one strong brow. “Like it or not, you’re one of us now.”