Sing Me Home (5 page)

She remembered that soft, alluring voice. She’d heard it once before, back when he’d buried his hand in another woman’s cleavage.

Then she slammed her heel into his foot. Spinning out of his grip, she turned only to find him grinning.

“That,” he said, with a wince, “was not part of the
fabliaux
.”

“Well it
should
be.”

“In this play, the lady grants the minstrel’s love at last.”

“The lady is a fool then.”

She turned away, clucked her tongue for Nutmeg, and then caught the ball of fur bounding toward her. She lifted her pet against her cheek until Nutmeg squealed.

“Find me another part in your play, Colin the Cuckolder,” she said, striding toward her basket and satchel. “I won’t play the harlot for anyone.”

Chapter Four

T
he 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.”