Page 16 of The Rose of Blacksword

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Rosalynde left the kitchen sheds in a foul mood. She had taken inventory of the food stores, inspected the buttery, and visited the alehouse. She had seen the linen storage rooms earlier and the stillroom. Now she meant to take stock of the herb gardens, but she was quite certain already what she would find. Anything to do with the male pleasures, such as hawking, hunting, and drinking, was more than adequately maintained—although the cleanliness of the alehouse and the buttery left much to be desired. But the food storerooms were abysmally stocked and in horrendous disorder, as had been the stillroom and linen closets. She did not doubt that the herb garden was completely overrun with weeds.

She rubbed her throbbing temple but her stride was no less determined as she made her way down the bailey to the flat sunny spot where her mother had cultivated her herbs. Stanwood Castle was in hopeless disarray and she had a huge project on her hands, Rosalynde realized, even larger than she had expected. For a moment it seemed far too complex for her to handle at all—who was she to think she could set to rights what her father clearly considered of no importance? But at the same time, something in her rose to the challenge. This was her true home. It always had been, and now, since she was her father’s sole heir, it appeared it would be even after she was wed.

At the thought of being someday wed, Rosalynde could not repress a shiver of dismay. Even though it was her duty eventually to wed and produce heirs, the very thought frightened her. She already had a husband—albeit temporarily. But how would she ever explain that she was not a virgin? She frowned as she hurried across the yard. Maybe her future husband would not be able to tell, she thought hopefully. Yet she knew that hope was not enough to ease her fears, for the fact remained that she could not imagine lying with another man as she had lain with Blacksword. Except that she could no longer pretend he was only Blacksword the outlaw. Now he was Aric of Wycliffe, a man she hardly knew but who had laid a claim to her which she was hard pressed to deny.

With a forlorn sigh Rosalynde shooed a rambunctious pair of overgrown puppies from her path as she neared the garden. The question of a husband was beyond her control, she told herself firmly. For the time being she might as well just tackle each and every one of the castle’s shortcomings. She was going to be here a very long time.

Yet when she passed a group of unpruned pear trees and the herb garden came into view, she almost changed her mind. She remembered a well laid out garden with stone paths, green lawns, and deep borders of herbs interspersed with flowers. What presented itself before her now was a wild jungle of untended shrubs. Paths snaked through in completely unintended locations, and even as she stared at it hopelessly, three more dogs came racing from within the tangle of weeds, nearly bowling her over in their canine delight.

“Out. Out!” she cried, stamping her feet and flapping the ends of her overtunic at them. What had they done to the peaceful little garden she remembered from her childhood? But the dogs only romped past her, yelping foolishly and following the path of the two mongrels she’d spied previously.

Rosalynde was nearly undone. Everything that was wrong with Stanwood—the crudeness of the fare, the absence of court manners, the lack of a woman’s touch at all—was summed up by the condition of her mother’s herb garden. Even the abandoned garden at the adulterine castle had not been as bad as this one! Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she stared at the remnants of the herbarium. This garden alone would take all of her efforts. But there was everything else to attend as well. She would never manage it all. Never.

“ ’Tis a sorry sight, isn’t it?”

Rosalynde turned at the unexpected voice to find her father standing several paces behind her. Had his expression not been so forlorn and his eyes so sad she would have vented her frustration on him at once. After all, it was he who had allowed her home to sink so low. But she could not heap further guilt on him, not when he so clearly felt the effects of it already.

“It can be repaired,” she said, although the enthusiasm in her voice was sadly lacking.

“Can it?” he asked as he slowly advanced toward her. “Sometimes I think not.”

As she heard the loneliness in his voice and recognized the true meaning of his words, Rosalynde’s natural inclination to nurture came to the fore. “It can be put to rights. I’m sure of it.” She hesitated. “But I shall need your help.”

He looked up at her and she saw how he fought to bury any trace of his sorrow. “I’m no gardener,” he stated gruffly.

“Yes, I know. But I am. You need but give me a man to use as I see fit. Perhaps two.”

Her father stared at her a long time before answering. “Two days you are here. I give you the keys. Now you would take two of my servants to make a garden.”

“I brought two with me. Plus myself,” she countered. His ill-humored words did not worry her at all. Then she smiled and crossed the rest of the way to stand before him. “You will be pleased with the results, I daresay.”

His eyes held with hers for another long moment before he nodded his head. “I daresay I will,” he admitted. Then he took his leave of her.

Rosalynde watched him go, and her heart filled with a mixture of love and sorrow. She had been referring to far more than his just being pleased with the garden, of course. But then, she was fairly certain he had known that.

She made her plans that night after a dissatisfying meal of stringy boar haunch, oversalted fish, and porridge. In the privacy of her own chamber, by the light of one flickering candle, she brushed her hair and decided how best to proceed. Cleve would start in the garden along with someone else whom she would find in the morning. As it was spring, they must make haste to prepare the garden now. Cedric would be given strict orders to have the kitchen, the alehouse, and the storerooms cleaned first and then reorganized. She would handle the linen stores and the stillroom herself.

As for the great hall, she would enlist that group of ill-mannered boys to clean out all the old rushes, scrub down the stone floors with lye leached through the ash pots, then cut and spread new rushes. The great fireplace would have to be scrubbed as well. And when they finished that she would have them scrape all the torch bases and candleholders too.

Of course she would have to supervise each group herself. She trusted none of them to see the tasks completed to her satisfaction. But if she had to labor from before dawn until after dusk, she would see it done. The sewing and spinning, the cleaning of the lesser chambers and the making of soaps and candles, she would address at a later date. For now she would satisfy herself with the necessaries.

At first light she rousted Cedric from his pallet near her father’s chamber. She was already dressed in a plain gray smock with her hair bound up in linen. The keys to the castle jangled gaily from the end of her girdle.

“Good morrow, Cedric. I trust you slept well, for we’re to begin a considerable task today.”

“Mi-milady?” he stammered out, still bleary from sleep.

“Please assemble a goodly group of servants in the great hall. Four or five of those shiftless lads and the two serving women. Instruct the cook to relinquish at least two of his assistants. He won’t need them as we shall feast on dried fish, bread, and cheese until this task is done. Oh, and I’ll need Cleve and … and … and anyone else you can find.” She gave him a satisfied smile. “And do make haste, Cedric. The day is wasting even as we speak.”

He stared at her a moment longer, as if he did not quite understand what she had said. Then he bobbed his sandy head and gave her a faint smile. “Aye, milady. I’ll see to it at once.” He grabbed up his shoes and sat down to put them on as his smile broadened. “I ’spect there’s to be some changes around here.”

“I expect there will,” she concurred.

The others proved to be far less accommodating than Cedric, yet Rosalynde was not dismayed. Old habits were hard to break, but she was determined that the dreadful habits and routines that the servants of Stanwood had fallen into would be broken once and for all. The serving women were sent to clean the kitchens, top to bottom, floor to ceiling and everything in between. The two kitchen helpers she sent to purge the storerooms. The five clumsy boys she turned to with especial vengeance.

“Every crumb,” she told them sternly. “Every sliver of bone and glob of fat is to be swept and scrubbed away.” As she left the great hall she turned a deaf ear to their groans of dismay. They would soon learn their places, she vowed, and soon know that the orders of a lady were as inviolate as that of a lord.

But it was from Cleve that she received the loudest complaints.

“This, a garden?” he said in disbelief when faced with the disaster that was the herb garden. He watched as one of the dogs began to bark at them, then turned to her with a pained expression. “ ’Twould be best to leave it to the dogs and start elsewhere anew, Lady Rosalynde.”

“I think not,” she replied, giving him a firm look. “First locate the old stone paths beneath all those weeds, and clear them. Then we’ll mark the shrubs that must go and those that must stay.”

“ ’Twill take a year and more!” he exclaimed when he saw she would not be swayed from her purpose.

“You have two weeks.” But at his stunned expression she relented a little. “Cedric will send someone to help you.”

“Best he send someone with the strength of an ox,” he grumbled, eyeing several sturdy willows that had sprung up unwelcome amid the ruined garden.

At his disgruntled words, a picture of Blacksword sprang to her mind, for he was indeed as strong as an ox. But she determinedly beat back that image and concentrated on the many tasks at hand. When she left Cleve he was scratching his head and muttering to himself.

It took all of Rosalynde’s willpower to stay away from her small crew of laborers during the morning. But she knew they must learn to be responsible without her constant overview. It was time for the midday meal before she completed her cleaning and inventory of the stillroom. The faces that greeted her as they partook of the meal in unusual silence were somber indeed. And dirty as well. Her father cast her a curious glance when he was presented with the meager fare. But he did not raise a comment and only set to the spare offerings with a great display of gusto. Rosalynde was enormously gratified for his show of support, for if he accepted her unpopular methods, no one else could dare complain. As she left the great hall to attend her other tasks, she gave the much-subdued cadre of young men further and more explicit instructions for the continuation of their work.

In the kitchen the cook gave her a disgruntled stare that spoke volumes. But Rosalynde refused to be baited and addressed the two serving women who were already scraping years of greasy dirt from the rafters above the cutting and preparation tables.

“Save your scrapings in a tub, Edith,” she directed the older of the pair. “I’ll be forming a garden pile, and any waste from the kitchen should be brought there.”

“Aye, milady.” The maid nodded. “ ’Tis shameful to say how much of it there’ll be.” She slid a huge brown blob of mingled dirt and grease off the knife blade for effect. “To think we’ve been eatin’ such.” She raised her eyebrows dramatically.

Rosalynde looked at her for a long moment, then also at the younger, stouter Maud. “Can either of you cook?” she asked on impulse.

Maud was the first to reply. “I’m a fair hand, particular to soups and stews.” She glanced at Edith as if weighing the wisdom of her next words. Then she plunged on. “Edith here makes a pear tart to weep over.”

“Pear tart?” Rosalynde stared at Edith in astonishment. But as her mind whirled with new possibilities, the two women mistook her expression.

Edith’s face paled with fear. “Please don’t hold it again’ me, milady. It was only that the pears were fallin’ to rot. And the flour, well, ’twould have gone rancid before too long. I’m not a thief, milady. Truly, I’m not!”

“Oh, never fear as much.” Rosalynde hastened to reassure the trembling woman. “I was just thinking … Well, you see—” She glanced around but the cook had disappeared in a huff. “I’m thinking of making some changes around here.”

Cedric had the storerooms and the alehouse fairly well in hand when Rosalynde checked. The servants he’d enlisted were busy under his watchful eye, and to Rosalynde’s mind he appeared more animated than she’d ever seen him. But when he spied her he at once became his more subdued self.

“ ’Tis a considerable task, milady. But we’ll not pause till you are well satisfied.”

Rosalynde smiled at his words, for despite his seriousness she detected a true enthusiasm on his part for this undertaking. In him, at least, she was sure she had an ally.

“Although I too long to see our work completed, I hardly expect to accomplish it all in one day, Cedric. However, I must say you’ve made a commendable start of it.”

At that casual compliment his fair face turned a noticeable pink. “I-I’ve also sent a stout fellow to assist in your garden.”

“Oh, yes, the garden.”

Rosalynde had purposefully put off returning to the garden. For one thing, once she turned her energies there she did not want to be drawn away to another task. She wished to spend the entire afternoon in the overgrown garden. But in another way she dreaded going back there, for she was still not entirely comfortable in Cleve’s company. Although on the surface they had returned to the proper relationship of servant and lady, there was a strain there that had not previously existed. She had not, by her actions, given him leave to bring up anything of what had happened between them and Blacksword—Aric. However, she knew that she and Cleve had been too familiar in the past for him to hold his opinions to himself overlong. It was only a matter of time.

She sighed and then gave Cedric an absent smile. “I suppose I must see to the garden now. I shall be there until dusk, should anyone seek me out.”

As Rosalynde approached the herb garden, her mind spun with plans for the spot. It would take time but she would make it far more than merely an herb garden. She would follow in her mother’s path and make it the loveliest spot in Stanwood, a pleasaunce, her aunt had said they were called in the great castles. In addition to the lawns and paths and borders, she imagined a quiet pond in the center, perhaps with one of those wonderful sundials nearby. And all around there would be a thick hedge of roses. It would be fragrant and beautiful. And it would keep those unruly dogs out, she thought with satisfaction.

But then she reached the sunny spot, and all thoughts of lawns and flowers and a restful garden flew quite out of her mind. She saw the start that had been made in clearing the weed-choked area. She saw the huge pile of discarded plants and the beginnings of a path into the center of the garden. A nondescript tree had even been dug up and cut into lengths for the woodpiles. But none of those things were what caused her eyes to stare and her mouth to gape open. That instantaneous reaction was caused by the man who squatted at the beginnings of the path, scratching one overgrown pup behind the ears as two of the mongrel’s kin bounded about, yelping and whining for a chance at his affections.

“You!” Rosalynde exclaimed without even realizing she had spoken aloud.

Aric looked at her. “A slave goes where he is told and does the task given him,” he said in smug response. He slowly stood up, watching her all the while with that familiar mocking expression. “Are you pleased with the progress, Rose?”

“Lady Rosalynde to you,” she snapped. “If you value your stubborn hide, you will not be so impudent with me.”

“If your husband may not be intimate with you, then who? Besides, no one is near enough to overhear us,” he countered.

“What of Cleve?” she replied nervously, trying to peer past him. “And you are not my husband!” she finished with a hiss.

He ignored her last words. “Cleve went off in search of you, I believe. He was rather disgruntled when Cedric sent me here to labor with him.”

“Well, you can just go right back to Cedric. I don’t want you in my garden,” she stated furiously. “I’ll not have you here!”

“I intend to stay.” The words were quietly said, and yet the steely quality of them was unmistakable.

“It is not necessary,” she insisted. “You can be better used elsewhere.”

“I will not be used anywhere, milady ,” he said with an icy calm. “Not by you or any others.”

“Then … then why are you here? Why not flee?” Rosalynde shivered under his suddenly cold stare. Even the pup at his feet whined uneasily. “If it’s your reward that holds you here, I promise to pay you soon—”

“I stay because it serves me best. That’s all you need understand. Cedric told me to work in this little garden, and that is what I shall do. And I suggest you abandon any thoughts of having him send me elsewhere.”

Rosalynde was too undone to reply. She was mistress here and he only a slave, less even than a serf. Yet he stood before her in all his villainous glory dictating to her and she had no choice but to surrender to his will. No matter how much she abhorred her predicament, she could not forget that he had only to reveal their handfast vow—and his subsequent seduction of her—to ruin her reputation forever. At the moment the fact that he would very likely pay for such a revelation with his own life seemed almost appealing! Still, she knew that she must be careful and not make a misstep with this man.

Stifling an impatient oath, she glared at him. “You wish to work here only to irritate me. Well, you shall work then, but you’ll be very sorry that you ever crossed me!” So saying she picked up a branch and swished it angrily through the air. “Remove that willow there. And all these saplings. Clear the remainder of the stone paths. And … and …” She glared at his complacent face and her temper rose even higher. “And get rid of those infernal dogs!”

Rosalynde stormed away before he could laugh and thereby goad her into doing something she might later regret, such as striking him with the switch she still clutched in her hand. At once she flung the branch away, horrified that he could propel her into such a towering rage that she could lose all control of her temper. It was not her way to shout at servants, nor to heap them with unreasonable amounts of work. And especially not to strike them!

Only he was not your everyday sort of servant, she fretted as she fled as quickly as was seemly across the bailey. He was a common criminal. No, she amended. He was quite an uncommon criminal.

He’s also your husband, her conscience reminded her. And the man who had claimed her maidenhead.

What an awful, awful coil she had entangled herself in, she agonized as she hurried toward the great hall. What a dreadful mess. Then she spied her father in conversation with young Cleve, and her heart fell to her feet. No doubt Cleve was in enough of a temper to reveal everything he knew to her father. If that were the case …

She refused to speculate on that horrible eventuality and instead took a fortifying breath and changed her direction to head toward the two men.

“Ahh, Rosalynde,” her father exclaimed as he saw her approach. “I’ve good news to share with you.” His smiling face eased her fears quite a bit, but Cleve’s wide grin confused her completely.

“I’ve decided to reward this brave young lad. I’ve no doubt you will agree with my decision, daughter.”

“Reward him?” Rosalynde repeated. Then she smiled, for she could not help but be pleased. Cleve had always been a good and loyal page. He’d proven his mettle when he’d defended her at the river and again when he’d challenged Blacksword, even though he’d been somewhat misguided at the time. He of all people deserved reward. “I hope it is something very good, for he has saved my very life. During the attack at the river,” she hastened to clarify.

“Yes. He is by all accounts an exceedingly brave lad. It is therefore my decision that he shall join the ranks of my squires, with the opportunity to train for knighthood.”

It was hard to say who was more stunned. Cleve’s face froze in a look of disbelief. His eyes shifted from Sir Edward to Rosalynde then back again to Sir Edward as his face reflected alternate feelings of wonder, terror, and then disbelief once more. Rosalynde knew that, considering his birthright was only that of bastard to a minor knight, he never had thought to aspire to more than an inside servant’s position. To his mind it was far better than laboring in the fields. But now! Rosalynde was the first of the two to recover her wits, and with a clap of her hands and a laugh of pure delight, she caught Cleve’s hands in her own.

“A squire! And mayhap a knight? I had never thought to call you Sir Cleve,” she exclaimed with a happy smile. “But I look forward now to the day with great anticipation.”

“He is not Sir Cleve yet,” her father interjected sternly. But there was still a twinkle in his deep-set eyes. “There is much hard work ahead of you, lad. All sorts of lessons in comportment and language and history, as well as tilting and swordplay and a hundred other things.”

“Oh, thank you, my lord! Thank you,” Cleve answered in a hushed, awe-struck voice. “Thank you so much. You will always have my undying gratitude, my complete loyalty, my endless faithfulness—”

“Yes, yes. I understand,” Sir Edward chuckled. Then he laid one of his hands on the boy’s narrow shoulder. “I suggest you finish this day’s tasks. But afterward you may remove yourself to the squires’ quarters above the storerooms. And tomorrow you will report to the captain of the guard along with the others to begin your new responsibilities.”

At this reference to the day’s tasks, Cleve came down a little from his euphoria and sent Rosalynde a questioning look. But she gave him a determined smile and waved him away.

“Never mind the garden. Be off with you,” she said.

“Yes, milady. Thank you, milady. Thank you, milord.” He backed away, bowing as he did. “Thank you, milord,” he repeated yet again. Then he turned and, with an exuberant leap, dashed off.

“He seems a good lad,” Sir Edward remarked as they both watched Cleve’s joyous departure.

“He will make you proud of your choice.” Rosalynde turned to face him. “He won’t let you down.”

“I never thought he would. I consider myself a fair judge of a man. And this one possesses the integrity a true knight needs. The honor.”

The honor. Those words haunted Rosalynde as she made her way back to the garden. Yes, Cleve possessed an innate sense of honor. But Aric had spoken of honor too. She’d accused him of having none, for he certainly could be the most horrible and contentious man alive. Yet even at his most dreadful he still maintained that odd air of nobility. Even when he’d faced the hangman, and then again when he’d been flogged before them all, he’d managed by his very bearing to hold onto his dignity. Once more she wondered where he’d come from and how he’d been brought to such a pass as the gallows.

By the time she reached the garden plot, her anger had all but disappeared, suppressed beneath her undeniable curiosity about him. Already the second tree was uprooted and dragged out of the garden space. The pack of hounds lay in various poses of relaxation near the beginning of the path, and beyond them Rosalynde could see Aric’s broad back as he bent and pulled, bent and pulled, yanking weeds and small shrubs from their stubborn hold on the fertile soil, then tossing them over his shoulder, roots and all, to leave an ever-mounting trail behind him. As she watched, he paused and straightened up. Then he pulled his tunic over his head, tossed it aside, and bent back to his work, clad only in his shirt.

Gardening was hardly considered proper work for a man. Serfs farmed of course, and a few women servants would always work in the castle garden. But mostly it was a chore reserved for boys. Yet even in this most menial of tasks Aric did not appear in the least demeaned. He tackled the work as he did everything, with force and determination. Rosalynde had to admit a grudging respect for the progress he’d made in such a short time. Already one of the stone-paved paths was cleaned almost to the center of the garden. At this rate her pleasaunce would take shape more quickly than she’d dared hoped.

Much calmed from her earlier angry mood, she made her way down the roughly cleared path toward Aric. Although she was behind him and he could not see her approach, he nonetheless seemed to sense her proximity. Like a wary beast he turned before she was within striking distance. At the sight of her, however, his wary stance relaxed and his watchful gaze turned assessing.

“Come to check on my diligence, Lady Rosalynde ?” he asked in that ever-mocking tone. “Or perhaps to threaten me with still further labors?” He grinned as if neither of those possibilities worried him at all.

Rosalynde found herself hard-pressed to come up with an honest answer for her return. Why had she come back to the garden so soon? She could just as well have seen once more to the great hall, or perhaps to the kitchens. But she’d been drawn back here instead.

It was the garden itself, she told herself. Gardening was her particular hobby, and this garden especially meant very much to her. Certainly her return had nothing whatsoever to do with the man who faced her now. If anything, she was more likely to avoid the garden due to his presence in it. But that wouldn’t do either, she reprimanded herself. If she was to impress upon him that he could be no more and no less than any other servant at Stanwood, then she could neither seek him out nor avoid him any more than she did the others.

But that terribly logical thought held no sway in the least upon her splintered emotions. As she stared up at the hard planes of his face, her heart’s pace trebled and she was suddenly quite short of breath.

“I am here …” she began feebly. “I am here because this garden means very much to me.”

“Then it must mean as much to me.”

Such a courtly reply took her completely by surprise, and for a moment she could only stare at him, confusion clearly evident on her face. Then she frowned and looked away. “I am no fool. Do not patronize me.”

“Yes, milady.” he said, again with that smooth, well-mannered speech.

“Do not mock me!” she snapped, glaring at him furiously.

“And how would you have me treat you, Rose?” he answered, although his eyes glittered now with harder emotions.

“I-I am your mistress, whom you should treat with respect. And I will treat you equally well. Just do your work willingly, and you will be dealt with fairly at Stanwood.”

He considered her words a moment, all the while keeping his eyes fastened on her. “Have I not done my work well today?”

“Yes. Yes, truthfully you have.”

“So it follows then that you should treat me well.”

“But you are being treated well. You have a place to sleep. Food to eat—”

“That meets two of the four needs of a man,” he said, reminding her of their earlier conversation. “There’s still the matter of my freedom. And my woman,” he added more quietly. Then before she could recover from the shock of those bold words he continued. “Come to my bed, sweet wife. Even though I have granted you a little more time, that need not prevent us from lying together again.”

This time Rosalynde jumped as if she’d been burned. Indeed, his smoothly said words seemed to scorch her and she was at once heated through and through.

“You … you …” She sputtered ineffectually. “You are mad!”

“Mad with desire.”

“A-a villainous blackguard!”

“You are my wife.”

“A disgusting … a disgusting—”

“You were not disgusted, Rose. No matter how you try to convince yourself of it now, it was hardly disgust you felt at our joining.”

“Oh!” Rosalynde was unable to face one more dreadful word. She took one step backward, then turned to flee those too-perceptive eyes of his. But he caught her hand before she could escape and held her there before him. If his words had unnerved her, his possessive grasp drove all logical thought from her. Like a moonstruck fool she gaped at him, unable even to disguise her emotions from him.

“Your hair should be free,” he murmured, staring deeply into her eyes. “Free to spill over your shoulders; free to slide between my fingers.” He pulled her nearer and for that moment Rosalynde forgot everything: the castle, her father, all the reasons he was the wrong man for her. “Come to me tonight,” he urged her as one of his hands circled her neck.

Then she felt the linen slip loose from around her head and in a moment her hair tumbled free in glorious abandon. She heard his quickly indrawn breath. His hands moved to slide through the thick dark masses. But she was too disconcerted to remain even a moment longer within his disturbing embrace.

“You … you should not,” she whispered as she backed away from the mesmerizing warmth of his hands. “Someone could see us—” She stopped abruptly, horrified that that was the only pitiful excuse she could come up with. That was not what she’d meant to say at all. But as he continued to stare at her with his compelling gray eyes, every logical thought flew right out of her head. She’d meant to tell him not to touch her so. She’d meant to say that he was impertinent in the extreme even to suggest such a thing. But the words would not come. With her heart racing furiously, Rosalynde could only back away from him, then, on legs that shook from the effort, walk carefully away.

She was soon safely locked in her own room, flung upon her own bed with the shutters locked tight against the light. But the pull was still there, and nothing changed that. Like a strong invisible tether, it tied her to him and she could not free herself from its power.

Heart to heart, she thought for one weak and fanciful moment.

No, she amended harshly. That was only wishful thinking. Loin to loin was a far more honest appraisal.

Tears filled her eyes at such a sinful admission, and with a sob she flung herself down onto the hard floor and huddled on her knees.

“I confess the sin of lust,” she whispered as she clasped her hands in desperate prayer. “I confess the sin of lust for a man I should abhor. Dear God, help me. Sweet Jesus, have mercy. Blessed Mother, I beseech thee …”

But though she prayed long and hard, to every saint that might heed her plea, she feared her prayers would receive no answer. And she would receive no relief.