The Protector
This scene occurs right before Anna’s rescue of Morvan at the end of the story.
Ascanio lay on his cot, staring at the canvas roof of his small tent. He did not even try to sleep. He had been through this enough times to know that this wakeful vigil was an inevitable prelude to a battle, and that it would not affect his abilities. Besides, tonight he would be needed. At the very least a soldier or two, restless on their own cots, would seek out the priest in the darkest hours before dawn.
He occupied himself by reviewing Anna's plan. It could work, but the odds were against them. Any number of things could go wrong. But he had supported her when she presented it to the vassals and knights because he knew that it was his best chance of saving her. It went without saying that she would never have agreed to sit at the camp while the men rode off to revenge her husband's murder. Once Morvan was dead she would take no care with her own safety.
He had also supported her for another reason. Only he and Carlos thus far knew exactly what she planned to do. There had been details that she had not told the war council. Small things, really, but in the end they might tilt the odds a bit more in their favor.
He remembered the requests and commands that Morvan's eyes had communicated to him from behind Haarold's shoulder. He knew that Morvan's biggest concern, as always, had been for Anna. He wanted her not just away from any action, but secure in La Roche de Roald itself. Well, my friend, I tried. It was not meant to be, but you probably knew that. It seems that she would die for you just as you would die for her, and will not forego this chance to save you.
The other request had been easier to fulfill, and Ascanio had already seen to it. While Anna had laid her plans and plotted her strategies, Ascanio had quietly gone to every vassal and knight and soldier and servant who would form this army. His message had not been very priestly. And so, as he studied the slice of night visible through the fluttering flap of his tent, he was confident that every man who had ridden or marched to this camp had clearly understood one thing. Tomorrow morning, no matter what else occurred, no matter who lived and who died, Gurwant de Beaumanoir would breath his last.
He closed his eyes, and listened to the sounds that drifted over the stillness of the camp. The snorts and whinnies of horses echoed loudest, punctuated by an occasional man's voice or laugh. There were others like himself who would never sleep this night, but they at least had the sense to seek each other out for company.
He waited in a timeless limbo, sensing the need that he could only fill if it was made explicit, hoping that the new discoveries had not built a wall against the help that he could give. He was a priest, after all. There had always been a special safety in that.
A faint rustle reached his ears. A slight breeze brushed his face. Someone had silently entered his tent, and he knew that it was not some soldier looking to confess. The true reason for his vigil had come to him.
He sat up on his cot and looked at her. She appeared no more than a dark form in a darker space, but he could tell that she still wore the rose gown that she had traveled in these last two days. He did not need to see her face to know the fear and worry that haunted her. It filled the tent and touched his soul with its sadness.
She stood there a moment with a hesitation that she would have never shown before she met her English knight and learned the truth about herself. Then she climbed onto the cot, drawing her knees up to her chest in a childish huddle that he knew well. Tentatively, she leaned into the embrace that he extended in offering, and laid her head on his shoulder.
He closed his eyes and held her, silently giving and taking once again the only comfort and love permitted him.
Copyright © Madeline Hunter
