Sophie, her pallor as white as snow, looked up at her mother. “Mama, I want mush.”
Diamantha felt a spark of hope in that little request. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “Do you think you could eat some mush?”
Sophie’s hand wormed its way out of the blanket and she yawned, rubbing her eye with the free hand. “I want mush,” she repeated.
Cortez, his arms still around Diamantha and Sophie, bent over to kiss the little girl on the forehead. “I will go get your mush,” he told her, releasing the pair from his embrace and standing up from the bed. “Mayhap Mama would like something to eat, too.”
Diamantha had to admit that her child’s request for food had a dramatic effect on her outlook. Asking for food was a sign from God as far as she was concerned, a sign that all would be well. Gazing up at Cortez with the first hopeful expression he’d seen in days, she nodded to his statement.
“I believe I would,” she said. “Thank you kindly, good sir.”
Cortez winked at her and left the chamber, closing the door quietly behind him. Out in the common room, his soldiers were eating a thick stew and the knights were in the corner by the front door, their usual place. Cortez made his way back to the kitchen where MacInnis and his wife were doing their chores. Everyone was very busy in the kitchen, especially the wife who was hacking away at a goose. The tavern keeper finally looked up and saw Cortez lingering a few feet away.
“M’laird,” he greeted, wiping his hands off on his leather apron. “How is the lassie?”
Cortez nodded. “She has awoken and asked for mush,” he said. “Can you provide some?”
MacInnis nodded eagerly. “Of course we can,” he replied. “And yer wife? She’s not yet eaten today.”
Cortez nodded, sighing with some manner of relief. “Aye,” he said. “Something for her, as well.”
As MacInnis and his wife began to bustle around, Cortez turned around to head back to the room but the tavern keeper stopped him.
“M’laird,” he called. When Cortez came to a halt, the tavern keeper closed the gap between them. “And fer yerself? Surely ye’ve had a hard day, digging as ye have been.”
Cortez peered at the man curiously. “How do you know what I have been doing?”
MacInnis waved him off, as if he meant no harm. “I’ve heard yer men talking,” he said, lowering his voice. “They said ye’re looking fer something south of Callendar Wood. I’ve heard the townsfolk talking about it, too. People have seen ye digging. That is where the great battle happened this summer, ye know.”
Cortez nodded slowly. “I know.”
“Were ye part of the battle?”
Since MacInnis didn’t seem distressed over the question, and there wasn’t any use in denying his activities. He answered.
“Aye,” he replied.
“Did ye lose something?”
“A friend,” Cortez said softly. “A friend of mine died in the battle and was left behind. We have come to bring him home to give him a proper burial.”
MacInnis scratched his head thoughtfully. Then, he looked around, as if fearful someone would overhear what he was about to say. Cortez looked around curiously, too, wondering why the tavern keeper suddenly seemed rather edgy. Or awkward. Cortez couldn’t tell which, even when the man motioned for him to follow.
“May I have a word with ye, m’laird?” he asked quietly.
Cortez followed purely out of curiosity. MacInnis took him outside, across the yard, and into the stable, which was vacant except for a cow and her calf. As the rain trickled in overhead, he turned to Cortez.
“I didna want yer men tae hear,” he said quietly.
Cortez’s curiosity was growing. He crossed his big arms as he faced the tavern keeper. “Hear what?”
MacInnis scratched his head again. “The battle left many dead and wounded,” he said. “The priests from St. Francis gathered some of the townsfolk and together, we went across the field tae bury the dead and gather the wounded. There are Hamilton and Livingstone clans around here and we wanted tae get tae the bodies before their women did. They steal from the dead, ye know, and they would have killed any Sassenach that were still living. We collected the dead and tended the wounded. There was no one left on the field.”
Cortez was listening seriously. “Are you telling me that you collected all of the dead?”
MacInnis nodded firmly. “Every one of them,” he said. “We couldna leave them fer the women, ye see.”
“What did you do with them?”
MacInnis pointed in the direction of St. Francis church. “We buried the dead in a big grave outside of the churchyard,” he told him. “There were so many, ye see. The churchyard wouldna hold them all.”
Cortez stared at the man before unwinding his arms and rubbing a weary hand over his face. The circumstance that MacInnis was relaying to him was really quite staggering. It was quite possible that Robert had been found by the priests and buried. It would explain why they hadn’t been able to find any trace of him. But something still didn’t make sense.
“My friend was left to die on the outskirts of the battle,” he said. “As the battle was dwindling, I dragged him over to the eastern side of the battlefield. I had to leave him for a short while and when I returned, he was gone. There was so much mud that I naturally assumed he was sucked in by it. When did the priests start collecting bodies, MacInnis? Did they even wait until the battle was over?”
MacInnis shook his head. “Nay,” he replied. “The priests were collecting the dead and wounded while Edward was still waging war.”
God’s Bones! Cortez thought as he stared at the man. As if a bolt from heaven had burst down upon him, suddenly, Robert’s disappearance was starting to make a good deal of sense. He could hardly believe it.
“But the mud,” he said again, still having a difficult time comprehending what he’d been told. “It could have easily swallowed up a man.”
MacInnis nodded. “ ’Tis possible, m’laird,” he said. “The only way tae find out is tae come tae the church. The priests saved all of the Sassenach armor and weapons. We dinna bury the men with their regalia. Mayhap yer friend’s armor is there.”
Cortez was so electrified by the prospect that he was literally shaking. “Will you take me?”
MacInnis nodded and together, they headed back into the tavern where MacInnis told his wife of their plans. Cortez, however, had moved into the common room, his mind whirling with possibilities. Was it actually possible that the priests had collected Robert’s body and buried him? Was that why they had been unable to find him? He was staggered by the prospect and as MacInnis led him towards the front entry of the tavern. Cortez passed the table of his knights and he called out to them.
“All of you,” he snapped. “With me now.”
The men got up from the table without question, following Cortez out into the stormy afternoon. Together, the group of them followed Cortez and the tavern keeper across the road, across a small field, and then down a larger road that led to the church of St. Francis. It was a march of sorts, a determined pace set by Cortez, and they could all feel the seriousness of it. Curiosity was turning to concern. Keir, who had been walking with the perplexed group of knights, finally caught up to Cortez.
“Where are we going?” he asked quietly. “What has happened?”
Cortez could only shake his head. He didn’t dare want to hope they’d come to the end of their journey, but on the other hand, it was difficult not to pray for that possibility. The hope that their quest would finally come to an end was heavy on his mind. He glanced at his friend, now getting soaked again as the rain fell and the thunder rolled.
“We are going to the church,” he said. “I’ll tell you when we get there.”
Keir had to be satisfied with that answer which was, in fact, no answer at all. But he kept his mouth shut, walking next to Cortez as they marched down the road to the church of St. Francis, a squat parish that Keir and the others had spent a good deal of time
in, praying for little Sophie.
Soon enough, the big, brown-stoned building loomed in front of them and the group shook off the rain as they entered the dark, musty-smelling sanctuary. Banks of candles illuminated the cavernous space, a weak defense against the darkness of the storm that cast gloom over everything. Once inside, MacInnis turned to Cortez.
“Wait here, please,” he said. “I will go get the priest.”
Cortez nodded as the man disappeared into the shadows in search of a priest. When he was out of sight, Cortez turned to his men. Seeing all of the curious, if not worried, faces around him, he shook his head with all of the astonishment he was feeling. He struggled a moment to put his thoughts into words.
“I have just been told by the tavern keeper that before the battle was even over, and in order to prevent the women from Clan Hamilton and Clan Livingstone from looting the dead, the priests of St. Francis began removing the dead and wounded from the battlefield.” He looked around at the faces that were now nearly as astonished as his. “It is quite possible that is why we have not been able to find Edlington. The priests may have already removed him. That is why we are here, to find out the truth. The tavern keeper tells me that they kept the armor and regalia from the men they buried and I have asked to see it. Mayhap Edlington’s is among it.”
For a moment, no one spoke. They were all digesting the astounding information. Finally, Michael hissed.
“God’s Bloody Teeth,” he said. “That would make a good deal of sense. No wonder we were not finding any bodies as we dug. None were there. The priests had taken them all!”
Cortez nodded. “Exactly,” he agreed. “Had I been smarter about this, I would have come to the church first, but it did not occur to me that the priests would have taken an active interest in burying English dead.”
“And if they have, in fact, buried him, what will you do?” Drake wanted to know. “Lady de Bretagne must be told. With her daughter so ill, it will be a difficult thing for her to know Edlington is already buried.”
Cortez shook his head. “I think it will ease her mind,” he said. “To know he has already been taken care of should ease her. At least, I hope it will.”
“What if she wants him back?”
“I will deal with that situation if, or when, it comes.”
No one had anything more to say to that. At this point, with no hard evidence, it would do no good to speculate on the future. They stood around for several long minutes in a tense little group until MacInnis and a priest suddenly appeared out of the darkness. The knights moved forward to greet them, unable to wait, anxious to discover truths. They closed in on the priest and the tavern keeper, surrounding them.
“This is Father Lewis,” MacInnis said. “He helped collect the dead and wounded that day. I told him that ye were here looking fer yer friend and he has agreed tae show ye where they put all of the possessions confiscated from the English.”
Cortez addressed the small, brown-eyed priest. “Thank you, Father,” he said. “We are grateful for the mercy you showed the English after the battle and we are further grateful for your assistance. I would like to know the fate of our friend.”
Father Lewis was a fairly young man with bad skin and a hooked nose. He eyed the big English knights around him. They appeared rather anxious. He seemed rather wary of them but pushed it aside. MacInnis had assured him they were honorable English, if such a thing was possible, and MacInnis was a man to be trusted. Moreover, they were here in search of a friend, a noble quest. His initial reluctance faded.
“No weapons are permitted,” he told them.
Instantly, swords began to drop and smaller daggers also kept on the body were removed as well. Drake even pulled one out of his boot. No one argued in the least, and no one seemed to be worried that their valuable weapons were in a pile near the front entry of a church. They were more concerned with gaining access to the church itself. Everyone except Cortez, that is. He wasn’t going to part with his weapons so the most he did was release his broadsword. Everything else, including a dagger in full view at his waist, remained on his body. The priest eyed him but didn’t press. They’d mostly complied, anyway. He was willing to let it go at that.
“Come with me,” he said.
The group followed. Cortez in particular walked right behind the priest, his eagerness nearly overwhelming him. He was starting to feel less astonishment and more hope, hope that they could finally discover what had become of Robert Edlington and hope for closure for Diamantha. She had suffered so very much through all of this and he began to pray that finally, they would know the truth. But then he remembered he hated God so he stopped praying, only to start up again when they reached the cloisters. He was so torn that he didn’t know what to do. The next few moments would more than likely tell. If Edlington’s items were among those kept by the priest, then he would definitely give thanks. If not, then he would curse God once again. He didn’t want to face the fact that they might never know what happened to Edlington. He had to have hope.
The cloister of St. Francis was a long, dormitory-like building. There were two floors to it, novices on the bottom floor and priests on the top. There was a room called the Warming Room, which was really just a smaller room with a hearth in it. It was on the bottom floor, near the entry door, and it was into that room that Father Lewis led them.
Cortez couldn’t describe the impression he had when Father Lewis opened the door to the Warming Room. It wasn’t what he had expected but once he saw it, he was nearly overcome by the sight. From floor to ceiling, it was stacked with English regalia: plate armor, chain mail, swords, pole axes, shields, personal baggage, tunics, and any number of other things. The sight was both astonishing and depressing. Each item represented a life lost, a man killed, and all Cortez could see were dead English. He saw grieving families, sad children, and sorrowful wives. He saw war.
He stood at the open door, speechless, as Keir and Michael pushed their way in, followed by Drake and the others. All of them were flooding in, searching for regalia they recognized, as Cortez stood in the doorway with the priest.
“Is this all there is?” he asked hoarsely. “This is the only room with English possessions?”
The priest nodded. “This is from both the dead and the wounded.”
Cortez turned to look at him. “What did you do with the wounded?”
The priest looked at him. “Most went home,” he said. “We sent word tae their families, but a few remain, those who cannot remember who their families are or those who simply want tae remain here until they die.”
“Where are they?”
The priest pointed to the ceiling. “Upstairs,” he said. “We have them in a small dormitory.”
Cortez didn’t say anything more after that. He turned his sad gaze to his knights, now going through all of the armor and shields, calling out the names of men they recognized. De Warenne, de Berkele, Poyns, de Grundon, de Mond, Martin, Deincourt… so many names that Cortez knew. It could have just as easily been his name, shut off in here with no one to mourn him or miss him. No one to care that he’d been killed. It was a horrendously sobering sight, this room with ownerless armor. It was a shrine to death.
“Edlington’s standard was blue and white,” he reminded the group of what they were looking for. “His shield is white with a blue chevron and three sunbursts on it, and he was wearing a tunic of blue and white when I last saw him.”
“Was it this?”
The question came from Drake, who was back in the corner of the room. He held up a tattered blue and white tunic, barely recognizable through the dim light and battle damage. Cortez entered the room and took the tunic from Drake, holding it up for all to see. There was a massive, stained hole in the center of it and a smaller hole with an equal stain on the back.
He knew this tunic.
“Aye,” he said, feeling as if they had just reached the conclusive end of their long and arduous journey. The relief, the sorrow, was indescribable. �
�This belonged to him. These holes are where he was wounded. Is there more in that pile? The man had a shield, a broadsword, and other items. See if there is more in that pile.”
With the knowledge that they had found Edlington’s tunic, both sadness and acceptance descended on the room. It filled every man, every heart. But the knights dutifully converged on the stack of armor in the corner where the tunic had been found, searching for more Edlington possessions.
His attention on the shredded tunic, Cortez wandered out of the room, wondering if he should bring this relic, this testament of Robert’s death, to Diamantha. It was a rather brutal bit of reality. He paused in the open doorway, staring at it.
“Was that what ye were looking fer?” the priest asked.
Still staring at the tunic, Cortez nodded faintly. “Aye,” he said morosely. Then, he unfurled the tunic and held it up again so the priest could see it. “Do you remember the man who wore this? I would not be surprised if you did not, for there were many dead that day. But mayhap you can remember him and tell me where you buried him. On that day, you would have found him to the extreme east of the battlefield, propped up against an oak tree.”
The priest reached out to finger the tunic. “There were many men that day, m’laird.”
“I know,” Cortez said patiently. “But think hard, if you will. As you can see, he was struck by an arrow in the torso and it went all the way through him. He was a tall man with short blond hair. He always liked to wear a bit of a mustache, too. Do you remember him?”
The priest’s brow furrowed as he continued to finger the tunic. He went back to that day, such a terrible day, when he led an ox cart around the east side of the battlefield to collect the dead and wounded with. So much rain and mud, death and destruction. East side of the battlefield…. After a moment, a light of recognition came to his eyes.
“Is this the man ye are looking fer?” he asked, incredulous. “He had a mustache!”
Cortez caught the priest’s excitement. “Aye, I told you that,” he agreed quickly. “Do you remember him now?”
The priest nodded eagerly. “Aye, m’laird,” he said. “We did no’ bury this man.”
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