“She’ll live,” Cynthia told her. But she wouldn’t reveal what she’d felt when she’d brushed the back of Caitlin’s own hand. The sallow lass’s spirit was so frail, she wouldn’t survive the sickness if it took hold in her.
The first death came at midday. It was Edward Simon. His widow’s wailing could be heard all along the lane. The fool had been ill for days, but was too proud to ask for help.
Such men’s misplaced dignity enraged Cynthia when its price was so high. She did what she could to comfort the woman and made her promise to seek out aid should the sickness come upon her.
After that, it was as if a reaper came through the village harvesting souls. The town leatherworker was cut down, followed shortly by his wife. Within an hour, Robert the weaver succumbed.
As the nauseating stench of death washed over Cynthia, her horrid dream came back to her. Never had she seen a disease claim so many so quickly. Doubt pressed in all around her, and suddenly her satchel full of herbs seemed powerless against the encroaching foe, like a child’s wooden sword against a charging boar.
A tiny part of her wanted to run away, to flee all the way back to Wendeville and drop the portcullis against the grasping, needy souls. She wouldn’t do it, of course. She’d never turned away from the ailing, be it man, beast, or bloom. She had a gift. It was both her responsibility and her honor to use it.
Her first task was to get the bodies blessed and buried before their sickness could spread. She straightened and spoke to a hale young lad who stood nearby.
“Elias, do you know the way to Charing? It’s not far.”
The boy nodded.
“Go there, please, and fetch the Abbot to bless the bodies.”
She would have just as soon never laid eyes on the Abbot again, and it pained her to have to ask this favor of him, but she couldn’t let the villagers die unshriven, and Charing was the closest keep to the village.
“There’s nothing more I can do for the dead,” she murmured to those who stood with her. “Take me to the living.”
An hour later, Cynthia had finished with a third household. But there appeared to be more than a dozen still requiring her healing, despite the efforts of helpful neighbors who offered their aid. She heaved a shaky sigh. What if she depleted all her medicines? What if her strength dwindled to nothing? She brushed back a loose lock of hair with a trembling hand. Her dream was becoming frighteningly real.
The sun had only opened half an eye over the horizon, as if deciding whether or not to rise at such an unholy hour, when Garth made his way from his quarters to the great hall. On the way, he practiced his speech, whispering the phrases with a sweep of his arm here, a fatherly frown there, determining which delivery was the most effective.
He was prepared now to finish his sermon for Cynthia, the Sabbath sermon she’d missed when she was called from the chapel. His Bible was tucked under his elbow, specific passages marked with pieces of frayed ribbon.
All God’s creatures, he would tell her, had their proper places. The lion didn’t lie down with the lamb in this world. Neither, he’d say with an apologetic smile, should priests fraternize with noblewomen.
Steeling himself for this most important discourse, he stepped forward into the great hall. Maidservants scurried past, bearing fragrant platters of fresh bread and flasks of watered wine, breakfast for the castle denizens. A gangly boy tended the snapping fire in the middle of the hall. Hounds slumbered in one corner. A knight polished his sword in another. In front of the buttery screens, Elspeth wagged a finger at Roger the steward, who thrust his stubborn chin out against whatever she scolded him for.
But Cynthia was nowhere in sight.
Elspeth interrupted her tirade long enough to address him. “Morning, Father Garth. If it’s Lady Cynthia you’re after, she’s gone to the village.”
“Again?”
“Aye, I fear so.” The old maid shook her head. “It’s a stubborn malady, this is. My lady has a sense of these things, and this morn, when she set out…” Elspeth’s face pinched into a worried frown. “She didn’t look well, not at all.”
Something in the woman’s words rattled him.
“Is she in danger?” He squared his shoulders. “Is there anything I can do?”
She studied him for a moment, as if judging his worth, then waggled a finger in the air. “She might require a priest at that. If it’s as bad as she thinks, you may be blessing the dead by day’s end.”
He nodded, and then glanced ruefully down at his carefully marked Bible. He’d have to defer his sermon again. But at least he’d be of some use today, dispensing last rites and comforting those who needed the word of God.
In some ways, he envied the dead. They were at peace, free of earthly passions, able to enjoy heaven’s tranquility. They didn’t have to wrestle with the kind of temptations Garth did.
With his Bible in hand and Roger’s directions committed to memory, Garth set out along the east road toward the village.
“And I’m ashamed to say, lass, I succumbed to drink ere I could put a twinkle in her eye.”
Cynthia sat speechless. For some time now, she’d knelt by the old man’s bedside, listening to the most preposterous confession she’d ever heard. It was that of Henry Webster, the oldest man in the village. He’d raved on and on, which was amazing for a man as sick and aged as he was, about all the sins he’d committed.
At first, she listened attentively. Poor old Henry didn’t have long to live. Since the Abbot might not arrive in time, Henry said he chose to make confession to an angel. Cynthia apparently qualified. Somehow, she managed to keep a straight face as he recounted in great detail his dubious sins, among them the ugly women he regretted courting and the years he’d wasted drinking when he could have been wenching.
It was only when she ventured a glance at his withered old face that she saw the mischief bright in his rheumy eyes.
“I can see you doubt me, lass,” he wheezed. “But I tell you, never did a lady leave me without a smile on her face.”
She grinned.
“Aye, like that,” he said, nodding.
“I’m thinking you’re enjoying this confession,” she accused.
“Did I tell you about the time I stole a real Infidel? She was a slave girl from Araby. Full ripe she was, golden as the sun, and sweet. But it was thievery, just the same. The Bible says, ‘You shall not thieve.’” He cocked his head and screwed up his face. “Nay, maybe it wasn’t thievery after all. As I recall, the wicked wench cut my purse ere I sent her on her way.”
Cynthia shook her head.
“What about you, lass? Where’s your husband?”
She stifled a chuckle. Henry Webster looked like he’d be glad to swive her himself if his old bones would allow it.
“You remember, Henry,” she said. “I’m widowed.”
Slowly, the lust drained from the old man’s eyes, and his gaze slipped absently around the room, as if he’d wandered off to another world. A long moment later, as she was about to count him lost, he looked up at her steadily, mildly curious.
“Were you with your man when he died?”
“Aye,” she said, swallowing hard. “He died in my arms.”
Henry turned his head away. “It’s a sweet way to go.”
Cynthia reached out and took his hand in hers. “I’m no golden lass from Araby, but I’ll stay with you, Henry.”
She could see the old man’s mouth working before he clamped it shut. He squeezed her hand gratefully with what little strength a dying man had left.
“I suppose I should be shriven properly,” he sniffed. “My Margaret will be waiting up there in heaven for me somewhere, good wife that she is, saving me a spot.”
“I’ve sent for the Abbot.”
“Truth to tell,” Henry admitted, his speech beginning to thicken, “I’m not looking forward to heaven.”
“And why is that?”
He slowly licked his lips. “There’s no ale there and no harlots.”
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br /> She grinned, and her shoulders shook in silent mirth. A ray of sunlight suddenly arced across the room from the opening door as, behind her, someone quietly entered the cottage.
In the next moment, comforting fingers settled upon her shoulders, and she felt the warmth of the visitor close behind her.
“Don’t weep, good woman,” his voice whispered. “Soon his soul will be at peace in heaven.”
“Peace?” she said, giving Henry a conspiratorial wink. “According to Henry, he plans to wreak havoc in heaven, a-wenching all the day.”
Old Henry’s eyes twinkled in answer.
The hands on her shoulders stiffened, then abruptly slid down her arms to wheel her about like an errant warhorse.
She gasped in surprise. He stood before her, so close she could see the gray flecks in his confused eyes, so close she could feel his outraged breath upon her cheek.
“Garth!”
CHAPTER 12
He looked as astonished as she. “You.” He snatched back his hands as if she were a burning brand.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her cheeks aglow with chagrin. Lord, what must he think of her? A-wenching in heaven, indeed.
He looked anxiously past her toward the old man.
She rubbed the back of her neck self-consciously. “You’ve…you’ve come in time to give Henry the last rites. I’ve already heard his confession. If you’d like, I can repeat the heart of it for…”
Henry dissolved into a fit of wheezing. Garth made the sign of the cross, stepping around her to the bedside, and began the benediction without delay.
Cynthia took Henry’s hand again and let the Latin syllables fall on her ears like quiet bells. She couldn’t help but wonder how many times Garth would repeat the blessing today for souls who’d meet less timely deaths.
“Don’t forget to tell him about seducing the virgins, my lady,” Henry croaked.
Garth nearly strangled on his words. “What?”
The old man’s body was racked by coughing.
“He wants me to give you his confession,” she explained, trying her best to look solemn. “He seduced three virgins in a fortnight, two of them—“
“That won’t be necessary! Sir, all your sins are forgiven.” He genuflected. “Whatever they may be.”
Cynthia bit back a smile. It was terribly endearing the way Garth’s nostrils flared when he was upset.
The last rites were finished without further incident as Cynthia clasped the old man’s hand, feeling his life force diminish. Upon the final “Amen,” Henry’s spirit left him. The hand in hers fell cool and silent.
“Farewell, old friend,” she whispered, brushing a rogue tear from her eye.
It was senseless to cry, she knew. After all, Henry had lived far beyond most men’s lifetimes. And, according to his confession, he hadn’t lacked for pleasure. Still, it wasn’t easy for her, sharing the slow drain of life from a man as his spirit departed.
Watching Cynthia, Garth felt such a welling up of empathy for her that he could scarcely keep himself from enfolding her in his arms to protect her from death’s shadow. She still clasped the poor man’s hand. Her head was bent in sorrow, and he saw her wipe at a tear. But she’d remained by the old villager, comforting him, amusing him, giving him courage to face his own death.
“There are others,” she said quietly as she finally crossed Henry’s hands atop his chest and blew out the candle near his head.
“Show me,” he murmured.
He followed her down the dusty lane, nodding now and then at onlookers curious about the strange priest in their village.
Cynthia spoke under her breath. “It would perhaps be best to make the blessings brief. It’s getting late, and—“
“I’ll stay all night if need be,” he told her, mildly offended that she’d think otherwise, “to see that their souls are properly shriven.”
“I believe you would, Garth,” she said with a fleeting smile. “It’s only that there are those yet living who may need your aid more.”
He stopped in his tracks and looked her square in her azure eyes. Something there made him shiver. “How many are afflicted?”
Fear flickered over her features, then vanished, so swiftly he might have imagined it. “I haven’t counted.”
She led him to a cottage at the outskirts of the village, in the middle of a field. The villagers followed them, murmuring among themselves, keeping a respectful distance.
Garth winced when the door swung open under his arm and the sickly stench hit him full force. He knew the smell at once. Death. The bile rose in his throat, but he choked it down. A de Ware never cowered from death.
Covering his nose and mouth with his woolen sleeve, he shouldered his way into the hovel. He scooped up the first body he found, bringing his burden outside to rest upon a soft patch of clover. Four more times he braved the interior of the cottage till the entire family lay nestled along the wattle fence of their demesne.
He began with the little girl he’d brought out last. Kneeling in the dirt, he cradled the tiny, limp body across his lap, taking care to cover her legs with her thin chemise, brushing her hair back from her face. It was a horrible task, looking upon the awful handiwork God sometimes wrought upon innocents, a task Garth only endured because he believed it would help their poor lost souls find peace.
Cynthia’s throat constricted. There was a sharp stinging in her nose that always preceded a sob. And she wasn’t the only one afflicted. The villagers stood silent in awe. Garth’s tenderness as he crooned a blessing to the child, soft as a cradlesong, caught at her heart, sending a trickle of tears down her cheek.
“My lady!” someone hissed suddenly behind her.
She turned. It was Nan atte Gate. The poor woman’s face was contorted with misery.
“It’s Tim, my lady! My little one has it now!”
“Ah, nay.” Cynthia’s heart sank. Leaving Garth to his duties, she followed Nan, lugging the satchel of medicines that had grown perilously light.
Inside the cottage, Tim peered up at her with sunken, heavy-lidded eyes. His face was pale and slack. He looked as if he might blow away with the breeze. She brushed her hands together.
“It’s because of the eggs,” he murmured.
She frowned. “The eggs?”
Tim nodded gravely, wincing as his stomach cramped. “Not allowed…at Lent. God is…punishing me.”
She swallowed back tears. “God wouldn’t punish you like this, Tim. You’re one of his favorite children.”
He shook his head. “The Abbot says I’m a sinner.”
“The Abbot?” She clenched her jaw against a reply she might later regret, and then laid her hands gently upon the boy’s forehead. “Never mind the Abbot, Tim. God knows you’re a good lad.”
Her palms tingled with his youthful energy, weak but still flickering. When she closed her eyes, a clear image of mint came to her. After a moment, she withdrew her hands and reached into her satchel for a packet of the leaves.
“Make a weak brew for him with these,” she told Nan, “and sweeten it with honey if you have it. I’ll come back at day’s end to see how he fares.” Then she brushed the lad’s hair back from his eyes. “God understands, Tim. He wants you to get better. He’ll forgive you for the eggs.”
Tim only stared at her, and for a brief, eerie moment, her own conviction was shaken. Would she be forgiven? It was true, she’d counseled many to break the strictures of Lent. But surely that counsel was divinely inspired. After all, her power came from God, didn’t it? Surely it was holy inspiration that moved her to give the villagers the egg broth.
But then, perhaps more than the egg broth ate away at her faith and made her fear the wrath of God. There was also the matter of Father Garth.
Despite her blind certainty that she simply steered Garth toward a more harmonious path, one that suited his own passionate nature, in a small corner of her heart, she wondered if she contrived to steal him from the church for her own s
elfish satisfaction. That, she was sure, God would never sanction.
The Abbot steepled his long fingers together and smiled grimly from the solar as he watched the peasant boy depart through the sagging gates of Charing.
A murrain in the village. Lady Cynthia dispensing her devil’s cures. And people dying. This was good news indeed. That and the list of herbs Mary had brought him were enough to condemn the lady on the spot.
But, he considered, scraping his nail over the worn stone of the window embrasure, patience had its merits. Better not to appear too eager. There was plenty of time to settle the noose about Lady Cynthia’s pale and trembling neck. Besides, sickness was such an ugly business. He’d had more than his share of it with that wretched woman’s late husband. Nay, he’d wait in the dubious comfort of his crumbling keep until the time ripened.
He turned from the window and went to his desk, picking up a sharpened quill. He dipped it in ink as thick as blood, and meticulously scrawled a damning X upon the parchment Mary had brought him, next to the word belladonna. Such a pretty word for such a deadly plant, a devil’s herb. There would be others, many others, that would bear the fatal X next to their names. But the Abbot preferred to do his work slowly and methodically, savoring each blow of the executioner’s ax.
By the time Garth visited the fifth house to perform last rites, the inevitable cup of yellowish broth by the bedside had begun to look very suspicious. Finally, he asked about it.
The dead man’s wife turned pale and wrung her hands.
“Please forgive him!” she cried. “I know it’s Lent, but she said it might help! And it did…for a time!”
“What? What might help?”
“The eggs!” The lady clapped a hand to her mouth, realizing she’d revealed more than she’d wanted to.
“Eggs?”
“Please forgive him,” she repeated. “He was a good man. And she said he’d be forgiven.”
Garth was confused. He took the woman by the shoulders. “Who said he’d be forgiven?”
The woman’s face crumbled. “You mean he won’t? Oh, please, Father. Father, please…” She began to wail.
Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero Page 16