Page 46 of My Hero
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.”
