Page 48 of My Hero
“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?”
