Page 62 of My Hero
As her palfrey trudged forward, its steps muffled on the damp road, the thatched cottages of the village emerged one by one through the cloudy veil, like ghosts materializing from another world. She shivered. On such a day, spirits might leave their lifeless bodies and become lost in the mist. On such a day, the villagers needed the comfort of a priest more than ever. She prayed no soul would have to make that journey today, for there was no one to guide them to heaven.
The corners of her mouth turned down bitterly one last time, and she sniffed against the cold. Then she nudged her horse toward the first house, beginning another long day.
It was difficult to tell how many hours she labored. The bulky cloak of fog blanched the sun’s beacon to a vague gray haze. The day dragged lethargically on, filled with hacking coughs and trembling sweats and poor souls bent in half with pain. Nearly every household had been ravaged in some way by the dread disease. It had spread its destructive fire with frightening speed, as swiftly as a brand touched to thatch. Thank God, it had at last almost burned out.
But if it left the village, if somehow it spread…
The thought was overwhelming. The terror of her dream returned to hound her. Not enough herbs to treat the sick. Not enough time to reach them all. Not enough strength. Already she felt her power wane, the flow of energy less each time she laid hands on another victim. What would she do if the demands upon her increased?
The darkening hue of the ashen sky served as the only indication that day’s end drew near. Like the fog, the sickness hung stubbornly over the village. Of the victims she’d treated, many had improved. But several had grown worse, and there was nothing more she could do.
Wearily pulling herself onto the saddle, her bag of medicines fearfully light, she had at least one thing to be thankful for. In answer to her prayers, no one had died.
Cynthia thought about a warm bath all the way home, one that would leach from her bones the mist seeping relentlessly into them, a nice, long, soothing bath scented with rosemary or angelica.
The moment she set foot in the great hall, she knew it was not to be. Elspeth rushed at her, flapping her arms like a distraught hen.
“Oh, my lady, something terrible has happened!”
“Now, Elspeth,” Roger scolded, striding forward to take Cynthia’s cloak. “Let Lady Cynthia at least warm herself by the fire.”
“What is it?” Cynthia asked, unable to contain her curiosity, as Roger guided her by the elbow toward the crackling tinder.
“It’s Father Garth, my lady!” Elspeth cried.
“Oh.” Cynthia let the air sigh out of her chest as she sank onto a chair before the hearth. “I know. He left last night. He’s likely gone back to the monastery. We’ll have to find another—”
“My lady—”
“A messenger came from the monastery,” Roger interrupted, knitting his gray brows. “Father Garth is…not well.”
Faint alarm registered in her breast. She searched Roger’s eyes. “What do you mean, ‘not well’?”
“He has the sickness, my lady,” Elspeth burst out, “the sickness from the village.”
Dread insinuated itself like odious, curling smoke into her thoughts. She stared, unseeing, into the flames.
“He’s asked for you,” Elspeth whispered.
Garth. He’d walked all the way to the monastery in the chill damp of night, probably already suffering from fever. Such exposure might have weakened him, left him more susceptible to the murrain’s attack, unable to effectively battle it.
Then a darker, more sinister thought followed. If Garth carried the disease…
“Bloody hell.”
He’d communicate it to the prior, his novitiates, and eventually all the monks. Despite the blazing fire thawing her bones, she shuddered.
Already she sensed the sickness encircling the monastery like a grim cloud raining death.
There was no time to waste. In spite of her fatigue, she had to get to Garth.
By the time she arrived at the monastery, the low twilight clouds had turned the colors of a bruise. Cynthia glanced at the threatening sky, unable to dismiss the bad omen. The foreboding she’d felt in the village was nothing compared to her crippling fear as she approached the door of Garth’s cell.
What if she put her hands upon Garth and felt nothing? Or worse, what if she felt his life force ebbing? What if she sensed that he was destined not to live, but to…
She clamped her lips together. She wouldn’t think of that. He needed her. He’d asked for her. And she’d do everything in her power to save him.
Squaring her shoulders, she entered the cell.
