Page 18 of Laird of Flint
“And when does Father James visit?”
“He ne’er announces his arrival. Just shows up.”
That made sense. Hew’s mother never announced inspections of the armory either. It kept men honest.
Hew drank the last of his ale. Then he stifled a yawn. The lack of sleep last night and a hearty extra meal today had caught up with him. Since Brother Cathal wouldn’t come by for another few days, there was not much else he could do. He might as well take a long, leisurely nap.
In his cell, he’d just settled his head into the recess he’d punched into the pallet when his eyes flew open.
The physician.
The prior hadn’t put the physician on the list.
It was probably just an oversight, not an omission. After all, a physician would only be needed when someone was seriously ill. He would visit the infirmary, which adjoined the monastery.
The monk had told him the prior hadsummonedthe physician. So where had he come from? And could he have something to do with the missing valuables?
Hew sat up. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep now. Not with that new possibility nagging at his brain.
Emerging from his cell into the cloister, he cast his gaze in the direction of the infirmary. It was tempting to simply charge into the building and start questioning the physician.
But a man was dying there. And the infirmary was isolated for a reason. Peace and quiet.
To be fair, the whole monastery seemed peaceful and quiet to Hew. Especially compared to the lively atmosphere at Rivenloch. But he supposed interrogating a man in the infirmary would be frowned upon.
When Hew saw several of the more seasoned monks begin to file past, heading toward the infirmary, he figured the dying man’s time was nigh.
Would they send the physician home soon? And where was home?
He cornered one of the younger monks in the library. “The physician in the infirmary. Do you know who he is?”
“The physician? Peris.”
“Where does he come from, do you know?”
“I don’t. He only comes when someone’s about to…” The monk gulped, as if saying the words aloud might make it so.
“Whowouldknow?”
“The abbot?”
Hew was fairly certain the abbot was seeing to the dying man as well, since all of the senior monks seemed to be gathering at the infirmary.
He supposed he’d just have to wait until the man expired.
Hours passed. He was served a silent dinner of thin mutton pottage. The sun sank in a gloomy sky. The cloud-ringed moon emerged. Still no one returned.
He retired to his cell and stared at the plaster ceiling, dimly illuminated by the filtered moonlight.
He was glad he was a warrior. Warriors didn’t suffer through lingering death watches or questionable cures. They went out in a blaze of glory.
If Hew had his way, he would never have need of a physician.
Maybe to mend his wounded heart, he corrected. That was something that wouldn’t heal on its own.
He drifted off, dreaming of all the women he’d loved and lost.
Carenza rubbed her aching eyes and scooted her stool closer to the hearth. It was difficult to stitch late at night by firelight. But she didn’t have a choice. She couldn’t exactly piece together a disguise by daylight in front of witnesses.
