He did not offer again. Though his first nibble was tentative, his second was not, and after that he was all too clearly in a fight between prolonging the pleasure and wolfing the sweet richness down all at once.
She went back to stirring the thickening porridge. “That’s the sort of thing the clever priest can get as often as he likes-”
“Leave be, Mam!”
And because she did not want to sour his pleasure, she said quickly, “Aye, I’ll let it go.” And to distract his frown, “I wonder where your father is.”
“Somewhere close to here by now, probably. Or maybe singing his favorite song in the middle of the great hall, if Lord Lovel gave Da a cup of something when he arrived.”
She gestured sharply at him to hush, but the other hand slowed its stirring. The thought of Barnaby’s drinking set her to worrying all over again. Barnaby drunk was even less able than Barnaby sober to cope with the hazards of travel in such lawless days, and for the first time the thought welled up that Barnaby might have gone so far as to broach the tun of wine before he delivered it. To come into the mercy of an already angry lord was almost past imagining. Maybe he had gotten drunk less dishonestly, and must needs stop to sleep it off under the cart and be freezing to death this minute somewhere along the road.
Which would be worse? she wondered. To have a husband in danger of being hanged by his lord for theft, or to lose him to a natural death?
It was a hard thing to be deprived of a husband before his sons were grown enough to care for his widow, even if she did not much believe anymore that the next fine or beating he would receive might finally bring him to give up drink.
She quickly prayed he was alive, and that by some wonder he had stayed sober.
“Hewe, the oatmeal’s nearly done. Run quick and fetch some firewood before you eat.”
He rose with a sigh, but stopped at hearing his mother’s name being called outside.
“Meg! Meg, are you home? There’s bad news! It’s Barnaby!”
Meg swung the pot safely off the fire even as her heart lurched in her breast; burnt food was both a disaster and a shame. But Barnaby-what had he done? She hurried to the door, her thin face twisted with apprehension.
Hewe had reached it before her, but he stepped back for her to lift the latch and open the door in time to startle plump Annie Lauder, her hand already raised to knock, her round face red with exertion and excitement.
“Oh, you poor woman! He’s been found on the road, sore hurt! They’ve only just brought him in and I’ve come to fetch you fast as might be.”
Meg looked toward the village road but saw no knot of villagers coming with Barnaby among them. “Where?” she asked, wringing her hands in her apron. “Where is he?”
“The priory,” Annie said, still gasping. “’Twas travelers found him and didn’t know him, and so took him to St. Frideswide’s. And that’s maybe best; Dame Claire’s trying to save him.”
Meg’s mind swam in an abundance of information: the priory, Dame Claire, Barnaby, the travelers. Her legs went weak, and she leaned against the door frame, trying to grasp it all. But she managed to whisper, “Is he going to die?”
Hewe forestalled Annie’s reply. “Was it robbers? Did they steal the wine? Or the horse? Is the cart all right?”
“The cart went over on him, they said,” Annie replied. “That’s all I know.” She saw Meg’s knees buckle, and took a strong grip on Meg’s other arm. “You better sit down. I’ll fetch your cloak.”
“The cart!” Meg moaned, sinking to the stone step. “And the wine! If the wine’s spilled, his lord will hang him sure!”
“Only if he lives,” Annie said, throwing the cloak around her shoulders. “Now come on.”
2
THE TWELVE DAYS between Christmas and Epiphany were the dark time of the year. Holidays and the cold kept folk at their own hearths, and casual travelers were few. St. Frideswide’s, even with its two guesthalls, was too removed from main roads and lacking in the wealth and luxuries that might have drawn nobility to its hospitality in the holy days.
So Dame Frevisse, the priory’s hosteler, responsible for its guesthalls and guests, was expecting no one as the afternoon drew on toward nightfall and Vespers. But, as duty required, everything was kept in readiness and she was walking through the guesthalls to be sure of it.
A small boy tumbled through the doorway of the lesser guesthall, nearly into her skirts. He recovered himself and bowed deeply before bursting out, “There’s a man hurt! We found him on the road and they’re bringing him here!”
He was a handsome little boy, perhaps all of eight years old, in need of a thorough scrubbing and more excited with his news than dismayed. Frevisse did not know him; he certainly did not belong to the priory, and his speech, his bow, and the cut of his worn clothing showed he was no villager. But she had no time to think on it.
“Where is the man? What happened to him?” she asked. And added in the same breath to a servant near at hand, “Go out and tell them to bring him in here.”
“We found him under a cart,” the boy explained. “It was overturned, in a ditch. Bassett says it looks like the horse dragged it, with him under it. He’s all bloody, and they’re being careful of him as they can. They’re just behind me.”
He pointed, and Frevisse nodded the servant on his way, then gestured to one of the women. “Bring out one of the pallets. Set it here where the light is good. And blankets. And someone go for Dame Claire.” Dame Claire was the priory’s infirmarian and saw to the hurts and sicknesses of nuns, guests, and villagers.
Well trained, the servants were laying out the straw mattress and blankets as voices warning, “Watch it, then” and “Be careful of the leg” and “Mind the door,” announced the hurt man’s arrival. Unlike the better guesthall across the courtyard, there were no steps here to climb.
Frevisse reached the outer door in time to hold it open for two men, a tall boy, and a woman, all in the heavy, drab cloaks of winter travelers. They eased past her, each holding the corner of a long, thick yellow cloth with the unconscious body of the hurt man slung in it, being careful of him despite his obvious weight.
Briskly she said, “Over here beside the fire. Who is he?”
“That we don’t know, my lady. He’s a stranger to us and hasn’t roused since we found him,” a stout older man gasped, the effort clearly telling on him.
“We’ll take care of him from here,” Frevisse said. “God’s blessing on you for your kindness in bringing him. Here, put him down here.”
An ironic look passed between the younger man and the tall boy, but she had no time to wonder about it as Dame Claire hurried in. A small woman, the infirmarian was dwarfed by her box of medicines and a bundle of bandages, but she moved briskly, their weight familiar to her. Behind her, more slowly, came young Sister Amicia, carefully balancing a steaming basin of water. Dame Claire stepped around the gathered knot of people and took charge.
The infirmarian eyed the injured man sympathetically and said in her surprisingly deep voice, “Build up the fire here. Make it large. We want to take the cold out of his wounds, and keep it out.” She bent closely over him, peering at his slack-jawed face, then lifted aside the cloak that had been tossed over him. There was a sharp intake of breath among the onlookers at the sight of his torn and bloodied clothes and body.
“I’ll need more water. And more cloths. Now,” Dame Claire said crisply.
Two of the servants hurried away. The others stayed, some staring outright, others taking flinching looks at the man’s hurts. Even Frevisse, who had a stronger stomach than most, cringed inwardly as she assessed his damage. Clearly he had been dragged under his cart. His right hand was the worst, mangled almost past looking like a hand. There was an awkward crookedness in his left shoulder; and his breathing was ragged, his face beneath its dried-blood mask deathly pale.