As she straightened from setting the pitcher back beside the fire, a cold draft swept the hall from the opening and shutting outer door, and Father Henry, the priory’s priest, hurried out of the shadows toward them. He was cloaked and ruddy faced as if he had been awhile in the cold, and the tumble of curls around his tonsure was in more disarray than ever. Meg and the boys made courtesies to him, though Meg had to nudge them as a reminder. Father Henry gave them all a nod but his worried gaze had already turned to Barnaby. “I was gone to Hamlin’s croft to baptize the baby before she died. I’ve only just come back and heard. Am I needed, Dame Frevisse?”
Dame Frevisse came toward them. “According to Dame Claire, he’s badly hurt but seems holding steady. He’s not regained his wits, but if he does, and his wounds don’t fester, he may live. He surely needs your prayers, but as for last rites, I think his wife should say.”
She and Father Henry both looked at Meg, distressing her with this unexpected responsibility, though the priest’s voice was kind as he asked, “What do you think? Should he have the sacrament now while we’re sure of him?”
Meg pressed her lips together and stared at the floor, trying to think. It always disconcerted her when someone important noticed her; Father Henry’s attention was as bad as being asked questions by the steward. She would not have been so disconcerted had it been old Father Clement, the village priest, and a common person like herself. But he had died last year and no one had yet been put in his place-for shame! But that was not Father Henry’s fault. Now he was waiting for her answer and words did not come quickly to her.
Dame Claire seemed to think Barnaby had a chance of living, but it might be better to be safe and let him have last rites. But there were always pence to be paid when the sacraments were needed. If Barnaby died unshriven, the cost might be his soul, as his sins were many and mortal. On the other hand, pennies were very few and likely to be fewer with Barnaby dead or even just unable to work.
And if he died, there would be other costs, their best beast being claimed by the lord as heriot; and then the gersum, a fine Sym must pay to enter into his father’s holding, and the cost of a wake for Barnaby, and then the Mass penny for his funeral and the price of his shroud, and the opening of his grave. All that to come out of the little she had managed to save. Or none of it if Barnaby lived. But Father Henry had offered to pray for him anyway, and surely God would not ignore the prayers of a priory priest. So as he was maybe going to live-
“Better he be awake for it,” she said. “Better he knows about it.”
“My prayers for him then,” Father Henry said. “Send someone for me anytime in the night you want me. My house is between the inner courtyard wall and the church.”
He moved to leave, but Meg said with a sudden thought and rare daring, “Father, could you take Hewe, my younger here-” She pushed him a little forward, her hand on his resisting back. “And show him somewhere good he could pray for his Da?”
“Mam-” Hewe began.
Meg cut off his protest. “Father Clement taught him his letters and said he might, with work, become a priest. That’s my fondest hope, to see my Hewe a priest someday. If you could talk to him, teach him some of your prayers?”
She did not know where her daring came from, to ask so bold a favor. But if Hewe got a look inside a priory priest’s house, he’d see how different it could be from a villager’s daily grubbing. For his sake she could be bold. For his sake-and Sym’s-she had nerved herself to ask for work at the priory, so they would have a little more between them and the disaster Barnaby was making of their lives.
She kept her hand hard against Hewe’s back, warning him not to speak against her request.
And, thanks be, not seeming offended at all, Father Henry said, “Assuredly. And he’s named Hewe? After our own St. Hugh of Lincoln, surely.” Meg nodded eagerly, not sure at all; Hewe had been her father’s name. But Father Henry went on happily, “In his travels St. Hugh was forever seeking out boys with the hope of priesthood in them, and helping them. So should a priest say no to a boy named Hewe? The church is cold this time of year but there’s a prie-dieu in my chamber, and a fire. We can pray there for your father.”
Hewe cast a look of resentment at Meg, as he had spent the past year since Father Clement died happily forgetting all the old priest had taught him. But then he looked at his unconscious father, kept his mouth shut and went, albeit scuff footed and head down, with Father Henry.
Meg nodded after Hewe, not caring how he felt about it, knowing what was best for him. The need to do things, to manage somehow, was bringing her out of shock. Making the decision about the last rites had set her mind moving again, and now she said to Sym, “There’s still the horse and cart we don’t know about. You’d best ask those folk who brought him in where this happened and how bad the cart is. The horse must have broken loose or those folk would have brought it in when they brought Barnaby. It’s probably gone back to Gilbey Dunn but we’ll rest easier if we know it has. Take you back to the village and ask. If the horse at least, pray God, is in good case, that’s one thing less we have to worry on. If it isn’t, we’ll never have the end of it from Gilbey.”
Sym grimaced, acknowledging the threat of that. Relations with Gilbey had once been so good there had been talk of his daughter, his only child, marrying Sym. But the girl and her mother had died of a fever the spring before last and that had been the end of that.
Sym rose and stood staring at the players. He was not as given to talk as Hewe was, but far more given to work than his father. It hurt Meg to see him coarsening under the load he was carrying, trying to do a man’s work already. The worst of it was, he was finding his escape the way his father had, at the alehouse. She watched him stride away toward the folk at the hall’s other end, then called belatedly after him, “Mind to thank them for what they did.”
Dame Frevisse went to put another log on the fire, and stayed there. Meg, left to her own thoughts, looked down at Barnaby again, watching him breathe, listening to the broken sound of it, and worrying. Gilbey Dunn had only agreed to Barnaby using his cart and horse because the steward had made him, and let him off a day of spring field work in exchange. That was always the way of it: somebody else gaining because of Barnaby’s losses.
Gazing at his slack face, unable to find anything of the brawny, pleasant youth her parents had arranged for her to marry, Meg shook her head to herself. “Barnaby not-so-bright,” she whispered. “Have you done for yourself at last, this time?”
No matter what Dame Claire said, his hand was crippled past healing. And what if he were so crippled inside that even if he lived, he’d need her care of him all the rest of his life? Then she would have to give up her desperately needed place at the priory. And there would be the broken cart to repair, and money for the horse if it were injured or stolen. And how would she find the silver to make Hewe a priest? If only St. Hugh were still alive, with his blessed practice of taking promising boys and seeing to their education! She had not even the price of a candle to offer the saint for his help. Nothing but her prayers, which she was already saying. For Hewe, for Barnaby, for the horse to be all right, for the cart to be only a little broken.
By the low waver of firelight she went on looking at her husband’s face, praying, waiting for whatever change might come, and hardly noticed when Dame Frevisse gently laid a blanket around her shoulders.
5
THE WINTER’S BLACK cold had set in about St. Catherine’s Day, snowless and bleak under overcast skies until by then, at December’s end, all the world’s chill gray seemed settled into the nuns’ very bones as thoroughly as the rheum was into their chests and their general mood into petty quarrelsomeness.