“I’ll be back,” Iris muttered, avoiding Padraig’s gaze as she impulsively turned away and went after the priest. “Father Kettering,” she called, trotting to catch up with him in the courtyard. “Father, I must speak with you.”
“Forgive me, Beryl, but I am harried.”
“It’s about Lady Hargrave.”
The priest stopped in his tracks with a concerned frown. “She’s not injured, is she? I didn’t think she was to accompany the hunt.”
“No, she didn’t,” Iris assured him.
Kettering started forward once more. “Another time, then.”
Iris reached out to seize his sleeve. “I’m afraid it can’t wait.”
The priest sighed. “What is it? I have wounded men to attend to, and one corpse to prepare to journey back to his own hold. If I am too delayed, I may have two to arrange.”
Iris glanced around them for prying ears. “Euphemia Hargrave is dead,” she whispered.
Kettering stared at her, the recently acquired hard look in his eyes falling away at last and he was once more the kind man Iris had come to know during her time at Darlyrede. “What?”
“I met her killer. One of the band of thieves that haunts Darlyrede’s wood. The same ones who attacked our party this morning. He admitted it to me.”
“Lord have mercy.” Kettering crossed himself quickly before returning his full attention to Iris. “Certainly that should bring some manner of peace to Lord and Lady Hargrave, but I don’t understand what this has to do with me. There are no remains, I assume?”
“I don’t know,” Iris admitted. “It was only a moment. But he—the thief—said something before Lord Hargrave interrupted the robbery. He said that he killed Euphemia because she had suffered at Darlyrede. And then he said, ‘The priest knows.’”
The heightened color that rose at the seriousness of the immediate tasks before him swiftly drained from Father Kettering’s face.
Iris’s heart fluttered in her chest. “What did he mean, Father?”
Kettering was already shaking his head, little nervous movements, his eyes wide, his gaze shifting around the courtyard. “I can’t understand what he might mean,” he muttered almost to himself. “Surely he couldn’t know. Unless she...”
“What?” Iris demanded in a whisper, stepping so close to the priest that they were nearly nose to nose. She angled her head so that he was forced to meet her gaze once more. “What couldn’t he know? You must tell me so that I can decide what—if anything—I should tell Lady Hargrave.”
“You must tell her that her niece is dead,” Kettering chastised with a lowering of his brows. “To not do so would be cruel.”
“Then you must tell me what you think caused Euphemia such suffering,” Iris demanded.
“I couldn’t possibly,” he insisted with a horrified look. “It’s guarded by the sanctity of the confessional. You of all people should know that.”
“Euphemia is dead,” Iris said through her teeth. “She is with God now. The sanctity of her confession no longer matters.”
His eyes were hard again. “It does to me, young woman. The seal admits no exceptions.”
Iris stood straighter. “Fine. If you will not tell me, I have no choice but to try to find the man again and get my explanation.” She turned away, her heart pounding.
“Beryl, wait,” Kettering called, and she felt him grab her arm. His eyes were pleading when she turned to him. “You can’t possibly think to go out there on your own. One has already confessed to the murder of Euphemia Hargrave. Lord Paget is dead; Sir Lucan and Master Boyd are injured. What will they do to you?”
“Then tell me,” Iris demanded.
“I will not break the seal of Euphemia’s confession,” he insisted. “But,” he interjected with a jerk on her arm when Iris would have pulled away, “I can tell you the rumors that she heard before she disappeared. That we all heard. And what I saw for myself.”
* * * *
It was some time before Father Kettering returned to the surgery, and Padraig lay on the cot glaring at the ceiling while the oblates assigned to his care cleaned the jagged arrow wounds to his shoulder and ribs. He ignored Lucan Montague, who groaned and hissed intermittently as his pierced foot was attended to.
Adolphus Paget’s body was brought through the aisle and placed on a table at the far end. The oblates draped him with a sheet.
That could be me, Padraig realized. Or Lucan Montague.
Or Beryl.
Kettering came to his side before Lucan’s, his earlier stilted aloofness with him now replaced by a distracted air and what appeared to be new lines of concern about the priest’s eyes and mouth. He placed a basket of pungent herbs on the floor.
“Where is Beryl?” he asked as Kettering bent to inspect the wound on Padraig’s ribs.
“She went to lie down,” he muttered. “She’s been through an ordeal.”
“I ken. I was there,” Padraig reminded him. “Ow!” he exclaimed as the priest pressed into the cut.
Kettering straightened and wiped his hands on the towel hanging on his cincture. “You’ll be fine while I attend to Sir Lucan. I will plaster your wounds when I’ve finished with him.”
Padraig reached out and grabbed the priest’s arm, staying him when he would have turned away. “I want my father’s pin back.”
Kettering shook him off without a response and then picked up the basket and went at once to the end of Lucan’s cot.
“Soak the foot through three changes of water,” Kettering announced with a sigh, “and then we shall see it bandaged. You must not walk on it, Sir Lucan. I’ll need to check it hourly, that it does not fester. At the first sign—”
“No. No, no, no,” Lucan interrupted, coming onto his elbows. “You’ll not amputate my foot.”
Kettering fixed him with a look. “I’ll not watch you die.”
“Padraig,” Lucan called crisply. “Assist me.”
Padraig turned his head with a quirked brow. “I think you should listen to him, Lucan.”
“I require you to get your Scots arse over here and assist me in liberating my person from this crypt before God’s butcher turns my foot into mince.”
Padraig couldn’t
