discomfort.”
“You take this man’s death hard, I think,” he observed.
“Perhaps. More so than some others.”
“Why so? You admit little hope of saving one injured such as he, and so far past his prime.”
“He has a daughter. She will be orphaned.”
“Has she no family to care for her?”
“Half-brothers, but they resent their father’s second wife and her offspring, so will have no truck with the girl.”
“Hmm.” Lord Gilbert went to pulling at his chin, which in this case I thought a good sign.
“She’ll be the vicars’ responsibility. How old is the lass? It’ll be their charge to provide for a ward of the bishop’s manor.”
“A child, m’lord. She is perhaps twelve or thirteen years, but very slight for her age, I think.”
“Old enough to work in the scullery?”
“Yes, I should say.”
“Quick-witted? Obedient?” he asked.
“She seems so. Devoted to her father and willing to do all to ease him.”
“Then if the vicars will discharge her, and they surely will, as she’ll bring them no advantage, you can hire her as scullery maid…if you wish.”
“I will tell her so this very evening. She frets of what will become of her. This news will ease her mind when she will be distraught enough that her father is leaving her.”
I did not delay taking a draught to Henry atte Bridge by first visiting his bed empty-handed. Rather, I made my way directly to Galen House. It seemed cold and empty. Well, it was cold and empty, but I mean that it seemed already no longer my home. I wondered if it ever would be again. If it was, it would mean that I had failed at my new position. I resolved not to inhabit the place again, although memories of the house remained warm, if the house itself often was not.
Alice answered my knock at the cottage door. It seemed to me I always visited the place in darkness, and once again was compelled to stand within the door, shaking snow from my feet and cloak, while I waited for my eyes to become accustomed to the shadows.
This acclimation took less time than earlier visits, for a fire burned brightly on the hearth-stone, sending light to all corners of the hut. There was a measure of warmth, as well, and I could not help but observe the flames with some surprise.
Alice saw the object of my gaze, and said, “Your wood, sir. Woodman said as ’twas you told him to bring it.”
I remembered. Four days ago, had it been?
“Father’s near gone. I thought to keep ’im warm.”
“You have done well,” I told her. “Does he rest easy?”
“Aye. But he’ll try to rise now an’ again. He conjures my mother, and would go to her.”
“I have another draught. Help me raise him and we’ll see if he can take some of it.”
Alice went to the far side of the bed and together we got her father vertical enough that he could take a few swallows. A brief light of reason flickered in his eyes as he tried to gulp the potion. I believe his wits were active enough that he remembered the relief it brought.
“Has the vicar been here?” I asked the girl when our work was done.
“Aye. Went to him this mornin’. I was sure father would not last ’til sixth hour.”
“But he did,” I said. “Did Father Thomas offer Extreme Unction?”
“Nay. Said as how father might live an’ what sorrow would then follow. I was to send for him if father took worse. I went to t’vicarage just before ninth hour to tell ’im father was failin’. He set t’curate to ringin’ t’passin’ bell, but he ain’t come yet. Will father live the night, Master Hugh?”
I went back to the sleeping figure, now resting quietly, for the draught had done its work, and placed my ear against his chest. His breath came in shallow gasps. I feared briefly that the weight of my inclined head might stop it altogether. A thin rattle in the throat accompanied each choking breath.
I shook my head. “No, I will not give you false hope. He wishes to go to your mother, you say?”
The girl nodded, her throat too full for words.
“God is merciful to those who love Him. He will grant this request soon. I will stay, if you wish it. When the time is near I will fetch Father Thomas or one of the others.”
There was nothing to do but wait, and feed the fire. The curfew bell sounded, then the steady reverberation of the passing bell continued, louder now, for the snow had stopped, and the peal was unmuffled. The child sat cross-legged on the ground, gazing into the fire. I saw at intervals the reflection of a tear on her cheek and my heart was heavy for her grief. I sat on a stool across the flames and listened to her father breathe. I have learned that as a man’s breath weakens, it becomes more noisesome, like some men; the most clamorous are often least effective at their business.
I heard, over the snapping of fresh wood on the fire, a sigh. The child was weeping again. “Do you mourn your father,” I asked, “or yourself?”
The girl sniffled and rubbed a sleeve against her nose. If she was to work in the castle scullery, that behavior must be changed.
“I know not,” she whispered. “I know my father will go to God, so it is unseemly to sorrow overmuch. But he has cared for me. Now I must make my path in the world and I know not how.”
“Lord Gilbert,” I told her, “has made me bailiff of his manor here. There is work and a place for you at the castle kitchen, if you wish it and the vicars will release you.”
This announcement did little to staunch her tears, but she raised her head and looked about rather than stare dimly into the coals, as had been her practice. Then a slight smile turned the corner of her lips, incongruous with the tears which continued to flow.
“My brothers would storm, to see me live at t’castle. Told me yesterday, when father dies I am to leave this house…where I go they care not.”
“Then they will not care that you find a place at the castle,” I said.
“Oh, they’ll care ’bout that,” she explained. “They’d not care was I to perish, as how they meant. They’ll care was I to prosper.”
“Shhh,” I said, and listened to Henry atte Bridge’s labored breathing. His chest was rising and falling more quickly. I rose from the stool. “It is time…I will fetch Father Thomas.”
The sky had cleared while I sat gazing into the fire, waiting with Alice for death. The world was all white and silver, from the ground beneath my feet to the sky and stars and crescent moon above. I might have enjoyed a walk on such a night had my destination been other than it was, and my feet warmer.
It took some time and much thumping at the vicarage door to rouse Father Thomas. He suffers the disease of the ears, which this night was a blessing, for the tolling of the passing bell just outside the vicarage did not much disturb his sleep.
“Master Hugh! What is your need? I did not know of your return.”
I explained the reason for my call, and the vicar went immediately about gathering the tools of this unhappy business: his surplice and stole, and the blessed sacrament. Rather than rouse his clerk from bed, he appointed me to attend him as server, so I led him to the Weald ringing a bell and carrying a lantern. As we passed the church I saw a face peer whitely from the porch and a few minutes later, as we turned from Mill Street into the Weald, the passing bell went silent. To the great relief, no doubt, of he who must ring it and his assistant, and the neighbors of the church.
Henry atte Bridge was not conscious when we arrived at his hut, so could not confess his sins. This troubled Alice, but Father Thomas reassured her that the blessed sacrament would suffice for her father’s entry to the next world. He then pried open the man’s mouth, placed the wafer on his tongue, and clamped it shut. A prayer, and the business was done, which was well, for as the vicar stood, his task complete, Henry atte Bridge produced a great sigh and breathed no more.
“Will you have a wake?” I asked Alice.
“Nay. I’ve nothing to offer any. My brothers will not provide.”
“Have you a shroud…or coffin?”
