side of the room. She ran over, put her arms around her papa’s neck and breathed in the smell of him; the sweat and stale blood stank, but it was
sweet as life to her. He patted her shoulders, embarrassed by the fuss.
‘I really scared you two, eh?’
‘You have to rest today,’ Fabricia said, and he let her ease him back on to the bench; but later that morning as the two women slept, exhausted, he gathered together some bread and
cheese and a new tunic and slipped out of the door and went down the hill to the church, to make sure those lazy good-for-nothings he employed to carry his stone were not idling on the job.
XX
T HE NEXT MORNING as Fabricia made her way down the lane to the portal there were no hands raised in greeting and no
familiar smiles, just fearful looks and neighbours scuttling into doorways to whisper. Perhaps it is these gloves, she thought. Has anyone seen the blood dripping? No, I have bound them as well as
I am able, but I cannot disguise how I walk, the pain I am in. Perhaps it’s that.
Then she saw Father Marty. He grinned at her. Well, there was no point in running away, so she stopped and let him come to her. Let us be done with it; he would have his revenge somehow, for the
bruises to his pride, inside and out.
He stopped, his hands on his hips. ‘Last time you took me by surprise,’ he said. ‘The next time I shall not be so careless.’
Her feet were agony and she had to take the weight off them. She leaned against the wall of a house, trying not to let her distress show on her face.
‘What did you do to your hands?’
‘Nothing. I am cold this morning.’
‘And the rest of the village sweating!’ He grabbed her hand and peeled back her glove. ‘Bandages! I saw them the other night when I gave your father the rites for the dying.
What did you do to yourself?’
She snatched back her hand.
‘What are we poor villagers to make of the Bérenger family? You bandaged for no reason, your father dead and now living. I saw him this morning up a scaffold, repairing the nave to
my church instead of lying under it. How can this be?’
‘A miracle, paire .’
‘But how?’
‘ Deus lo volt. ’
‘God wanted it, yes, perhaps. Others think it was the Devil’s craft and that you had a hand in it.’
‘Who says so?’
Father Marty just smiled and she thought: So this is how he is going to take his revenge. He is going to make me into a witch.
‘There are rumours about you and Bernart.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘They say some children knocked him down with stones, that he was dead before you laid your hands on him and brought him back to life. The way you did to your father.’
‘I had nothing to do with it. My mother is a healer. She gave him opium and belladonna.’
He smiled but his eyes were hard. ‘There is not a soul in the village who does not think you had a hand in it. A bandaged hand!’ He laughed at his little jest. ‘What is your
secret, Fabricia Bérenger?’
She picked up her pannier and limped past him. This time he did not try to stop her. ‘You walk like Bernart,’ he said.
She winced with each step. Soon everyone would know her secret; she could not hide it much longer. Blessed Mary, why have you done this? she thought. My heart is overcome with gratitude that my
blessed Papa is still alive when we should this day be putting him in the ground. And yet, now Father Marty wants everyone to think I am a witch and I can bring the dead back to life.
Why can’t they all just leave me alone? Why did this happen to me?
XXI
M OSTARDA BURNED HIS feet on the hearth trying to reach the ham hanging from the rafter. Now he sat mewling and licking his
paws in the corner. ‘You don’t eat the ham, you eat the mice,’ Fabricia scolded him.
She sat alone at the bench chopping vegetables for the pot; Anselm was at work in the church, her mother had gone to the market. Fabricia was better at bartering than her mother, knew how to
smile
sweet as life to her. He patted her shoulders, embarrassed by the fuss.
‘I really scared you two, eh?’
‘You have to rest today,’ Fabricia said, and he let her ease him back on to the bench; but later that morning as the two women slept, exhausted, he gathered together some bread and
cheese and a new tunic and slipped out of the door and went down the hill to the church, to make sure those lazy good-for-nothings he employed to carry his stone were not idling on the job.
XX
T HE NEXT MORNING as Fabricia made her way down the lane to the portal there were no hands raised in greeting and no
familiar smiles, just fearful looks and neighbours scuttling into doorways to whisper. Perhaps it is these gloves, she thought. Has anyone seen the blood dripping? No, I have bound them as well as
I am able, but I cannot disguise how I walk, the pain I am in. Perhaps it’s that.
Then she saw Father Marty. He grinned at her. Well, there was no point in running away, so she stopped and let him come to her. Let us be done with it; he would have his revenge somehow, for the
bruises to his pride, inside and out.
He stopped, his hands on his hips. ‘Last time you took me by surprise,’ he said. ‘The next time I shall not be so careless.’
Her feet were agony and she had to take the weight off them. She leaned against the wall of a house, trying not to let her distress show on her face.
‘What did you do to your hands?’
‘Nothing. I am cold this morning.’
‘And the rest of the village sweating!’ He grabbed her hand and peeled back her glove. ‘Bandages! I saw them the other night when I gave your father the rites for the dying.
What did you do to yourself?’
She snatched back her hand.
‘What are we poor villagers to make of the Bérenger family? You bandaged for no reason, your father dead and now living. I saw him this morning up a scaffold, repairing the nave to
my church instead of lying under it. How can this be?’
‘A miracle, paire .’
‘But how?’
‘ Deus lo volt. ’
‘God wanted it, yes, perhaps. Others think it was the Devil’s craft and that you had a hand in it.’
‘Who says so?’
Father Marty just smiled and she thought: So this is how he is going to take his revenge. He is going to make me into a witch.
‘There are rumours about you and Bernart.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘They say some children knocked him down with stones, that he was dead before you laid your hands on him and brought him back to life. The way you did to your father.’
‘I had nothing to do with it. My mother is a healer. She gave him opium and belladonna.’
He smiled but his eyes were hard. ‘There is not a soul in the village who does not think you had a hand in it. A bandaged hand!’ He laughed at his little jest. ‘What is your
secret, Fabricia Bérenger?’
She picked up her pannier and limped past him. This time he did not try to stop her. ‘You walk like Bernart,’ he said.
She winced with each step. Soon everyone would know her secret; she could not hide it much longer. Blessed Mary, why have you done this? she thought. My heart is overcome with gratitude that my
blessed Papa is still alive when we should this day be putting him in the ground. And yet, now Father Marty wants everyone to think I am a witch and I can bring the dead back to life.
Why can’t they all just leave me alone? Why did this happen to me?
XXI
M OSTARDA BURNED HIS feet on the hearth trying to reach the ham hanging from the rafter. Now he sat mewling and licking his
paws in the corner. ‘You don’t eat the ham, you eat the mice,’ Fabricia scolded him.
She sat alone at the bench chopping vegetables for the pot; Anselm was at work in the church, her mother had gone to the market. Fabricia was better at bartering than her mother, knew how to
smile
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