where a
huddle of men lay between the altar and the back wall. Helena crept
closer, her skirt hitched away from blood-soaked bodies and a pool
of vomit on the floor, peering into dirty faces and unfocussed
eyes. A sudden jolt went through her as her gaze locked with a
young face, one side caked with blood from a head-wound. He lay on
his back staring at the ceiling with glazed, unseeing
eyes.
“ You
know him?” Gil asked, moving to her side.
“ Yes.”
Helena released a long breath, guilty at the rush of relief that
had flooded through her.
“ It’s
Parry, the stable lad.” Bayle dipped a cup into the bucket and
brought it to the boy’s dry lips, but he had no strength to
swallow, and the water dribbled down the side of his
face.
“ He’s
barely conscious,” Gil whispered.
“ What
can we do?” Helena swallowed. Parry was barely sixteen, little
older than Henry. He looked so out of place here, filthy and
battered. So unlike the cheerful lad who drew Bayle’s wrath for
whistling in the yard.
“ Nothing. He’ll not last another night.” Bayle straightened
and approached a prone form that lay a few feet away. An older man
lay on his side, one arm flung over his head. He wore a brown plush
coat with a row of silver buttons that caught her eyes as Bayle
rolled him onto his back.
Helena ’s gaze shifted to his face and she
froze.
A roaring began inside her head and her
breath caught in her throat as he stared down at a familiar face
now devoid of animation and life. “Who is he?” Gil asked, his voice
flat.
“ Was,”
Bayle emphasized. “He was Edmund Woulfe.”
Gil bent and moved the stained cravat to
one side. “Slashed across the neck,” he murmured. “Must have bled
heavily on the field, for there is little blood here apart from
what is on his clothes. Had he died there they would have left
him.”
Helena couldn’t move, her welling tears
threatening to choke her when Bayle’s hand came down on her
shoulder in silent comfort.
Gil held out a cup of water to an
uninjured man leaning against a stone pillar, watching
them.
“ Almost
dead when they brought “im in,” the man whispered through parched
lips as he reached for the cup trembling hands. “Never woke
up.”
At a signal from Bayle, Gil lifted
Edmund’s body into his arms as if it weighed no more than a child,
and headed toward an arched doorway off to one side of the
church.
Numb with shock, Helena followed behind
into a small lobby that held two doors.
Gil pushed through the one on the left with
an elbow, his burden not slowing him down at all, only to be
brought up short.
Helena looked over his shoulder to where a
man sat at a table in the middle of the room, the remains of a
scratch meal in front of him - a half-eaten heel of cheese, some
coarse bread, and a jug of ale.
The three regarded each other in pregnant
silence as the man at the table rose slowly to his feet. He wore a
long cassock and Helena noticed that his hands were white and soft.
A cleric.
At Bayle’s questioning look Gil muttered,
“Churchwarden.”
“ Master
Fellowes.” The Churchwarden’s gaze flicked to the body in Gils
arms. “Are you mad, Gil? You’re risking arrest for all of
us!”
“ We must
hide this man.” Gils voice held no trace of either urgency or
fear.
The Churchwarden cast a swift glance
toward the window, and then seemed to make up his mind. “This way.”
He took them through an even lower arch where a flight of stone
stairs dropped away into blackness. “The crypt. No one will think
to look there.”
“ I’m
grateful,” Helena whispered as she passed him, though he avoided
her eye.
At the last second the churchwarden looked
into the face of Edmund Woulfe. He gave a shocked gasp and took a
step back that brought him up against the wall. “He’s
dead!”
“ He’s my
Uncle.” Helena jutted her chin close to the cleric’s face. “I’ll
not leave him here to be consigned to a death pit. I’m taking him
home.”
The
huddle of men lay between the altar and the back wall. Helena crept
closer, her skirt hitched away from blood-soaked bodies and a pool
of vomit on the floor, peering into dirty faces and unfocussed
eyes. A sudden jolt went through her as her gaze locked with a
young face, one side caked with blood from a head-wound. He lay on
his back staring at the ceiling with glazed, unseeing
eyes.
“ You
know him?” Gil asked, moving to her side.
“ Yes.”
Helena released a long breath, guilty at the rush of relief that
had flooded through her.
“ It’s
Parry, the stable lad.” Bayle dipped a cup into the bucket and
brought it to the boy’s dry lips, but he had no strength to
swallow, and the water dribbled down the side of his
face.
“ He’s
barely conscious,” Gil whispered.
“ What
can we do?” Helena swallowed. Parry was barely sixteen, little
older than Henry. He looked so out of place here, filthy and
battered. So unlike the cheerful lad who drew Bayle’s wrath for
whistling in the yard.
“ Nothing. He’ll not last another night.” Bayle straightened
and approached a prone form that lay a few feet away. An older man
lay on his side, one arm flung over his head. He wore a brown plush
coat with a row of silver buttons that caught her eyes as Bayle
rolled him onto his back.
Helena ’s gaze shifted to his face and she
froze.
A roaring began inside her head and her
breath caught in her throat as he stared down at a familiar face
now devoid of animation and life. “Who is he?” Gil asked, his voice
flat.
“ Was,”
Bayle emphasized. “He was Edmund Woulfe.”
Gil bent and moved the stained cravat to
one side. “Slashed across the neck,” he murmured. “Must have bled
heavily on the field, for there is little blood here apart from
what is on his clothes. Had he died there they would have left
him.”
Helena couldn’t move, her welling tears
threatening to choke her when Bayle’s hand came down on her
shoulder in silent comfort.
Gil held out a cup of water to an
uninjured man leaning against a stone pillar, watching
them.
“ Almost
dead when they brought “im in,” the man whispered through parched
lips as he reached for the cup trembling hands. “Never woke
up.”
At a signal from Bayle, Gil lifted
Edmund’s body into his arms as if it weighed no more than a child,
and headed toward an arched doorway off to one side of the
church.
Numb with shock, Helena followed behind
into a small lobby that held two doors.
Gil pushed through the one on the left with
an elbow, his burden not slowing him down at all, only to be
brought up short.
Helena looked over his shoulder to where a
man sat at a table in the middle of the room, the remains of a
scratch meal in front of him - a half-eaten heel of cheese, some
coarse bread, and a jug of ale.
The three regarded each other in pregnant
silence as the man at the table rose slowly to his feet. He wore a
long cassock and Helena noticed that his hands were white and soft.
A cleric.
At Bayle’s questioning look Gil muttered,
“Churchwarden.”
“ Master
Fellowes.” The Churchwarden’s gaze flicked to the body in Gils
arms. “Are you mad, Gil? You’re risking arrest for all of
us!”
“ We must
hide this man.” Gils voice held no trace of either urgency or
fear.
The Churchwarden cast a swift glance
toward the window, and then seemed to make up his mind. “This way.”
He took them through an even lower arch where a flight of stone
stairs dropped away into blackness. “The crypt. No one will think
to look there.”
“ I’m
grateful,” Helena whispered as she passed him, though he avoided
her eye.
At the last second the churchwarden looked
into the face of Edmund Woulfe. He gave a shocked gasp and took a
step back that brought him up against the wall. “He’s
dead!”
“ He’s my
Uncle.” Helena jutted her chin close to the cleric’s face. “I’ll
not leave him here to be consigned to a death pit. I’m taking him
home.”
The
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