I am breathing my last."
"Nay, you are not! We s-s-shall get h-h-help. They have g-g-gone
to get h-h-help," she stammered between shivering lips.
"Listen to me. Do not say a word, just listen."
He licked his lips, took another wheezy breath and sputtered. She
turned his head so he could spit a glob of blood upon the earth.
He turned back to her.
"I can tell you now because in but a few moments I shall be gone,
so ‘twill matter not. I remember...after having been in King
Harry's service, I returned to him many years hence to assist him
in matters of the treasury.
"It was during that stay, at Mass, I saw a man handing a babe to
him—oh, she couldn'a been more than six, seven months old. ‘Take
good care of her,' the man said. ‘She may be of value someday.'
That was all I remember him saying.
"King Harry took the babe and looked down at her. His face was a
blank, like he knew not what to do. Then he straightaway handed
the babe to the nursemaid, who bustled off."
He paused to take a deep breath, turned and coughed more blood on
the ground.
"Oh, Jesu! When was this? Do you know what year?"
"What year..." A series of sighs followed a faint shake of his
head. "I was forty, or was I...I must have been forty, it had to
be then..." His voice grew weaker and she leaned way over to hear.
"I was born in fourteen-seventeen, so it had to be
fourteen…fifty-seven?"
"The year I was born!" Her heart leapt. "Owen, who was this man
who gave the babe to King Henry?"
"His name was..." He succumbed to a fit of coughing, worse than
any of the others, and he tossed his head from side to side. Blood
seeped through his clenched teeth. She managed to pull one of her
skirts up to his mouth to wipe away the blood.
"John," he gasped, his breathing shallower now. For a moment it
stopped. He was still.
Then it rattled again and his chest rose feebly as he struggled
for air.
"John!" she repeated, begging him with her eyes, locking into the
gaze that left her and was now staring straight up at the sky,
"John who?"
"John..." It came out in a whisper. He coughed, sputtered, and
took his final breath. His eyes opened wide and bulged, then the
lids slipped over them for the last time. His features relaxed and
settled into eternal stillness. His chest no longer rose and fell.
No more air or blood escaped his lips.
He was gone.
"Owen! Owen! Oh God, Owen, no!" She lowered her head over his
lifeless form and wept. And with him any further clues about her
real identity.
It grew dark, and darker still. His head was heavy upon her lap,
and she struggled to free herself from under him. Laying his head
gently upon the ground, she said a prayer for his soul, then
curled up into a ball at the entrance of the shelter, crouching
next to his corpse, slipping out of consciousness and into
blackness once again.
John...John...John.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The wine passing her lips was almost as comforting as the strong
arm propping up her head and shoulders. The liquid warmed her
insides and she felt herself smiling, the only other sensation she
was aware of.
Too weary to open her eyes, she leaned forward into folds of
velvet. It was Valentine, she knew it. Her heart was bursting with
gratitude. Enclosed in his warmth, she felt as if she wanted for
nothing for the first time in her entire life. Oh, it felt so
good! He was here for her.
"Oh, Jesu, thank you," she prayed. "Thank you for letting me live
and return to the only person in the world who matters to me."
"You're still quite weak, lie back again, my dear." The voice was
soft and calm, as smooth as the velvet brushing against her cheek.
Slowly her senses returned, and a spark of recognition lit up in
her mind. Reality came back, bit by bit. She moved her hands and
her feet, lifted one knee, then another, slowly, cautiously,
afraid they'd break otherwise. Finally, she could move! She filled
her lungs;
"Nay, you are not! We s-s-shall get h-h-help. They have g-g-gone
to get h-h-help," she stammered between shivering lips.
"Listen to me. Do not say a word, just listen."
He licked his lips, took another wheezy breath and sputtered. She
turned his head so he could spit a glob of blood upon the earth.
He turned back to her.
"I can tell you now because in but a few moments I shall be gone,
so ‘twill matter not. I remember...after having been in King
Harry's service, I returned to him many years hence to assist him
in matters of the treasury.
"It was during that stay, at Mass, I saw a man handing a babe to
him—oh, she couldn'a been more than six, seven months old. ‘Take
good care of her,' the man said. ‘She may be of value someday.'
That was all I remember him saying.
"King Harry took the babe and looked down at her. His face was a
blank, like he knew not what to do. Then he straightaway handed
the babe to the nursemaid, who bustled off."
He paused to take a deep breath, turned and coughed more blood on
the ground.
"Oh, Jesu! When was this? Do you know what year?"
"What year..." A series of sighs followed a faint shake of his
head. "I was forty, or was I...I must have been forty, it had to
be then..." His voice grew weaker and she leaned way over to hear.
"I was born in fourteen-seventeen, so it had to be
fourteen…fifty-seven?"
"The year I was born!" Her heart leapt. "Owen, who was this man
who gave the babe to King Henry?"
"His name was..." He succumbed to a fit of coughing, worse than
any of the others, and he tossed his head from side to side. Blood
seeped through his clenched teeth. She managed to pull one of her
skirts up to his mouth to wipe away the blood.
"John," he gasped, his breathing shallower now. For a moment it
stopped. He was still.
Then it rattled again and his chest rose feebly as he struggled
for air.
"John!" she repeated, begging him with her eyes, locking into the
gaze that left her and was now staring straight up at the sky,
"John who?"
"John..." It came out in a whisper. He coughed, sputtered, and
took his final breath. His eyes opened wide and bulged, then the
lids slipped over them for the last time. His features relaxed and
settled into eternal stillness. His chest no longer rose and fell.
No more air or blood escaped his lips.
He was gone.
"Owen! Owen! Oh God, Owen, no!" She lowered her head over his
lifeless form and wept. And with him any further clues about her
real identity.
It grew dark, and darker still. His head was heavy upon her lap,
and she struggled to free herself from under him. Laying his head
gently upon the ground, she said a prayer for his soul, then
curled up into a ball at the entrance of the shelter, crouching
next to his corpse, slipping out of consciousness and into
blackness once again.
John...John...John.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The wine passing her lips was almost as comforting as the strong
arm propping up her head and shoulders. The liquid warmed her
insides and she felt herself smiling, the only other sensation she
was aware of.
Too weary to open her eyes, she leaned forward into folds of
velvet. It was Valentine, she knew it. Her heart was bursting with
gratitude. Enclosed in his warmth, she felt as if she wanted for
nothing for the first time in her entire life. Oh, it felt so
good! He was here for her.
"Oh, Jesu, thank you," she prayed. "Thank you for letting me live
and return to the only person in the world who matters to me."
"You're still quite weak, lie back again, my dear." The voice was
soft and calm, as smooth as the velvet brushing against her cheek.
Slowly her senses returned, and a spark of recognition lit up in
her mind. Reality came back, bit by bit. She moved her hands and
her feet, lifted one knee, then another, slowly, cautiously,
afraid they'd break otherwise. Finally, she could move! She filled
her lungs;
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