“Gone? What do you mean?”
“He’s dead, Edyth. He took his own life.”
That ringing in my ears comes back, the shaking green Sound, my head squeezing so hard that I need to squint to see.
“After you left,” Mason continues, “I tried to keep helping him, but my father was dying. Henry got so thin…dirty…I don’t think he was feeding the animals, either.
“When I went to fetch Brother Robert to give my father last rites, I saw Henry standing on the bridge where they…where they killed your da…and when me and Brother passed by again, he was gone, and I saw that Flemish dagger your father gave him. And blood. I’m sorry. So sorry. I should have told you.”
My stomach lurches at the thought that my last words with Henry were fighting. Just like with Da.
Any shred of anger I held against my brother is gone instantly. Poor, poor Henry. He wasn’t lording it over me. Letting me go was a sacrifice. He needed me. He was alone, too.
It’s you and me, Edie, I hear Henry say. You and me.
“Dead? All of us, dead?”
Mason hangs his head and stares at his hands. “Not your baby sister.”
* * *
—
I close my eyes and remember. The red circle drawing itself round Mam’s knees. Her sweat glowing in the rushlight, her muttering losing more and more sense. The smell in the room was dark purple, crawling like vines up the walls.
I held Mam from behind, and out slid my sister into my mother’s waiting hands. We laid Mam down, and the midwife pulled Mam’s tunic aside for the baby to take the breast; the newborn grasped with her tiny paw-like hands and found it immediately, suckling like an eager lamb. Mam laid her hand on her new daughter, whispered something in her ear, kissed the little head.
And then Mam’s head lolled to the side, and I felt my mother’s spirit walk past me and out the door.
The baby felt it, too, the whish of our mother, walking away.
* * *
—
“I never get to say goodbye,” I weep. “To any of them. To anyone I love.”
“You don’t have to say goodbye to me. I won’t leave.”
“Don’t say that. You can’t stay here past the fall. You’re lucky they haven’t kicked you out already. Don’t you understand? You’re a freeman. I’m a peasant’s daughter, and a criminal’s daughter at that. I’m still bound to Lord Geoffrey, and I’ll always be. I’m only here on his permission. If I run away and get caught, I’m dead.”
He doesn’t answer, but puts his arm around me and pulls me close as I weep. Of course I want him to stay. And of course I want to go. Sitting here against him, feeling the warmth of his body, I wish we really could run away. But it can’t be. Goodbye will have to come.
“We can sort it,” he says. “We’ll figure something out.”
The grief comes in waves, for what’s gone, and for what we’ve not yet lost. Mason carves out a space, right there in the hollow of his arms, for me to both hold my family and to let them go. Sometimes I feel him tremble, too, for his own mam and da.
Blankets of soft green fall over our shoulders, like the two of us are an ancient sculpture of two lovers in the forest—an old, old love covered in moss.
* * *
—
We calm after a while, and he kisses my head as I lean on his shoulder. “Edyth? Can you draw me something?”
My face is swollen from crying. “I don’t have anything to draw with.”
“Here.” He gets a long stick and points to the dirt. “This is how we do it when we make carving plans.”
“What should I draw?”
“How about something from home?”
The first thing I think of is the market cross. I strain to recall it, though I’d seen it every day of my life. But then I remember how I’d step up to the cross and trace the knotwork with my finger, its rows of quatrefoils, its faded Latin letters, and it all comes back. I draw it on the dirt floor, and to finish it off, I draw Pounce and Juniper sitting obediently on either side, and we laugh a little. I sit beside Mason again, and he puts his arm around me.
“You know what I can imagine?” he asks, his words soft against my forehead.
“What?”
He pulls me closer. “You drawing the scheme for this chapel,” he says. “You design, I’ll carve.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I laugh. “That was one drawing in the dust.”
“Edyth, don’t sell yourself short. Look around. We could do anything in here. And I hear you have a fondness for drawing on walls.”
“All right, Mason.” I nod, going along with the idea. “Let’s see what you can really do with that chisel.”
“I am grateful for your blessing,” he teases me. “I shall endeavor to be worthy.”
“To hell with the Anti-Pri,” I say, sudden and plain. “I can do more than fetch things.”
I lose that cockiness, though, when the bell rings—and I have to try to leave this chapel unseen.
— 21 —
When I stand before Agnes in her study, the scolding is intense.
The beating is worse.
“You have violated my trust again, Edyth,” says Agnes de Guile, as she matter-of-factly wipes blood from the cane. “Being late to prayers—”
“But I—I don’t remember ever hearing the warning bell.” Gingerly I pull up my chemise and try to dress.
Agnes huffs and recomposes herself. “I can only guess why you were so distracted. Remember the steps of humility, Edyth. What is the seventh step?”
“Be convinced you are beneath everyone,” I manage weakly.
“That’s right. If you would only accept that you belong to the priory now. Why fight it?”
And suddenly, her tone becomes strangely soothing. She attempts to help me pull my sleeves on, but the cloth only catches in my wounds, and I shudder.
“Edyth, I understand your not finding a place here right away. I’m doing you a favor. You should be grateful. I’m protecting you from yourself. You could do a lot of damage here if you don’t learn from me. You wouldn’t want to hinder people’s spiritual walks, would you?”
“No, Sub-Prioress.” I wince, really wanting to shove her off me, but I’m just trying to get through the pain.