I feel something scurrying around my feet and look down.
It’s Dragon.
She’s taken the rope from around her waist and tied it around my ankle. Before I can make sense of it, she ties the other end around a hefty stone—as I see Mason’s fist give her a blow that ends her life.
But as she falls, she knocks me into the pool. I know what is happening, as the sweet, warm water fills my lungs. But I’m not scared.
My body flails, tries in vain to free itself, but that’s only the shell. My heart remembers every good thing, every moment of being loved.
I feel the soft baby sister in my arms.
Mam’s woad-blue fingertips braiding my hair; Da’s firelight ballads.
Brother Timothy handing me a picture to trace.
Joan’s amber healing balm; Henry giving me the little honey pot.
Alice’s smile when she’s drilling me in Latin.
I feel the fullness of Mason’s lips on mine, and I’m sure this is what a pomegranate tastes like.
The colors darken into a cloud of outrageous blue.
And I hear Da calling:
You know, don’t you? People don’t really die. They’re just changed, like seeds break into wheat.
And the phantom forms disappear into the dark water above me.
Epilogue
The crowd dispersed, chanting loud psalms of darkened praise, leaving the Stonemason alone in the steaming well, plunging down again and again to try to find his love. He would not believe she was gone, fought it until the frenzy in his mind and the tension in his stomach made him vomit on the roots of the tree. He and the Healer would have left the day before, if not for her promise to the Anchorite.
And then, by some instinct, he ran back toward the priory. The mob was in complete disarray. The once-unified penitents fought each other, some justifying the murder, some condemning it. They shoved, stepped on necks, landed blows. Several of the men fled to the chapel, clinging to the bare altar for amnesty.
“Spare us, please!” they cried. “We tried to stop them. We told them that wasn’t the way!”
But the Stonemason had no use for their tears.
The men who were still loyal to their misguided penance grabbed their flails and fled to the next town. To them, Saint Christopher’s was beyond saving. But those who stayed were broken, battered, and desperately in need of care. The Physician set up more beds in the chapel as she told the Anchorite about her discoveries in battling the pestilence.
The Stonemason carted out the stone from the Anchorite’s enclosure. He and a handful of repentant men and sisters walked into the forest, all the way to the yew tree, and began pulling up the pavement. They slid large stones over it all and covered it thickly with leaves.
“I’ll never say goodbye,” said the Stonemason.
This was no longer a healing well, but a grave.
“Tell no one about this place,” he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “This is holy ground.” He took his tools and his leather satchel and walked through the priory gatehouse alone.
* * *
—
The Anchorite stood outside the walls and surveyed the emptiness. Barren was the word that first came to mind, but that wasn’t it. Not barren—just waiting. Things had grown; the fields were littered with dried-up crops. Animals roamed free and fat on the people’s forage. There had simply been no one to bring in the harvest.
The pestilence continued to devour everyone it could. Men and women drifted through the silent countryside and empty towns, pulled up by the roots, tumbling toward a future with half as many souls.
At Saint Christopher’s Priory, a handful of nuns survived, and together they cleansed the sanctuary from its desecration and completed the chapel of Saint Eustace at last. Bread and wine were served on the altar once more.
An aging Physician wrote a book of cures.
A Cook learned to be more liberal with her spices.
Pilgrims still came through the gates, seeking to touch the newly displayed relics of Saint Eustace and a book illuminated in richest blue and gold and silver by a miracle-working girl whose lost healing spring had become legend.
And when they arrived, they found a young Prioress at the church door, waiting to tell them a story.
Amen, amen I tell you,
unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies,
it remains alone.
But if it dies, it produces much fruit.
—JOHN 12:24
Glossary
ale: an alcoholic beverage varying in strength, drunk by almost everyone at the time, as water could be unsafe to drink unless drawn from a pure spring
alexanders: an edible flowering plant grown in the medieval kitchen garden, the taste of which is described as a cross between celery and asparagus
ambulatory: a passageway in a church behind the altar, sometimes divided into small chapels
Angelus: an evening bell, signifying a time of prayer for reflection and giving thanks
apse: the area in a church behind the altar
armaria: a librarian in a monastery
bastarda, Anglicana, Textualis, uncial: various terms related to handwritten fonts
braies: an article of underclothing similar to shorts or breeches, made from linen or wool
calefactory: a warming room, sometimes heated by a system of under-floor ducts
chancel: the raised platform at the east end of a church on which the altar stands
coif: a close-fitting cloth cap, worn alone or under a veil or hat by both sexes
conversa (f, plural: conversae): a resident of a convent who works as a laborer and is not ordained as a nun
coppice: a sustainable method of wood gathering that takes shoots from ground level instead of felling the tree, resulting in a tree without a main trunk
croft: farm
daily office: prayers said at certain intervals every day (see “The Daily Offices” at the beginning of this book)
fitchet: a slit opening in the seam of a dress that allows access to a pocket. A medieval “pocket” was not sewn in, but a pouch attached to a belt, worn inside or outside the outer garment
fuller: a person who processes woven woolen fabric to make it thicker