“Oh, Adam.” His name shuddered on my lips.
“It’s too late to tell you not to do something you’ve already accomplished, Mistress Anneke, but blaming yourself achieves nothing. Will’s death is God’s will.”
“God’s will?” My head snapped up, eyes narrowing, chin jutting defiantly. “God’s will?” I repeated more loudly, dashing the tears from my face. “God didn’t will this, Adam. This was man’s doing and man’s alone. Wicked, terrible men with murder in their hearts and blood on their hands. You heard the sheriff. They care not a jot for God’s will.”
“Exactly,” said Adam and, letting go of the ladle, gripped my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “It’s man’s doing. If you’re going to take responsibility, then you have to allow me to take some as well.” He leveled a finger to stop my retort. “After all, I urged him to protect you, to fight. Then he went for the sheriff and into the path of the cutthroats. How am I any less responsible than you? Stop condemning yourself for something you didn’t contrive. If you don’t, then you may as well include me and everyone else there among the guilty.”
“But if there was no alehouse—”
“Mayhap Will would still be alive. But why stop there? If there was no Holcroft House, if there were no Sheldrakes, Barfoots, people entering Elmham Lenn. We can play that game till the oceans dry and the clouds cease to gather. What will it accomplish? What-ifs, whys, and wherefores are like capturing mist—empty of purpose. Facts are, Mistress Anneke, nothing you or I do or say will change what’s happened. Even if the watchmen find who’s responsible and hang him from the gallows, it won’t bring Will back. Blaming yourself won’t either, but it will hinder everything you do from here on in.” He paused and tilted my chin till I was forced to look at him. “And God’s truth, Mistress Anneke, our Will wouldn’t want that.”
Letting me go, Adam opened his arms. I fell into them, burying my head in his chest. “Who would do such a thing, Adam?”
I could feel Adam’s chin against the top of my head. “Someone with no conscience, Anneke; someone who feels they don’t have to answer to God or man.”
I shut my eyes and tried to block out the terrifying image Adam’s words conveyed. The notion that someone so ready to embrace sin existed was hard to bear. That Will should have encountered such a one.
“You don’t think it was the abbot, do you? You don’t think he was behind this?”
Adam stiffened. “I don’t know what to think, mistress.”
Weeping until my throat was sore, my ribs aching, and the front of Adam’s shirt wringing wet, I remained in the comfort of his embrace until the afternoon bells sounded. Only then did I break away, feeling suddenly awkward, vulnerable.
Before I could say another word, the door opened. I broke away from Adam’s arms.
It was Westel.
“Sorry, Mistress Sheldrake, Master Adam, but Mistress Saskia asked me to fetch you. Father Clement’s here to discuss the burial.”
“Thank you, Westel.” I dabbed my eyes with a cloth and took a deep breath before smoothing my skirts. Though I wasn’t ready for this, I’d no choice, not if I wanted to spare Will’s parents the heartache. I glanced at Westel, who remained in the doorway looking from me to Adam. He was very pale. Dark crescents circled his eyes. None of us were sleeping well, for certes.
Following Adam and Westel back into the house, I pushed the murmurs of misgiving aside. I would deal with them later.
* * *
Will’s funeral was held the next day. A small, private affair consisting of his immediate family; all of Holcroft House; the Millers; Master Proudfellow, Kip, and his mother, Jocelyn; Simon Attenoke and Widow Atwell; Sir Grantham and his squire; and a few others—we gathered first in the church, and later in the pouring rain outside. Delyth and Awel Parry came, escorted by their father, but they only stayed long enough to see Will put in the ground and they didn’t exchange a word or glance with me.
Through tears, I muttered responses hopelessly, taking small comfort from the twins, who wrapped their arms about me, their faces puffy from crying, their little mouths downturned. Not even the usually reassuring presence of Captain Stoyan helped.
A procession of bedraggled black, we doggedly followed his bound corpse, rain pounding our coats and hoods, drowning out Father Clement’s prayers, quenching the censor. Buried alongside his grandmother, Will was finally laid to rest and, as clods of heavy soil were tossed upon him, every shovelful was a blow that struck us all. I turned away, unable to bear the sobs of his sister or the quiet, blanched stoicism of his mother and brothers any longer.
Afterward, we retired to the hall. Eschewing the formalities, we ate together. Bread, ale, cheese, Blanche’s pottage, and, though it was Lent, pork, chicken, and even some venison were served. Will’s family, the Heymongers, sat quietly, eyes widening as dish after dish was brought out. Unaccustomed to such extravagance, they didn’t understand that this feast was my way of honoring their son and, if I’m honest, assuaging the responsibility Adam argued I shouldn’t feel. Not even bearing the expense of the funeral achieved that. Nothing did.
For a long time after, I was listless, agitated, and unable to work with my usual enthusiasm. Habits are hard to break, though, and after tossing and turning most nights, I’d rise and make my way to the brewery before cockcrow, sing to the ale and honor the corner crones, but my heart wasn’t in it. It was Westel who saw to all the little but important things, and though I was grateful for his determination not to let the ale spoil, I was beyond caring. I also began to find his incessant need to make sure everything was right jarring. Whereas I’d once enjoyed his smiles, like Saskia I now found his constant grin rang false, his observations about the ale, beer, the weather, and the household irritating, and longed for the silence of my thoughts. Once, when I brought the recipe book to the brewhouse in order to try something new, anything to detract from my usual ruminations, he asked if he might see it. He’d never made such a request and, I confess, as I refused him—and quite sharply—his eager curiosity about the contents added to his perceived sins. Pondering what Will said, what Saskia had added, I began to view Westel with different eyes. Doubt began to color my appreciation. Instead of seeing him as helpful, I saw him as interfering; instead of inquiring, his questions were suddenly prying. I began to shut off to him. I was too heartsore to make an effort, to get to the bottom of this change. Was it him or me? I didn’t care to find out. Courteous, I offered very little else. In response, Westel sought even harder to bridge the widening distance.
The day after the funeral, I’d written to Tobias and Sir Leander, informing them of what had happened. God knows, I didn’t want to, but it had to be done. I entrusted the letters to Captain Stoyan, who left for Ypres the following day. When a letter of sympathy arrived from Sir Leander weeks later, I felt strangely relieved, as if sharing the burden beyond our walls made it easier to carry.
Clutching his letter to me, I memorized the words:
The horror of what occurred must color life at Holcroft House in the darkest of hues. You have my deepest sympathies. I will pray for you, for young Will’s soul, and for the twins and servants. Mostly, I will ask God that he attend most swiftly to the recovery of your spirit, which must be sorely battered by such a terrible ordeal. Please, Mistress Anneke, if there is anything I can do to aid you in your time of grief, do not hesitate to ask. Oceans can be sailed, distance closed. I am yours to command. All it would take is your expressed need.