arm with the other.
“Jesus whoring Christ,” he said, looking at the cut on the meat of her hand. It was half the length of her smallest finger and not very deep, but it was still bleeding. “Do I have to watch you every second? Can’t I just sleep without you doing something stupid?”
“I’m sorry,” she said meekly.
“What was your idea, touching my sword? Nobody touches my sword but me.”
“I…I wanted to clean it for you.”
“Well, don’t! This is what you get.”
He bent her arm around hurtfully to show her dripping hand to her.
“I want to help.”
“You bleeding all over my things doesn’t help me, you, or anybody. Understand?”
She nodded, trying not to cry, and he noticed he was still holding her wrist, which suddenly looked very small and fragile in his big hand. He let it go. She wanted to rub it, but she was embarrassed and hid it behind her instead, looking up at him. He was about to bark,
What do you want now?
at her, but he thought about it and saw that she was hoping to get some kind word from him. He fished around in his head for one.
“Go…go see the priest,” he said, as gently as he could. “He mayhave a cloth to bind that little cut. And put some yarrow in it, since you know what that is.”
She obeyed him.
He picked up his sword and saw that her blood was smeared on its point and the well-notched edge that had bitten her.
“Clumsy little witch,” he said.
It got darker.
A drop of rain fell in Thomas’s eye.
The priest went with Thomas, wearing his chasuble and a threadbare golden stole, holding the crosier over his head while the girl walked beside them swinging a censer with frankincense and rosemary in it. At the priest’s suggestion, Thomas held his sword by the blade, inverted so the quillons made a cross of it. The rain was light now, little more than a mist, but the road was muddy enough to coat the soldier’s boots and the priest’s simple shoes. The girl had left her shoes behind because she felt God liked bare feet better than shoes for holy work.
Two men from town came with them; one a heavily bearded young man with an ancient boar spear, the other a fat, blond farmer with blond porcine bristles on his jowls, armed with a billhook for hedges. Both wore straw hats. The smaller one looked scared, as did the priest. They had both been to the river to see the thing’s signs. But not the farmer. The farmer was piss drunk. Thomas reminded himself to stay well away from him if a fight started, because he was stout and thick-armed and likely to gut friend and foe alike. Among the bitterer lessons of brigandage Thomas had learned was that farmers were strong, often stronger than the horsemen who despised them, and that they lived so close to starvation that they would fight like bears to hold on to what crumbs and bits of wood or leather they owned.
If the priest hoped their procession would draw fresh recruits from the houses they passed, he was disappointed. A few women peered at themfrom windows, all crossing themselves, and, on the outskirts of town, one bare-ribbed dog looked up at them briefly before going back to breakfast on the foot of a corpse leaned up against a sheep wall. The body had a flour sack over its head at least, but it had stained the sack and it stank even in the cool rain. Sheep’s bones littered the field past the wall—sheep had fared as poorly as men in this scourge—and the seigneur’s keep came into view around a stand of alder trees.
The pilgrims marched up to the gate, where Thomas pulled a leather cord that rang a bell up on the battlements. He waited the time it took the swaying, fat farmer to piss against the wall—the priest admonished him with his name, Sanson, but was waved away with the man’s free hand—and then Thomas rang the bell again. After a third tug on the cord, a very pale young man with plucked and redrawn eyebrows looked down at them from the wall. He held a crimson woolen cloak squared over his
“Jesus whoring Christ,” he said, looking at the cut on the meat of her hand. It was half the length of her smallest finger and not very deep, but it was still bleeding. “Do I have to watch you every second? Can’t I just sleep without you doing something stupid?”
“I’m sorry,” she said meekly.
“What was your idea, touching my sword? Nobody touches my sword but me.”
“I…I wanted to clean it for you.”
“Well, don’t! This is what you get.”
He bent her arm around hurtfully to show her dripping hand to her.
“I want to help.”
“You bleeding all over my things doesn’t help me, you, or anybody. Understand?”
She nodded, trying not to cry, and he noticed he was still holding her wrist, which suddenly looked very small and fragile in his big hand. He let it go. She wanted to rub it, but she was embarrassed and hid it behind her instead, looking up at him. He was about to bark,
What do you want now?
at her, but he thought about it and saw that she was hoping to get some kind word from him. He fished around in his head for one.
“Go…go see the priest,” he said, as gently as he could. “He mayhave a cloth to bind that little cut. And put some yarrow in it, since you know what that is.”
She obeyed him.
He picked up his sword and saw that her blood was smeared on its point and the well-notched edge that had bitten her.
“Clumsy little witch,” he said.
It got darker.
A drop of rain fell in Thomas’s eye.
The priest went with Thomas, wearing his chasuble and a threadbare golden stole, holding the crosier over his head while the girl walked beside them swinging a censer with frankincense and rosemary in it. At the priest’s suggestion, Thomas held his sword by the blade, inverted so the quillons made a cross of it. The rain was light now, little more than a mist, but the road was muddy enough to coat the soldier’s boots and the priest’s simple shoes. The girl had left her shoes behind because she felt God liked bare feet better than shoes for holy work.
Two men from town came with them; one a heavily bearded young man with an ancient boar spear, the other a fat, blond farmer with blond porcine bristles on his jowls, armed with a billhook for hedges. Both wore straw hats. The smaller one looked scared, as did the priest. They had both been to the river to see the thing’s signs. But not the farmer. The farmer was piss drunk. Thomas reminded himself to stay well away from him if a fight started, because he was stout and thick-armed and likely to gut friend and foe alike. Among the bitterer lessons of brigandage Thomas had learned was that farmers were strong, often stronger than the horsemen who despised them, and that they lived so close to starvation that they would fight like bears to hold on to what crumbs and bits of wood or leather they owned.
If the priest hoped their procession would draw fresh recruits from the houses they passed, he was disappointed. A few women peered at themfrom windows, all crossing themselves, and, on the outskirts of town, one bare-ribbed dog looked up at them briefly before going back to breakfast on the foot of a corpse leaned up against a sheep wall. The body had a flour sack over its head at least, but it had stained the sack and it stank even in the cool rain. Sheep’s bones littered the field past the wall—sheep had fared as poorly as men in this scourge—and the seigneur’s keep came into view around a stand of alder trees.
The pilgrims marched up to the gate, where Thomas pulled a leather cord that rang a bell up on the battlements. He waited the time it took the swaying, fat farmer to piss against the wall—the priest admonished him with his name, Sanson, but was waved away with the man’s free hand—and then Thomas rang the bell again. After a third tug on the cord, a very pale young man with plucked and redrawn eyebrows looked down at them from the wall. He held a crimson woolen cloak squared over his
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