Chapter 16

E xperienced in denying breath without taking life, thrice he whose crucifix dug into her at the hospital silenced her thus. But no longer. Though slow to learn her lesson, she did, and there was gain in that beyond avoiding the panic and pain of lungs bereft of air.

Encased in a blanket beneath the bench of a horse-drawn cart, she discovered Friar Drumfiddle had an accomplice so soft of speech that even were her head not covered, likely she would be unable to hear all he said above the din of wheels and hooves—unlike the friar whose words often filled holes left by the other man.

Clearly, the accomplice had doubts about stealing a patient out of St. John’s. More clearly, the false man of God was losing patience. “Things obvious to those of fair intellect need not be told, Edgar,” he snapped.

Surprised his partner was the novice who looked ill upon her when he helped her to the hospital bed, Fira startled.

“As you who aspire to holiness have learned, all are subject to the evil one’s machinations,” the older man said. “As you have yet to learn, the wily sex are more given to cooperating with him—and eager.”

“But I did not know she was a Wulfrith,” Edgar spoke again, this his first sentence understood in its entirety for his voice rising.

“Enough!” The cart lurched to a halt, rolling the bundled Fira against the boards at her back before moving her forward onto her face and into the legs of those on the bench.

Fortunately, her cry of alarm was so muffled it seemed to go unheard by Drumfiddle who rebuked, “If you truly wish to come alongside those who feel and see and know that to which greed has blinded the Church, you will cease whining and trust me to bring you into the light.”

Though no response was heard, the friar’s next words evidenced the novice’s acquiescence. “I shall hold you to that as you shall hold yourself if you wish continued guidance on the most blessed journey.” Silence, then he drawled, “Methinks the demoniac listens. And plots.”

Demoniac— what those believed possessed by a demon were named, some of whom were but victims of The Falling Sickness, Fira thought as a shudder moved from her scalp to her feet.

Moments later, further proof the friar knew she was conscious was had when the bench creaked and a hand groped her head. “Whatever remains of God’s child, cling to this—regardless of the cost, I shall purge your demon. It will hurt, but what you suffer will be far less than the torment of those fooled by a pretty face and tempted by hair portending the fires of hell.”

Lord, let me not be alone in freeing myself of the zealotry of he whose mind is wrong side out, she silently appealed.

Sharply, he patted her head. “Soon we make camp and begin purifying your soul. Patience, woman, I shall set you free. Beware, demon, I come for you.”

As Fira tightened her throat muscles to keep a scream inside, he snapped the reins and resumed the journey.

Providing Friar Drumfiddle was not Gert’s agent as seemed improbable, Les Fléaux were not the perpetrators. Still, regardless of who took Fira from St. John’s, when The Pleiades and Orion’s Song sailed on the morrow to fulfill the contract Charles secured to deliver wine to Edinburgh, Amaury would be on neither.

Fortunately, progress could yet be made in discovering where the Scots harbored the sea brigands, six of those who once pirated under Amaury tasked with exploiting their French birth once they reached port.

These things Amaury perseverated on as he and the three accompanying him, including Donal, rode north at a speed that made it appear they did not trust the sun to resurrect after the coming night.

Hopefully, information gained from Amaury’s informant at St. John’s had set him on the right path. A layman paid well to keep the privies of brethren and patients clean, the master of the garderobes cast his ears all about and held close secrets and embarrassments that, once ripe, earned him coin. Thus, he knew the reputation of Friar Drumfiddle and, more importantly, that two of the hospital’s monks were secretly receptive to the Free Spirit’s creed. Having listened in on their hushed discussions, he told of their distress over how far Drumfiddle strayed from their beliefs, tarnishing the reputation of an order they deemed far more pure than the Catholic Church.

A handful of coins was not the only price Amaury paid for an introduction to one of the unsuspecting monks. It cost him time as he waited for the man to complete his prayers. Under threat of others learning of his leanings, the monk revealed Amaury was not the only one who pressed him hard this day. Drumfiddle had done so to gain entrance to St. John’s and, boasting he came to save one possessed by a demon, likely was responsible for the newly admitted woman disappearing from the infirmary. Too, a novice named Edgar who recently did penance for suggesting the Free Spirits were nearer the Lord, had gone missing.

As to where Drumfiddle and one believed his accomplice would take the lady, after the monk prefaced he was versed in rumors alone, he told more than a dozen of those twisting the Free Spirit doctrine into a shape even more offensive to the Holy Church had established a base in northern Lincolnshire at an abandoned abbey. How far north was unknown. What was known was the abbey was more east than west and was one of the Anglo-Saxon religious houses emptied of brethren who found greater safety and comfort in fortified abbeys erected by Norman conquerors three hundred years past.

Fortunately, those transporting an unwilling woman would be fools to travel at a speed that could draw attention. Thus, unless they took the long route north toward Yorkshire on rough and winding roads and footpaths, it was possible to overtake them before they reached the middle of Lincolnshire—perhaps even this eve if soon they paused for the night.

I come, Fira, Amaury silently vowed, then glanced at the dimming sky and beseeched, If You are there, Lord, keep her safe and quickly aid in her retrieval. Not because I ought to be elsewhere, though I should regardless of Your disapproval. Just as I would not have her near my shadowed heart, I would not have her weigh more upon my conscience .

Dusk deepening until the great canvas between heaven and earth went black but for pinpricks, they rode on, questioning the few encountered who traveled opposite, ever searching for what might be just ahead. Or might not.

For how tightly Fira was rolled in the blanket beneath the bench, rope would have bound her no better. And of further detriment were stifling layers about her head. Though she had not lost consciousness since giving the foul friar no cause to steal her breath again, for how thin and stale the air and for panic knocking about her, dizziness abounded.

When the cart halted abruptly, once more she rolled against her captors’ legs. She made no sound, but her head was patted again as if Drumfiddle knew she was awake.

After instructing the novice to make camp, snatching away hope for an inn that could provide an opportunity to alert others to her plight, he repeated, “Patience, Woman.”

Patience is needed, and it disturbs that the terrible unknown makes me hunger for it to be known, Fira thought as the cart shifted and horse whinnied, the men descended and conversed low, the novice yelped with pain, and the friar grumbled over him being too delicate for one aspiring to become a Free Spirit.

Moments later, the scrape of footsteps warned Drumfiddle returned to the cart. “I believe you hunger and thirst,” he said.

For aching lungs, womb tremors, and a pained bladder, she broke her silence with a croaked, “I must relieve myself.”

“Fear not, ere all commences, I will allow it.”

Commences—a word that should have no horror about it, she thought as his hands closed over her upper arms, then the bundle made of her was pulled from the cart .

When she was raised against a chest lacking firm muscle, fresh air entered through the head and foot of the blanket. Whereas the cool and plentiful was a balm to her lungs, her feet and calves were so suddenly chilled she drew up her knees sharply.

Misinterpreting that, the friar said, “Brace your bladder, Lady. Soon privacy in which to guard your modesty—if that is what this is.”

As opposed to the demon in her playing him false…

He moved her toward what she hoped dense bushes, and further her head came right as chill bumps pricked her legs. Worth the bad for the good, especially if better can be made of it once I shed this cocoon, she thought.

The friar lowered her and tugged the blanket down around her feet.

Shakily, Fira pushed hair out of her eyes. For how bright the moonlight, her only difficulty in making sense of the man and his false crucifix was blur about both. It was then she realized her spectacles were gone from her bodice, giving rise to a different sort of panic. Had they fallen out during her struggle with the friar at the hospital, or had he removed them?

She was about to demand an answer when he jerked a head that seemed oversized even atop a body of good height and breadth. “Relieve yourself quickly, and do not test my patience.”

Fira looked to where he gestured. The trees in this wood were sparse, providing little more cover than the night, but there was an abundance of bushes where she could hunker for privacy. Providing she stayed low, she could put some distance between her and her captors before they discovered her gone.

Beginning to shiver in the cool night, missing the mantle left at the hospital nearly as much as her spectacles, and grateful she had not removed her boots, she ventured forth .

“I should follow her?” the novice called.

Looking around, she saw he approached from the left, and beyond him was the cart used to smuggle her out of the hospital.

“Nay, she goes nowhere far,” the friar said.

So you believe, she silently disagreed, despite odds being sorely against her. Though her disappearance from the hospital would have been discovered well before now, even if the monk had sent word to Alice to inform Fira’s brother she was at St. John’s, likely her captors’ trail had gone cold.

If only you had kept a watch over the inn to ensure my safety, Amaury, she rued again as she navigated gaps in bushes toward taller ones. If only I had not kissed you and gained a response you did not wish to give. If only You, Lord, rewarded my faith by not fastening about my neck the same stone my mother bore.

“Go no farther!” the friar called.

It was not far enough, but the sooner her private business was finished, the sooner she could escape. No easy thing since she must travel on hands and knees until out of sight, but then she would run—hopefully not toward any who wished her worse than these supposedly godly men.

Determined her plan could work, she was more certain of it once she was up and running. However, a minute could not have passed before she heard them crash through the wood after her, then the sound of heaving breath beyond her own.

Though Fira had not thought she could move her legs faster, she did, albeit to no avail. As she was slammed face down, the novice called, “I have her!”

Whether he would have kept her was questionable for her flipping onto her back and fighting with nails, teeth, and knees that made him cry out and shield himself. But then the friar appeared, thrust the novice aside, and set to silencing her with a hand to her neck.

As dark swept Fira, two thoughts made it through—her throat would be bruised and the Lord had done nothing to aid her.