He was now circling the room, seeing it from the point of view of an enemy. Emptying the last of the wine into a glass, he wrapped the vessel in fabric along with the cork. Bundling this up he placed it into the bottom of the canvas bag that Caroline Debussy had bequeathed her. He took one of the small silver plates from the mantel and shoved it in, too, before picking a miniature framed portrait off from the wall.
August’s great-grandmother. The woman was dour and frowning, her clothes as dark and sombre as her mood.
‘She will do as the blessed Saint Barbara, one of the patron saints of soldiers,’ he said suddenly. ‘A protector.’
‘For you?’ Celeste could not quite understand what he meant and he shook his head.
‘A sop for all those who will chase us. Offer them up a prayer of guardianship and they will forget their suspicions of us.’
‘You know of such a prayer?’
He raised one hand and touched her on the head, speaking in low tones.
‘He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust...’
She looked at him in amazement.
‘Psalm Ninety-One,’ he continued. ‘The soldier’s verse. God gives four instructions to quell the sense of fear that rises in the hearts of those who fight.’
Celeste was astonished at his competency. How did he do it? What sort of a mind could keep in its grasp the prayer of aiding those who fought for their country when he had professed himself a disbeliever who did not follow any religion? Even she as a practising Catholic had no rote memory of such an entreaty.
‘Part of my job in Spain was to reassure those around me that what would happen next was hopeful. The first instruction, “you will not be afraid”, was crucial because after that the others would fall into place.’
‘The others?’
‘You will trust, watch, move forward and pray.’
‘And you did that?’
‘I never prayed much. Perhaps that was why they caught me finally, though one of the last human freedoms is to choose how you might react to new and unwanted circumstance.’
‘And you chose to fight?’
In his eyes the humour doused and Celeste was certain there was another story there. With care, she brought her rosary from her pocket. ‘I think you should have this, then. It would be an expected accoutrement of someone so very devout.’
‘It was August’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘I will give it back to you as soon as this character of a priest is no longer needed.’
She saw him draw the beads through his fingers and place the rosary in one of the pockets in his oversized habit as she nodded, the heavy silver crucifix hanging around his neck bright against brown cloth.
‘If I die, take it to my grandmother. She thinks I am dead already, but...’
‘You’d want her to know the truth?’
‘Yes.’ The word came from some place deep inside, a connection that was not as broken as she had always imagined it to be.
Summer had turned away already, collecting two blankets from the leather sofa and stuffing them into the bag with a ball of rope he had found.
‘I’d like to take more of use along with us, but a Catholic priest would likely have little in the way of earthly possessions.’
Her own persona was forming, too, as she gathered another sharp knife, a set of chisels and a mallet from her father’s workroom. August had taken up working with leather as a way of relaxing and she often watched him at it. Another strength, she thought, and added a punch for any holes needed.
If anyone asked her about her work as a leatherwork apprentice, she could answer with some expertise. It was the best she could hope for because, if not, she would place Summer in danger as well. The weft and warp of circumstance had strange ways of tying one back into the fabric of life.
* * *
