“Why?” Bartholomew asked, of all the questions he might have chosen.
“We bury our dead there, for the ash is easy to dig and vermin do not sully the remains. Father Ignatius would bless those who have passed without his prayers.”
“Is that the burned forest we passed?”
“Nay, another. We have the old burn and the new.”
“So much fire,” he mused and Anna almost smiled.
“Aye. Come and you will see.”
And because he did want to see, Bartholomew rose to his feet to accompany her.
Chapter Eight
Why had she invited Bartholomew to join them on this errand?
Anna could not explain her impulse and in hindsight, she wished she had not made the offer. She supposed that she wanted to ensure that she knew where Bartholomew was, just as he had vowed that they would remain together inside Haynesdale keep until their respective ends were achieved. Those goals had not been won, so their paths remained bound together.
But this was a moment she dreaded.
Her breath was hitching in her chest, and her pulse was unsteady. Her tears were rising and threatening to spill, and this long before they reached the old burn. She felt him watching her and more than once, he offered his hand to her as they climbed over logs or crossed a stream. How much did he discern?
She was weak enough to accept his assistance, even though she did not need it. She had fended for herself for years and had no need of a man. Perhaps it was the garb that betrayed her and made her comport herself more like a lady than was her usual manner.
“I have not been to the old burn in years,” Father Ignatius said, his manner so jovial that he might have been trying to lighten the mood.
“What of the place in the forest that was burned two years ago?” Bartholomew asked.
Father Ignatius exchanged a glance with Anna. “That is the new burn,” he said.
“No one goes there,” Anna contributed flatly. Who could go there? She was sure that she could still smell burning flesh, the residue of those lives lost for no good cause other than a nobleman’s thirst for vengeance.
“When else were these woods burned?” Bartholomew asked.
“You have seen that the hall of Haynesdale is newly built,” Father Ignatius explained. “The old burn is the lost keep, the fire that Sir Royce struck when he invaded Haynesdale and claimed it for his own.”
Anna did not miss Bartholomew quick glance at the priest. “When was that?”
“In the year 1169, almost twenty years ago,” Father Ignatius said. “Few of us have been on this holding since that day.”
“Old Esme,” Anna said. “The one you were talking to. She was the miller’s wife then.”
“I arrived a few years later,” Father Ignatius said. “When Sir Royce wed the first time, God bless the lady’s soul.” He beamed at Anna. “I remember Anna’s birth.”
“And Percy’s birth,” she amended.
“Of course, I recall his birth very well.” Father Ignatius smiled. “Never has a child come into the world with such a ruckus. He was both welcome and unexpected.”
“How so?” Bartholomew asked.
“All knew the smith’s wife was with child, naturally, for she ripened most vigorously. But smith and wife were of such an age that they did not anticipate another babe.” Father Ignatius nodded with satisfaction. “Percy was a child destined to challenge expectations from the very first.”
“And still he is,” Anna said, even as she came to a halt.
They had stepped through the last of the trees into an area that had been burned clear. A few trees grew in the soil, which was still blackened with the ash of that fire, and a line of crosses adorned the ground. Beyond this field, the ruins of the old keep could be seen, its foundation stones washed clean in spots and stained with soot in others. The village could be discerned in the ruts in the ground and far to the left, the open fields were still rutted from furrows long left fallow. Beyond the keep was a sparkling expanse of water where the stream made a mill pond.
Bartholomew stared like a man struck to stone.
