Yet was pleasing all the same.
She swallowed and stared at the grave, wanting to confide in him but not knowing where to start. It was comforting to realize that he would wait until she chose to do as much, if she did so.
The priest spared them the barest glance as he finished his prayer. He moved to the next grave.
“That is Oswald, the miller’s son,” Anna said quietly. She felt Bartholomew start.
“Esme’s son?” he asked.
“Aye,” Anna acknowledged. “And beside him, his wife Rheda and their son, Nyle.”
“All of them,” Father Ignatius whispered and caught his breath.
“All of them,” Anna agreed, knowing that the loss had torn Esme’s heart in half.
Bartholomew squeezed her hand as the priest began his prayers for Oswald.
“He cannot have been that old,” he said.
Anna shook her head. “Not yet thirty summers, but older than me.”
“I meant his son.”
She frowned and glanced up at her companion. He had met Esme and knew she was aged. Indeed, Oswald had been the oldest of her sons. How could Bartholomew assume the age of a stranger? But the knight’s expression was thoughtful, so she only replied to his query. “Aye, Nyle was of an age with Percy. They were great friends.”
“And they all died in the new burn?”
Anna nodded and shook her head. “It was my fault,” she whispered, her voice uneven, and found herself relieved when Bartholomew gathered her into his embrace. He was warm and strong, and he simply held her, offering solace with his heat and his presence.
“It cannot have been your fault,” he chided quietly, his words a breath in her hair.
“It was,” she insisted. “I had a scheme and it went badly awry. The new burn was Sir Royce’s retaliation for my audacity.”
He pulled back, holding her shoulders in his hands as he looked down at her. “You provoked him to burn his own forests? And yet, you had the courage to enter his hall willingly again yesterday? Did you not fear he would recognize you?”
“Of course.”
Bartholomew shook his head in awe, and his eyes began to dance. She knew he would tease her, and her mood lifted in anticipation. “You must have thought to kill me when I left you alone with him in the hall.”
“I did curse you thoroughly,” she admitted with a smile.
He grinned. “You should have warned me.”
“I am not so quick as that to confess my secrets.”
Bartholomew sobered. “Nay, you are not.” He turned her around so that she faced the grave that Father Ignatius had already blessed, holding her shoulders in his hands again. Her back was against his chest, though, and he leaned down to murmur in her ear. “Tell me this, though, Anna. Who lies here?”
“A child,” she admitted.
“As young as Nyle?”
“Younger yet. A mere infant.” Her tears rose again and she was embarrassed to feel one splash on her cheek. Her words were thick when she continued. “She did not survive her first winter, not here in these woods.” She took a shaking breath. “We dare not light a fire when the baron hunts us, for the smoke would reveal us all. That winter, he hunted ceaselessly, for he wished to rout us all, and it was cold. Cursed cold.” Anna’s words faded as she remembered her efforts to keep the babe warm.
Futile efforts, for she had not been warm herself.
She swallowed, the pain of loss enough to rend her heart.
“Had she a name?” Bartholomew murmured.
