“Kendra,” she admitted, her words thick.
“Kendra,” he repeated. “I suppose you blame yourself for this, as well.”
Anna could only nod. It had been too cold for one so young.
Again Bartholomew gave her a moment to compose herself, and when he continued, his tone was thoughtful. “It seems to me that you have paid little heed to the sermons of Father Ignatius. Does he not teach that our days on this earth are chosen by the great creator himself, that He alone shall choose when a babe comes into the world, and how many breaths each of us shall take?”
Anna nodded reluctant agreement. “I should have taken better care,” she admitted.
Bartholomew, to her surprise, kissed her temple. “And so it might not have mattered. Her days might have been planned to be short, by some scheme we cannot discern.”
“But…”
“Did you do your best to warm and defend her?”
Anna nodded.
“Then no divinity can ask for more.” Without waiting for her agreement, he dropped to his knees then, in the snow at the foot of that small grave. He bowed his head as she watched him and prayed for Kendra’s immortal soul.
Anna found herself powerfully affected by this gesture of respect. Her tears flowed anew, but she, too, knelt in the snow beside him. Again, her fingers found his hand, and she had the sense that their prayers together were stronger than both uttered in isolation.
She assisted Father Ignatius by naming the rest of the fallen, well aware that Bartholomew watched and waited, Cenric seated by his side. Each time she glanced his way, he gave her a small smile of encouragement. She felt less alone than she had. She felt a tentative healing begin. She wondered whether she might not be completely responsible for all the woe that had fallen upon the villagers of Haynesdale two years past.
When Father Ignatius finished blessing the graves, she found herself once again putting her hand into Bartholomew’s warm grasp. She knew how she wanted to repay him for this gift he had granted to her. She did not doubt that he would soon be on his way, and that she would not see him again once he departed, but there was a memory that Anna particularly wanted to have of this knight.
That it would help her to heal yet more was only an indication that it was the right choice.
She would welcome him abed, surrender to him the pleasure that they had feigned the night before, and perhaps abandon her fear of all men. It was a bold choice, but one more characteristic of the maiden she had been, not that long ago.
And Anna wished to be that intrepid woman once again.
She might well conceive Bartholomew’s child, but that would offer only more solace. She would like to have a child to remember him by, a boy with his father’s dancing eyes and dark hair, a son with his father’s sense of honor.
Aye, that would suit Anna well indeed.
*
Something had changed in Anna.
She seemed softer to Bartholomew, and less wary. Perhaps her telling him of Kendra had removed a barrier between them. He did not care. He welcomed the chance to know her better.
The company was awaiting them, and he could smell the stewed meat. His belly growled as they drew closer to the camp. The fire had already been doused, although Anna strode forward with concern.
“It had been burning before you arrived,” said an older man, obviously anticipating Anna’s query. “It was in coals and we doused it, but used the rocks from the fire pit to heat the stew from yesterday.”
“Smells like venison,” Bartholomew noted.
“Naught but the baron’s best for us,” agreed the man with a grin.
“You will hang if caught,” Bartholomew noted, for he could not help himself.
The man shook his head. “We are outcasts already. We have lost our homes, our hearths, many of our kin and neighbors. There is little more that can be taken from us.”
“You would not say that if you were in the baron’s dungeons,” Anna noted.
“I might at that,” the man countered. He passed a hand over his brow. “I weary of this life, Anna, though that is not an accusation. I would see it change, one way or the other, rather than endure more years of mere survival.” He glanced up at Bartholomew. “Understand me, sir. If I had done more than protest the cruelty of an unjust baron, I would accept my punishment as due. I would rightly be outcast and criminal. But all I did was raise my fist against the imprisonment of the innocent, and in so doing, found myself accused, as well.” He shook his head again. “It is a sorry excuse for justice offered by Sir Royce, and were the king not so inclined to live all his days in Normandy, an honest man might petition him for aid. As it is, I would die or see our village restored.”
“Indeed,” agreed another man, for there were many tending the man’s words with interest.
