Twenty-Two Farewells


A Week Later


Cloaked against the early November chill, Rhys walked beside Gwen, taking his time. She felt grown up and responsible, escorting him to his brother’s grave, and honored that he had asked her to gather some greenery from the garden to place there. She’d chosen rosemary for remembrance, and other herbs. They had renewed their friendship as he grew stronger, sitting together after her lessons and her time in the apothecary. She had asked him for the truth about why he had come to York.

‘I thought I might talk David out of helping Walter and Arn. And my mother wanted me gone. Called me a traitor to my father.’

‘So why are you going back to her?’

‘I’m all she has left. But now that Marcus Bolton has offered me employment, I am unsure. I have time to decide.’

He was not yet healed enough to travel. She saw that as he paused to catch his breath after climbing the few steps up into the cemetery. Magda had advised him not to travel for at least a few more weeks. By then, weather might prevent such a journey for months. She hoped he stayed.

As they made their way across to the fresh grave, Gwen tried not to think of the bones beneath her feet. It was a childish fear, and she knew better now. But her heart still raced. When they reached the grave, she said a prayer and then moved over to the wall to give Rhys time to talk to his brother.


Reynard lay in a small chamber, not unlike that in which the widow Gunnell had been lodged, warmed by a brazier. Fragrant herbs did little to mask the strong odor of dying flesh beneath the frequently changed blankets. It was a miracle he yet lived. Though his upper body was propped up with pillows, Reynard breathed with difficulty. Not yet a death rattle. He had refused the poppy drink Lucie had prepared for him. A friar wiped sweat from the man’s face, then bowed to Owen and withdrew.

Feverish eyes watched as Owen took a seat beside the bed.

‘Come to watch?’ A labored breath. ‘Make sure.’ He sucked air. ‘I die?’

‘I trust the friar to tell me. And the guards.’

Reynard curled his lip. ‘Saint Owen.’

An old taunt. Once it had cut. Long past. ‘Why the complicated plan? Why not just slip into York and kill me?’

‘Make you … martyr?’ A weak, raspy cough. ‘Not enough … wanted to watch … you … suffer …’ A gasp. ‘Ruin you.’

‘Kill the bishop on my watch.’

A crooked leer. ‘First … rape wife … slaughter child.’

Owen reared up and shoved the pallet, watching Reynard’s eyes bulge as he gasped in pain. ‘I would do far worse, but there’s little sport in torturing a dying man.’ He forced himself to return to his seat.

Reynard attempted a laugh, but choked. He fought to say, ‘Pity. Plan ruined … when … bastards … attacked.’

Owen waited until he could trust his voice. ‘You might have just buried Bruin. I would not have known of your presence until it was too late.’

‘That was … plan.’ Reynard closed his eyes, fought for a breath, managed to squeeze out, ‘But Madoc said … you saw him.’

Madoc was wrong. Owen had not realized. It was only Reynard’s presence that brought him to mind, made him wonder. ‘I see.’ He had his answer.

Still he sat, watching the struggle for breath. The anger had passed. He took no pleasure in the man’s suffering.

Opening his eyes, Reynard rasped, ‘End it.’

‘I almost did once.’ Owen had come upon Reynard sleeping in the shade at the edge of camp. He’d only that day been released to walk about, start to learn how to navigate with half his sight. He was furious, frustrated by the old duke’s refusal to do more than chastise the traitor. Standing over him he felt again the hot pain as the blade sliced through his eye. He drew out his dagger, crept closer, reached out …

… Leif’s large hand closed round his wrist. His second, and his closest friend. ‘If you do you will regret it all your days.’

Owen had cursed him. And hated Reynard all the more.

Long ago. In another life.

‘But for … son … had you … this time. But he … stabbed me … with arrow …’ His body shook as he gulped air.

‘Jasper reopened your wound.’ Owen saw how it had gone. Falling from the roof, dirt in the freshly opened wound. Now the infection set in. ‘But you were able to shoot Trent.’

The jaw tightened. ‘Aimed for … your … second … not Trent.’

He’d meant to take Alfred, not the carter.

‘Damn you … saint …’ A rattling exhale, the eyes emptied. Silence.

‘Be at peace.’ Owen closed his lids.


While Jasper worked in the shop, basking in the praise of customers come to express their admiration and hoping to pick up a bit of gossip, Lucie and Gwen stood side by side in the workshop, stuffing small linen pillows with dried lavender, mugwort, rosemary, and chamomile for peaceful sleep.

‘Why did you help Reynard?’ Gwen asked.

‘I hoped it might give your father time to talk to him.’

‘Why?’

‘So he might understand what happened. Then and now.’

‘Then’s when he betrayed Da the first time.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you ever wish Da didn’t have the scar?’

Lucie smiled. ‘No. I love everything about your father just as he is. I wish he hadn’t suffered the pain, and the doubt it caused him.’

‘But without it, he would not have come to York and fallen in love with you. I wouldn’t be here.’

‘You see why I don’t wish it happened differently.’

‘Did you know you loved him the moment you saw him?’

‘I …’ How to explain to a child who had not yet felt the stirrings? ‘Not at once, but there was something about him …’ She smiled to herself, remembering the effect of his touch. ‘I resisted it because I was still married.’

Gwen fiddled with the pillow in her hands. ‘Like Alisoun should have resisted Einar if she truly loved Jasper?’

Ah, that’s where she was leading this. ‘Not just like it. They were not married. Or betrothed in the eyes of the Church. But your brother considered themselves pledged to each other. So to him, yes, it’s very like that.’

Gwen sighed. ‘I thought I loved Rhys. Now I don’t know.’

For that, Lucie was grateful. But Gwen sounded so disheartened. Putting the work aside Lucie hugged her eldest to her heart. ‘Enjoy dreaming of love, my sweet. When it comes …’

‘It has thorns.’

Lucie laughed. ‘Yes, my wise child. But so much joy and delight.’

‘If he loves me back.’

‘He is sure to love you, my sweet, my dearest.’ Lucie held her close, silently praying that her child would find a love such as hers.


They sat on a fallen log by the river upstream from Magda’s rock, beneath the trees. Late afternoon sunlight caught the gold of the falling leaves.

‘I will miss you.’ Alisoun slipped her hand in Jasper’s and turned to look at him, the flaxen hair, the arched nose, strong, sharp chin, full lips, gentle eyes. So dear to her.

He tightened his hand round hers. ‘Why not wait until spring?’

‘You know why. Someone already needs me up on the moors.’

‘They asked for Magda, didn’t they?’

‘She assured the man I have the skill to help his wife.’

‘I don’t doubt it. But are you ready?’

In truth she did not feel so. Yet Magda, her teacher, wished her to go. ‘So she says.’

He frowned. ‘What do you think?’

She dared say no more about it or she might reopen the wound, just as Jasper was finding his way forward. ‘Wish me well.’

‘I do.’ He kissed her hand. ‘I think I’ll always love you.’

She touched his cheek, kissed it. ‘And I you. But this is my life, going where I am needed. You would resent that.’

‘If …’ A lopsided grin. ‘I would. I do.’

‘Let’s just sit here awhile.’ She rested her head on his shoulder.


At the garden gate, Owen paused to take in the sight of his children chasing each other around the linden, laughing, shrieking as they were tagged. Behind them, Lucie bent to cut spikes of rosemary. As she straightened, she caught sight of him and smiled. He smiled back.

He was home, his enemy vanquished. All was well.

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