Faithful Dead

The old man’s loud breathing was keeping the boy awake.

It was now, some hours since they had lain down in the draughty shelter. The supper provided by the monks had been adequate, but hardly what you would call tasty. Still, over the past weeks, the boy had become accustomed to going to bed on an empty stomach, so to have it filled — even with watery, bland soup without the savour of salt, and a big hunk of rough bread — was better than usual.

No, he reflected, turning on his side and edging further away from the old man. No, I have no complaints on that score.

But how he wished the snoring, rasping breaths would stop and let him get some sleep!

Flinging himself on to his back, he wondered idly — not for the first time — if it would be a kindness to hold a folded cloth over the old fellow’s face and put him out of his misery. Raising himself up on one elbow, he stared down at his master. In the light of the one dull lamp illuminating the sleeping area, the face showed up deathly pale and glistening with sweat. As the boy watched, another brief coughing fit rattled the old man’s thin frame. It was not enough to wake him, though. Not that time.

Ah, but he’d been a good master, the boy reflected, lying down again. Tough — he’d driven his servant hard, accepted no excuses for slackness or laziness — but fair. Aye, there had always been appreciation for a job well done. And, the boy reminded himself, grinning faintly into the darkness, the master had promised him a silver coin if he made sure the two of them got safe home again.

A silver coin!

He lay for several very happy moments while he contemplated what use he might make of a silver coin.

Ah, but home was such a long way away, he thought, dismay clouding his pleasant reverie. Once admitted, depression seemed to flood through him; he suddenly found himself feeling unaccountably miserable.

One silver coin? It was as if another’s voice spoke inside his head, a cold, faintly jeering voice that was strangely insistent. Just one coin? After all you’ve done for him? Why, the help and support you’ve given him during the trials and hardships of this journey alone are surely worth more than that! One coin, my lad, is nothing more than an insult.

The boy felt the skin on the back of his neck stir, as if someone had run a rough hand against the natural direction of the fine hair that grew there. And from a different — better — part of his mind came the urgent message: don’t listen! Close your ears! Do not pay heed to the Evil One!

For a few heartbeats, he felt sick with terror. Then he thought, no, I am allowing my imagination to run away with me. Here I am lying in the pilgrims’ shelter of one of the holiest spots in England, not fifty paces from Our Lady’s Shrine and her blessed, healing spring! Come on, you fool, this is the last place that the — that any harm is going to come to you!

He made himself relax. The old man’s breathing was getting rougher, more painful, and now there seemed to be a little pause between each laborious outward breath and the next drawing in, as if, even in his sleep, the old man was trying to decide whether further effort was worth the pain that it cost him.

The boy looked at him again. He’s no pauper, he reflected, for all that he’s dressed like one. No, he’s got wealth all right, aye, and rich possessions and all. He has his reasons for pretending to be a poor pilgrim, and I reckon I know what they are. He’s-

With an abrupt snort, the old man launched into a violent fit of coughing, chest heaving, spasms shaking his whole body. From another part of the sleeping area the boy heard a faint protest, cut short as a different voice — a woman’s — muttered, ‘For pity’s sake, Jack! He’s not doing it just to annoy you, the poor soul can’t help himself!’

The boy watched as the old man spat into a filthy, stained piece of cloth, then, muttering to himself, settled down again. Soon the painful breathing resumed.

The old man’s movements had disturbed his cloak, in which he had wrapped himself, and the thin blanket that the monks had provided. The night air was chilly — it was late August, but a storm earlier in the day had left a nip in the air — and the boy reached out his hand and gently rearranged the covers. There, that was better; the cloak was quite thick, it’d give some warmth to his chest, and-

In the midst of his careful attentions, the boy suddenly caught the glint of metal. The lamplight was reflecting off something tucked inside the old man’s clothes, something which, formerly hidden, had slipped out and into view during the coughing fit.

The cold voice was back inside the boy’s head. It said, go on! Have a good look! You won’t do any harm; you’re only going to have a peep, aren’t you?

The boy watched as, almost without his volition, his hand stretched out towards the old man’s frail body. Stretched out — further — a little bit further — until the grasping fingers closed on the object. It felt cool to the touch, and the metal of which it was made was smooth. . and, in shape, a square, a rectangle. . a little box?

He pulled. But the object was attached to something, perhaps caught up in the old man’s clothes, and at first would not come.

It’s on a chain round his neck! the boy realised suddenly, with a brief, violent surge of fury that quite surprised him. I can’t get at it, he’s got it too securely fastened.

No, he hasn’t, the cold voice said. Try again.

The boy did as he was told. The chain came free of whatever had been obstructing it, and he held the object up to the light.

It was a box; he could see tiny hinges where the lid met the base and, on the opposite side, a latch and a fastening. The workmanship was exquisite; even the boy, well travelled as he was, had seen nothing like it. Such detail! And so minute! And the way in which the faint light made the metal glow — as if it were lit from within — surely suggested that it was precious. Could it be — was it possible that it was — silver?

For quite a long time, he lay and stared at it, the shock of finding such an object hidden away in the dirty, threadbare garments of his master so great that it seemed to bring all thoughts to a standstill.

But the amazed reaction was short-lived.

Where did the old man get it? the boy began to wonder. And what’s he thinking of, carrying it with him on a journey such as we’ve just endured, when the least worrying possibility was that he’d lose it, and the most alarming that someone would have spotted it and killed him for it? Why, it was foolhardy to take the risk! Not only for him, but for me, too! No murdering thief stealing from the master would have left the servant alive to bear witness, that’s for sure!

His rage against his master was briefly so great that it blanked out everything else. For a short while he forgot where he was, what he was doing there, the very night around him.

When, in due course, he came back to himself, he realised that something was different.

The light had changed, for one thing. Was that what it was? The moon had risen, and was bathing the clearing outside the shelter in chilly silver.

The boy frowned in concentration. No, there was something else. .

Then he knew.

The noise, that annoying, sleep-interrupting noise, had stopped. The old man was no longer breathing.

Still clasping the box on its chain, the boy stared dispassionately down at his master. Should he call one of the monks? The old fellow could only just have stopped breathing. They could send for that big bossy nun who was in charge of the infirmary. She might be able to help. She could give the master some medicine, get those lungs working again.

Couldn’t she?

But the cold voice in his head said, no. Too late for that. Your master is dead.

‘Dead,’ the boy repeated in a soft whisper.

Nobody knows about this, he thought, tightening his fist around the metal box in his hand. It was heavy, he noticed; he shook it to see if it would rattle, which would imply there was something inside it, but it made no sound. And he had been promised a silver coin, which he surely would not be getting now that his master was dead.

For who was there to give it?

Another thought struck him, a dreadful thought that made him shake with fear. They’ll say I did it! They’ll say I finished him off! They’ll say I should have taken better care of him, fetched someone when he had that awful coughing fit earlier!

Wanting to moan but afraid to wake the other people in the shelter, the boy stuffed his ragged cuff into his mouth.

Get away from here, the cold voice advised. Put some distance between you and this scene of death. The monks and the nuns don’t know who you are or where you come from, do they? To them you’re just a servant, nameless, unimportant. They’ll never find you. They probably won’t even bother to look for you. Run, now, while you’ve got the chance. Morning is far off; you can be miles away by the time they find out the old man’s dead.

He thought hard, chewing at his sleeve. It was good advice. Wasn’t it?

All his short life he had been used to doing what he was told. To be forced to make a decision for himself was a unique experience.

Which, perhaps, excused its being such a poor one.

Without another glance at his dead master, he stood up, silently rolled his few possessions into a compact bundle and stuffed it inside his cloak and, with the box on the chain still held tight in his hand, tiptoed out of the shelter.

He stepped cautiously and lightly along the path until he was a good distance away from the small knot of buildings in the Vale. Then he hitched up his robe and ran.