Thirty-seven

“No, I should help,” Selden told him, but the man simply repeated, “Check on the boy, Pater.”

“Yes, and there’s Geoffrey, too, with his head smashed. Thank you. I’ll leave you then.”

“Blessings, Pater.”

“Blessings.”

Selden entered the home where they had carried Rian, shouting his entrance and touching the lintel.

Rian was placed on the family’s table, a sturdy enough thing to hold the boy. He was naked and still being cleaned. Granny fussed about more hot water. She demanded more cloth. The matron of the house held the apron to Rian’s side. Wilfred sat in a corner on the one chair, looking alarmed and frightened and wanting to help, Selden knew.

Wilfred stood when the priest entered the room, but Selden motioned for him to sit. It was best that he stay out of the way. Even Selden himself might be a hindrance, but he wanted to see that the healall was sound in what she practiced. And Geoffrey could wait. He had the young woman to look after him.

Rian was man enough, but pale as death. His limbs still had the lanky look of a boy. Rian hadn’t grown into them yet. He hadn’t even the hint of a beard.

Selden felt Rian’s confusion. His eyes were open to the thatch above him and he heard the impossibly quiet movements of a family of mice who lived in the roof. He winced with any movement, and Granny wasn’t gentle as much as swift. The matron pushed tight against his side and murmured a charm, time after time. Rian heard her singsong, heard the sweep of a mouse’s tail.