By Sylvian Hamilton Read Free

his
eyes snapped open.

    'Brother
Alfred!' Sylvestris grasped the sick man's hand fiercely. 'Alfred,
it's me. Sylvestris! Are you cured?'

    Brother
Alfred blinked, sneezed again, and stared fixedly at Brother
Sylvestris. A gush of blood erupted from his mouth. The eyes lost
their shine, the jaw sagged.

    'Oh,
bugger,' said Brother Witleof miserably. 'It didn't work. He's dead.'

    'Typical,'
muttered Sylvestris. 'Just like a bloody Saxon! After all we've done
for him.' He swung round in alarm as the hanging over the doorway was
jerked aside and someone entered. Sylvestris relaxed when he saw the
newcomer was only a lay brother.

    Brother
Arnold, whose face and grubby torn habit were bloodstained and from
whose nose blood ran freely, shrugged apologetically, dabbing at the
flow with a sodden handful of tow. 'What happened to you?' Witleof
asked.

    'A
bit of a disagreebet,' mumbled Arnold. 'It wote stop bleedig.'

    'Lie
down,' snapped Sylvestris. 'There's a pallet over in the corner.'

    'No,'
said Witleof. 'You should put a cold key down his back.' 'Or a
horseshoe,' offered Arnold helpfully. 'By old bub used to use a
horseshoe.'

    'Wait
a minute,' said Sylvestris. Til get the medicine cupboard key.
Brother,' he whispered urgently to Witleof, 'take the--that the
thing. Take it back, now, at once!'

    'Righto.'
Witleof took the girdle from the still breast of the infirmarian, and
at that moment Brother Arnold fainted clean away, falling against
Witleof who dropped the girdle and tried to support him, but the
larger man was too heavy and slid relentlessly to the flagstones.

    'Help
me get him on the bed,' Witleof gasped.

    Sylvestris
took the shoulders, Witleof the ankles, and between them they heaved
their unconscious brother on to the straw mattress.

    'Will
you get back to the chapel before they come for the girdle?'
Sylvestris straightened his habit and brushed at its skirts.

    'Take
it, and hurry'!'

    'I
am hurrying,' Witleof scowled. He groped on the floor where the
candlelight cast deep shadows until his hand closed on the relic.
Thrusting it into the bosom of his borrowed habit he disappeared
behind the door curtain. Sylvestris listened to his sandalled feet
clapping along the stone passage until the opening and closing of a
distant door cut off the sound.

    Brother
Arnold groaned and tried to sit up. Sylvestris pushed him down. 'Keep
still, do,' he said. Til get the key.' Blood from Arnold's nose
splashed on to the junior Infirmarian's sleeve and he pulled his arm
away, annoyed.

    'I
cart lie dowd like this,' Arnold objected, struggling up. 'I'll drowd
id by ode blood!'

    'Well,
sit up, then, tilt your head back and breathe through your mouth.
I'll get some ice, that'll stop the bleeding. And some water to clean
you up. You look like a battlefield.'

    Outside
in the stable yard he broke the ice in the horse trough and put some
pieces in a small sack. On his way back he filled a jug with water
from the butt in the passage outside the infirmary door, where the
water was doing its best to freeze and would succeed before long, the
surface pleating and wrinkling inwards from the edge.

    Sylvestris
pushed through the curtain again and surveyed his domain. There was
Brother Alfred's corpse, staring straight at him. With an exclamation
Sylvestris set the jug down and with icy aching fingers closed the
dead man's eyes. They popped open again as soon as he took his hand
away, 'Merde,' he muttered and closed the lids again, holding them
shut for some moments before letting go. This time they stayed shut.
Sylvestris turned from the bloody dead to the bleeding living, only
to find the pallet empty. Brother Arnold had gone. Turning back to
the corpse, Sylvestris saw that one eye had opened again, and Brother
Alfred appeared to be winking at him.

    Bells
chimed. Sandalled feet slapped on stone floors. A quiet rap at the
door was followed by a billowing gust of chill and the sacristan,
Brother Euphemius, wiping his red and swollen nose on