Free The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery by Sharan Newman Page B

some errand for the prior?” the infirmarian suggested. “The porter at Saint Pierre thought Prior Stephen shouldn’t be disturbed so late but we can ask him in the morning.”
    “But Victor will be awake by then, surely,” James said. “He can tell us himself. Isn’t that true?”
    He looked up at the infirmarian, who bit his lip in worry.
    “I’ve done all I can,” he said. “It’s little enough, a compress of herbs to reduce the swelling and draw out any poison from the wound. There is blood in the white of his eyes. I fear that it indicates an excess of malevolent humors pressing against the inside of his skull.”
    “Can’t you stop it?” James asked. He had an image of Brother Victor’s head expanding like a pig bladder until it exploded.
    The monk rubbed his hands. “I’ve heard that trepanning might release the noxious fumes building up and reduce the pressure, but I’ve never done it, nor am I allowed to take a knife to another human being. You know that.”
    “But there must be a doctor in Toulouse who isn’t a cleric!” James persisted.
    “Yes,” the infirmarian said slowly. “The best one is Master Mosse. His home isn’t far from here.
    “Mosse,” James repeated. “A Jew.”
    “He’s a very good physician,” the infirmarian said. “Last year he cauterized our sacristan’s hemorrhoids with hardly any pain, he said. Brother Ugo can’t praise him enough.”
    James clenched his teeth. “Are you certain that cutting a hole in Brother Victor’s skull will save him?”
    “No, I’m only certain that, if it isn’t done, he’ll die,” the monk answered simply. “Barring a miracle, of course,” he added.
    Brother James bent over Victor. His breathing was so faint that James could barely hear it. His face was calm and empty, as if his soul had already departed.
    “There must be another way,” James muttered. “God would not deliver me to my enemies now.”
    “What was that?” The infirmarian came closer. “Do you want me to send for Mosse?”
    “No,” James answered. “Not yet. I will sit with Victor, to watch and pray. When the prior comes, he must decide.”
    The infirmarian looked doubtful but Brother James seemed adamant. And perhaps, the monk considered, it was better to pray for a miracle than to seek the help of an infidel. Although, he reflected, Brother Ugo had been glad that, when prayers failed, Master Mosse had been there to relieve his suffering.
    James knelt by the bed, his eyes riveted on the cross hanging above it.
    “Please, Lord, if this is a test of my resolve, don’t let Victor be the price,” he begged. “He’s all I have!”
    God mustn’t let Victor die. Not when James needed him so much. Victor’s faith was clear and pure. He was beyond being a good Christian. He was simply a good man. James had spent the first half of his life trying to decipher the word of the Lord, to find the hidden message that would make sense of this world. He had spent the second half in rejection of that search, trying instead to open his heart to God’s will and accept it without question.
    He feared this would end in failure, as well.
    There were preachers in Provence these days, illegal of course and undoubtedly heretical, who said that all flesh was created by Satan and the greatest blessing one could ask would be to be freed from it and allow the spirit to return to the Creator. That was wrong; it had to be. And yet…
    James pressed his fingers hard against his forehead and cheeks, trying to force out the momentary doubt. Over and over, he repeated the Credo. “I believe in God the Father and in his only son, Jesus Christ, I believe in…Dear Lord, please save Brother Victor. If You do not, I shall still believe but, if You do, then I can be sure.”
    He prayed unceasingly through the night but to no avail. Sometime between Matins and Lauds, well before dawn, Brother Victor’s spirit slipped away.
     
     
    Solomon woke to the shouts of the twins as they came