Free Bridle the Wind by Joan Aiken

whisper. ‘Also a pair of scissors. I will not open the door while you stand there.’
    Father Pierre looked at me a little anxiously at the request for scissors.
    â€˜You do not think he intends to do himself a mischief?’ he murmured.
    â€˜Why do you ask for scissors, Juan?’ I called.
    â€˜To cut my hair, idiot! Can one cut one’s hair without scissors?’
    Father Pierre smiled a wide grin of relief and beckoned me to follow him down.
    â€˜Nothing amiss with that one that can’t be mended!’ he remarked, taking out of a press the formidable pair of shears used for clipping the tonsures of novices when they took their final vows. ‘Imagine having so much spirit only half an hour after you were cut down from the gallows tree! Perhaps, after all, he will be able to wash himself well enough. Carry these clothes up to him, Felix my boy, while I put some herbs in the broth.’
    From a locker next to the one where my clothes and money belt were secured, he produced a pile of clean but old garments of various sorts and sizes.
    â€˜We keep them,’ he explained, ‘for the poor, or beggars, or the sick who come to be healed by Father Vespasian; once they belonged to patients who died in the infirmary,’ he added matter-of-factly. So, I thought, there have been others besides that poor woman’s baby whom Father Vespasian has not been able to heal, and I spoke part of my thought aloud. But Father Pierre gave me a reproving, somewhat alarmed look, gesturing with his finger to his lips and glancing at the open window. ‘God takes those whom He wishes to call to Paradise in His own good time,’ he admonished me, crossing himself; and he sorted out a canvas shirt, woollen waistcoat and breeches, all old, patched and darned, but clean. ‘There! Carry those to the lad, they should fit well enough.’
    Up aloft I found that the basin of warm waterhad been removed and the door fast closed again. I tapped on it with the scissors.
    â€˜Hola,
in there! I have brought you clothes and scissors.’
    â€˜I need some soap, also.’
    â€˜Soap? Who does the boy think he is,
le roi
Louis XVIII?’ grumbled Father Pierre, when, grinning, I returned to him with this message. However, he turned to a great earthenware pot and scooped out of it a lump of the soap which Father Manuel made from wood-ash and lard. ‘Here, then, take this to him; purity of the skin is doubtless a good step toward purity of the heart.’
    I ascended the stairs once more with the soft, clammy handful.
    â€˜Allo, allo,
Juan? I have brought you some soap.’
    â€˜Leave it outside the door!’
    â€˜How can I? It is as soft as cream, it will trickle away and be wasted.’
    â€˜Oh –!
Peste!
Wait, then, one minute.’
    Slowly the door opened a crack, and out came a small bony hand. I plastered the soft soap into its palm, then scraped my fingers against the thin wrist, so as not to waste any.
    â€˜Merci, mon ami,’
whispered the small hoarse voice, and the hand withdrew.
    â€˜De rien,’
I replied somewhat coldly as the door began to close again. I was, I must confess, a little provoked at being used with such suspicion by a person whose life I had just saved; and, my tone of voice evidently taking effect, I heard in a moment an even fainter whisper:
    â€˜Do not be offended. I have learned to trust
nobody
!’
    By this I was appeased. ‘Who could blame you?’ I called as the door clicked shut, and I went down to report this conversation to Father Pierre. He eyed me a moment, his red wrinkled brow knotted in thought, then said, ‘Since this poor waif trusts none of us, and since it was you who saved him, it may be best that you continue to tend him; under my supervision of course. I will ask Father Mathieu to excuse you from your garden duties, and you may work here for the time. Wait there and stir the broth. In between stirring, chop