Free Child of the May by Theresa Tomlinson Page B

digging latrines; it was better than digging graves!
    Three more died, though at least their pain was soothed by Marian’s sleeping draughts. At last, when six days had passed, those who could walk began to leave the clearing and Eleanor insisted that Marian sleep. When she woke Robert was gone, his place by the hearth taken by Fetcher. Magda and Joanna sat beside him gloomily, pulling at his ears.
    “Now he’s gone . . . she’ll be miserable for days,” Magda whispered, nodding her head in Marian’s direction.
    “Shall I follow and track him down?” John asked.
    But Marian shook her head. “It will take time for us all to struggle through this disaster.”
    James came and settled himself beside the two girls. “Now the lads are mending, let’s have a look at this dog of yours.”
    He gently pressed his fingers into Fetcher’s mutilated paw while Joanna watched anxiously.
    “It’s healing well,” he murmured.
    “Will he walk again, do you think?”
    “Oh aye, he’ll walk. He’ll do more than that, with the right training. He’ll make as fine a bodyguard as any lass could want.”
    “Would you help me, sir?” Joanna begged.
    James smiled. “Certainly I will. We’ll have him lolloping about in no time.”
    In the weeks that followed, James set to training Fetcher as though his life depended on it. Each day he went out into the woods with the two girls, tempting the dog on to his feet with meat scraps, till at last Fetcher could run from one to the other with a strange lopsided gait. His muscles grew hard and strong, his coat glossy, and they progressed to slinging bones and straw-stuffed sacks for him to fetch.
    John stayed in the clearing and Magda was pleased to have her father by her side.
    On a hot afternoon towards the end of August they were lazily sitting in the sun outside the hut when they heard the sound of hooves. As always they sprang to their feet and melted into the lower branches of the yew trees.
    “One horse,” whispered John, “though a big ’un, I’d guess. Seems to stamp four times, then stops.” Suddenly John was laughing. “Tom! That’s his signal, though I’ve never heard it done on horseback.”
    They came out from their hiding places wondering how Tom had got himself a horse. There was only a moment to wait before he came trotting into the clearing astride a fine grey stallion.
    “I have the oil,” he shouted. “I have the oil and more besides.”
    “Well!” John laughed. “At least one of us has done summat right.”
    Everyone cheered and gathered round, patting the horse and touching its good halter and bridle with amazement.
    “Good quality gear, is this,” said James. “The best.”
    “You’ve taken so long,” Magda cried. “I thought you were dead in some ditch.”
    “Not me.” Tom laughed, sliding down from the saddle and kissing her. “Walter of Stainthorpe was not with the Templars at Newhouse. I had to travel on to the wastes of Bitterwood.”
    “Where’s this marvellous oil?” Marian asked.
    Tom patted a strong leather pouch fastened to his waist.
    He ate and drank with them, and was saddened to hear of Much. But despite this, he was also eager to be off to the Magdalen convent with his precious oil. “I’ve much to tell Mother Veronica,” he said. “I’ve done myself a lot of good, but I’ve sorry news for her.”
    “Oh dear,” said James. “Shall I come with you? Is her man dead?”
    “No,” said Tom. “Not dead, but maybe he wishes he was. He’s taken the leprosy himself. He grows aged and weak and his face is fearfully marked. He came back from Outremer with the seeds of sickness in him. That’s why he was not at the Temple Newhouse. He’s gone to live in a wild and lonely place with five other fighting monks, all suffering like himself.”
    “Now then,” Brother James sighed. “I believe I have heard of some such men. Do they call themselves the Knights of Saint Lazarus?”
    “That’s it,” said Tom. “They still