James Forrester - Final Sacrament

Inside, it had been nearly dark. Outside, however, there was light from the last traces of the sunset in the west. She walked across the muddy path to the main cobbled lane running through the outer ward and over to the gatehouse on the landward side. The huge tower and defensive walls of the medieval castle were still menacing despite the passage of centuries. A seagull perched on the battlements, surveying the scene before taking wing and flying out over the bay.

Passing under the gatehouse, Rebecca decided to walk the longer way home. Widow Baker was away and unlikely to return until after Christmas; there was no need to rush. Turning left, she wandered along the shore, just feet away from the castle wall, listening to the gentle lapping of the water. There were several ships in the bay and she thought of the men aboard those vessels. How many of her old patients had gone on to see the world? How many had fallen prey to diseases in a hot climate, or been washed off deck in a storm? How many would grow old? Precious few, she knew that. As long as men went to sea, they faced the likelihood of a violent end and a watery grave.

A cold breeze blew off the water. She heard footsteps on the shingle behind her and turned to see it was Mr. Wheatsheafen. He was heaving his portly frame along at quite a rapid pace to catch up with her. “Rebecca,” he panted, “it occurred to me that I should not let you go home alone to a cold cottage, not on Christmas Eve. Come and sup with me and my wife. We would be glad to entertain you.”

“That is indeed kind of you, Mr. Wheatsheafen, but I do not want to put your good wife to any trouble. Besides, I have my own supper prepared at the cottage.”

“Perhaps tomorrow then, after we’ve seen to the patients?”

She pulled the cloak tighter and smiled. “Yes, tomorrow.” She walked with him slowly, as he caught his breath. “Do you think that the bonesetter will really be able to fix that leg? It is broken so badly. And the way he was injured-it reminded me of that man who died here after he was similarly crushed.”

“He’s young and looks strong. He’ll cope with the pain. You’ve taken a shine to him, then?”

“As I do with almost all the young men who come here and are subject to our ministrations.”

“You should train to be a surgeon. The Church grants licenses to women as well as men. I hear there’s a woman of Bodmin about to be examined-and my source in Exeter tells me that she is the equal of any man. You could do the same. You have the skill and you care.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Wheatsheafen. You exaggerate my skills and my aptitude. And I know full well that I could not make a surgeon. I am not like you. It is the people that move me, not their sicknesses.”

Wheatsheafen smiled. “You do me a disservice, Rebecca. I care very much for my patients. But you are right in a sense. You have to love the understanding of how God orders the body, and a good physician will always put that first before any single patient. You know how a gambler loves to gamble, regardless of whether he wins or loses; it is the same with a good physician. He loves to be the instrument of God’s mercy, regardless of how God eventually determines the fate of the patient.”

Rebecca looked across the wide bay, with the sky darkening. “I do not much care what is wrong with these men. I just want to make them better, to give them some hope.” She walked on a little way.

“There’s a special dish I am planning to bring in tomorrow, for the Christmas dinner. I bought some cured fish not long ago, and with eggs beaten and fried, it is particularly good.”

“You know the way to the men’s hearts,” commented Wheatsheafen, then he looked up. “It’s getting dark. I’ll walk with you to the crossroads.”

Five minutes later, Rebecca said good-bye to Mr. Wheatsheafen. He ambled off to his house; Rebecca wandered to hers. She felt for the key to the cottage in the pocket of her kirtle and had it to hand as she approached. It was almost dark now; as soon as she was indoors she would have to light the fire. There was tinder by the back door, some dried lichen on the shelf by the hearth.

She reached out, placed the key in the lock, and turned it, feeling the familiar resistance of the levers. It caught, as it so often did, and she wriggled it slightly, finding the angle that would allow the lock to open. The door swung into the dark interior and she entered, leaving it open so she could see the outline of her way across the hall to the back door and the tinder box.

In the dimness, she did not see John the Egyptian before she felt him grab her from the left. He threw her onto the floor, falling on top of her. Rebecca shrieked as she fell, and hit the ground hard, landing on her back. The breath knocked out of her, she scrabbled in panic in the darkness to get to her feet. Gasping, she tried to scream but he held his hand over her mouth. She felt his weight on her and raised her knee to push him off-but then the knife was driven into her abdomen. At first it felt like a thin spike but it kept entering her, opening her up, and with every fraction of an inch that it moved into her, the pain increased tenfold. Swirling in her own fear, she felt the man tear the knife out of her and plunge it into her with a second agony. He stabbed down a third time, toward her heart but hit the bone. The knife entered her a fourth time, again striking her bone. She thought of the pain of the man she had tended that afternoon, who had grimaced and cried as she had turned his leg. A greater pain was overwhelming her-a whale about to swallow her, Jonah-like. All the pains she had ever caused were overwhelming her now. She yearned for someone to take them away. She saw Mr. Wheatsheafen hurrying along the shoreline, Widow Baker lighting the fire, and a huge hall of patients-thousands of them in a hospital ward that seemed to go on forever. Then she looked at one of the beds and saw her first child lying dead there, and in the next two beds were her next two children, both dead. Nearby she saw her late husband, Henry, crouched over his manuscript in the light of a candle. And behind her she sensed Clarenceux, standing with his hand on her shoulder. She turned and tried to embrace him, but then there was only the cold ground there.

When the knife entered her a fifth time-how much later she could not tell-she was expecting it. She recalled lying in bed, in childhood, feeling sick and being looked after by her mother. There was bright morning light coming in the window, and all she had to do that day was keep warm. She could hear her mother in the hall singing to herself. The breeze moved a cobweb in the window of the chamber, just inside the open shutter: it entranced her, sending images of dancing angels of light shimmering into the room. It was a perfect moment in a beautiful world, even though she was unwell. She felt no hatred for the man who was now bringing her life to a close. She had no wish even to think about him in these last few instants. There were more wonderful things-light, beauty, kindness. Such a man did not belong in her world anymore. She refused to allow him to follow her.

Then, sadly, she said good-bye to the light, to the world, to her heart, and to everything she had ever known.

Christmas Day, Wednesday, December 25

Awdrey had been up late the previous evening decorating the hall. The tops of the walls were all woven with strands of ivy and mistletoe, which she had bought from a street vendor the day before. Each door was arched with sprigs of holly and juniper. In the morning the girls had been delighted with the scene; they quickly learned that the holly was sharp, so had taken to walking through the doors very slowly and carefully so as to avoid the prickles. They had seen the table laid with a pristine white cloth and laden with a ham, marchpanes, and pewter plates, ready for the feast, and they had complained bitterly when they realized their father was not going to allow them to breakfast at all, let alone on this feast, before taking them to church. But they had both submitted. Mildred had stomped her feet and sulked for a minute before her sister told her that there were mince pies and capon in the kitchen, as well as beef and mustard. Annie had laughed at the way the younger girl’s eyes had opened wide.