Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (77 page)

He reached toward his chest, hand tugging at a leather thong. Pamela pulled it out from under his bloody shirt carefully. At the end of the thong was a small pouch and the man indicated that she should open it.

Inside was a ring. The same ring he had drawn on every one of his notes. She looked down at it, a cold fear stirring deep inside. The ring looked familiar, but not just from the notes, from somewhere else. A memory only half held, or half seen.

“He wants you to take it,” Jamie said quietly, eyes intent on the man’s face. As soon as Jamie uttered the words, the man closed his eyes, relaxing visibly. Pamela nodded, tucking it away in her pocket, frustrated that the man could not tell her what had made this ring worth nearly dying for.

“Go now,” Jamie said, “he’s passed out again.” He gave her a small push in the direction of the road and she went, still slightly dazed and not entirely certain Jamie believed what he was saying about the men being well gone from the area.

A bit of autumn fog might have been nice she thought, creeping up to the road. The night however was cold and uncommonly clear. Visibility was remarkable, a fact that served her well, but would also serve the murderers from the barn.

She checked the pale ribbon of road that ran between the hedgerows. It stretched empty and silent on each side of her. Still she darted quickly across it onto the faint path on the other side. The ground was so hard with frost that her footsteps echoed loudly, startling her and making her look round with her heart in her mouth.

The boat was exactly where Jamie had said, tethered to the thin trunk of a young willow and bobbing lightly upon the skin of the lake. The thickly wooded island was no more than a hulk upon the water and from the perspective of her aching arms and shoulders, a vast distance off.

Here the night was very still and silent, so that her slightest movement or even the echo of her breathing seemed to carry a great distance. She untied the boat and pushed it out into the water, following it several steps before getting in and grabbing the oars from where they were tidily stowed in the flat bottom.

After that there was only the hiss of the marsh grasses against the boat as it passed over them toward deeper water, the dip of the oars and the occasional eerie cry of a night bird.

She soon found a cadence to her rowing, and set a swift pace despite the trembling that had seized her muscles. The island loomed larger and larger as the shore slipped further behind. As she moved closer she could see, here and there, the bobbing of lights like fireflies amid the trees. Did the monks have someone who watched for travelers on the lake?

The fireflies soon gathered in a narrow-throated clearing between the trees, which must be where the boat docked. She shifted her direction to the east so she would land where the lights had clustered and rowed with a strength fuelled by relief that help was near at hand.

And then she felt it—the low wrench deep inside that doubled her over the oars.

“Oh God, please no,” she said, pulling hard at the oars in an effort to make the island’s shore before it got much worse. But she felt the hot rush of blood between her thighs and knew it was too late.

A soft mist was encroaching on the edges of her vision, threatening unconsciousness. She gave two more pulls on the oars and then felt the soft scrape of earth against the boat’s hull.

Several men stood in a cluster, a few with lanterns aloft. The mist was getting thicker and the faces before her were a blur. Out of the haze, though, a hand emerged toward her. She took it gratefully, stumbling with unsteady feet onto the shore. Around her the monks’ voices buzzed like so many bees in a glade, but they sounded very distant, though she could feel firm dry hands grasp her own.

“Father O’Donnell—” she managed to gasp out, before being dropped to her knees by a wave of pain so vast it temporarily blinded her. Around her were exclamations of shock and murmurs of worry. Then a very no-nonsense, unmistakably Gallic voice cut through the fog.

“Back away, let me at
le jeune fille
. Stop clucking about like silly chickens, the child needs help.”

“She asked for Father O’Donnell,” a young voice said uncertainly.

“Then for heaven’s sake go and fetch him,” the Gallic tone replied with more than a grain of impatience.

A face swam into view out of the fog. A long nose and narrow lips gave it the appearance of a largish rat. Pamela blinked and the world receded back into fog.

“Help,” she said and promptly passed out.

BRUISED AND ABRADED IN BOTH BODY AND SPIRIT, Pamela awoke in a shaft of weak November sunlight. The events of the night before came to her in pieces. The fire, the hanged man, the plunge through the woods and her flight across the lake—here she turned resolutely away from her thoughts and put her hand to her belly. She didn’t need to really, she knew she was hollowed out, that there was no longer a child. But the touch was instinctive—to protect that which no longer existed.

“Jamie,” she croaked, throat painfully dry.

“He’s sleeping in the room next door,” said the Gallic tones she vaguely remembered from the night before.

“They found him—Father O’Donnell—”

“
Oui.
Brother O’Donnell realized something was dreadfully wrong when he saw you, and so a small group of the brethren went back across the lake, and scouted the woods near the road.”

“And the other man?”

The rat-like visage hovered into view. The resemblance to the rodent was unquestionable, but the eyes that sat above the drooping nose and thin lips were the warmest and most compassionate Pamela had ever seen. This must be the Brother Gilles Jamie had said was doctor in residence for the monastery.

His gaze assessed her swiftly. The shrewd observancy of the born physician sat comfortably on his features.

“I am sorry to say,
mam’selle,
that he died during the night. It was a quiet death, the damage he had suffered was too profound for man’s paltry medicine.”

Disappointment swamped her. Now there was no possibility of finding out what the man had wanted to tell her. The entire mission had been one of futility, and she had lost their child as a result. If Casey were ever to find out how reckless she’d been, he’d never forgive her. Which only added one more item to the list of things he’d find impossible to forgive.

“What time is it? Is Jamie alright?” she asked, attempting to sit up. It was like a heavy black blanket had been thrown over her head, though, and she collapsed back against the pillows immediately.

“
Mam’selle,
” the voice was gently chiding, “you are still very weak, you lost a great deal of blood. You must lay back and try to rest. James is fine, a little scratched and bruised and his collarbone—which I mended twice myself,” here there was an impatient cluck of the tongue, “when he was a boy—is cracked, but otherwise he is fine. He stayed with you until morning. It is late afternoon now.”

One of the warm dry hands was laid across her forehead. “No fever. That is good.” The hand was joined by its companion and moved down to her neck, feeling the glands under her chin.

“Do you wish to ask of the child?”

She shut her eyes and shook her head, “I already know, I could feel the blood while I was still in the boat and then—” she stopped, throat aching with tears. “No, please I—”

The hands stilled on her neck. “Do not agitate yourself. We will not speak of it just now. I will have to check you, though, do you think you might manage that?”

She nodded dully, there was always this after the blood, checking the body over to make sure the bleeding wasn’t worse than it should be, that the emptied womb was shrinking back to its non-pregnant size and consistency.

His hands were strong and efficient, yet gentle. The broad blunt fingers probed above pelvic bone and he nodded to himself, face wearing the inward look of a man who saw the body’s structures as clearly with his hands as he would have on a chart. She winced as the hands outlined the edges of her uterus.

“Does it pain?” he asked.

“No, at least not in the sense you mean. It just feels,” she took a shaky breath, “empty.”

He nodded. “It is retracting well, but of course the emptiness you speak of is not a physical symptom.”

He drew the sheet up over her and turned toward the counter where he began to take down a variety of bottles and deposit a little from each in a small bowl. When he turned back, his hands glimmered with pale gold oil.

“It’s a mix especially prepared for miscarriages,” he said. “Geranium, frankincense, grapefruit, and Roman Chamomile. It will take the edge from your nerves, and help you rest. Later, if you need it, I’ll give you a sedative. Rest is most important.”

The smell was heady but soothing. Exhaustion made her drowsy, but it was a surface coating, underneath which lay a bone-deep grief that was like a sore tooth; if she so much as touched it the pain would be electric and consuming.

She watched the monk from beneath half-shuttered eyelids. His touch was impersonal yet comforting; it was a talent found only in those who were born healers. He was no stranger to pregnant women either. It seemed an odd thing that a man who was sworn to celibacy would tend to issues of childbearing. There was about him, though, something suggestive of a man who’d seen much more of life than this little island.

“Have you been here many years?” she asked.

“Eighteen. I was new here when Brother O’Donnell brought James the first time. Before that, though, I was an obstetrician with a thriving practice in Paris. I had a wife, two healthy sons, a good life by any measure. I loved my family, loved my work, and then one night my wife and sons were coming back from Lyon—where my wife’s family lived—and they were hit by a large truck and killed instantly. I lost faith for a time. Then one day I realized that any happiness we might achieve here in this world was a fleeting thing, and it would never come with guarantees. So I devoted the rest of my life to things beyond this existence. I work and live here, but I visit the nearby villages that are too small to have their own doctor and I do what I can for the people.” He shrugged, a purely Gallic gesture that held a wealth of unspoken words. “It is enough.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “about your family.”

The brown eyes met her own. “I too am sorry—that I could not help you.”

“Was it the fall?”

“No mam’selle,” he said, confirming her own suspicions, “the fall only hastened the inevitable. The placenta was insufficient and the child could not have been brought to term. How far along were you?”

“Almost six months,” she said.

“The baby was
petite
.” He indicated with his hands a length no more than a tiny doll.

“Was it a boy or a girl?” she asked, not wanting to know, and yet having to at the same time.

“A girl.” The brown eyes regarded her gently, “You must not think it was anything you did. A month at most and then the pregnancy would have ended regardless. Now,” he wiped his hands on a flannel cloth, “you must try to rest. Though perhaps a little company would be welcome first?”

She nodded, knowing he meant Jamie.

“The Brothers are preparing a room for you that will be more comfortable than this one. I’ll be back to check on you in a few hours.”

With a soft swish of his robes he was gone, the rich fragrance of frankincense lingering in the air behind him.

She took in her surroundings with a tired curiosity. The bed on which she lay was enormous, low, and as wide as it was long. It looked as though it had been brought back from the Crusades by a crew of sturdy knights. It took up an entire corner of the room. The room itself wasn’t large, but it was bright despite the stone walls. It had been brought into the modern age with tall windows through which the pale autumn sunshine now fell in elongated rectangles. The stone had been whitewashed recently from the look of it. Long counters ran along the back wall of the room and down one side. There were a couple of covered trays of surgical instruments and a tidy cluster of mortars and pestles. The warm dusty smell of herbs permeated the air.

Shelving rose above the counters all the way to the ceiling. Upon them, glittering like ground jewels, were bottles and jars. The tall bottles had cut glass stoppers and were filled with dried herbs, some with the plants suspended in oils, some with bright powders, others with a variety of elixirs—teas and tisanes, unguents and salves. Squat jars that resembled toads with wide open mouths held more exotic substances—small, powdery balls, strips of bark, dark viscous strings of plant root, clumps of mosses, a wide variety of funguses, and even small acorns suspended within a slimy green substance.

Each jar and bottle was adorned with a plain white label on which, written in a spare, tidy hand, were both the Latin and English names of the plants. Thus chamomile was also
anthemis nobilis
and mugwort was
artemesia vulgaris
. A glutinous mass of what appeared to be frogs eggs in a yellowish liquid, bore the rather illustrious name of
oculus de lacerta.
Someone had a dark sense of humor, or at least she hoped someone did.