“John,” Madeleine’s voice was low and hard, like a volcano’s last rumbles before it explodes. “John, he is our son; he is hurt. We have to take care of him.”
“No!” The word came out almost as a scream. “I will not be thwarted!” John turned around and began dragging Thomas down the hall again. “I will not!”
“Please!” Madeleine grabbed at his sleeves and was shoved aside. “He is our son!”
“He is nothing!” They reached the back door and John Flarety kicked it open.
“He is our son!”
“He is
nothing
!” He shifted his grip to the front of Thomas’s shirt. “You hear me, boy? You are nothing here! Not my blood! Not my son! I cast you out!”
He shoved, hard, and Thomas went sprawling down the steps into the dirt. All the night’s hurts flared up into new pain. “Get off my property, boy!” John Flarety yelled, “Or I’ll have Bluster lock you in the tower for the magistrate!”
The door slammed, leaving Thomas in the dark. He heard his mother yell something, but couldn’t make out the words. Even through the door, though, he could clearly hear the slap that followed and his mother’s cry of shock and pain. Fear for her gave Thomas the strength to push himself to his feet and back to the door. He pounded on it and shouted, his voice hoarse with pain and tears.
From somewhere inside, he heard the bishop’s voice.
Fear overtook Thomas. He cursed himself for a coward even as he stumbled away to crawl over the fence and be swallowed by the dark woods on the other side.
Chapter 7
It was very, very late when Thomas reached the smith’s doorstep.
He had no idea how long the journey through the woods had taken. Every second step had ended in a stub, or a trip, or a stumble that turned the dull aches of his body into sharp, jarring pains. He fell several times, and each time a darkness that could have been momentary or hours long claimed him. He had desperately wanted to give in; to find a hollow in the earth and sleep. Fear kept moving him forward. Fear of what his father had done to his mother. Fear of the bishop and those bravos who beat him. Fear, most of all, that he was hurt inside as well as out, and that falling asleep would mean not waking up again.
Dark windows gazed down on him as he stumbled to the smith’s door. No sound came from inside. The family was still at the fire, along with most of the village. Thomas leaned against the wall of the house and wished he had never left; that he was still standing beside the bonfire, watching people jump and getting shouted at by Lionel.
The house hadn’t been locked earlier, and he knew it wouldn’t be locked now. He could go inside and wait, but after the scene at the fire he wasn’t sure if he was welcome anymore and getting tossed out of two houses would be more than he could bear this night. He turned his back to the door, leaned on it, and sank down on the step. He would wait and beg Lionel’s forgiveness. If the man still wanted to kill him, fine. At least he’d die among friends.
It was almost funny.
***
“Thomas? Thomas!”
The voice was a near-scream. It pierced through Thomas’s sleep and left his head aching. He tried to force his eyes open. The lids would only go half-way, and the effort of doing that was almost enough to make him go back to sleep. He fought off the urge and blinked a few times to try to clear his vision.
The sun was soon to rise, he was sure, but it hadn’t broken the horizon yet. The sky was the colour of cold steel and the early morning air chill on his skin. Someone was running towards him, but he couldn’t quite see far enough to be sure who it was.
He blinked again, and when he opened his eyes Eileen was falling to her knees beside him. George was a few steps behind, and looked horrified. Magda and Lionel were coming quickly behind, shock plain on both their faces.
I must look terrible,
Thomas thought. He could feel the blood, dried on his skin and his shirt. He ached from head to foot. His nose throbbed and his ribs stabbed at him every time he breathed.
Eileen reached out for him then pulled her hand back, unsure of what to do. “Thomas.” Her voice broke as she spoke. “Who did this?”
“Eileen, move,” snapped Magda. Eileen backed away. For a terrible second, Thomas thought that Magda was going to order him away. Instead, she turned to her husband. “Get him inside.”
To Thomas’s everlasting gratitude, Lionel didn’t say a word. He just picked Thomas up like a child and carried him, gently and easily, into the kitchen.
“Get the fire started,” Magda ordered, and Eileen hurried to the hearth. Lionel placed Thomas in his own chair, and began opening his shirt. Thomas hissed in pain. Lionel stopped and looked at Thomas’s body. He whistled, low and quiet, his eyebrows coming together and worry plain on his face. Thomas looked down and saw the red and purple bruises that covered his ribs.
Magda took his chin in her hand and raised his head. She had a mug in her other hand and held it out. Thomas raised an arm to take it. She gently pushed his hand aside and stroked his hair back out of the way before holding the mug to Thomas’s lips. He swallowed greedily, thinking it was water. The whiskey burnt its way down his throat, sending him into a coughing fit. Pain knifed through his ribs, doubling him over. Lionel held him until the spasm passed.
“His nose is broken,” said Lionel. “He probably couldn’t smell it.”
Magda nodded. She put her hand on the back of Thomas’s head once more and held the mug to his lips again. This time, ready for it, he managed to get the whiskey down.
“Thank you,” Thomas said. His voice was heavy and nasal, and there was a painful pressure in his head.
“George,” Magda’s voice was harsh, the words clipped. “Go to the nuns. Tell them Thomas has been injured, and we need their help. Now.”
Thomas heard George’s footsteps, hard and fast, and the door slamming closed behind him. “I’m going to get some water,” said Magda. She turned and walked out the back door, grabbing the bucket with an angry snap of her hand as she passed.
Lionel started once more to peel the torn, stained shirt off of Thomas, moving slowly to keep from hurting him too much. By the time he was done, Eileen had the fire going, and Magda was coming back in with the bucket of water.
“Let me,” said Eileen, rising from the fire. She grabbed a bowl from a shelf, and a cloth from the counter. Magda took the bowl, dipped it in the bucket to fill it, then handed it back. Eileen wet the cloth then gently began cleaning Thomas’s face. The water was cold and the feeling of it sent shivers through him, and he could feel the tremor in her hand. She wiped at his face, loosening the caked-on blood. He tried to smile at her, but just then she touched his nose. A bolt of lightning went off in his brain. He yelped and pulled his head away, the movement sending pain shooting through his skull and turning the yelp to a moan.
Eileen recoiled, yanking her hands back to her chest “I’m sorry, Thomas!” Tears welled up in her wide eyes and her lips began to tremble. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Her mother shushed her gently, and Thomas nodded his acceptance of her apology until he could find his voice. “It’s all right,” he said at last. “Truly, it’s all right.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right,” Thomas repeated, leaning back in the chair again.
“Oh, Thomas.” Eileen was crying hard now and shaking. “What happened?”
Thomas opened his mouth to tell her and realized that he had no idea how to explain it all. The bruises and the blood were real enough, and his memory of how he got them was as vivid as the pain he felt, but he could not understand
why.
There was no question in Thomas’s mind that the bishop had some kind of magic; no question that he was controlling Thomas’s father or that he had tried to control Lionel at the Fire. But why? What could the man possibly be hoping to gain out of it?
And what did he mean by “give it to me?”
Thomas wondered, feeling the ache deep in his chest.
Why did he want part of my soul?
Eileen was still looking at him, still waiting. He couldn’t tell her about the magic; couldn’t tell anyone. They’d think he was insane.
“I had a disagreement,” Thomas said at last. “With my father.”
“John?” Magda’s voice was filled with disbelief. “He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”
“He did.” Thomas heard his voice shaking, and tried to steady it. “That is, someone did it for him.”
There was a long moment’s silence. Lionel’s face grew dark with anger, his expression becoming very similar to the one he’d had the night before. Thomas was wondering how he’d ever managed to stand up to the man. Lionel turned
on his heel and headed for the front door. “Oh no you don’t!” said Magda, stepping in front of him. “Nothing good would come of it.” “Nothing good will come of
that,
either,” Lionel snapped, pointing at Thomas’s face. He made to step around her, but Magda blocked his way.
“Pity you didn’t think of that last night when you were ready to do the same,” Magda snapped back. Lionel swelled up, his face growing even darker. Thomas could see Eileen shrinking back, and braced himself for an explosion. Magda was easily as furious as her husband, though, and was obviously in no mood to back down. She stayed where she was, eyes fixed on Lionel, waiting.
Lionel let out a long, slow breath. His body deflated and the red in his face lightened a shade. He took in another breath, let it out. By the third his face had almost returned to his normal colour. “Aye,” he said quietly, shame in his voice. “Aye. You’re right.”
“I am,” said Magda, her own tone lightening just a bit. “Now fetch some more wood for the fire, and we’ll wait for the nuns.”
Lionel nodded and headed out the back door. Magda sighed, then looked at Eileen. “Standing there crying won’t help anything,” she scolded, though her voice was gentle. “Help Thomas get cleaned up. And mind his nose.”
Eileen wiped the tears from her face, then bent herself to the task.
It took a long time before she had wiped the last of the blood from his face, and longer still for the nuns to come. Magda brewed up tea in the meantime and made Thomas drink some. Between it and the whiskey Thomas was more than ready to fall asleep by the time George returned with Sister Brigit and Sister Clare in tow.
Sister Clare, explained Eileen as the nun pushed her aside and started examining Thomas, was the town’s healer. Sister Clare grunted an assent while poking and prodding at Thomas and making all his aches come newly alive. Sister Brigit left her to it and turned her attention to Lionel, laying into the man with the sharp edge of her tongue. No matter what Thomas had done, she said several different ways and in no uncertain terms, it was certainly no excuse for Lionel to go and do
this
.
Lionel waited until she stopped for breath then explained. Sister Brigit ‘humphed’ and promised to have a talk with Thomas’s mother at once. Sister Clare finished her examination of Thomas’s face and ribs then demanded to know where else it hurt. Thomas remembered the two kicks he’d suffered the night before, but saw Eileen anxiously awaiting his answer and decided that there was no way he was going to mention them. He shook his head.
Sister Clare grunted again, then turned to Lionel and Magda. “No permanent damage,” was her verdict. “Two black eyes and bruised ribs, and that nose is going to have to be straightened.”
“Straightened?” repeated Thomas. He reached up and touched his nose for the first time. It was lopsided. Badly so, in fact, and the pressure that was building up behind it showed no signs of going down.
“Aye, straightened,” said Sister Clare. “Else you’ll never breathe out of it again.”
“Thought as much,” said Lionel. “I’ll take care of it.”
Thomas’s eyes widened in horror and he was about to protest, but Sister Clare beat him to it. “Now it’s not something just anyone can do, you know.”
“I do know,” said Lionel, pointing at his own, oft-broken nose. “I’ve done it a dozen times, and the stronger the pull, the less it hurts.”
Sister Clare looked dubious, but allowed that Lionel was right. After a few more words, and thanks from the entire family, Magda saw the nuns to the door. Once they were gone, Lionel sent George for more water from the well. When George brought it, Lionel soaked the cloth with it and made Thomas hold it against his face.
Thomas pushed the towel as firmly against his nose as he could manage, desperately wishing it was winter so he could rub his face in the snow until no feeling was left.
“Well, lad,” said Lionel after the third application of the towel. “Are you ready?”
No
, thought Thomas, but he took a deep breath through his mouth and nodded.
Magda took the towel. Lionel put one hand against Thomas’s chest to hold him in place, then reached out and placed a bent finger gently on either side of Thomas’s nose. Thomas winced. The man began squeezing his fingers together. Thomas closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe as the pain began to get worse and worse.
The smith suddenly squeezed hard and
pulled.
Thomas yelled out and tried to pull away. A moment later he was free and the wet towel was being pressed to his face. Thomas, eyes still shut, grabbed at it and used it to staunch the new flow of blood coming from his nose. The pressure in his head was easing, draining away with the blood. Thomas opened his eyes to see Lionel still standing in front of him, looking rather pleased with himself.
“I think you enjoyed that,” said Thomas, his voice muffled behind the bloody cloth.
“Not in the…” Lionel stopped his protest in the middle and for a moment said nothing. When he spoke again his tone was stern. “Aye, I did, actually,” he said. “You scared the life out of me, boy. You and her, jumping the fire like a pair of fools. You could have killed her.”
Thomas didn’t apologize. Their jump had distracted the bishop long enough for Timothy to escape. He couldn’t be sorry for that. Still, he remembered the look on Lionel’s face the night before; the fear and the anger that were running through him even before the bishop had started talking. For that, he could apologize. “I am sorry we frightened you.”
“Well, I’m not,” Eileen protested. “I was going to jump the flames at their height anyway. Thomas just made it more exciting.”