I did light a lamp, eventually. I did look at the ankle, force myself to move the foot, wrap it in a length of linen to provide some relief. It was not broken. I fetched water and performed my ablutions, brushed the dust and soil from my hair. Distantly, I heard the household still awake, going about its business. Surely, now, he would send me away. How could he not send me away?

After a long, long time, there was a knock on the door, and it was Lady Anne.

“Margery wants to see you,” she said curtly. I followed her past the eyes of what seemed to be every member of the household, as they stood or sat in little, huddled groups, unable to rest, united in their grief and shock. I hobbled, and nobody offered assistance, though Lady Anne did wait for me on the stairs.

He was laid out in their own quarters, though soon he would be moved downstairs, and a vigil would be kept, with candles. It was quiet; so quiet. Didn’t these people know how to grieve for a good man? Didn’t they know how to weep, and scream with rage, and curse the powers of darkness in their sorrow? Didn’t they know how to hold one another, and dry one another’s tears, and tell tales of the things he had done, and of what he had been, to see him safe on his way? Where were the great fires, and the toasts in strong ale, and the scent of burning juniper?

John was dressed in a robe of soft gray, and his body was clean, but there was no way to hide the terrible bruises, or the damage to the bones of chest and pelvis. He had fought strongly, to hold on so long.

“Jenny,” said Margery. She had not wept. She looked remote, a shadow of herself. Her eyes were calm and empty. I wanted to put my arms around her, to hug her and cry with her, for she was my friend. But she put a space between us without saying a word. Ben was there, sitting against the wall, and at least he had a tankard of ale in his hands. Red stood in the shadows at the far end of the room. I supposed I was there for a reason. I supposed I was there because I had seen him die, and she wanted to know how it was with him. Without words, this was a daunting task.

John—speak—you. My hands were shaking; I could hardly bear her blank, expressionless stare. She gave no sign of understanding.

John—tells me—you, the baby.

“What is the point in this?” Lady Anne snapped. “These signs are meaningless, and disrespectful in this place of mourning. You’re upsetting Margery, girl. What are you thinking of?”

I looked across John’s still body to his wife, and thought maybe her eyes flickered, just for an instant. I tried to reach her. Please. Please listen.

“Try again, Jenny.” Red was beside me, watching my hands. “Perhaps I can help.”