"The ways of the Lord are hidden to us, and no doubt for good reason. You are right, ma chère; the laws of the Church were not formulated with situations such as yours in mind, and therefore you have little guidance other than your own conscience and the hand of God. I cannot tell you what you should do, or not do.
"You have free choice; so have all the others in this world. And history, I believe, is the cumulation of all those actions. Some individuals are chosen by God to affect the destinies of many. Perhaps you are one of those. Perhaps not. I do not know why you are here. You do not know. It is likely that neither of us will ever know." He rolled his eyes, comically. "Sometimes I don't even know why I am here!" I laughed and he smiled in return. He leaned toward me across the rough planks of the table, intense.
"Your knowledge of the future is a tool, given to you as a shipwrecked castaway might find himself in possession of a knife or a fishing line. It is not immoral to use it, so long as you do so in accordance with the dictates of God's law, to the best of your ability."
He paused, drew a deep breath, and blew it out in an explosive sigh that ruffled his silky mustache. He smiled.
"And that, ma chère madame, is all I can tell you—no more than I can tell any troubled soul who comes to me for advice: put your trust in God, and pray for guidance."
He shoved the fresh pastry toward me.
"But whatever you are to do, you will require strength for it. So take one last bit of advice: when in doubt, eat."
When I came into Jamie's room in the evening, he was asleep, head pillowed on his forearms. The empty broth bowl sat virtuously on the tray, the untouched platter of bread and meat beside it. I looked from the innocent, dreaming face to the platter and back. I touched the bread. My finger left a slight depression in the moist surface. Fresh.
I left him asleep and went in search of Brother Roger, who I found in the buttery.
"Did he eat the bread and meat?" I demanded, without preliminaries.
Brother Roger smiled in his fluffy beard. "Yes."
"Did he keep it down?"
"No."
I eyed him narrowly. "You didn't clean up after him, I hope."
He was amused, the round cheeks pink above his beard. "Would I dare? No, he took the precaution of having a basin ready, in case."
"Damn wily Scot," I said, laughing despite myself. I returned to his chamber and kissed him lightly on the forehead. He stirred, but didn't wake. Heeding Father Anselm's advice, I took the platter of fresh bread and meat back to my chamber for my own supper.
Thinking I would give Jamie time to recover, both from pique and indigestion, I stayed in my own room most of the next day, reading an herbal Brother Ambrose had provided me. After lunch I went to check on my recalcitrant patient. Instead of Jamie, though, I found Murtagh, sitting on a stool tilted back against the wall, wearing a bemused expression.
"Where is he?" I said, looking blankly around the room.
Murtagh jerked a thumb toward the window. It was a cold, dark day, and the lamps were lit. The window was uncovered and the chilly draft set the little flame fluttering in its dish.
"He went out?" I asked incredulously. "Where? Why? And what on earth is he wearing?" Jamie had remained largely naked over the last several days, since the room was warm and any pressure on his healing wounds was painful. He had worn a monk's outer robe when leaving his room on necessary short excursions, with the support of Brother Roger, but the robe was still present, neatly folded at the foot of the bed.
Murtagh rocked his stool forward and regarded me owlishly.
"How many questions is that? Four?" He held up one hand, index finger pointing up.
"One: Aye, he went out." The middle finger rose. "Two: Where? Damned if I know." The fourth finger joined its companions. "Three: Why? He said he was tired of bein' cooped up indoors." The little finger waggled briefly. "Four: Also damned if I know. He wasna wearin' anything at all last time I saw him."
Murtagh folded all four fingers and stuck out his thumb.
"Ye didna ask me, but he's been gone an hour or so."
I fumed, at a loss as to what to do. Since the offender wasn't available, I snapped at Murtagh instead.
"Don't you know it's near freezing out there, and snow coming on? Why didn't you stop him? And what do you mean he isn't wearing anything?"
The diminutive clansman was tranquil. "Aye, I know it. Reckon he does, too, not bein' blind. As for stoppin' him, I tried." He nodded at the robe on the bed.