Something had come upon him, and nothing mattered. Some small remnant of his consciousness registered surprise, and then that was gone, too. No pain, no thought. He was a red thing, and while he saw other things—faces, blood, bits of room—they didn’t matter. Blood took him, and when some sense of himself came back, he was kneeling astride the man, hands locked around the big man’s neck, fingers throbbing with a pounding pulse—his or his victim’s, he couldn’t tell.
Him. Him. He’d lost the man’s name. His eyes were bulging, the ragged mouth slobbered and gaped, and there was a small, sweet crack as something broke under Jamie’s thumbs. He squeezed with all he had, squeezed and squeezed and felt the huge body beneath him go strangely limp.
He went on squeezing, couldn’t stop, until a hand seized him by the arm and shook him, hard.
“Stop,” a voice croaked, hot in his ear. “Jamie. Stop.”
He blinked up at the white bony face, unable to put a name to it. Then drew breath—the first he could remember drawing for some time—and with it came a thick stink, blood and shit and reeking sweat, and he became suddenly aware of the horrible spongy feeling of the body he was sitting on. He scrambled awkwardly off, sprawling on the floor as his muscles spasmed and trembled.
Then he saw her.
She was lying crumpled against the wall, curled into herself, her brown hair spilling across the boards. He got to his knees, crawling to her.
He was making a small whimpering noise, trying to talk, having no words. Got to the wall and gathered her into his arms, limp, her head lolling, striking his shoulder, her hair soft against his face, smelling of smoke and her own sweet musk.
“A nighean,” he managed. “Christ, a nighean. Are ye…”
“Jesus,” said a voice by his side, and he felt the vibration as Ian—thank God, the name had come back, of course it was Ian—collapsed next to him. His friend had a bloodstained dirk still clutched in his hand. “Oh, Jesus, Jamie.”
He looked up, puzzled, desperate, and then looked down as the girl’s body slipped from his grasp and fell back across his knees with impossible boneless grace, the small dark hole in her white breast stained with only a little blood. Not much at all.
—
He’d made Jamie come with him to the cathedral of Saint André and insisted he go to Confession. Jamie had balked—no great surprise.
“No. I can’t.”
“We’ll go together.” Ian had taken him firmly by the arm and very literally dragged him over the threshold. He was counting on the atmosphere of the place to keep Jamie there, once inside.
His friend stopped dead, the whites of his eyes showing as he glanced warily around.
The stone vault of the ceiling soared into shadow overhead, but pools of colored light from the stained-glass windows lay soft on the worn slates of the aisle.
“I shouldna be here,” Jamie muttered under his breath.
“Where better, eejit? Come on,” Ian muttered back, and pulled Jamie down the side aisle to the chapel of Saint Estèphe. Most of the side chapels were lavishly furnished, monuments to the importance of wealthy families. This one was a tiny, undecorated stone alcove, containing little more than an altar, a faded tapestry of a faceless saint, and a small stand where candles could be placed.
“Stay here.” Ian planted Jamie dead in front of the altar and ducked out, going to buy a candle from the old woman who sold them near the main door. He’d changed his mind about trying to make Jamie go to Confession; he knew fine when ye could get a Fraser to do something and when ye couldn’t.
He worried a bit that Jamie would leave and hurried back to the chapel, but Jamie was still there, standing in the middle of the tiny space, head down, staring at the floor.
“Here, then,” Ian said, pulling him toward the altar. He plunked the candle—an expensive one, beeswax and large—on the stand and pulled the paper spill the old lady had given him out of his sleeve, offering it to Jamie. “Light it. We’ll say a prayer for your da. And…and for her.”
He could see tears trembling on Jamie’s lashes, glittering in the red glow of the sanctuary lamp that hung above the altar, but Jamie blinked them back and firmed his jaw.
“All right,” he said, low-voiced, but he hesitated.
Ian sighed, took the spill out of his hand, and, standing on tiptoe, lit it from the sanctuary lamp. “Do it,” he whispered, handing the spill to Jamie, “or I’ll gie ye a good one in the kidney, right here.”
Jamie made a sound that might have been the breath of a laugh and lowered the lit spill to the candle’s wick. The fire rose up, a pure high flame with blue at its heart, then settled as Jamie pulled the spill away and shook it out in a plume of smoke.
They stood for some time, hands clasped loosely in front of them, watching the candle burn. Ian prayed for his mam and da, his sister and her bairns…with some hesitation （was it proper to pray for a Jew?） for Rebekah bat-Leah, and, with a sidelong glance at Jamie to be sure he wasn’t looking, for Jenny Fraser. Then for the soul of Brian Fraser…and finally, eyes tight shut, for the friend beside him.
The sounds of the church faded, the whispering stones and echoes of wood, the shuffle of feet and the rolling gabble of the pigeons on the roof. Ian stopped saying words but was still praying. And then that stopped, too, and there was only peace and the soft beating of his heart.
He heard Jamie sigh, from somewhere deep inside, and opened his eyes. Without speaking, they went out, leaving the candle to keep watch.
“Did ye not mean to go to Confession yourself?” Jamie asked, stopping near the church’s main door. There was a priest in the confessional; two or three people stood a discreet distance away from the carved wooden stall, out of earshot, waiting.
“It’ll bide,” Ian said, with a shrug. “If ye’re goin’ to hell, I might as well go, too. God knows, ye’ll never manage alone.”
Jamie smiled—a wee bit of a smile, but still—and pushed the door open into sunlight.
They strolled aimlessly for a bit, not talking, and found themselves eventually on the river’s edge, watching the Garonne’s dark waters flow past, carrying debris from a recent storm.
“It means ‘peace,’？” Jamie said at last. “What he said to me. The doctor. ‘Shalom.’？”
Ian kent that fine. “Aye,” he said. “But peace is no our business now, is it? We’re soldiers.” He jerked his chin toward the nearby pier, where a packet boat rode at anchor. “I hear the King of Prussia needs a few good men.”
“So he does,” said Jamie, and squared his shoulders. “Come on, then.”
Acknowledgments
I would like to acknowledge the help of several people in researching aspects of Jewish history, law, and custom for this story: Elle Druskin （author of To Catch a Cop）， Sarah Meyer （registered midwife）， Carol Krenz, Celia K. and her Reb mom, and especially Darlene Marshall （author of Castaway Dreams）。 I’m indebted also to Rabbi Joseph Telushkin’s very helpful book, Jewish Literacy. Any errors are mine.