3

Deon sat in the washing tub as he carefully dragged his knife along his chin and neck, scraping away the dark growth. He needed to respectfully look his best when they buried his friend this evening. Washing the blade off in the water, Deon repeated the action once more and ran his hand over his jaw to judge its smoothness. Finding it acceptable, he placed the blade on the table next to him and then picked up the small bowl floating in the water, using it to wet his hair.

He then used a bar of soap to scrub his body and hair clean. Then he used the bowl once more to rinse the soap away. It was a good thing that Deon was immortal; sitting in the washtub, he could smell the death in the water. It was likely the reason so many people were getting sick and drinking tainted water as well as eating tainted meat. The animals he had passed on the road were thin and sickly as well, no doubt from drinking the water.

Deon had lived through many plagues, and they usually followed the same path. First illness, then death and then it was gone. Of course, Deon knew how to urge the recovery quicker, but it was not his place to do so. If the good Lord had decided to punish the people, he must have had a reason, and in his wisdom, he would end it as he saw fit. He was only here to bury his friend. When he had seen his duty done, he would move on.

Still, Lady Amelia intrigued him. Watching the depressing sight outside, Deon had been surprised to have seen the young Lady out among the people handing out food to the ill. Most women of her station would have recoiled at the sight of those who suffered, but this one was right out in the street interacting with them all. It was admirable.

John had said his sister was a little different from most women of nobility, but he had been referring to the child he had known and not the woman she had become. Forcing the Lady from his thoughts, Deon rose from the water and began to dry off. He had sent the servant away, preferring his privacy to the privilege. Tossing the towel on the floor, he crossed the room to a looking glass where he did his best to comb out his long hair before tying it back at the nape of his neck.

The servant had offered Deon a robe and a meal earlier so they could launder his own clothes while he ate and enjoyed his bath. Since his clothes reeked, Deon accepted. Food did not appeal to him, at least not this sort of food, so he poked it around his plate a little and paced the room with his thoughts. It had been why he had been at the window to see Lady Amelia in the street.

He had taken his time to enjoy the hot water in the tub, but eventually, it turned cold. Now he paced his room once more with a robe wrapped tightly around his body. When the servant finally returned with his clothes cleaned, Deon rewarded their good work with a silver piece. Alone once more, Deon began to dress. His thoughts on memories of John. He was going to miss his friend.

It had grown dark outside, and Deon knew from the torchlight in the street that the funeral procession was to begin. Leaving his quarters, Deon made his way down to the street where John’s family were standing on the stone steps dressed all in black. Minstrels led the way through the street, playing a sad tune. The family followed behind the cart, and Deon walked behind them with the other villagers, who were well enough to come out.

As they walked through the town toward the gate, Deon watched Amelia, who was only a few feet ahead of him. She glanced back at him twice, briefly each time but definitely at him.

When they reached the graveyard, they stood around the shallow hole. Deon watched, saddened as they lowered John into the earth. The holy man was giving the last rights in Latin, and everyone said a prayer. They buried John, finally setting him to rest. May his soul go in peace. Deon assisted in stacking stones above the grave into a heap, and then he took his friend’s sword from the cart that had transported his body and drove the blade vertically through the stones in place of the wooden cross. John was a knight, and he deserved a knight’s burial.

The villagers returned to their homes and duties while the family spent a few more moments at the grave. After a long moment of silence, the family was escorted back to the manor. Though he walked behind them, Deon followed. He had agreed to stay the night and dine with the family. Deon was in no rush to be anywhere, so a night in Ludden would be fine.

He walked slowly and without purpose. Deon was alone once more with no cause. He was a soldier with no war to fight. A knight with no one to defend or serve. “You were my brother’s friend?” A sweet voice asked, drawing Deon from his thoughts.

At his side, strolled John’s sister. She had hung back to walk with him. “Oui Mademoiselle, we were friends.”

“My name is -”

“Amelia,” Deon smiled. “John spoke of you at length. He was very fond of you.”

“Did you know my brother well?” She asked, keeping a respectful distance between them. Though she was dressed in mourning, her dark heavy black jaconet gown could not hide her outstanding beauty. She was small and delicate, but he could see strength in her like a flower pushing up beneath stone walls reaching for the light.

“I knew him as well as any man could know another,” Deon smiled, remembering his friend. “He was an accepting man. He certainly accepted me.”

“Because you are French,” she finished.

He had said more than he had meant to. “Oui,” he lied. “Because I am French.”

“Well, I do hope you will feel welcomed in Ludden,” she sighed, looking around at the state of her home. “What is left of it.”

When they reached, the manor servants had set the long wooden table with ale and a simple meal, unlike anyone would expect to find on the plate of a nobleman. If the wealthy had so little, then it was safe to say that the poor had much less.

Lord Harold settled into the seat at the end of the table. The hall was poorly lit with a few candles. Everyone took their seats. Before him was a plate of dried mutton and staled bread. The ale was warm. The table was quiet as they all studied their food in silence.

“So tell us, Sir Dabell, how long have you been in England?” Lady Edith asked, trying to get the conversation going.

“A few years.”

“And how did you meet my boy?” Lord Harold asked.

“We met in battle defending the same tavern wench from a violent drunkard. Once we had dispatched with the troublesome man, we shared a drink. We became fast friends,” Deon said, leaving out the fact that they had both been at fault for having instigated the issue with the other man. It was not proper to speak ill of the dead. John may have committed many sins in his life, but he had done much good with it as well.

Mother and father began reminiscing about their son — a bittersweet conversation of love and loss. No one really ate, which was fine because it did not draw attention to the fact that Deon had not touched his meal. Food tasted like ash in his mouth. He had not enjoyed a mortal meal in more than four hundred years.

He could see Amelia push her food around on the plate, never lifting her eyes from the table. She was lost in thought, he was sure. Margret ate a little but not much. And John’s parents seemed uninterested in food as well as exhausted. It could have been from the ordeal or the stress they were under trying to return their home to what it once was. He would have left it at just that, too, had he not been able to smell the disease on them both.

Like a vulture circling, Deon could smell the dying a mile away. His Lordship would die before his wife, and neither of them had much time left. The plague was swift. By the time one showed symptoms, their death was often unavoidable. In a day or two, there would be no question that the Lord and Lady were stricken, and within the week, they would be buried beside their sons.

Deon’s gaze returned to Amelia. As the only remaining blood descendant, the plight of her people would fall on her shoulders. She was just a tiny slip of a girl. When word of the Lord’s death travelled and the fact that he left no heir, Ludden would become a target. They would be considered weak and prey for a land-grabbing nobleman who thought he could swoop in and take it.

Perhaps Deon had found his cause. Though he owed these people nothing, he had been close with John. If John had lived and requested his help, Deon would have followed John into hell. John would have wanted his sister’s interest protected and his land restored. The more he thought about it, the more Deon decided that was just what he would do. John might as well have asked from beyond the grave.

Deon said nothing about what was to come. There was nothing anyone could do about it. They may as well enjoy what quiet moments they had because soon they would have nothing but memories.

“Where do you intend to go from here?” Lady Edith asked, drawing the conversation back to him.

“I have nowhere to be,” he confessed.

“Do you not wish to go home?” Lady Margret asked.

“I have no home,” he said softly. “My home was lost long ago. My family… gone.”

“Well, you must miss France.”

“There is nothing for me in France.”

“So you just wander? Doing what?” Lord Harold asked curiously.

“Finding a worthy cause to fight for,” he smiled. “It was the way your son chose to live, as well. Crossing borders to do God’s work.”

“So, you serve God but not a country?” Lady Margret asked.

“I have fought for king and country, and I have learnt that man’s will and God’s are different. God wishes to punish the sinful, and man will slaughter the innocent to increase their holdings,” Deon said bitterly. “So, no. I serve no man. God will show me his will, and I will do my best to see it done.”

“And what is God’s will in all this?” Amelia snipped. “Innocents die every day. Children are orphaned, my mother has buried two sons, and my father has no heir. Are you to say God is punishing us? What sin have we committed?”

“Perhaps this is not God’s will; perhaps the devil is torturing you.”

“Then, God had forsaken us. We are damned.”

“Such blasphemy!” Her mother snapped. “Excuse my daughter Sir Dabell. She has a forked tongue at times.”

Deon smiled at Amelia. “I assure you God has not forsaken you. I know what it is to be damned, and you Mademoiselle is not damned. God will deliver you.”

Amelia stood up and pushed her food away in a huff as she addressed the servant. “I am retiring for the night. Do see that my meal is given to the poor,” with that, Deon watched the pretty Amelia leave the hall.

“I must confess all this talk has left me without an appetite of my own,” Lord Harold said, rising to his feet. “I feel the need to lie down,” he excused himself. At that, the table agreed that no one was hungry, and the servants were to dispose of the food.

As three servants began to clear the table, Deon placed his hand over the young woman’s, stopping her from her duty. “I suggest you burn the food his Lordship and his wife have touched. They are ill.”

“They do not seem ill,” she whispered with surprise.

“It will be apparent soon enough.”