Raffe struggled to force words from his own tightened throat. 'At least you know how your son died and where he will be buried. Many mothers in England would give all they have to know that much.'
'Do you really think I need to be reminded of that?' Anne said bitterly. 'My own husband lies rotting in a mass grave in Acre. I know I should be grateful to have my son's corpse to grieve over. But it is no comfort. My husband died under the Cross in the Holy Wars, with all his sins absolved, but Gerard...'
Raffe turned back to the open chest. He pulled at the corpse, bending low so that he could heave the body over his broad shoulder, then staggered across the room and deposited him on the wooden table, carefully easing the head down on to the boards so that it did not thump on the wood. He crossed the arms over the body, and slid a large crucifix between the waxen fingers. Now that rigor had worn off, the face looked at peace, as if a terrible burden had been lifted from him. Their plan had surely worked; here was proof of it.
It had been more than a week since Sir Gerard had fallen ill of a fever. For days he had been racked with vomiting and the flux. He'd writhed in agony from the violent pains in his gut and his belly was so distended that it seemed the skin would burst open like rotten fruit if anyone so much as touched it. It was as if a demon had crawled inside him and was tearing his entrails apart from within.
For days Lady Anne had sat by his bedside, not daring to move, for the physician had warned her that her son could be taken from her at any hour. The worst of it was Gerard had known he was dying. Each time he was roused from his delirium he had grasped his mother's arm, begging for them to bring a priest. 'I must have . . . absolution ... I must. . . confess.'
Raffe had turned away, slamming his fist against the stone wall in frustration. How far off was the nearest priest — four days, a week? Men had been sent in every direction to find one. But the servants who returned all told the same story. Church after church was boarded up and locked, the priests banished or fled before they could be seized by the king's men.
God's teeth, why hadn't Gerard died on the battlefield along with the thousands of others whose bones were even now bleaching under the burning desert sun? Priests were not needed there. The Pope had sworn that anyone who died fighting under the Holy Cross would die with all his sins absolved. Yet even so, every man in that army had prayed each dawn that they would still be alive to see the sunset over
Acre, and at every sunset they begged their God that they might live to see another dawn. Be careful what you pray for, Gerard had once told him. It was a lesson they both should have heeded.
Gerard had vomited, blood pouring from his mouth, the twisting muscles of his stomach screaming in protest. He lay back on the bed, shivering and sweating with the effort. 'There's ... no priest coming, is there?' he gasped, gritting his teeth as the pain welled up again. 'Raffe . . . you can't let me die in my sin. We swore to each other . . .'
Anne clasped her son's hand to her face, her tears wetting his skin. 'My son, there's no man more honourable than you. No man who has ever made his mother more proud of her son. You've lived a pure life, fought in the Holy Wars. Those few venial sins you may have committed since must surely be outweighed by that. I promise you that I will pray day and night for your soul, and when the Interdict is lifted, which it must be soon, then we will have Masses said for —'
Gerard seized her wrist. 'Prayers will not be enough . . . I have to confess ... we did a terrible thing... Raffe knows ... I cannot die with it upon me. I shall be carried straight to hell.' His eyes rolled back in his head as if he no longer had control over any part of his body.