If the saint chooses...
Would he?
All she had to do was lift her leg and take a step.
Prayers, unceasing, surrounded him, but Nicholas kept his gaze on Anne. Someone cried out, but he did not look to see who, or to wonder whether they shouted in joy or pain.
She knelt, still, the monk’s palm cupping the curve of her head. And he prayed that God might grant her a miracle.
The monk moved on. She lifted her head.
Then, pushing herself up with her good left leg, and the crutch tucked under her right arm, she stood. For a moment, she was still, then she swayed, unsteady.
From his vantage point at the edge of the crowd, Nicholas held his breath as she lifted her lame right leg, pulling up the knee as if ready to step on that poor, useless foot.
She wobbled and he held his breath, holding her with his eyes as if his will alone could lift her to her feet and send her skipping down the stairs toward him.
She shifted her weight, as if she expected the leg to hold her...
And crumpled to the floor.
Before he could reach her, the rest of the pilgrims surged away from the tomb and down the stairs, washing around him like an ebbing wave. He battled his way up, pushing past a monk with an outstretched hand.
Below the glittering shrine that towered over them like a golden coffin, Anne lay silent and unmoving. He crouched beside her, tucked one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back, and rose, carrying her down the treacherous stairs, away from the traitorous saint who had crushed her hopes.
And like an incoming wave, the next rush of pilgrims came up the stairs.
When Anne finally turned her eyes to his, the tremulous hope was gone, replaced by the familiar flatness of resignation.
‘You can put me down,’ she said, words devoid of life. ‘It is over.’
A moment ago, she had sagged with weariness. Now, as if her spine was a sword, she was Anne again, refusing all pity.
Reluctantly, he put her on her feet and stayed close through the long journey through the nave. This time, she did not lift her head to study the stained glass crowning the door, but kept her eyes on the ground, as if each step must be watched.
Nicholas kept a hand near her waist as they navigated the streets between the Cathedral and the inn, slowly and silently. Her limp was even more pronounced than usual, now that the hope that had kept her upright was gone.
And his vaunted control was as shaky as her legs. All his proud detachment had disappeared. Now, not even his loins held sway. That would have been bad enough.
This was worse. Now his heart was in charge, the most dangerous of organs.
In sight of the inn, she stopped. ‘Can we go somewhere else?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Where would she want to go? How could he relieve her mind of the saint’s failure? ‘There are other cathedrals.’
‘I want nothing of churches.’
He cleared his throat and looked around. What was Canterbury but churches and pilgrims and reminders that her miracle had not come to pass?
I skipped about Canterbury’s outer wall, she had said. Well, she might not skip, but he would find a way to lift her above it all.
‘Come.’
Haltingly, but without question, she did, as they followed the street, crossed the bridge over the river and reached the West Gate. Many of the stones, placed there by the Romans, were missing now. He had been prepared to argue with the guard, but with the end of the war with France, the city fathers must have decided there were better uses for their funds. The door was open. The stairway, empty.
She took a deep breath, and started to climb.
‘Anne, let me—’
‘No.’ She stopped him with a glance, stubborn and immovable. ‘You will not be here to help me next time.’
And he bit back a response, knowing she was right. Behind her, he chafed at her slow progress, knowing he could have reached the top and returned before she completed the climb.
But when they reached the top and she drew a breath of air, he wanted to cheer with a strange sense of pride. She turned her back on the city and looked west, where streaks of orange clouds signalled the day’s end. ‘Is London in this direction?’
He nodded. ‘And Windsor beyond.’
She turned to her left. ‘And there? What lies over there?’
He assessed the sun. ‘Dover. The Channel.’ France. Spain. Italy.
She swung her arm in the other direction. ‘And that way?’ It was a game to her, pointing to all the places she would never see without her lady’s leave. ‘What would I find?’
He tried to remember the lay of the land. ‘More water.’ A day’s travel, or less, to the north, south, and east. Close enough that he could smell the temptation of salt air. ‘Almost any direction except to the west.’
He leaned against the wall next to her and looked back over the city. The Cathedral, inescapable, rose before him. ‘You can see the towers clearly from here.’ He tested his eyes, trying to capture a memory. The stone glowed copper in the reflected light of the sun. Yes, that he would remember.
Anne, looking away from the town, refused to turn.
Even though they were only a few feet above the street, the city looked different from here. The people were smaller, less distinct, as if they were no different one from the other as they sought shelter at day’s end. How could God, high as He was, tell them apart? Even the saints were far above the earth. What had made them think St Thomas might look down and notice Anne of Stamford on her knees, begging for his attention?
And when God and the saints did glance toward the earth, it seemed solely to rain destruction from the heavens. As it did that day in France...
‘I do remember something,’ he said, quietly. ‘About France.’
She turned, lips parted expectantly. Her hair, burnished by the same light that touched the church, glowed with the gold of a noble coin. ‘Tell me.’
He swallowed. Suddenly, he wanted to forget the story of war. He wanted to sweep Anne close and take her lips again.
‘It is not a comforting story.’ He should think of something else. Something to give her hope or laughter.
Yet her wide mouth curved into a smile. ‘Even a sad memory can comfort.’
Could it? What would she remember of him, when he was gone?
‘This one does not.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
And because she asked, and because he had not spoken of it since it happened, he did. ‘We had besieged Paris and held high ground. The French would not come out to fight, but neither would they accept our terms for a treaty. And our men were hungry.’
Hungry because he had failed. The good grain he had found for them was gone. He had planned new supply lines, ordered vegetables and salted fish, grain and wine, all to arrive via ship. And to ensure there would be food, even if all did not arrive as scheduled, those left at Honfleur were to forage the countryside and send the results to Edward’s army.
But the ships foundered or were attacked. The raiders sent barely enough for the King to eat and nothing at all for the horses.
‘What happened then?’ she said, softly, as if she knew he remembered