BACK TO LIFE
Conn rolled over. His head ached. He inhaled, smelling the acrid scent of metal, the smell of parchment, burning, and the all-overpowering smell of myrrh. He recalled the fight, the wound in his arm, the blood. The smells and the crackle of fire wound into his skull, conjuring up images from his nightmares. He groaned aloud.
“I'm in hell, aren't I?”
He heard someone put a bottle on a table. Then someone laughed warmly. “Maybe, young man. Though some call it France.”
Conn moaned and sat up, then wished he hadn't. His arm tore with pain and his head ached. “Father?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, it is I, Father Antoine,” the priest said patiently. “I am surprised you confuse me with Mephistopheles, but I am going to assume it's the result of the Valerian my good sister sent, and not an indication of what you think of me.”
Conn opened his eyes. Everything was dark. “Where am I?”
“You're at the monastery in Bois, son,” the priest explained. “In the storehouse, if you have to know.”
“How did I get here?”
He heard someone sit down on a rope chair, the creak of the ropes under his weight. Then the priest sighed. “You're one for questions, aren't you? The guards from the bishop's palace brought you. They know our reputation for healing. You are lucky. Not only because they got you here before you bled to death, but because they thought to bring you at all. You should have been arrested else.”
“Oh.” Conn sighed. “So I'm a criminal?” Brilliant. He presumed that was the Comte's idea, which meant the Comte still lived. Damn him. His head was swimming, he felt nauseous and his body stung. Now he was facing criminal charges too? “Father? Am I an outlaw?”
“No, son,” the priest smiled. “You're a fugitive.”
Conn whistled through his teeth. “Thanks, Father. Next time I need someone to split hairs for me, or argue at the Bench for me, I'll come and find you.” He closed his eyes.
The priest chuckled. “I'm glad to hear it. I thought about being a judge, actually.”
“You should have been,” Conn said sourly.
They both laughed.
Conn's chest hurt and he hissed out through his teeth. “Father?” he asked. “What exactly is wrong with me?”
He heard the priest clear his throat. “Son, it's more a case of what isn't wrong. You have enough cuts on your chest to compare favorably to my best cheese and you're weak from blood loss. I've reason to believe something hit you hard on the head, though it's anyone's guess whether that happened in this fight or when you were just a boy,” he added, standing to bathe Conn's shoulder with a cloth.
“Thanks,” Conn said wryly. “Next time I need my pride dented, I'll come to you.”
“Any time, my son.”
The priest continued his work. Conn opened his eyes and noticed he was smiling. He checked the wound on his upper arm; the one that bled across to the skin of his torso. Seeming satisfied, he grunted, and then settled back down beside the bed. “Son, I am so glad you are well.”
“Thanks, Father. And...” he paused, indicating his body, which he could just make out in the half-light of the flame. “Thanks for all of this.”
“Oh, I didn't do that alone. Thank the Lord for that. And Father Tobias and Marjorie.”
“Marjorie?” Conn said. The name meant something to him distantly, but he couldn't remember. He frowned at the priest, who nodded.
“Marjorie. That's the name my dear sister gave to the poor girl who lost her wits. The countrywoman of yours who...” he trailed off as Conn felt himself flush darkly.
“Leona? You brought Leona to heal me?”
The priest winced. “I'm sorry, my son. But I cannot see to stitch wounds anymore. So, we did fetch her, and she did it very well.”
Conn stared at the holy man in amazement. He didn't know how exactly he felt. Part of him wanted to laugh, part to cry. It all melted together in his chest and came out as a deep, resounding sob, forming the sound of her name. “Leona!”
At that moment, he heard something. The priest jumped and looked at the door. Conn followed his gaze.
There, in the hallway, red hair outlined with flame, thin face tight with emotion, dressed in white, stood Leona.
“Conn?” she said. Her voice was soft and hesitant, as if she thought she would be sent away.
His jaw dropped. “Leona! Leona! You know me!” He was crying then, and did not care who saw it. She knew who he was! She’d said his name! “Leona!”
He shouted it again as she launched herself across the space between them.
“Conn!” She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him tenderly. She smelled of lavender, warmth, and soap-wort.
He held her close, laughing and crying at once. “Leona! My Leona! You're well!”
“Oh, Conn,” she breathed out, looking into his eyes. He stared into her face, marveling to see it present, smiling, and sane. He stroked her hair and they kissed again, slower this time, more tenderly.
Leona turned when the priest gave a gentle cough.
Conn felt his cheeks flame and he moved back instantly, turning to his holy friend, hanging his head. “Father, forgive me for lying. Leona is not my cousin, but my promised wife.”
The priest gave him a watery grin. “I guessed,” he said. “I have many cousins and I don't tend to...to greet them like that.”
Conn laughed. To his delight, after a momentary look of utter embarrassment, so did Leona. The three of them all laughed and then the priest stood, clearing his throat.
“I think I should go and finish taking stock of the wool shed.”
Conn opened his mouth, about to protest. It must be one o'clock in the morning! He couldn't go outside now into the cold night! As he began to voice his objections, he realized that it was an excuse to leave them alone together. He smiled, wishing he could thank him aloud.
Then he was alone with Leona and all other thoughts fled. “Leona,” he whispered. “My life! You're here. My love.”
“Oh, Conn,” she whispered. “I am so sorry. I love you so much!”
“I love you too,” he whispered, squeezing her hand firmly. “I love you, too.”
Later, they talked. With the fire a crackling counterpoint to words, Leona snuggled closer on the bed and sat with his hand in hers, his other hand stroking her hair, as they talked about all that had happened since parting.
Leona told him of her escape from the Comte. Her voice grew tight as she told of the attack by the outlaws. Telling him was something she’d never imagined she would do and she had no idea how to say it.
“Conn...When I was unconscious, I...I don't know what happened to me. What was done to me. You understand?” She watched his face. He looked utterly blank. She waited for him to say something; for his shock, horror, and anger to crush her heart.
When he said nothing, she cleared her throat. “Conn, I didn't want to see you again because I didn't want to tell you about...about that. Conn, I may be with child. I know you think I've cheated you. Oh, Conn! I wish I was worthy of you! I wish...”
“Lass!” Conn interrupted her. She turned to look at him. He was laughing a little hysterically. “Lass! No! Are you mad? You've not cheated me. Leona, my sweetling. I love you. I don't care. Nothing else matters to me except you. I don't care about anything else.”
Leona stared into his smiling face. He looked exasperated, if anything; but there was no scorn, no horror. No pity even. Just love. “Oh, Conn,” Leona whispered. “Oh, my dear.” She collapsed into his arms and they sat together on the bed, tears mingling.
After a long time, Conn suggested his plan to her. They would wed.
“...And in Scotland, we'll arrive as man and wife. That way, whether you're expecting a child or not, it would not matter. You'll be married to me. Like we always wanted it to be.”
Leona looked into his face and stroked his head, beyond words. “Oh, Conn,” she whispered. “I love you.”
Conn closed his eyes, tears running down his own cheeks. “Leona. My dear. I love you, too. You cannot believe how much I missed you, when I thought...I thought...” He cleared his throat and Leona kissed his brow.
“I'm so sorry, my dear. I thought it was for the best. I thought that you would be better off without me.”
“Oh, Leona.” He smiled sadly at her. “Whatever happens, we must promise ourselves now and always that we will never walk away from each other like that. Nothing is more important than our love.”
Leona nodded, throat too tight for speaking. “Yes, Conn. You are right. Nothing is more important than our love.”