Her eyes flared. “Someone hurtyou.”
He shifted his jaw back and forth. “That was one brute who liked to manhandle his wife. A fellow needed to stand up to him.” He felt an odd sort of pride in saying this. As if he wasn’t accustomed to standing up for the weaker. As if he had never truly realized, before meeting her, that a man using his fists on a woman was an injustice, not simply the way of the world. Or, if itwasthe way of the world, he could no longer accept that.
“You were attacked before that, and you lost your memory,” Gwen said in a low voice. “Someone, or a gang of someones, beat you, robbed you, and left you for dead.”
Pen frowned. “You think the attack on me is related to the attack on the Jew?”
“I’ve no way of knowing. But it’s not done around here. And it’s not right.”
A step sounded in the hallway leading from the door outside, and the dark-skinned woman entered. She was frightfully lovely, with big dark eyes, gleaming skin, every item of her dress pressed and neat as a pin. Gwen was still the more beautiful, Pen thought loyally. But they were like a pair of angels, side by side.
“Cerys?” the newcomer asked.
“Mathry is seeing to her,” Gwen answered. Her face grew taut. “What news? Do we bring him here?”
The other woman shook her head. “He’s not going to make it. Mr. Stanley said—well, he knows your feelings on such a matter.”
“No death under the roof of St. Sefin’s,” the crone muttered, and though it was in line with all the other senseless things she’d said, the hair lifted on the back of Pen’s neck.
Gwen’s shoulders sagged. “How terrible,” she whispered. “How will his family even know?”
“Mr. Stanley said he will see to it. There’s a Jewish community in Merthyr Tydfil, small it is, but he imagines they will want the body for a burial in their own fashion.” An attempt at a smile quirked one side of her full, lush lips. “He so badly wants to perform last rites, but knows the man wouldn’t thank him for it. A Jew can’t be buried on Christian ground in any case. But I daresay our good vicar ran off to say an Anglican prayer in secret, to feel sure his soul is seen off safely.”
“He’s dead?” Pen demanded. “The Jew who was beaten?”
“He’s dying,” Dovey said softly. “We’ll hear the bells of St. Woolos tolling before nightfall. Mr. Stanley will mark his passing, even for an unbaptized soul.”
She met Gwen’s gaze and a long, tense look passed between them. Clasping hands, the two women exited toward a different hallway, not the door leading to the dining hall but one leading inside the building. Shamelessly, Pen stepped closer to the wall and cocked an ear. He was an exceptional eavesdropper; he couldn’t claim many talents, but that was one.
“We can’t tell him.” Gwen’s voice, low and full of self-reproach.
“No. If we do, and he turns us out—”
Pen’s ears pricked. Who did they fear? What man had a hold over them?
“We’d have nowhere to go,” Gwen answered. “And you and Cerys—it’s danger out there.”
“I fear it, Gwen. The town is changing. So many new—”
Their voices fell and diminished. Steps led away. Pen leaned forward, straining to hear, and then leapt back as Gwen suddenly reappeared in the doorway. Her look speared him, accusatory, but underneath it he saw fear.
He moved toward her. He wanted to protect her. He was half a man at the moment, true, with his bruised shoulder and banged-up ribs. But he would lay himself at her feet if she asked it.
“What do you want now?” she snapped.
He panicked at the sudden and unaccustomed surge of protectiveness. He knew this wasn’t like him. This woman had overset him, upended all his usual sensibilities. Even though he couldn’t say what his usual sensibilities were, she had muddled him. He felt shaken to his core.
“My jordan needs emptying,” he blurted.
“Empty it yourself!” It was as if the request broke her. She whirled for the table and the basket she’d left there, swooping up a spade like it was sword and shield.
“Empty my own chamber pot!” he shouted. He was quite certain he’d never done such a thing in his life. “Who do you think I am?”
“I don’t care who you are!” She brandished the spade at him, advancing, and Pen debated whether to fall back. “You are here. Under this roof. We took you in. We helped you. And so you will followourrules, mm—Mr.Pen.”
“Your rules!” he said indignantly.
“And the rule is, everyone helps. Everyoneworks.” She pointed toward the door where the boy had exited. “Ifor keeps the goats.” She pointed at the simple lad. “Tomos fetches the water and helps mop and sweep. Mother Morris—” that was the crone—“does the mending and the wash. Widow Jones—” the older woman in the black shawl, still rather pretty even for her age—“has cooked most of the meals you’ve scoffed at, and is the one who fixed your clothing. Dovey, Mrs. Van der Welle, oversees our housekeeping, among half a dozen other duties, and Evans, with one arm, does the work of three men. So you—” she advanced until the spade nearly poked his nose—“can empty. Your own. Chamber pot.”
