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Varrick turned a suspicious eye on her. “It is not proper to touch a man without his permission.”
Why was it she could never keep her grandmother’s warnings in her head about that? She had told her time and again that women kept their hands to themselves around men. It was for their own good that touching a man without permission could cause endless problems for a woman.
She told her husband what she had often said to her grandmother. “The instinct of a healer has me reaching out to comfort someone who is ill.”
“That instinct could get you killed,” Varrick said.
Her grandmother had said the very same thing.
“Where was Brother Luke found?” Varrick asked.
“He lies where he collapsed in the refectory,” Argus said. “No one will touch him.”
“Then he could be alive,” Fia said anxiously and released Varrick’s hand to walk past him.
Varrick grabbed her upper arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To see if I can help,” Fia said.
“Your presence will only exasperate the situation,” Varrick warned.
“Aye, that it would,” Argus agreed, “but Abbott John insists you bring her to the refectory.”
“Our warriors?” Varrick asked.
“In the refectory except for the few with the horses,” Argus said.
Varrick released Fia’s arm to take her hand. “You will not let go of me unless I allow it, and you will under no circumstance leave my side.”
“Aye, my lord,” she said, intending to do exactly as he said, her fear of the monks outweighing her fear of her husband.
All talk stopped when Fia entered the refectory with her husband and though she took note of the silence, it was Brother Luke’s body that drew her eyes. He lay on his back, his eyes closed, his one arm spread out from his side.
“The witch killed him!” someone shouted.
Varrick’s men moved closer to him, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons.
“Has anyone made sure he is dead?” Fia asked and felt a warning squeeze to her hand. But she could not help but ask, wondering if anyone had confirmed it. “Where is your healer? He should see to him.”
“I will not touch him and be caught in your curse,” Brother Alan, standing near Abbott John said.
“Brother Alan poked Brother Luke with a staff and got no response even when he pushed him onto his back with it,” Abbott John said.
“You have not made sure this man is dead?” Varrick accused more than asked.
“He is dead!” Brother Alan shouted. “And your wife, the witch, killed him.”
Varrick turned a fierce snarl on the man that had his face paling.
Fia was pleased when Varrick walked over to Brother Luke, taking her with him, and she bent down alongside him as he looked over the body.
“Do not let the witch touch him!” a monk called out.
“What difference does it make?” Varrick shouted. “You already believe him dead and cursed and will not bury him on consecrated ground.”
Fia did not know if his words were meant to give her permission to touch the man, but she did not wait to ask. Her hand reached out, her fingers going to rest at the side of his neck like her grandmother and mum had taught her to do to see if the beat of life still flowed there. She felt for the rhythmic beat, as her grandmother had taught her. It could fool and be so faint at times that many would believe the person dead, but patience was necessary and so she waited.
Varrick was about to pull her hand off the man when he saw how her eyes scrunched in concentration and how she listened for something. Then suddenly her eyes went wide.
