Page 69 of The Knucker King

“I said no.” She scowled down the aisle between the pews, focusing on the two men who stilled, dumbstruck at her disobedience. “You hear me? No. If you want me to treat him, it will not be in here. I will go mad before I can even assess him.” She sucked in through her teeth and pressed her hands to her ears. “God’s cock, it hurts!”

Invisible talons clawed the inside of her skull, and she dashed out of the church. Scalding hot blood streamed from her eyes and ears. She moved away from the door and leant back against the wall. Her breath steamed into the air as she panted. She turned her bleeding eyes to the sky as the shrieking ebbed. Using her sleeve, she wiped away the crimson rivers that ran down her face and neck.

She opened her eyes to Bramble nosing at her. I am here. Are you alright?

“I am now.” She scratched the top of his head. “Did you hear it too?”

He whimpered. I did; it hurt my ears.

“Please tell me that I am not going mad, but does it seem colder to you?”

The Grim tilted his nose to the sky and let out an exaggerated exhale. His breath misted thickly and slowly dissipated.

I do not feel the cold the way you do, but it does seem like the air is more frigid, he replied. Perhaps a storm is coming?

The stomp of boots drew her attention, and she wiped her face again.

John approached her, a scowl on his face. “What happened?”

She stuck her chin out. “I cannot work inside, tell them to bring Mister Benjamin out.” She pointed at the home closest to the church. “I can treat him in there.”

He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Alright,” he huffed. “Let me speak to Father Peter and George.”

John returned inside. Time crawled as she waited for the outcome of her demand. Curiosity rampant, Avice peeked around the open door of the church. She watched as Father Peter, scowling, stood to the side as John and George lifted the wooden board Benjamin lay on. She could hear nothing – absolutely nothing – as she watched the men shuffle awkwardly down the central aisle of the nave, followed by the glowering priest. No noise of laboured breath, footfalls, or the words said between the three men reached her ears as they headed towards the door.

Avice frowned. What is happening?

She chanced sticking her head over the threshold and was met only with the sound of ear-piercing screams. She quickly wrenched herself back out again. Avice stood to the side as the men came out and made their way to the closest house.

Her eyes met with the priest’s. As usual, he was well dressed in a fur-trimmed cloak and tunic with highly polished boots on his feet. She scrunched her nose. He reeked of iron and the oil she smelt on Trewoofe, and it was all she could do not to reach up and slap his glaring face.

“You got your way, this time,” he smiled, baring his teeth. “Do not get used to it.”

Avice watched as he turned away, feeling a stab of resentment in her chest. His thick cloak swirled in the air as he marched away from her. With a scowl, she trailed after him.

They paused outside of the rectory – Father Peter’s residence – Avice had been there in the past, when it belonged to Father Richard. It was the only double-storey home in Lamorna and was made of the same grey stone as the church. The roof was thatched, and a steady stream of woodsmoke spilled from the chimney. Peter took the lead and drew the bright iron key from somewhere within his cloak. With a flourish, he unlocked his home and gestured them in.

Avice followed the men inside and saw the maid recoiling from sight as Father Peter swept into the central room. She studied the space. While Richard had kept the house sparce – living with the bare necessities – the younger priest did not. The fire blazed, the polished mantel was full of gold-coloured trinkets, and she wrinkled her nose at that same oily smell. A gleaming cross crowned the fireplace, and hearth-keeping equipment flanked the sides. It was completely free of soot despite its proximity to the flames; the midwife knew it was the maid who kept it all spotless.

The grand table was set with polished eating ware, and a bottle of wine was uncorked and airing. Avice eyed the placement. It was near to the fireplace for warmth and well-lit from the candle holder that dangled from the beam above.

She pointed her finger to the spot. “Clear the table – I will work on him there,” she ordered, stepping out from behind the father and reaching for the refined items.

He rounded on her. “You will not.”

John frowned. “Midwife Avice came to aid Mister Benjamin. We must follow her instructions now to give him the best outcome.”

Avice slipped her hand up to her pendant as the two men stared each other down. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife, and she fought the urge to bolt from the room. In his special way, that only she could see, Bramble appeared beside her. He peeled his lips back in a silent snarl, ready to pounce if violence spilled out. She dangled her free hand down and rested it on the spot between her familiar’s muscular shoulders.

“Enough!” George growled, dipping with the weight of holding his brother. His eyes snapped to Avice. “Midwife! Clear the table.”

She bristled at being barked at, but quickly did so, placing the items on the closest shelf. She nodded at the two men holding the third between them. With grunts, they lifted him onto the table and placed him with a dull thud. It was stifling in the room, and she pulled off her cloak and gloves, dropping them over the back of an ornate chair.

Father Peter watched her every move. She prickled under his gaze, sensing his disapproval at her uncovered head. She turned away from him. John and George stepped back from the table, allowing her to study her patient.

“When did this happen?” she asked, unwrapping the shivering man from his cocoon of blankets.

John’s brow furrowed. “Not long after Sunrise. Mister Benjamin and I went out early to make the most of the calmer waves.”