Cecily spent the better part of the next day in the chapel, praying for guidance. She feared for Adeline and the dangerous path the lady was on, but she had no idea how to dissuade her from it. By the time the bells chimed six o’clock, her knees were aching and she had no more clarity than when she’d entered its arched doorway that morning for mass. She struggled to her feet and turned to leave, surprised to see that she wasn’t alone.
A young priest she did not recognize was standing against the back wall, near the entrance. Cecily felt suddenly self-conscious and wished she could exit without passing him, but the warm smile on his face eased her concerns.
“Your husband told me of your piety, but I assumed he exaggerated, as new bridegrooms have a tendency to do,” the man said. “I am Father Simon Dunsford. William’s father and mine were best friends, so he and I all but grew up together.”
“Yet chose very different courses in life.” Cecily regretted the words the instant she had spoken them, but Father Simon only laughed.
“Indeed, we did. I’m the younger son and was always destined for the church, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be twice the man-at-arms he is if I’d gone a different way. When he returns from France, ask him how many times I bettered him with a sword.”
“I’m not sure such a query would endear me to him.”
Cecily’s sweet smile charmed Father Simon. Truly, his friend was lucky in his choice of wife. “William has always enjoyed good-natured teasing. You will discover that soon enough.”
“I shall give your advice serious consideration,” she said. The bottom of his black cassock showed evidence of dust from the road; he must have only just arrived at the estate. “What brings you to Sussex?”
“You,” he replied. “William asked me to call in during his absence and see if you were in need of anything, be it spiritual consolation or something more mundane.”
“Baron Esterby and Adeline have been most kind to take me into their household. I am fortunate to have such generous friends.” She was not about to air her problems to a stranger.
Father Simon looked into her eyes and stood quiet for some time. “Yet you look troubled.”
“It is only that I did not sleep well last night and am worried about William. They are fighting at Harfleur.”
“Yes, I know.” He was still staring directly at her. His eyes, a soft cornflower blue, could have coaxed a confidence from nearly anyone if he let them, but coaxing was not his goal. “The baroness tells me you have been at prayer since morning.”
“Is it unnatural to fear for one’s husband when he is at war?” Cecily asked.
“Not at all,” Father Simon replied, his clear tenor soothing. “Nor is it unnatural to have concerns, fears, and anxiety separate from those fears, even in times of war. I am here at William’s request to be your friend, Cecily, and your confessor, should you wish.”
“You don’t assume the baron’s priest has already filled the role?” Cecily asked, laughter creeping into her voice as she considered the baron’s stern priest.
“You’re a better person than I if he doesn’t terrify you,” Father Simon said, smiling. “I look forward to seeing you at supper tonight.”
* * *
How long he kept fighting, William did not know. He pressed forward, on and on, ignoring the arrow still in his cheek. He had broken the shaft as close to the skin as he could so that it would not deter him. The bodkins dipped in pitch and set aflame, which the English archers had fired at the start of the day’s fighting, had done their work, and thick smoke still hung over the enemy’s defenses. As more and more men-at-arms attacked, the French fell back, until King Henry’s army had forced them once again inside the city walls. As darkness fell and the fighting stopped, the driving energy that had kept William upright slowed, and it felt as if his blood had grown thick. He staggered back to camp, where he collapsed, unconscious, not six feet in front of the king, who, still in armor covered with blood and dirt, was walking with his brothers.
“Someone attend to this man,” Henry shouted, kneeling beside the soldier. The arrow in the man’s cheek had struck in nearly the same place that Henry had been wounded years ago at Shrewsbury, when he was Prince of Wales.
The Duke of Gloucester, who had been standing behind his brother the king, stepped forward. “He is Sir William Hargrave, one of my bravest and most skilled men-at-arms. I saw him take that arrow in the morning. He never stopped fighting, despite the wound.”
“I know the pain—and danger—that comes with such an injury,” Henry said. “Call for my physician. He shall perform the necessary surgery.”