The Breath of Peace by Penelope Wilcock Read Free Book Online

sticks in the puddle of water on the worn stone step. As he bent with iron patience to gather them again, Madeleine, having heard the latch rattle, opened the door from inside.
    â€˜William, what in the world –’ She took in the sight of her husband in wet stockinged feet, his face set pale and hard, and she stepped back to let him pass into the house.
    â€˜William, whatever ails you today? Look, won’t you just –’
    â€˜ What ? Won’t I just what ?’
    His eyes, the colour of flint and every bit as soft and yielding, glared at her, formidably cold. The quiet, biting control of his voice bewildered her.
    â€˜Oh, nothing! Walk through the mire in your socks, why don’t you? Just drop the wood in the basket and go! But your boots are sodden and so are your socks – what will you wear to go and retrieve your clogs?’
    In William’s path to the fireplace, Madeleine had left a stool standing. His hands full of sticks, he kicked it to move it out of his way. As it toppled and fell, Madeleine’s cry of sorrow as she saw what was coming preceded by an instant the crash of breaking crockery as the seat of the stool hit the breadbowl on the hearthstone, the beautiful bowl John had given them and Brother Thaddeus had made.
    â€˜You stupid blasted clumsy idiot!’ Madeleine yelled at her husband, who stood frozen, the sticks still held in his hands, unable to bear or believe what he had done.
    Beside herself with anger and grief, she pulled the linen cap off her head and threw it to the ground in a gesture of despair as he walked with absolute quietness and control to the fireside, dropped the sticks into the basket, and knelt on one knee by the hearthstone to lift the dough from the broken bowl.
    â€˜Leave it!’ Madeleine screamed at him. ‘Leave it alone! Don’t touch it! God alone knows what more damage you’ll manage to do. You seem to bring the kiss of death to everything. Just leave it be!’
    Very slowly, his face white, William stood up and turned to face her. He looked at her, his gaze appraising and cold, his voice still quiet and perfectly controlled.
    â€˜â€œWitch” doesn’t meet the case – I’d have said “bitch” would be better!’
    As Madeleine stepped up close to him, he would under normal circumstances have admired the magnificence of her hair tumbling out of its fastenings, and the flash of fire in her eyes. This day he didn’t care what she looked like; he was just furious at himself and at her and at everything.
    Without stopping to think, incandescent with rage, she lifted her hand to slap his face, but he was quicker, and she found her wrist seized and held with a grip like steel.
    â€˜Don’t do that,’ he said, his voice icy.
    â€˜Well, you deserve it!’ she bawled at him. ‘You deserve it!’
    â€˜I don’t care.’ This was a simple sentence, and its import should have been easy enough to grasp. But it took Madeleine a few seconds’ pause to pick those three words clear of all the expletives and profanities that came with them. She was not high-born, and in the course of her work as a healer she had mixed with some vulgar folk; but she had never in her life heard such a gross stream of obscenity as William, his voice low and cold and focused, levelled at her then.
    He released her wrist and, in his wet socks, walked quietly past her to let himself out of the house. She burst into tears. Weeping, she knelt and lifted blindly the dough in its cloth from the bowl, carried it to the table to deal with later, then picked up the shattered pieces of pottery, and stood with them, heartsick, her tears falling on them. After a moment’s indecision, she carried them up to their chamber and laid them on the bed. She took a kerchief from the store of linen in her chest, and swaddled the forlorn and useless heap of broken shards in its soft folds. She buried the bundle