Chapter Text
Ashcombe stared at the young boy in the bed. He held a spoon over the boy’s lips and watched as the liquid slowly fell into the boy’s mouth. Watched as the boy automatically swallowed.
He gripped the boy’s hand with his own broken one. Both he and his son Christopher had been thrown overboard by the force of the wave that took them. Ashcombe managed to reach the shore awake, but Christopher was unconscious. Cold and frozen, Ashcombe collapsed in the snow, holding Christopher close.
He didn’t wake up a couple of days later, in a strange house, wrapped in furs he didn’t recognize. Only then did he learn he’d been unconscious for two days, and his son had been screaming the whole time.
Now Christopher was here, far away from the house, coldly seeping into the room. All because their rescuers believed a demon had come for his boy.
He stared down at his boy, unable to believe it. Christopher had already suffered enough; he shouldn’t have to face talk of supernatural creatures, too.
Ashcombe stroked Christopher’s cheek. For the past two weeks, the boy had tossed and turned in his sleep, speaking in Latin, Greek, and French. Ashcombe tried to tell the family it was only Latin, but they didn’t believe him. They brought in the wise woman anyway.
Ashcombe took Christopher’s hand, whispering prayers beneath his breath. Ashcombe may not have believed that a demon was plaguing Christopher, but he didn’t believe that the Lord wouldn’t intercede for his health, regardless.
Ashcombe placed the spoon back in the now-empty bowl. It had taken a couple of hours, but Christopher had finally finished. Ashcombe opened and closed his hand to relieve himself of the strain.
A knock sounded at the door. Ashcombe stood, stretching slightly, and opened it to see who was standing there.
It was little Mary standing there, waiting for the bowls that she’d finished. Ashcombe didn’t say anything to her, just stood back to allow her in, before he turned and collected the bowl from Christopher's side. Then turn to the far corner of the room and collect the bowl from the small figure hiding under the blanket.
The girl hadn’t spoken a word since Robert had found her, only staying in the far corner. Ashcombe, whose given name was Richard, had done his best to give the girl space, knowing that his appearance wasn’t palatable for little girls.
Not that Ashcombe ignored her, but he resolved to let the girl make the first move.
The girl stared at Ashcombe as he approached, shuffling away from him.
“I won’t hurt you,” Richard said, but the girl didn’t respond, clearly disbelieving him. He grabbed the bowl and handed it to Mary.
Once Mary had left, Richard turned back to his son, gently stroking his forehead. He wished Anne were there; she would know what to say about it. How to comfort Christopher and the girl. She’d done it with Andrew and their younger children when Andrew died.
Andrew.
Ashcombe closed his eyes as his eldest son came to mind. His son, whose bones he’d collected while in Paris. He’d given the bones to Walsingham, since he’d be the first in the yawl. He hoped Walsingham had managed to save them.
He hoped they all made it to shore safely. He’d tried to have a letter sent when he was well enough to go out, but the weather had not permitted it. Not to mention that he had no idea where Walsingham and the others had ended up.
He could have sent a letter to the King, but with little news, and his son in no condition to travel, there was little he could do.
Not to mention that there was very clearly something going on. Robert, the owner of the farm where they were staying, had not said as much, unwilling to upset the Lord while his son was injured, but the few times the man had shown up, there had been a worry in his gaze.
Not to mention that girl.
Ashcombe turned his head to the bed on the other side of the room, the little one still hiding under the covers.
Before Ashcombe could decide one way or another, Christopher stirred again.
Ashcombe turned back to his youngest son, watched as he tossed and turned, and began screaming in Latin that Ashcombe could only just understand.
“Corvus!” Christopher screamed. “Abi, Abi!” Raven, go away, go away.
“Shh,” Ashcombe whispered, taking his son’s hand. “Shh…” He whispered. “You're safe, Christopher. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You're safe.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ashcombe saw the little girl shifting backward, Christopher’s screams frightening her. Ashcombe didn’t have time to pay any attention to her, or he’d have tried to comfort the child. He remembered when his eldest son had gotten so sick. His youngest child was so terrified. He knew how scary illnesses could be to small children, but he did his best to focus on the here and now.
Eventually, Christopher quieted the nightmare’s settling.
Ashcombe couldn’t blame Christopher for his nightmare. Christopher had been through more than any child his age should have had to endure.
Ashcombe himself still had nightmares about what went on over the last six months.
Ashcombe sighed as he looked at his young boy. He didn’t know what to do; he had wanted to send for a doctor, but the storms had made it impossible. They didn’t have much in the way of physicians or Apothecaries here; the only thing even remotely close was a wise woman.
And the less said about her, the better.
He glared at the jug that had been placed by Christopher’s bed. Christopher wasn’t possessed. He was sick. Just sick.
The Lord wouldn’t allow a child to be so plagued by demons, not when he was already suffering so much.
Not for the first time, he got down on his knees and prayed by Christopher’s bed. “Save my boy.” He whispered. “Please, Lord, save my boy.”
In the corner, the little girl watched, her hands clasped together too.