Alice, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, dipped a clean cloth into a basin of warm water. With gentle hands, she carefully washed Robin's body, the water turning cloudy with the grime of the day he was taken from them. She paused, her hand hovering over the wound on his stomach. With a shuddering breath, she continued her task. Martha knelt beside the makeshift bier, her younger brother's body laid next to it. Her lips were pressed into a thin, white line, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

  As Alice sponged Robin’s arm, she stopped and looked to Martha, managing a smile. "He was always such a brave boy," she murmured, more to herself than to Martha. Her fingers traced a faint, pale scar just above his wrist. "He never cried, not even when he was kicked by that horse and broke this arm." She paused, her fingers tracing the outline of Robin's small hand. "He always said that tears were for babies."

  Martha's hands balled into fists.

  From the corner of the room, their parents watched. They looked tired and drawn. Their mother reached out a trembling hand to touch Robin's hair but withdrew it, as if afraid to disturb his rest.

  "Mama, you know how he loved his hair.” Alice ran her fingers through it, looking to her mother as if to show her she needn’t be afraid.

  Other villagers moved quietly around the small cottage, offering what comfort they could. Agnes brought a fresh basin of water. Thomas Baker placed a comforting hand on the mother's shoulder. Peter Cook stood by the window, his wife, Sarah, clinging to his arm. John watched him intently, noticing how hard Peter seemed to be working to contain himself in the soft, grief-filled moment before the burial.

  Alice wrung out the cloth, her movements slow and deliberate, and bit her lip. "We should dress him now," she said.

  Martha nodded curtly, her gaze fixed on Robin. She watched as Alice carefully dressed him in his best tunic and breeches, the ones he had proudly worn to the village fair last summer. Alice placed a sprig of rosemary in Robin's hands. With a final lingering touch to his skin, she stepped back. Martha rose, and together they lifted his body onto the bier.

  John stood by the doorway, watching the sisters. He wanted to offer them comfort, to tell them that it would be alright, but he imagined anything he could say would sound hollow and small, maybe even cold in the face of this loss. He felt like a stranger in his own village, an outsider looking in on a world he no longer understood.

  As the girls emerged from the cottage with Robin's body, John stepped back, giving them space. He watched as the villagers parted to let the sisters through. He saw Eleanor give Martha a small, sad smile, and, with a heavy heart, joined them in the slow procession.

  At the lychgate, Father Michael waited for them. The churchyard, a patchwork of uneven ground and tilting headstones, was crowded. Weathered crosses, some carved with crude images of the departed, leaned at precarious angles, their inscriptions blurred by time and rain. Moss crept over the sunken graves, a green blanket covering the bones of generations past. Above them, crows circled in the grey sky.

  The churchyard was full, every villager present. John stood near the middle of the throng, watching as the small, shrouded figure was lowered into the grave. No coffin, just a simple linen shroud.

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  Father Michael committed Robin's small body to the earth. "Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. We lay this boy facing the dawn," Father Michael said, his voice hoarse with emotion, "so that when the trumpet sounds and the heavens open, he will rise to face Him, ready for the Day of Judgment. 'For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of an archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first.'"

  He sprinkled holy water over the grave, making the sign of the cross. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

  Then, turning to face the mourners, he continued, "Let us pray for the soul of young Robin, that he may find eternal rest in the loving embrace of our Lord.

  "O God, whose property is always to have mercy and to spare, we humbly beseech Thee for the soul of Thy servant Robin, which Thou hast this day commanded to depart out of this world; that Thou wouldest place him in the region of peace and light, and bid him be a partaker with Thy saints. Through Christ our Lord. Amen."

  He paused, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the villagers, their grief palpable. "Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon us. Lord, have mercy upon us."

  A silence fell, even the crows seemed to hush, as Father Michael finished the rite. "Absolve, we beseech Thee, O Lord, the soul of Thy servant Robin, that being dead to the world, he may live to Thee; and whatever sins he has committed in this life through human frailty, do Thou in Thy most merciful goodness forgive. Through Christ our Lord. Amen."

  After the Priest finished, the villagers mostly dispersed, some staying to speak with the family or each other. Others headed home or comforted the children, many of whom had been Robin's friends. John lingered and asked Eleanor to take Mary home.

  He noticed Martha standing by the lychgate, still and staring out at the fields beyond the graveyard, her expression eerily blank. John hesitated, as he had before, but then walked toward her.

  "Martha," he said softly.

  She turned to look at him, her eyes unsettlingly dry and direct.

  "They killed him," she said. "They came here, to our village, and they murdered him." John flinched, surprised by the sharp accusation in her tone, but he could not call her a liar. "Aye, they did."

  "And they'll do it again," she continued. This wasn't the way a girl of her age should be speaking.

  "We won’t let them, Martha."

  "Then what are we going to do, John? Wait for them to come back with their swords?"

  John looked at her, a wave of helplessness washing over him. He didn't have an answer for her, not yet. "I don't know," he admitted, "Perhaps there is someone to speak to, someone who knows that commander."

  Martha's expression was unchanged. "They should be made to pay."

  John put his arm around her shoulders and gently steered her away from the graveyard. "Come on, Martha," he said. "Let's get you home. Alice will see to your parents."He walked with her for a while, not speaking, just letting the silence and the fading light build a bridge between them. As they reached her home, he squeezed her shoulder and gave her a small smile. "You be strong now, Martha," he said. "We all need to be strong."

  "I will," she said. "And thank you, John."

  He watched her walk away, her small figure disappearing into the gathering dusk. Then, with a heavy sigh, he turned and headed towards his own empty cottage.

  Peter's movements were quick, almost predatory, his long strides eating up the distance between them. He stopped in front of Martha, his body blocking her path, his shadow falling over her like a shroud. They spoke, their words lost to the distance, but John saw the intensity in their expressions, the way Peter leaned in close, his hand resting on the hilt of the knife he always carried.

  He didn't know what they were saying, but he knew it boded ill.