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Jamie woke to find a priest kneeling over him, intoning the Lord’s prayer in Latin. Not stopping, the priest took up a little bottle and poured oil into the palm of one hand, then dipped his thumb into the puddle and made a swift sign of the Cross on Jamie’s forehead.
“I’m no dead, aye?” Jamie said, then repeated this information in French. The priest leaned closer, squinting near-sightedly.
“Dying?” he asked.
“Not that, either.” The priest made a small, disgusted sound, but went ahead and made crosses on the palms of Jamie’s hands, his eyelids and his lips.
“_Ego te absolvo_,” he said, making a final quick sign of the Cross over Jamie’s supine form. “Just in case you’ve killed anyone.” Then he rose swiftly to his feet and disappeared behind the wagon in a flurry of dark robes.
“All right, are ye?” Ian reached down a hand and hauled him into a sitting position.
“Aye, more or less. Who was that?” He nodded in the direction of the recent priest.
“_Pere_ Renault. This is a verra well-equipped outfit,” Ian said, boosting him to his feet. “We’ve got our own priest, to shrive us before battle and give us Extreme Unction after.”
“I noticed. A bit over-eager, is he no?”
“He’s blind as a bat,” Ian said, glancing over his shoulder to be sure the priest wasn’t close enough to hear. “Likely thinks better safe than sorry, aye?”
“D’ye have a surgeon, too?” Jamie asked, glancing at the two attackers who had fallen. The bodies had been pulled to the side of the road; one was clearly dead, but the other was beginning to stir and moan.
“Ah,” Ian said thoughtfully. “That would be the priest, as well.”
“So if I’m wounded in battle, I’d best try to die of it, is that what ye’re sayin’?”
“I am. Come on, let’s find some water.”

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