This whole chapter is so beautifully written. The section below made me cry.
“Père! Père!” Tìbald shouted.
What priest did not look up?
Marin, his fists clutched tight to his belly, walked the line of bodies to Tìbald and the horse with its arrows.
“I cannot find her, Père,” Tìbald moaned, looking at the pits.
Without a word, Marin took him by the arm . . .
When Aile saw Tìbald, she slapped him then wept, her shoulder bandaged and her gambeson bloody. He took her gently and she cried into his armour, but pulled away when he stroked her back. And him wise enough not to ask . . . yet not wise enough to know how . . . She sobbed into her hands, heaving, a cry of a lifetime going on and on, and when sniffling and exhausted, raised her head. “I killed horses. I killed men.”
This whole chapter is so beautifully written. The section below made me cry.
“Père! Père!” Tìbald shouted.
What priest did not look up?
Marin, his fists clutched tight to his belly, walked the line of bodies to Tìbald and the horse with its arrows.
“I cannot find her, Père,” Tìbald moaned, looking at the pits.
Without a word, Marin took him by the arm . . .
When Aile saw Tìbald, she slapped him then wept, her shoulder bandaged and her gambeson bloody. He took her gently and she cried into his armour, but pulled away when he stroked her back. And him wise enough not to ask . . . yet not wise enough to know how . . . She sobbed into her hands, heaving, a cry of a lifetime going on and on, and when sniffling and exhausted, raised her head. “I killed horses. I killed men.”