April 1347

 

The sea was as calm as a puddle after the rain, its blue-gray surface reflecting the puffy white clouds as they drifted across the aquamarine sky. A chill breeze moved through the newly greening branches, but there was a whiff of spring in the air. Avery stood on a cliff by the priory, gazing out over what remained of Dunwich. The devastation was unspeakable. Hundreds of houses had been washed away by twenty-foot swells, and St. Leonard’s was lost to parishioners forever. It was partially submerged in water, its tower rising out of the sea like the arm of a drowning man, begging for help that would never come.

The streets had been blocked by debris and silt for weeks, and many townspeople were still unaccounted for and presumed dead. For days after the storm, people wandered about, unsure of what to do now that they found themselves homeless and completely dispossessed. They searched for victims and anything that could be salvaged, but the sea had been cruel, leaving nothing but destruction behind. The waters had eventually receded, but not all the way. A substantial portion of the town was still underwater, the coast so eroded by the power of the storm that it simply vanished beneath the waves.

Avery pulled on the hood of his robe and began to walk toward what was left of Dunwich. He had two stops to make before he left for good. With Petra and Edwin gone, the bishop had been more than willing to forgive his indiscretions and allow him to return to Oxford after a period of further prayer and contemplation, but Avery refused. He no longer had any desire to be a priest, nor did he have any ambitions for the future. His carelessness and arrogance lead to Petra and Edwin’s death, and although he still saw the taking of one’s life as a mortal sin, he no longer felt that his life was his to live.

Avery knocked on the door of Petra’s house. It had survived the storm, but needed extensive repairs. The water had reached the house and flooded the ground floor, reaching almost to the loft and carrying off household goods and bits of furniture. Chunks of daub were missing from the walls facing the street, while the back walls were still damp even after all this time. Maude was in the house. She tried to restore order to what was left of her home, but her heart wasn’t in it, and the place looked a shambles. Elia and Ora were outside, hanging up laundry, their faces solemn and gray and their eyes downcast. They’d lost much the day of the storm, and neither girl would ever forget the sight of their mother and brother murdered by an angry mob. They were lucky to have been spared, and they both knew it.

Avery greeted Maude and stepped inside, but remained by the door. Lord Devon sat at the table, eating a bowl of pottage. His face was still bruised and swollen, and his right arm rested in a makeshift sling and splints, having been broken in two places. He limped when he walked due the damage caused to his knee by a blow from a cudgel, but he was on the mend, physically, if not mentally.

“What do you want?” Lord Devon asked, failing to invite Avery to sit down. He now knew, as did everyone else who survived the storm, that Edwin had been Avery’s son and that Petra had been his lover, both before he left Dunwich and after he returned. There was no love lost between the two men.

“I’ve come to say goodbye,” Avery said. “I’m no longer a priest; just a simple Franciscan friar. I leave Dunwich today.”

“Where are you bound?” Maude asked.

Unlike the rest of the townspeople, she didn’t blame Avery for what happened, at least not completely. Her daughter had loved him, and Avery genuinely tried to help his son. He should have been stronger, and truer, and more honest, but that could be said of many men. Petra and Edwin’s deaths had been brought about by fear and superstition, and not only as the result of Avery’s mistakes.

“I’m bound for the Holy Land,” Avery replied. “Pope Clement VI granted the Franciscan friars Custodia Terrae Sanctae nearly five years ago. I will go to the monastery that was built near Mount Zion and spend the rest of my life trying to atone for my sins.”

“As you should,” Thomas replied. “You don’t deserve to be a custodian of the Holy Land, you immoral parasite.”

“Lord Thomas, please,” Maude pleaded. “He’s suffered enough.”

Thomas ignored Avery’s pallor and the shadows under his eyes. He’d lost more than a stone since the storm, and the robe hung on him as if he were no more than skin and bones.

“No amount of self-flagellation can atone for what he’s done. He killed them, as surely as if he’d thrown the stones himself.”

Avery backed toward the door. He didn’t look at Lord Devon, nor did he respond. He had killed them, and nothing the man accused him of was any worse than what he’d accused himself of already. Lord Devon had every right to despise him, especially when he’d actually tried to help Petra and Edwin and wore the scars to prove it. He’d been beaten nearly half-to-death, and suffered not only broken bones, but the loss of the woman he loved and planned to marry, and the knowledge of her betrayal.

“Go in peace, Avery,” Maude said, making the sign of the cross in front of Avery. “Lord Devon will take care of us. He has promised to provide a dowry for the girls when the time comes and will allow me to remain under his roof in my old age.”

“And Lady Blythe?” Avery asked carefully. The last he’d heard, Lady Blythe had not been accounted for.

“My mother perished during the storm, as did my daughter and her husband,” Thomas spat out.

“What of your brother’s family?” Avery asked.

“They are safe, and their home suffered minimal damage,” Thomas replied. “Safe journey, Friar Avery,” Thomas said, his tone laced with sarcasm. He wouldn’t be too upset if Avery’s ship went down in a storm. It would be a sort of justice, in his estimation.

“God be with you all,” Avery said and took his leave.

He walked slowly toward the Leper Hospital of St. James. His legs felt as if they were weighed down with stones, but this was a pilgrimage he needed to make. Avery broke off two evergreen branches and carried them toward the cemetery, where two fresh graves were visible just beyond hallowed ground. Avery laid the evergreen branches on the graves and fell to his knees, tears running down his face. It wasn’t bad enough that the townspeople had executed — for there was no better word for what they’d done — Petra and Edwin, they’d refused them a Christian burial, tossing their remains face down in unmarked graves just beyond the leper cemetery. Avery had pleaded with the bishop, but he refused to relocate Petra and Edwin’s remains.

People were frightened and angry, and needed to be appeased, the bishop had intimated. Besides, St. Leonard’s cemetery, where Petra and Edwin would have been buried had circumstances been different, was underwater, the graves desecrated by seawater and debris. And the remaining cemeteries were overflowing with the victims of the storm, who were being buried every day. Some were still washing up further down the coast, and grieving family members patrolled the shores, hoping to find their loved ones and give them a dignified send-off.

“Forgive me,” Avery whispered to the graves. “Please forgive me.”  He remained perfectly still, hoping for some sign, but all he heard was a dense silence, unbroken by the sound of the wind or the life-affirming trilling of a bird. He reached into the pocket of his robe and brought out a thin chain with a medal of the Virgin Mary. It was a parting gift from Prior Jacob, given to him only that morning.

“My mother gave this to me the day I left home to join the order,” Prior Jacob said as he removed the chain and handed it to Avery. “She said the Blessed Mother would look after me, and she has. I would like you to have the medal, Friar Avery. You’ve suffered much these past few weeks, and although some would say that you brought the suffering onto yourself, I believe that every man deserves forgiveness if he’s truly repentant. I hope you find comfort in our Mother’s love.”

“Thank you, Prior Jacob,” Avery said and meant it. The man had been more generous of spirit than Avery deserved, and gave him a home and a place to pray when all others wanted to banish him from the priory. Avery dug a hole with his hands and buried the medal between the two graves.

“Please, Blessed Mother, watch over those I love,” he whispered. “I’m not worthy of your compassion, but they are. I leave them in your care.” Avery clasped his hands in front of him, intoned a prayer for the souls of Petra and Edwin, then got to his feet. He was ready to go. There was nothing left for him in England.

The End

Please turn the page for an excerpt from

The Unforgiven (Echoes from the Past Book 3)