Chapter Fourteen
“My family had been Christian for several generations,” Agatha said, “but they had Arabic skin and wore Arabic clothes. A crusader’s blade did not pause to ask which creed its victims followed. It struck down that which was perceived as an enemy of Christ – a perception based purely on appearance.” Despite the slant of her words, the nun spoke without malice, her accent soft, robes rustling as she led Turi along the path to the hospital. “My grandfather was the third of five sons, and the only one to survive a crusader attack on Nazareth. He and some other Christians fled to Damascus, where he married my grandmother, and… well, I will not bore you with the subsequent history of my family. Suffice to say, their faith did not waver. At age fourteen, I joined a convent in Rome and took my vows there, but I have been in England for several years now. I consider Westwood Priory, and England, to be my home.” She pushed the infirmary door open. “And I am curious to know how you came to speak Arabic with such purity.”
“I am a well-traveled man,” Turi said, ignoring the stirrings of yet another memory and a vague suspicion that felt like a cold breath on his neck. “And I’m blessed with an aptitude for languages. I find them easy to adopt.”
“So it would seem. Ah, your lady is still sleeping.” The nun bent and lifted something from the foot of the bed. “Your shirt,” she said in a whisper as she handed it to him. “We laundered it. The bloodstains have gone. We have also cleaned Cristen’s robe, but it is not yet dry.”
“My thanks.” Turi took the folded shirt, his gaze fixed on Cristen. Dressed in a pale shift and partially covered by a thin blanket, she lay on her back, arms at her side. A hint of pink colored her cheeks and her hair had obviously been brushed and braided. Relief lifted Turi’s spirit. He ached to gather her close and feel her warmth. “She looks better. Much better.”
“She is much improved over yesterday,” Sister Agatha said. “Even so, I suggest she remains here for another day at least. To move her now would not be wise. Where are you headed?”
“North,” Turi replied. “Close to the border.”
The nun arched a dark brow. “A good distance yet, then. All the more reason to let her rest and recover for a while longer.”
“I submit to your recommendation,” Turi said, “and I am indebted to this house.”
Sister Agatha cocked her head and gave him an assessing look. “Your lady is of the Christian faith as is your elderly traveling companion. But you are not.”
“You are astute, Sister Agatha.” Turi held the nun’s gaze. “Does the direction of my faith matter to you?”
“Not in the least,” she said, smiling as she turned to leave. “I was simply making an observation. I’ll be by later to check on her.”
Turi removed his cloak and placed it on the end of the bed as he pulled on his clean shirt. Then he settled on the small stool beside the bed and took Cristen’s hand in his. Eyes closed, he breathed deep, drinking in the inexplicable relief her touch gave him.
“What language was that? Arabic?”
His eyes flew open and met Cristen’s. “Hello, little bird,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. “Aye, Arabic. How do you feel?”
“A little sore.” Cringing, she shifted slightly. “But better. They have been very kind to me. You look tired, though.”
“I didn’t sleep well.” His mouth twitched. “Gilbert snores like a bear.”
It was only a partial truth. The tale of Turi’s immortality had not been enough for Gilbert. It had merely resulted in a cascade of questions about druidic justice, and the condensed recounting of a life that spanned thirteen centuries. For the first time ever, Turi had shared the truth of his existence with another. As a result, both men had lain awake most of the night. The old man had finally succumbed to sleep a little before dawn and his snores had, indeed, been quite spectacular.
Turi’s mind, however, would not be still. Thoughts swirled around it like autumn leaves in a gale. Missing Cristen and seeking distraction, he’d wandered to the edge of the trees to watch the sunrise. It had arisen directly behind the priory, creating a brilliant backdrop to the red brick buildings. Sorting through the turmoil in his head, Turi had stared into the golden light till his eyes could no longer tolerate the brilliance.
A week had passed since he’d set foot on English soil. A single week out of so many thousands, yet it had probably been the most significant of them all.
“Can we leave today?” Cristen’s question gathered his focus. The hopefulness in her voice was reflected in her expression.
“It wouldn’t be wise, love,” he said. “Sister Agatha says you need more time to rest, and I agree with her. Another day at least.”
The expectation on her face disappeared as her gaze shifted to some random spot behind him.
“Is it over, Turi?” Eyes bright with tears, she regarded him once more. “Or do you think more will come looking for me?”
Turi groaned. He moved from the stool to the edge of her bed, sitting sideways as he gathered her, gently, into his arms. “It’s over,” he said, holding her as tightly as he dared. “First of all, it could be weeks, if at all, before anyone at Frehampton decides to launch another search. By that time, we’ll be at Eamont and the trail will be cold. And all that aside, the country is about to descend into chaos with this pestilence. People will have other things to think about. Put your fears aside, aderyn bach.”
Her breath felt warm and strong against his chest. Yet her hand, in its familiar nervous motion, clenched and unclenched the fabric of his shirt.
“It seems you have other fears,” he murmured.
“Not fears, exactly,” she said, after a pause. “But there is something that weighs on my mind.”
“What is it?”
Another pause, then, “When Ralph threatened to kill me, only two things frightened me about dying. I could think of naught else but them.” She lifted her head from his chest and regarded him. “One was that I would never see Jacob again.”
The vision of the boy in the orchard arose in Turi’s mind. “I made a vow to you,” he said. “I stand by it.”
A sad smile accompanied a flare of hope in her eyes, which then faded. “And the second thing, was that I would die without fully earning your trust.”
Turi flinched inwardly.
“Just now,” she continued, “when I heard you speaking a different language to Sister Agatha, it served to emphasize how little I know of you.” She touched his face. “Please, Turi. I need to know who you are. Where you’re from. I want to know what Nareen did and why her betrayal gives you nightmares. I want to hear about your life, learn about those who have been a part of it. How it is that you speak other languages. I want you to trust me as I trust you.”
“’Tis not unreasonable, is it? To learn a little about the one who travels with me?”
“Not unreasonable at all, my lady, as long as the courtesy is returned.”
And Cristen had returned it. She trusted him with her secrets. He had not returned that trust through fear of losing her. Was his fear unfounded?
“You won’t lose me, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” she said, lifting her head to look at him. Her perception, sharper than his blade, prompted him to smile. “I’ve told you, Turi. No matter what you’ve done in the past, it will not change the way I feel about you.”
He had little choice but to acquiesce. Either way, he risked harming what they shared.
“As you wish,” Turi said. At that same moment, someone coughed, a harsh, hacking sound that echoed off the bare walls. “But not here. Not now.” He cupped her cheek. “What I have to say will take some time. I need to be alone with you.”
A door hinge creaked, and a nun entered carrying a bowl and washcloths. An older woman, she gave Turi and Cristen a disapproving glance as she swept by.
“Do I have your word?” Cristen asked, ignoring the nun’s reaction. “When next we are alone. In an inn, or… or making love beneath an elm tree in the forest, you will tell me then?”
“Tell you my life story while we’re making love?” He chuckled. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to do both at the same time.”
“Turi!” The smile tugging at her mouth belied the hint of irritation in her voice.
He assumed a serious expression and raised a hand. “I swear it.”
“You’ll tell me everything?”
“Aye, little bird.” He bent his head and kissed her. “Everything.”
Two days later, they left Westwood and looked to the north again.