Chapter Sixteen
The wild northern landscape of Cumberland, with its wind-swept hillsides and craggy peaks, excited Turi’s pagan spirit. This had once been part of the ancient kingdom of Rheged, a territory that encompassed much of the northwest of England and southwest Scotland. The native language, a dialect so similar to his own, had all but disappeared.
His flesh tingled as he lifted his head and breathed in the crisp, sea air. It aroused his most deep-seated instincts. If not for Gilbert’s company, he’d have stopped and made love to Cristen among the heather and bracken.
“Stirs the blood, doesn’t it?” Gilbert asked, as they crested the top of a rise and reined the horses in.
“Aye, that it does.” Turi saturated his lungs again and gazed out across the Irish Sea and the distant Firth of Solway.
“The land on the other side of yon stretch of water,” Gilbert said, pointing, “is Scotland.”
Cristen craned her neck. “And where is Eamont, Lord Allonby?”
The old man pointed again. “Over there. You can’t see it yet, but we’ll be home well before dark.”
“Home,” Cristen repeated, her voice wistful.
Turi gave her a gentle squeeze as they resumed their journey. The previous week of travel had not been easy. Except for the past two days, the weather had been damp and miserable. Cristen had not complained once, but Turi was fully aware of her fatigue and sensed her anguish. He knew questions about Jacob’s whereabouts and welfare were never far from her mind.
“You’re going to rest for at least a sennight when we get to Eamont, my lady,” he said. “No arguments.”
“You’ll get none,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’m looking forward to sleeping in a proper bed. And a bath. Oh, how I long for a bath.”
“I don’t have many servants,” Gilbert said, “but the ones I do have are highly esteemed. My chatelaine’s name is Bess. She misses my daughter, and will no doubt want to fuss over you, Cristen. Please allow her to do so. She also bakes the best bread in the land. You’ll wake up to the smell of it every morning. Thomas is my steward, although he’ll turn his hand to any task. He’s finicky and sometimes needs reminding of his station, but I’d be lost without him and he knows it. I have a garrison of two knights, both of whom reside within Eamont’s walls. There are a couple of tenant farmers, too. The Scots tend to leave me alone. I’m descended from a respected lowland clan on my mother’s side, and it seems that grants me a certain amount of respect. As I said, Eamont is not grand, but it is welcoming. I trust you’ll be comfortable.”
“I’m sure we will, Lord Allonby,” Cristen said. “We are fortunate to have met you.”
The old man gave a soft grunt. “None of us would be here if it wasn’t for Turi. That I’m able to give something in return after all this time gives me more pleasure than I can say.”
Turi merely smiled, hoping it hid his twinge of guilt. He had yet to tell them of his plans, yet to confess that he would not be staying at Eamont for long. A sennight, maybe a little longer. But he couldn’t afford to wait. The pestilence had already begun to spread its tendrils northward. Ralph St. Clair and his unfortunate cohort had been proof of that. Better, then, that his search for Jacob began sooner rather than later.
Where to begin it was a different matter. But the seed of an idea had already settled in his brain and taken root.
Eamont was a small, unassuming bastion. Surrounded by wild and rugged countryside, it stood atop a rise within sight of the Scottish border. The main keep was solid sandstone, three stories high, with rounded corner towers. The curtain wall, which encompassed a large inner bailey, had a watchtower on each corner. The castle had no drawbridge or moat, but a hefty oak gate and portcullis provided a secure entryway.
A warm, and somewhat chaotic, welcome awaited them. It became clear, within moments of arriving, that Gilbert Allonby was a well-loved lord, and had been greatly missed. Even the castle dogs joined in the fray. One, a large black beast, seemed especially happy to see Gilbert.
“His name is Loki,” Gilbert said, bending to pet the animal. “He’s my son’s dog. Broke his heart when Henry went off to fight. He didn’t eat for a week. And, of course,” Gilbert’s voice faltered and he cleared his throat, “Henry never came back.”
Turi’s scalp prickled as he crouched and looked the dog in the eye. “I think I know who you are, Loki,” he murmured, scratching the dog behind the ear. “I hope I’m right.”
As Gilbert had predicted, Bess, after tearful introductions, fell on Cristen as if she were a long-lost daughter, and whisked her away to “get the lass settled properly”. Turi took a slow breath as he watched her leave. He had become adept at handling the return of his angst during their temporary separations. Soon, that adeptness would be put to a much more rigorous test.
“She’s in good hands,” Gilbert said. “I warrant she’s never been so well pampered before. I told her to put you both in the southwest chamber. I thought you, especially, might appreciate a room that faced the direction of your home.”
“The world needs more men like you, Lord Allonby.” Turi squeezed Gilbert’s shoulder. “I’m glad I was there that day.”
Gilbert’s eyes softened. “As am I, lad. Come, I’ll give you a brief tour of the place, and then you can settle in. What’s mine is yours, so just take or use whatever you need.”
Thomas, Eamont’s steward, joined them on the tour.
“We primarily farm sheep and pigs,” he said, a note of pride evident in his tone, “and there’s a fine trout stream that runs behind Eamont. Our woods run with deer and boar, and the tenants grow vegetables. We buy our grain, or barter for it. The land is not suited to such crops.”
Turi listened with half an ear. Seeing Loki had stoked a spark of anticipation. “Is there an orchard?” he asked, interrupting the steward’s ongoing narrative.
“Um, aye, there is.” Thomas, looking a little puzzled, gestured toward the western end of the bailey. “’Tis over there. Just past yon rise. Won’t be any fruit for another month or two, though.”
Gilbert peered at him. “Is there a reason you ask?”
Turi smiled and bent to scratch Loki’s head. “Nay, I just wondered.”
He made gentle love to Cristen that night between fine linen sheets and, afterwards, slept soundly till a little before dawn. Then, being careful not to disturb Cristen, he slid from the bed, pulled the shutters back, and looked to the southwest.
It was not the direction of his original home he sought, although his eyes made a reverent pause at a certain point as they swept the darkness. But after that, his gaze turned more to the west, to a particular spot in the Irish Sea. As yet, it was too dark to see the familiar outline on the horizon. The sacred stepping-stone between Britannia and Éire. The Isle of Man. The place where his immortal journey had begun.
Ellan Vannin.
It would be Turi’s first destination in his search for Jacob. Releasing a soft sigh, he glanced over at Cristen. Despite his determination to find the boy, the thought of leaving her weighed heavy on Turi’s heart. He would have to steel himself, too, against her reaction, for he knew she’d insist on going with him.
But the dangers were too great, the risk too high. He had to do this alone.
*
“This must be it.” Cristen squinted up into the branches. “Gilbert said to turn right at the oak and follow the deer path to the river.”
Turi paused, his ancestral blood surging at the sight of the mighty tree. He placed a reverent hand on the hard, furrowed bark. “This has been here a long time,” he said, following Cristen’s upward gaze. “Centuries. The oak was a sacred symbol to my people.”
“’Tis magnificent,” she said. “I’ve seen carvings of oak leaves in churches. A reminder of the ancient beliefs, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.” Turi smiled, and turned onto the narrow path. “Come.”
This would be the last day spent with Cristen for some time, although she didn’t know it yet. According to Gilbert, the reflection pool, as he called it, was a calm and secluded spot.
“A good place to tell your lass the news,” he’d said, after hearing Turi’s plans. “She’ll not be happy.”
An understatement.
The path ended at a large, flat rock that jutted out over a curve in the river. Here, the current slowed, forming a clear, languid pool before sliding over a placid waterfall.
“Oh, Turi.” Cristen went to the rock’s edge and looked over. “It’s beautiful. The water is so clear. Look at the fish!”
“Trout,” he said, setting down the blanket and food. “Aye, ’tis a bonny spot.”
Cristen gave him an odd look. Then she heaved a sigh, spread out the blanket, and sat down.
“When are we leaving?” she asked, looking up at him.
Stumped, he raised a brow. “We only just got here.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She heaved another sigh. “I’m referring to Eamont. That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it? To tell me we have to leave.”
Turi cringed inwardly. She knew him too well.
“Nay.” Steeling himself, Turi sat crossed-legged before her and echoed her sigh. “We don’t have to leave. I do. I’m leaving tomorrow to begin my search for Jacob.”
Her eyes widened. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“Nay, you are not. You’re staying here.”
Color flooded her cheeks and she regarded him as though he’d grown an extra head. “You jest.”
Frowning, he responded with silence.
“Turi?” A hint of panic edged her voice. “Please tell me you don’t mean it. I will not stay here without –”
“Aye, you will!” The rebuke came out sharper than he’d intended and Cristen flinched as if struck. Her reaction tore a hole in Turi’s heart and a groan from his throat. He uttered a curse and ran a hand through his hair. “Forgive me, please,” he said. “I did not mean to speak so harshly. But I knew you’d fight me on this, Cristen, and I will not be swayed. I will not.”
Tears in her eyes, she glared at him. “You can’t leave me here all alone.”
“You won’t be alone.”
“Yes, Turi, I will. If you’re not with me, I’m alone.”
Groaning again, he got to his feet and began to pace. “I swear I’d rather fight a Roman legion single handed than tangle with you over this. It you think for a moment that leaving you will be easy for me, think again.”
Cristen stood. “Then take me with you. Please, Turi.”
Turi mumbled another curse as he went to her. He looked down into blue eyes bright with tears – and a fair hint of stubbornness. His mouth quirked. “My answer will not change, little bird. I’ll be faster and more efficient knowing I don’t have to worry about you. Besides, chances are, Jacob is somewhere in the south. Do I need to remind you what recently landed on this island’s southern shores?”
“But… but you said yourself, you don’t know when your immortality will fail. What if it fails while you’re away? You’ll be as defenseless as everyone else.”
“Which is why I’m leaving now, while I still have some time.” He cupped her cheek. “I need your blessing, love. Not your dissent.”
She gave a little cry and stepped into his arms. “You have it, Turi. You know you do. I’m just afraid, that’s all.”
“Don’t be.” He tipped up her chin. “There’s something I didn’t tell you. It might make you feel better about this.”
“What is it?”
“Sit,” he said, and settled back on the blanket beside her.
He told her, then, of the visions he’d had so many centuries before. The courtyard at Abbotsbury, the orchard, the black dog. And the child, riding his pretend horse.
“My father said they were glimpses of the future.” Turi lifted Cristen’s hand to his mouth. “One of them has come true, and I believe the second one will, too.”
Cristen released a soft sigh and wove her fingers through his. “I hope you’re right. I pray you are. But I will miss you, Turi. God knows I will.”
*
A single candle burned atop the small table beside their bed. The glow it cast warmed the stone walls and threw shadows into the corners. Naked, Cristen lay on her back, her flesh tingling beneath Turi’s scrutiny. And his touch.
The expression on his face was one of wonder. Absorption. Fascination. Propped up on an elbow, he trailed a single fingertip across her forehead, down over her nose, her chin, and her throat. Then, with the hint of a smile on his lips, he traced a line around her breast, circled in smaller circles until he arrived at her nipple.
Cristen pulled in a breath as he touched the peak with a whisper-soft touch. His eyes flicked to hers for moment, and his smile grew. His hand, flesh dark in contrast to hers, cupped her breast for a moment before continuing down over her belly.
He shifted and moved to cover her, sliding a leg over hers as he bent to kiss her. His arousal felt like warm steel against her hip as their tongues tangled in a slow, intimate dance. Cristen reached down to stroke him and he growled his pleasure.
She loved the way Turi so obviously enjoyed her, and the rapt attention he gave her body. It was an unselfish sharing of love and passion. Her pleasure, she knew, was more important to him than his own. This would be their last night together for a while. Who knew how long?
“Fy aderyn bach,” he murmured, his thumb caressing the corner of her mouth. “How I do love you.”
Cristen blinked away a prickle of tears as his mouth descended on hers again. She would not cry. Not now. Not yet. She closed her eyes and drifted into the sweetness of their lovemaking, committing every moment of it to memory. At last, she cried out his name, and rode a wave of ecstasy as Turi took his own pleasure.
Afterwards, laying in his arms, she fought against sleep, meaning to stay awake to listen to his breathing. His heartbeat.
But when next she opened her eyes, it was to an empty bed.