Chapter Three
Turi never had any intention of abandoning the girl to the night. His feigned departure had been a manipulative gamble. A lure to capture her trust. To make her understand she needed him. And it had worked exactly as he’d hoped. He wanted her to trust him, to need him. The mystery surrounding her had aroused his curiosity, of course, but it was more than that.
Much more.
“Cristen St. Clair,” he said, repeating the name she had volunteered. Her real name this time.
“Yes.” She tugged her cloak around her. “And I willingly admit, sir, to being in need of your protection. For tonight, at least. Will you help me?”
Turi emerged from the fog and moved to within reach, wanting to touch her again.
Needing to touch her again.
“I am guessing there never was an escort, sick or otherwise,” he said.
She shook her head. “Nay. I… I am traveling alone.”
“Then yes,” he said, “I’ll help you.”
“Thank you.” She gave him a weary smile. “I’m beholden to you.”
The top of the girl’s head barely came level with his chin. She stared up at him, face pale in the gloom, some undefined sadness evident in her wide, blue eyes. Tears smudged her grubby cheeks and her belly growled like an angry bear. A short distance away, barely visible, lay the body of the bastard who had tried to rape her. His stench hung in the air and Turi’s nostrils flared.
Above the foul odor, though, lingered the suggestion of a sweeter perfume. A familiar scent that stirred ancient memories in Turi’s mind. He recognized it as thyme, such as he had smelled on that final night when Pendaran had passed sentence on him. Not an uncommon scent, in truth.
Except now it came from the girl.
A girl blessed with a remarkable gift. A gift she apparently didn’t know she possessed. What did it mean? Why had such a being arrived this late in his immortal life? Turi had little doubt he’d been fated to meet her. An offering from the gods, perhaps. A reward sent to appease him in the final months before his mortality returned.
He knew the lass was on the run and he had yet to find out why. Though, at that moment, he cared little about the reason. For now, at least, he had to remain at her side, protect her from any and all harm. She didn’t know it, but he’d already avowed to be her savior, her guardian.
Her sentinel.
All she had to do in return was let him touch her.
It had nothing to do with carnal desire. Cristen St. Clair did not meet Turi’s ideal of seductive. Under different circumstances, he’d barely have given her a second glance. She was small of stature, with slender, white limbs, hair the color of autumn leaves, and pale blue eyes. Some men, no doubt, found such features desirable in a woman.
Turi favored sultry females. Dark hair and equally dark eyes. Flesh that reflected the sun. Generous curves that begged exploration and strong, supple limbs that wrapped around him as he took his pleasure. He had bedded hundreds of such women over the centuries. A few might even have stolen his heart had things been different. But his enduring guilt and remorse affected his ability to sustain the purity of a love affair over time. And time was another hindrance. Turi’s perpetual youth always steered him away from long-term commitments to his lovers.
Yet none of them had done what this foolish girl could do.
He’d felt it when he lifted her from the ground. Touching her had been akin to an imprisoned man being set free. Unshackled from his torture, the exquisite sense of peace had lasted mere moments. But it had been profound. Sublime. The girl had apparently felt his reaction and recoiled from him. As soon as she freed herself from his touch, the sensation had ceased. Only a faint odor of thyme remained.
Had he imagined it? Nay. For when he’d given her the dagger and purse, he’d allowed his fingers to rest a moment on the soft flesh of her wrist. The sweetness of mental freedom had returned in a rush. Turi had almost wept with relief.
“When did you last eat?” he asked, responding to the sounds of her hunger.
“Um, I had some bread this morning,” she replied, dropping her gaze.
Turi dug into the pouch at his belt, pulled out a folded cloth, and opened it.
“It’s not much,” he said, offering her the strip of dried meat within. “But it’ll serve for the time being.”
With only a brief hesitation, she took the offering. “My thanks.”
Turi grunted and glanced again at the prone shape of her assailant. “Come. We’ll find shelter further along.”
He held out his hand.
Take it.
The girl regarded it as she might a serpent. “Forgive me,” she said, “but I-I do not like to be touched.”
Curse their balls, but the gods had an evil sense of humor. Turi barely managed to smile at their mockery.
“You asked for my protection.” He edged closer. “And you have it, but on my terms. Other dangers may be lurking in this fog and I need to keep you close to me. Give me your hand.”
She acquiesced with obvious reluctance. Turi hid his relief as his fingers closed around hers. He felt her tension rise even as his own dissipated. He wondered who, or what, had made the girl shy away from human contact. A man, most likely. One with heavy hands. The thought disturbed his newfound peace.
“I must thank you again,” she said, chewing on the piece of dried meat as they set out. “If you hadn’t happened by, I’m sure I’d be dead by now.”
“’Twas no coincidence, my lady.” Turi filled his lungs. “I saw you at the inn.”
“You followed me?”
“Nay, I followed him. I guessed what he was about.”
“You’re very perceptive,” she said. “How did you know I lied about my name?”
He shrugged. “I know that and more about you, Cristen St. Clair.”
The wrong thing to say. The girl choked on her morsel of meat, tugged her hand free from his, and pulled the dagger from somewhere beneath her cloak.
“Did he send you?” she demanded, eyes wide with fear as she waved the weapon at him. “You’ll not take me back alive, Turi, if that is indeed your real name. I swear I’ll slit my own throat first.”
Turi regarded the blade dancing beneath his chin and fought an uncommon urge to laugh. The girl did not lack courage, but her threatening display was of no worth. A mere gust of wind would likely be enough to knock the little lass on her back. “No one sent me, aderyn bach. Anyone with a working brain can surmise what you are about.”
The blade slowed its dance. “What do you mean?”
“You’re obviously of gentle birth and traveling alone. ’Tis likely, then, you are fleeing from someone or something you fear. However, I do not know who or what has caused your flight.” Not yet, at least. “By your own admission, I know you’re fleeing to Abbotsbury. Since it’s a monastery and not a convent, I must surmise you have a male friend or family member there. I imagine you believe he will be of help. Given your chaotic travel arrangements, I doubt very much that he’s expecting you. My name is Turi and I will not force you to go anywhere you do not wish to go.” In one swift move, he grabbed Cristen’s wrist, ignored her yelp, and snatched the blade from her hand. “So, you don’t need to slit your own throat.” He handed the dagger, hilt first, back to her. “But you do need to learn how to use this with a little more effect.”
This time, Turi walked on without offering his hand. The lass was like a stray dog, both eager and terrified to trust someone. She was starving, exhausted, and had suffered a violation at the hands of a demon that night. Turi needed her to understand that he meant her no harm. That she could trust him implicitly.
She would follow him. Of that, he had no doubt.
Behind them, somewhere off in the distance, a shout went up. It seemed the body had been discovered. Turi smiled at the approaching sound of Cristen’s hasty footsteps.
“I think they found the body,” she said, panting. A moment later, her hand slid into his. “Forgive me for doubting you. I… I am not myself.”
“You have been through much this night.” His wretched soul soaked up the magic of her touch. Once again, he thanked the gods for sending him this fidgety little bird, and wondered at the reason for it. The girl sucked in a hard breath and glanced over her shoulder.
“Do you think we should hurry? Maybe we’re being followed.”
“I can assure you we are not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I don’t hear any footsteps.”
“The fog will surely muffle the sound.”
“I would still hear them,” he said. “No one will bother to attempt a search tonight. They’ll wait till morning.”
“What if they have dogs?”
“Do you hear the baying of dogs?”
“Nay.”
“Then cease your worrying, my lady.”
“Are you a knight?”
“Does it matter?”
“Um, nay. I just wondered.”
The lass fell silent for a while, although Turi sensed the busyness of her mind and awaited her next question.
“I have something to ask of you,” she said at last.
He gave her a wry glance. “Something else, you mean.”
A breath escaped her. “Ah,” she said, “I confess to being possessed of a curious nature. ’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.”
“Your estimation of my circumstances, thus far, is not entirely inaccurate,” she said, after a moment. “I confess I cannot make such an informed guess as to yours.”
True, he had told her little. Then again, it would be madness to tell her much. “I have lived the past few years in France,” he said. “But the country is buckling beneath the weight of the pestilence. I decided it was time to return to the land of my birth and arrived on Melcombe’s shore earlier this evening.”
“Fortunately for me,” she whispered, more to herself than him, it seemed.
Turi squeezed her hand and halted his stride at the sight of the stone cross looming out of the night. It rose from the earth to near twice his height. Its weathered surface served as a testament to how long it had stood against the coastal winds. Offerings had been left at its foot. Flowers, morsels of bread, a number of white stones.
The stones, Turi knew, were an ancient token, one much older than Christianity. For his people, they had represented the spirits of those who had passed. He assumed they meant the same for whoever had placed them with care at the foot of the cross.
Cristen spoke. “The innkeeper told me to turn left here and follow the cliffside path.”
Turi felt a shiver run through the girl and threw her a discerning glance. Dark shadows sat beneath her eyes. Her face appeared drawn and ghostly in the gloom. Although she did not complain, he knew she’d about reached her limit.
At that moment, the distant peal of a curfew bell drifted through the night. Turi tilted his head, seeking its direction. It came from the west, the way they were headed. A bell meant a church. A church meant a village… and shelter.
Cristen obviously thought the same. “Is it far, do you think?” she asked, her voice weary.
“Not too far.” He squeezed her hand. “I can carry you on my back if you’re tired.”
“Oh, nay!” A vehement response. “I can walk.”
She said little after that. Other than an occasional reassurance from Turi, conversation dwindled thereafter. This was no pleasant, evening stroll beneath the stars. Night had descended in full, a stifling blackness that gave strength to the fog. Even Turi’s sharp eyes strained to make out detail. A mile felt like two. He guessed they’d walked that far before a cottage appeared at the side of the road. Then another and another.
It appeared they’d found the village, though the church bell had long since fallen silent. Seeking suitable shelter, Turi slowed his step and peered into the fog. Then he saw it. A faint light leaching through the gloom. Moments later, the outline of a church appeared, its candlelit windows aglow, like rainbows in the dark. A little beyond the church stood the shadowy form of an outbuilding. A barn or store house of sorts. A shelter that would likely serve their purpose.
“We’ll rest here for the night,” he said.
“Thank God,” Cristen murmured, exhaustion evident in her voice.
The warped, wooden door opened with a groan, and the pungent odor of hay and straw spilled out into the thick air. From the dark recesses within came the quiet clucking of a hen and the flutter of wings. Turi squinted into the blackness, seeking a ladder, hoping there would be a loft.
“Up here,” he said, finding what he sought and releasing the girl’s hand with some reluctance. “It’ll be less damp. After you, aderyn bach, and watch your step.”
They clambered into a musty hayloft, a confined space darker than the grave. Something rustled in a corner and Cristen gave a stifled gasp.
“What was that?” Fear edged her voice. “I cannot see a thing.”
“Naught to fear.” He took her hand again. “This way.”
“You must have eyes like a cat,” she murmured.
Although the place offered shelter, the air still felt cold and damp. Turi removed his cloak and spread it over a thick pile of hay beneath the eaves.
“Rest,” he said, gesturing to the makeshift pallet.
“My thanks.” Cristen settled on the edge of Turi’s cloak, fumbled beneath her own, and pulled out the dagger. Turi remained silent as he set his weapons down and sat beside her, aware of what her body said.
Do not touch me.
He unhooked a flask from his belt and offered it to her. “Thirsty?”
“What is in it?”
“Ale.”
She took it, drank a little, and handed it back with some mumbled thanks.
Other than for the sake of warmth, Turi could offer no valid reason, at that moment, for his body to make contact with hers. He’d wait till she slept. Then, perhaps, he could brush his arm against hers and find the peace he craved. In the meantime, he had no choice but to lay back, place his hands behind his head, and confront his familiar demons. As always, they rose up, bared their teeth, and ripped into his conscience.
Fire in the night, leaping from house to house, consuming the wattle walls and thatched roofs. The terrible cries of women and children, cowering in fear as the flames took hold. Those who did not burn fell beneath merciless Roman swords. The Setantii warriors had fought hard. He had fought hard, but had been felled by a Roman blade and left for dead. They should have left him there. He should have died.
They had all been dead for thirteen centuries, ashes long since cast to the winds. For Turi, they had died only yesterday. Because of me. He gritted his teeth. Because of her.
“What did you say?” Cristen’s voice broke into his dark reverie.
By all the gods, had he spoken out loud? Nay, surely not. He turned a questioning gaze toward her. In the darkness, her eyes appeared too large for her small, pale face.
“This eve,” she continued, “when you unleashed your arrow, I heard you speak, but did not understand your words. I’m curious to know what you said.”
“I wished him a swift journey to Hell,” he replied, recalling how Beven had wished him the same fate.
She blinked. “In what language?”
“’Tis an old Welsh dialect.” Turi felt a painful tug at his heart. Near enough to the truth. “From the north of the country.”
“Ah. So, you are Welsh. I thought so.”
“Was that your question?”
“My question?”
“At the stone cross, you said you had a question to ask,” he said. “While you asked several, I don’t believe you asked the one foremost on your mind.”
“Oh.” She yawned. “Nay, that was not it.”
“What, then?”
A faint glimmer of light came from the blade as Cristen raised the dagger. “I was going to ask if you’d show me how to use this.”
Turi shifted his gaze to the eaves. “Who do you run from, Cristen St. Clair?”
The hay rustled. “I’d rather not say.”
He stifled a sigh. The girl’s persistent distrust grated on his deteriorating mood. The tortured part of him, as usual, craved a belly full of wine. Or a good brawl. Or a woman’s moist heat wrapped around his cock and a hard nipple in his mouth.
Or to simply reach out and touch the girl at his side.
Damn the gods.
He gritted his teeth and turned his back. For centuries, alone with his remorse, he had depended on no one but himself. Now, he faced this new and growing dependence, one that both strengthened and weakened him. In his sullen mood, he wished he’d never met the lass. Maybe he should walk away. Leave her and the mystery surrounding her. His sentence had almost been served. Soon, he’d be mortal again, free to slough off his burdens and attempt to reconcile his conscience with the wrongs he had done.
Then, with the lightness of a feather, Cristen touched his shoulder. A shaft of inner light scattered his dark thoughts and the soft scent of thyme filled his nostrils. May the gods curse his doubt. He could no sooner walk away from Cristen St. Clair than remove his own head.
“I dare not tell you the truth,” she whispered. “I fear you would abandon me if you heard it. Or worse.”
For an odd, fleeting moment, Turi wondered what it would be like to couple with this girl. To enter her. Touch the core of her. His loins stirred at the thought.
“Whatever the truth is, I will not abandon you, Cristen.” He resisted a desire to turn and gather her close. “Not while you still need me.” Not while I still need you.
“But why?” She withdrew her hand. “You know nothing of me. Why are you doing this?”
It was a strange game they played, Turi thought. Orchestrated by a higher power, undoubtedly.
“I dare not say,” he replied. “I fear if I tell you the truth, you will run from me.”
She gave a little gasp. “Do you mock me, sir?”
“Not at all. But we each have our secrets, it seems.”
The hay rustled and she fell silent. Then she said, “I would only run if I thought you meant to harm me.”
He answered the question embedded in her words. “I will never harm you, my lady. Nor will I judge you, for I warrant you’ve never met anyone with a soul as tainted as mine. Whatever your transgressions, they cannot compare to the ones I have committed.”
The hay rustled again and silence returned. Turi could all but hear the girl’s mind at work. He waited, aware of her hesitation – and her desire – to unburden her conscience. It was a desire he understood. One he shared. One he had never been able to realize. Did she trust him enough? For some inexplicable reason, Turi craved her trust.
“Two days ago, may God forgive me, I… I killed my husband.”
Few things shocked Turi anymore, especially the human penchant for hurting and killing each other. Violent death had, after all, shaped his destiny. And he’d dispatched many souls since, one not even an hour ago. Still, he digested Cristen’s confession with some surprise. He’d been wrong in his assumption. This was no innocent maid. No wonder she’d threatened to kill herself rather than be taken. If caught, she’d likely be hanged. There was still much, however, he didn’t know. He rolled onto his back again and waited.
“Did you hear what I said?” she asked, after a moment.
“Aye.”
“And you have nothing to say?”
“Not without knowing more. Why did you kill him?”
“I didn’t mean to kill him. It was an accident.” A soft sigh drifted toward him. “Cedric was… a cruel man. I cannot even speak of the things he did. To me and to others.”
Turi twisted his head to look at her. Like him, she lay on her back. The profile of her face was like a small, pale mask in the darkness. The girl’s fingers clenched and unclenched the fabric of her cloak. An unconscious spasm, Turi knew. One that spoke of inner turmoil. He silently cursed the coward who had ill-treated her.
He reached over and settled his hand atop hers, halting the frantic motion.
“How did he die?” he asked as his anguish evaporated.
“He fell and cracked his head on the hearth.”
Turi grunted. “And how are you responsible for that?”
“I pushed him.”
Turi’s mind attempted and failed to recreate such an unlikely scene. “Forgive me, my lady, but your husband must have been a very small man if you were able to topple him.”
“Nay, not very small. Just very drunk.” She grimaced. “Cedric enjoyed his wine. He also enjoyed frightening me. Controlling me. Making me feel worthless.”
Turi tightened his grip on her hand. Ah, aderyn bach. If you only knew of your worth to me.
“He attacked you?”
“He… he made demands on me and I refused him. When he lunged at me, I stepped out of his way but pushed him as I did so. He was already off balance and fell against the hearth. I heard the crack when his head hit stone. Dear God, it bled so much.” She fidgeted. “I was terrified. I waited till everyone slept, then sneaked out and went to the healer’s house. Martha had always been kind to me. She disguised my hair and gave me food. Then I set out for Abbotsbury. I walked for two days and even traveled at night.”
Turi frowned into the darkness. “Disguised your hair?”
“My hair is naturally fair. Martha used dye from the marigold to turn it red. A temporary measure. She said it would wash out easily, even in the rain, so I pray daily for dry weather. In that, at least, God has been merciful so far.”
Turi couldn’t help but surrender to a wry smile. A fair-haired, blue eyed Saxon girl who brought peace to his wretched, pagan soul? The gods were, indeed, amusing themselves.
“But why did you run?” he asked. “I assume others knew of his love of wine. You could simply have stated that he was in his cups and fell. I doubt anyone could look at you and believe you capable of toppling him. By fleeing, you have surely accused yourself.”
“I could not stay, Turi. To do so would have meant a fate worse than death.” Her fingers twitched. “Cedric has a younger brother, who is yet more cruel and merciless than his sibling. I did not jest about taking my life. I’d rather face eternal purgatory than fall into Ralph’s clutches. I swear the man is the Devil’s spawn.”
“Ralph is the man you referred to earlier? When you asked if he had sent me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I warrant he’ll be looking for me.”
“And who awaits you at Abbotsbury? A relative?”
“Nay, I have none to speak of.”
“Then who?”
“Someone I trust.”
A fortunate man. The thought caught Turi by surprise, as did the unfamiliar twinge deep within his core. Not envy, surely. He had never been covetous of any woman, yet something about this little fugitive stoked a fierce protectiveness within him. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He questioned its purity. Was it a noble devotion or self-serving?
Cristen drew breath and continued. “Nigh on a year ago, Cedric took something of mine and refused to return it. It is priceless to me. I mean to find out where it is hidden and take it back. Till I do, I will never be at peace.”
Turi frowned as his mind juggled with the riddle of her words. What priceless treasure had Cristen St. Clair lost? Turi would not ask, nor could he guess. He would wait until she told him.
“This trusted friend at Abbotsbury knows where it is?”
“He may.” Another breath, this one trembling. “I pray he does.”
“And if he does not?”
“I cannot bear to think of it.” She tugged her hand free, rubbed her eyes, and turned toward him. “Forgive me, but I am beyond weary. Will you still be here when I awaken?”
“You have my word.”
She yawned. “What does aderyn bach mean?”
Turi smiled. “It means little bird,” he replied, impressed the girl had noted his earlier epithet. He prayed the little bird would soon succumb to fatigue. Once certain Cristen St. Clair slept, he would find a comfortable spot, stretch out a hand, and touch her. Then, for the first time in thirteen centuries, he might sleep free of nightmares.
“Little bird,” she repeated, and closed her eyes. “God bless you, Turi.”