Chapter Seven
“Abbotsbury,” Turi said, drawing Cristen’s attention to the monastic buildings visible in the distance.
A breeze had risen up soon after dawn, blowing in from the southwest to shoo away the fog. Now, with the sun climbing toward its apex, clouds of flawless white chased each other across a sky of vivid blue. For Turi, the disadvantage of the bright, summer morning was that Cristen had long since released his hand and now walked unaided at his side.
“I see it,” she replied, a hint of trepidation in her voice.
As yet, Turi had no knowledge of what the lass hoped to learn at Abbotsbury. Likely he’d find out soon enough. He intended to remain at her side no matter the day’s outcome. With that in mind, he resolved to acquire a strong horse to take them wherever fate decreed. It would be faster and less tiring than walking. And, most importantly, more intimate. His little bird could tuck herself behind him. Or, better yet, perch on his lap.
Turi squeezed the hilt of his sword as a bitter taste came to his mouth. For some reason, his self-indulgent thoughts no longer manifested with their previous indifference. Cristen St. Clair had his protection but, unbeknownst to her, it came at a price. A hard question kept nagging at his brain. Had he not felt the magic of her touch, would he have offered to escort her to Abbotsbury? Of course he would, he told himself. He’d never have left the lass alone in that dark alley and returned to savor Edyth’s attributes. Would he?
Turi allowed himself the benefit of his doubt, but silently admitted that chivalry was not a banner he had unfurled often enough during his long life.
The bitter taste remained.
He regarded the girl at his side. Her hair, despite its somewhat garish red disguise, glinted with subtle hints of gold in the sun. The same, strange sensation stirred within him again, pressing on his heart like a warm hand. Cristen obviously sensed his scrutiny and met his gaze. The smile she gave him faltered.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Turi softened his expression. “Nay. I was just –”
He halted both words and stride, nostrils flaring at a faint, but unmistakable, odor in the air. He narrowed his eyes and looked about, seeking its direction.
It carried on the breeze from the southwest. From the shore.
“Turi?” Cristen clutched at his sleeve. “What is it?”
He rested his hand on the small of her back. “Something in the air,” he murmured. “Can you not smell it? Stinks like death.”
“Yes,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “I can. Is it cause for worry, do you think?”
“Nay. I’m just curious about its source.”
Maybe the decayed carcass of some great fish had been washed ashore. Or perhaps a sheep or an ox had died nearby and now lay rotting in the sun. But, by all things sacred, it stank like the towns and villages of Italy and France.
Since setting foot on his native shore, Turi had set thoughts of the great pestilence aside. But now they returned, full force. He had no doubt the blue sickness would eventually find its way across the sea and ravage the Britannic isles.
Thus far, because of his immortality, the malady had been no threat to him. But his blood would soon begin to flow again. Then he’d be as vulnerable as the rest. And as for Cristen – his oath of protection meant nothing against the vicious disease. He was helpless to protect her from what was sure to come. Turi continued to mull over such thoughts as they moved on, Cristen still clutching his arm.
“What will you do now?” Her voice broke into his musing. “Return to Melcombe?”
The question snared his attention. “Why would I do that?” he asked, glancing at her.
She shrugged and answered without meeting his gaze. “You have done as promised and escorted me safely to Abbotsbury. You must have had other intentions before coming to my aid. I assume you still intend to continue with them, and I simply wondered what they were.”
Turi had no intention of going anywhere without Cristen St. Clair, but he answered her question truthfully. “My intent is to return home.” Eventually. “I haven’t been back there for a good while.”
Almost thirteen centuries, to be precise.
Her fingers tightened on his arm. “A fine intention, indeed.”
A hint of sad resignation threaded Cristen’s voice. What Turi had hoped to hear, in truth. Did it mean the lass actually wanted him to stay with her? A sudden emotion, both familiar and foreign, flooded Turi’s weary spirit. Happiness, he realized, suppressing both shock and a rare urge to grin. With it came the temptation to soothe her, to erase her fears, but he decided to remain silent. Best to wait. The day had yet to unwrap its mysteries.
Abbotsbury Abbey sat atop a gentle rise, its sanctified walls overlooking a patchwork of orchards and meadows that sloped down to the coast. Off in the distance, the narrow sea sparkled in the sun. Turi frowned at the sight of a beached ship and his hackles rose.
“God have mercy, it must have foundered in the fog,” Cristen said, obviously following his gaze. “I hope no one was hurt.”
Turi’s nostrils flared as another whiff of death brushed across his face. With his gaze still on the ship, he sucked in a quiet breath and cursed the sharpness of his instincts. At that moment, they all but sliced an icy gash down the length of his spine.
The abbey’s bell began to toll. A death knell, Turi thought.
“’Tis the call for Terce,” Cristen said and glanced at the sky as her fingers tightened on his arm. “We’ve made good time.”
“May I know the name of your friend?” he asked, sensing her trepidation.
“His name is John. He’s the abbot here.” She lowered her gaze to the ground. “He officiated at my marriage to Cedric.”
“And you’re certain he’s still here?”
Cristen gave a soft laugh. “I confess I cannot remember a time when I was certain about anything. But when he left Frehampton, he gave Abbotsbury as his destination. He also said…” Her voice faltered and she drew breath. “He also said if I ever found myself in need of help, I should contact him. He’s a kind man, Turi, and very astute. I believe… nay, I know he had the measure of my husband.”
Turi suppressed a sigh. Part of him wanted to know about the cruelties she had endured. At the same time, he wondered if he could bear to hear them.
“Frehampton was your home?”
“I would not call it that. ’Tis Cedric’s manor. A pretty place. It sits in a vale to the west of the Royal Forest.”
The bell continued its steady toll as Turi and Cristen drew near to the main gate, which stood wide open. Beyond, in a shadowed quadrangle, a group of black-robed monks stood chatting in a loose circle. They appeared flustered, Turi thought, noting the spirited hand gestures that accompanied the hushed prattle. Something was obviously afoot. No doubt it had to do with the shipwreck.
“Shall I speak for you?” he murmured, and Cristen nodded.
“Please.”
Turi cleared his throat with exaggeration and the conversation halted as if spliced by an axe as all eyes turned toward them.
One of the monks stepped forward, his gaze raking over both Turi and Cristen. It lingered for a moment on Turi’s sword and bow. “Good day to you,” he said. “May we be of assistance?”
Turi inclined his head. “Good day to you, Brother. Aye, you may. We wish to speak with Abbot John.”
The monk blinked and gave them a stiff smile. “That is not possible, I’m afraid. Abbot John is not here.”
Cristen gave a soft, little cry. “Not here?”
The monk’s smile faltered and his gaze flicked toward the shore. “Er… not at the moment, no. Is this a matter of urgency?”
“Somewhat,” Turi replied, following the monk’s brief glance with an extended one of his own. “When did yon ship founder?”
A worried expression settled on the monk’s face. “Early this morning, in the fog.” He crossed himself. “Abbot John is the one who discovered it. Apparently, all aboard are deceased. ’Tis a terrible thing.”
Turi’s gut tightened as he voiced a question he didn’t need to ask. “How did they die?”
As if seeking permission to answer, the monk looked back at his companions, who stood watching in silence. “We are not yet certain.”
“Abbot John is certain.” Another of the monks stepped forward, fingering a string of prayer beads that dangled from his rope belt. “He claims it is the blue sickness.”
“He says we are all doomed,” another monk said, while chewing on his thumbnail.
He is correct, Turi thought, and turned to Cristen.
“In that case, we should not stay here,” he said to her. “We need to leave. We need to head north.”
Her eyes widened. “Leave? Oh, nay!” She gave her head an emphatic shake. “Nay, Turi. I cannot leave till I have spoken with Abbot John. You are not obliged to stay, of course, so leave if you must. But I cannot. Not yet.”
“You will find him down at the shore with the others.” The nail-chewing monk spat out a splinter of thumbnail. “They are trying to decide what to do with all the bodies.”
“I’d prefer you stay away from the ship, my lady,” Turi said.
Cristen nodded. “I do not disagree. I’ll wait till the abbot returns.”
Turi hoisted his bow higher on his shoulder and regarded the monk. “In that case, is there somewhere safe the lady might rest for a while?”
The first monk gave Turi a withering look. “Women have no cause to fear anyone at Abbotsbury.” He turned his attention to Cristen. “But there’s a private chapel for female visitors in the guest house. You are welcome to wait there for the time being, my lady. May I know what business you have with my lord abbot?”
Cristen opened her mouth, but Turi cut in. “Nay,” he said, “you may not. ’Tis a private matter. The guest house, you say?”
“You were rather abrupt,” Cristen said, a short time later as they wended their way down the path. “The man was only trying to help.”
Turi snorted. “The man was prying. And he looked at you as if you’d just crawled out from under a log.”
“That’s because I’m a woman and inferior in his eyes.” A corner of her mouth lifted. “We are a temptation to men, Turi. We lead them to sin. Surely you know that.”
Turi bit back a smile. “I do not need to be led, aderyn bach. I can find my way there blindfolded.”
Cristen gave a soft chuckle. Then she asked, “Will you be leaving today?”
The question, edged with anxiety, served as a mask to hide other, deeper inquiries. Will you wait with me? Stay with me? Abandon me?
“I have no desire to stay here,” he said, truthfully. “But I’ll wait till you’ve spoken with the abbot before deciding what to do.”
Again, he wondered what had driven the girl to this corner of England. Where would she go from here? It all depended, he supposed, on what she learned from the abbot. For some reason, he suspected the odds of finding what she sought were against her. And from the uncertainty he’d noticed in her eyes and heard in her voice, he suspected Cristen knew it, too.
Even so, alone and afraid for her life, it stood to reason she’d seek out someone she trusted. Someone who might offer her a safe place to rest, albeit temporarily. Abbot John was a holy man and, by all accounts, a kind man. The only glimmer of light in Cristen’s darkness.
Till now, Turi thought.
The door of the two-story guest house stood wide open. The chapel, on the ground floor, was little more than a closet. It had no window. A single taper, flickering atop the small, cloth-covered altar, gave off a feeble light that failed to chase the shadows away. A simple cross above the altar served as a focal point. Made from smooth, richly-grained oak, a single pew offered seating for maybe five or six worshipers.
The idea of leaving Cristen alone grated on Turi’s nerves. The alternative did not, however, merit any kind of consideration. As they’d drawn closer to the shore, the stench of death had thickened.
Here, in this small sanctuary, the only noticeable scent was that of incense. Turi touched Cristen’s face and breathed in. By all the gods, he had no use for hidden chapels and adorned altars. This wretched slip of a girl, with her sad, blue eyes and broken heart, was the only sacrament he needed. “I’ll speak with the abbot,” he said. “Wait here till I return. Swear to me you will not move from this spot.”
Cristen placed her hand over his, where it cupped her cheek. “I swear it,” she said. “But please hurry.”
*
Cristen’s parting plea had not been necessary. Turi had no intention of delaying. Weighed down by his usual angst, he strode past the swannery with only a brief glance at the splendid, white birds. Shortly thereafter, his feet crunched as they stepped onto the gravel beach, where a group of twenty or so monks had gathered. In contrast to the elegant swans, and due mostly to their black habits, the men reminded Turi of a flock of dark, balding birds. Noisy birds, too. Turi sensed their fear and uncertainty. More than that, he shared it.
At the center of the group, a monk taller than the rest appeared to be listening to several conversations at once. Beyond them, the grounded ship had been abandoned by the tide and lay embedded in the sand. Turi’s nostrils flared as a waft of foul air struck his face.
His approach went unnoticed until he was mere steps away. Then the taller monk caught sight of him, surprise flicking across his face as he raised a hand for silence. Abbot John, no doubt.
The conversation dissolved and Turi halted as each man turned a curious gaze his way.
“Good day to you, sir.” The abbot pushed through the crowd and glanced briefly at Turi’s sword. “As you can see, and no doubt smell, we face something of a dilemma here. ’Tis, perhaps, not a good day for a stroll on this particular stretch of beach.”
Turi inclined his head. “’Tis Abbot John I seek. Have I found him?”
“You have, indeed.” The abbot eyed Turi with more interest. “May I know who is asking?”
“My name is Turi.”
“Turi.” The abbot appeared to mull it over. “An ancient name, is it not? Most uncommon. I’d be interested to learn of its origin. Later, perhaps, you might indulge my curiosity. For now, though, I have more pressing matters to deal with. How may I be of assistance to you?”
Turi’s shoulder muscles slackened as he absorbed the sincerity in the man’s demeanor. “I bring news of a mutual friend, my lord, and would ask a private word with you. It will not take much of your time.”
The abbot blinked and raised a brow. “A mutual friend?” He glanced back toward the ship. “Can you speak of it here and now? Walk with me a little farther, if you prefer, till we’re out of earshot.”
“Here and now is fine,” Turi said, as the abbot fell into step beside him. The gravel crunched beneath their feet.
Abbot John cleared his throat. “I am intrigued,” he said, keeping his voice low, “and, I confess, a little concerned. Your demeanor does not seem to imply good news. Who is this mutual friend you speak of?”
“Her name is Cristen St. Clair.”
Abbot John gasped and grabbed Turi’s arm, halting their progress. “Dear God above, please tell me the poor girl has not been harmed.”
Turi gave a grim smile. “’Tis perhaps best if she explains the situation herself, my lord.”
He gasped again. “Are you telling me Cristen is here? At Abbotsbury?”
“Hiding in the guest house chapel, aye,” Turi replied. “And, in truth, I am not comfortable leaving her without protection. She’s no doubt being sought by those who would do her harm.”
John’s eyes narrowed as he gave Turi a probing glance. “Are you the reason she is being sought?”
Turi smiled and shook his head. “Nay, my lord. I am merely someone who came to her aid.”
“Hmm.” John sighed. “I’ll go to her, then, and learn what this is all about.” He nodded toward the ship. “As you can see, your timing – her timing – is unfortunate. The ship foundered this morning. I was here, walking, when it drifted ashore. Thinking to help, I climbed up to the ship’s rail. What I saw on the deck defies description. Everyone aboard is dead and they died horribly. ’Tis the blue sickness, I’m certain of it. May God help us all.”
“I suspected at much,” Turi said. “The stench is familiar to me. I’m recently arrived from France and a Hell such as that wrought by this pestilence cannot be imagined.”
“Then please tell them.” Abbot John gestured to the monks who had resumed their animated conversation. “Tell them what you have witnessed. I’m inclined to burn the ship simply to rid us of the stink, but there are those who are against such action. They are worried about mortal souls that have, I’m sure, already been accepted into God’s grace. A few agree with me, but perhaps you can persuade the naysayers. A first-hand account of the horrors you’ve seen might be enough to convince them. From what I saw this morning, to remove and bury the bodies would be beyond disagreeable.”
Turi hesitated. Being away from Cristen chafed his nerves and not simply because of the relief her touch provided. She was alone and, therefore, vulnerable. He offered up a measure of defense. “I swore I would not be gone long, my lord.”
“Nor shall you be.” The abbot patted Turi’s shoulder. “Don’t fret. Cristen will be quite safe. I’ll take care of her and hear her story. In any case, I cannot act until I find out what she expects from me. When you return, come to my private office. She’ll be there.”
Turi wanted to argue, but realized his insistence to return to Cristen’s side would have sounded irrational if not unbalanced. Abbot John, after all, had no idea of Turi’s unearthly motivation. So, cursing inwardly, he gave John a nod of acquiescence and wandered over to the monks who continued to argue. The tide had already turned, he noticed, and had begun to creep around the ship’s barnacled hull.
They fell silent as he approached.
“I am recently arrived from France,” he said, “where this pestilence has an iron foot pressed against the country’s throat. The Abbot spoke to me of your argument and I agree with him. Burn the ship. Burn it now.” He held up his bow and raked his gaze over the monks, some of whom regarded him with uncertain expressions. A few nodded in silent agreement. “Fetch me some oiled rags and a flint. I’ll dispatch the flaming arrows myself.”
“We are not pagans.” A monk scowled at him. “The bodies should be buried according to the rites. Feet to the east, head to the west.”
“But to remove and bury them would be most unpleasant,” another countered, holding his sleeve across his face. “I have an urge to vomit as it is.”
“They are entitled to a Christian burial, not a pagan pyre,” the monk insisted.
“How do you know they were all Christian?” Turi asked, clenching his fists. The need to return to Cristen’s side gnawed at his insides. “The ship may have carried men of differing faiths. Jews, perhaps. Or Muslims.”
“A good point,” another said, and covered his mouth against a fresh wave of foul air. “We have no way of knowing the faith practiced by those aboard.”
“Are you sure they’re all dead?” another asked.
Turi clenched his jaw, swallowed his ire, and used some Christian reasoning. “Does the stench not answer your question? Not a soul breathes on that ship, I guarantee it. ’Tis naught but a coffin. I do not like the idea of committing their bones to the flames either but, in this instance, I do not see any other option.” He crossed himself with feigned drama. “Besides, this pestilence has surely been wrought upon us by the Devil himself. Fire might cleanse the evil, keep it from our shores for a little longer at least.”
A murmur arose among the monks. Then another voice chimed in. “Are you sure naught can be salvaged?”
Turi shrugged. “There’s no way of knowing what cargo the ship is carrying. Any metal or jewels will not burn, though, and might be found once the tide has ebbed.”
“What banner is that?” the same voice asked. “Portugal?”
“Spain,” Turi said, and a chorus of comments began.
“I wonder where she was headed.”
“I wonder how long she drifted.”
“Do we even have the right to burn the ship? It must belong to someone.”
“Aye, a good question. Do we?”
Turi raised a hand. “Abbot John will speak for you, if need be. But I’m certain not even the Pope himself would condemn your actions here today. Besides, no one but you knows where the ship is. When she doesn’t return to port, they’ll likely assume she sank.”
Another murmur arose and Turi’s patience snapped like a worn bowstring.
“You are all fools,” he said through gritted teeth. “None of you understand what is about to happen. None of you have seen what I have seen. The flesh of those afflicted rots from within. They vomit and piss blood. They are stricken with putrid black boils as big as apples. This pestilence does not discriminate or show mercy. Man, woman, or child. Christian or Muslim. High-born or slave. It does not pick and choose. All are at risk. If you doubt me, climb the sides of yon ship and see what horrors have been left upon the deck. The suffering is over for those aboard. Yours has yet to begin. Do as you will, then. ’Tis of no concern to me.”
He spat on the ground, spun on his heel, and started back up the beach. He heard some hushed mumbling and then, “Wait!” a voice called after him. “Wait, please.” Turi paused and turned to see one of the monks approaching.
“Wait, please,” the man said again. “I’ll fetch the oiled rags and you can dispatch your arrows.” He was young. Little more than a boy, in fact, with fear in his eyes. Turi gave a single nod and bit down against a sudden pang of sadness. He imagined the same beach a few weeks from now. A desolate beach, with burnt timbers scattered along the shore. The stench of death would still be here, though. Coming from the land this time, not the sea. All those here today would probably be dead.
Or dying.
A short while later, Turi tied a strip of oiled rag to an arrow and watched as it was set alight. Then he raised his bow and unleashed the flaming projectile. It sailed through the air like a thunderbolt, leaving a smoky trail. He fired three more and then stood back, watching and waiting.
At first, only a small wisp of smoke arose. Then another, and another. Then flames appeared, leaping up from the deck, licking at the mast and the sails.
Soon the Gabrielle burned like a funeral pyre, the fire cleansing all it consumed.
“What’s that?” one of the monks asked, drawing Turi’s attention. “There. Look. Dropping into the water. What is it?”
Turi blinked through the heat haze. Sure enough, small dark shapes could be seen falling – no, leaping – from the stricken ship and splashing into the shallow water.
“Rats,” he said. “They’re rats, escaping the flames.”
The Gabrielle crackled and spat as she burned, the intense heat reaching even to where they stood. Turi tried to find some satisfaction in what they had done. Yet the chaos in his head gave him no room for relief. Besides, he felt certain the evil would find a way to escape the flames, if it hadn’t already.
He needed to return to Cristen. Find out if Abbot John had given her the information she sought. With a final glance at the engulfed ship, Turi turned and started up the beach.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement and glanced over to see a small, black rat sitting on a nearby rock. Soaking wet, it sat up and sniffed the air as if deciding upon its direction. It looked at Turi with eyes that appeared to reflect the flames and then scampered across the beach toward the cliffs.
A shrewd little creature, Turi thought, watching as it disappeared from view. It had obviously come from the ship. Its ability to survive against the odds could only be admired.
Turi hurried back to the abbey and sought out the abbot’s private house, surrendering his weapons with reluctance before being allowed entry. He bent his head to the office door and listened, hearing nothing but silence within. A chill brushed across his neck as he gave the door a solid rap.
It opened a few moments later, its arched frame filled by the robed figure of Abbot John. Turi’s eyes narrowed at the serious expression on the man’s face.
“Turi! Come in, please.” John stood aside and gestured for Turi to enter. “I understand the ship and all aboard have been dispatched. My sincere thanks.”
Turi gave a single nod and stepped into the chamber. It was smaller than he’d anticipated, with uneven, lime-washed walls and shadowed corners. A carved oak cupboard sat against one wall, its top adorned with a plain, brass cross and several religious icons. In the opposite wall, a narrow, wooden door sat flush in its frame.
In front of the single lancet window stood a massive oak desk. Upon it, a crystal inkstand and goose-feather quill rested beside a carved seal-box. The desk’s waxed oak surface gleamed beneath the flicker of a fat candle, its pillared column crusted with layers of dribbled tallow. The smell of incense and camphor smothered the chamber in an invisible shroud.
And Cristen was not there.
Turi growled and reached for his absent sword as he spun round to face the abbot. “Where is she?”
The abbot brushed past and patted the back of a chair. “Lady Cristen is quite safe. Sit, please.”
Turi responded with a humorless smile. “Tell me where she is, my lord.”
John sat at his desk and gestured toward the narrow door. “She is at prayer in my private courtyard. Unless one has wings, the only access to it is through here. You need not fear for her safety, I assure you. Sit, please. There are things I feel compelled to say.”
Turi hesitated for a moment. Being apart from Cristen had, of course, darkened his mood. But he saw no reason to doubt the abbot’s words.
“Were you able to help her?” he asked, settling into the chair.
The abbot opened his mouth as if to respond and then appeared to reconsider. He folded his hands atop his desk and regarded Turi with intense, gray eyes.
“Cristen told me of your actions. How you saved her from a serious violation and escorted her safely to these walls.” His jaw tightened visibly. “I thank God you were there. She also told me your original plan was to return to your home in the north after a long absence. I’m curious to know, then, why you still linger at Abbotsbury.”
“I killed a man last night.” Turi shrugged. “I would not wish it to be for naught. I need to know the girl is safe before I move on.”
The abbot heaved a sigh and sat back. “What if I told you that Cristen St. Clair will never be safe? She has confessed her transgressions to me, Turi. The death of Cedric St. Clair will not be allowed to go unpunished by those who seek her.”
“I’m not certain she’s guilty of a transgression,” Turi replied. “She did not intend to harm her husband. He was intoxicated and attempting to molest her.”
John shook his head. “I do not condone Cedric St. Clair’s behavior. He was an unpleasant man, to say the least.” He grimaced. “But as to a charge of molestation, I doubt the law would see it that way or find in Cristen’s favor. She was his wife and, therefore, his property. Nor can I keep the girl here indefinitely, which means I have but two options.”
Turi fidgeted. “Which are?”
“I arrange for an escort and commit her to a convent,” he replied, “but even that might not guarantee her safety. Cristen’s flight has done her no favors. In fleeing, she has all but declared herself guilty in the matter of Cedric’s death. I warrant Ralph St. Clair will not stop till he finds her and brings her to justice. Besides, she told me she has no desire to hide behind the veil, so I suspect she would likely rebel against it.”
“And the second option?”
“I give her money and food and send her on her way.”
Turi scoffed. “She would not last a sennight.”
The abbot gave him a pointed look. “Alone, no, she would not.”
Odd how the gods worked, Turi thought, his eyes flicking to the brass cross. Christian or pagan, the designation mattered not to him, nor was his faith ever in doubt. An immortal, after all, had sired him. Pushed an enchanted blade into his heart and sentenced him to carry his burden of guilt for thirteen centuries. Soon, he would be able to set his burden down.
In the meantime, for a reason worthy of speculation, the gods had seen fit to send him a female. One whose mere touch granted him peace of mind like he had never known. That being so, Turi had searched for a credible excuse to remain at Cristen’s side. And now the gods had granted him one. Better yet, it had come by way of an unspoken, yet clearly intimated, request from a holy man.
Turi ignored the intimation, however, and returned to his previously unanswered question. “Were you able to give her the information she sought?”
“Sadly, no.” The abbot tilted his head and fixed Turi with a penetrating gaze. “You are possessed of an old soul, Turi, one that has spent time in the darker corners of this world. I see it in your eyes. But it is still, I’m convinced, a good soul. You would not be sitting here otherwise. I am also convinced there is something more behind your concern for this young lady. Dare I say, a growing sense of affection? What, then, is your answer? For I know you heard my plea. Will you take Cristen St. Clair into your safekeeping? For what it’s worth, I believe God sent you to her for that reason.”
Turi regarded the abbot with suppressed surprise. As Cristen stated, he was, indeed, an astute man. “Do you happen to be of Welsh descent, my lord?” he asked. The abbot’s brows rose.
“Nay, why?”
“No reason.” He glanced at the narrow door. “What if the lady does not want my protection?”
The abbot’s expression softened. “I’m certain you must know that it has already been discussed. Cristen knows her fate will rest with whoever opens that door. I also know which of us she would prefer to see. So, shall I open it or will you?”
Turi arose, walked over to the door, and placed his hand on the latch. “I’ll need to know everything,” he said, without turning. “She must trust me completely.”
There came a faint sigh and a rustle of clerical robes. “She slept beside you last night, did she not?”
Turi frowned. “Aye, so?”
“Did she sleep soundly?”
Turi’s frown deepened as he pondered the abbot’s words. As the meaning behind them filtered into his troubled mind, his brow cleared. He lifted the latch, pulled the door open, and stepped over the threshold.
Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he closed the door behind him. He looked down to see the same bright stones as those on the beach. The abbot had spoken true. If not for the door, one would, indeed, need wings to enter the small courtyard. Walls, twice Turi’s height, surrounded him on three sides. At his back, the rear façade of the abbot’s private house reached skyward. The sweet scent of honeysuckle graced the air, which hummed with the telltale buzz of bees.
A statue of the Blessed Virgin graced an arched niche in the western wall, a candle burning at her feet. Stone pots of various sizes had been placed here and there around the perimeter, each crowded with a colorful profusion of flowers and herbs. At the center of the courtyard, a young sycamore stretched out its leaf-laden branches, and from some elusive spot came the soothing trickle of water. It was a secluded and tranquil retreat, one obviously created for prayer and reflection.
Turi cast his gaze around, searching for the one who granted him peace. When at last he saw her, his breath caught. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Everything around him, all the sights and sounds and smells, faded away.
She sat on a stone bench beneath the tree, head bowed in profile to him. A pale, delicate profile. Exquisite, he thought, as if seeing it for the first time. She still wore the same robe, the same cloak. Yet while he’d been busy at the shore, a transformation had apparently taken place.
Mottled sunlight tumbled through the overhead branches and captured the gold in her braided hair. Gold. Not red. Her hands, resting in her lap, captured the tears that fell from her eyes.
Turi had been here before. Nay, he had seen this before. Or at least a semblance of it. But where? A moment later, the answer leapt out at him from the past.
“Pay heed to your visions, my son, however trivial they may be, for they serve to guide you to your final destiny.”
The girl made no sound, yet Turi felt her sorrow. As he had so long ago, he felt it to the depths of his soul. Who was she? Once upon a time, he had wondered. Now he knew.
“Cristen.”
She lifted her tear-stained face to his and managed a smile. “Oh, Turi, I hoped you’d come,” she said. “I prayed you would.”
Turi approached and sat beside her. “Speak to me, fy aderyn bach.” He fingered a golden curl at the end of her still-damp braid and then touched his hand to hers. His heart fluttered. “Tell me why you weep.”
“His name is Jacob.” She rubbed tears from her eyes. “Jacob Walter de Lussan. He was born shortly after Christmastide three years ago.”
Turi pondered for a moment. “Your child?”
She nodded. “My son. Walter’s son.”
“Where is he?”
“I know not.” Fresh tears tumbled down her cheeks. “I haven’t seen him since I married Cedric.”
A chill ran across Turi’s scalp. “Your husband took your child from you?”
“Yes.” She hiccupped on a sob. “And I gave him cause to do so.”
Turi shook his head. “What cause could ever justify such an act?”
Her cheeks flushed as she lowered her gaze. “I told you, I do not like to be touched. At least, not…not in a carnal way. The marital bed has never held any pleasure for me. And Cedric was very… demanding. When I resisted him, he took Jacob away as a punishment. I was told I’d get him back once I bore Cedric a son of his own. I did not dare resist him after that.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, tears glinting on her lashes. Pretty, golden lashes that now matched her hair, Turi realized. Damn his self-regard, he hadn’t even noticed the disparity before. Bile burned the back of his throat as he looked down at his hand atop hers.
“But I never got with child,” she continued, “and Cedric grew more impatient as time went by. Each month, when I failed to conceive, he became increasingly angry. More… violent. He said it was my fault, that I was barren, which could not be true since I’d already had a child. Martha – the friend I spoke of – gave me a potion that was supposed to ready my womb for conception, but it didn’t help. She then suggested that the fault lay with Cedric. That I would never bear his child.” She drew a shuddering breath. “I suspected it also and, that being so, I became afraid. Afraid for my life and for the life of my son. That final night, Cedric was so drunk, so… frightening. But, oh, Turi, I swear I never meant for him to die at my hand. He took the secret of Jacob’s whereabouts with him. I prayed Abbot John might know or might have heard something, but no.”
Turi inwardly cursed his selfishness again. His treatment of Cristen had been equally underhanded. Not physically harmful, perhaps, but he, too, had coerced her – nay, tricked her – into touching him. He sighed and moved his hand away.
“What’s wrong?” A glimmer of panic arose in Cristen’s eyes. “Have I offended you?”
“You have not, my lady,” he replied. “I am offended only by my own selfish actions and demands. I didn’t stop to consider the reason for your fears.”
“Oh, nay!” Cristen pulled his hand back and clasped it between her palms like something precious. “I do not fear your touch, Turi. Not anymore. In truth, it takes away my fear. I feel safe when I’m with you. I swear I have never felt as safe in my whole life.”
The declaration sweetened the bitter taste in Turi’s mouth. It obviously came from Cristen’s heart and was more than he’d hoped for. The girl’s faith in him, however, gave him cause to voice his deepest concern.
“I can protect you from those who might do you harm, little bird. But I cannot fight this hellish pestilence that has reached our shores. All I can do is take you away from it. My original direction, then, remains the same, and that direction is north.”
She nodded. “I understand. And I am beyond thankful for your help. I shall try not to be a burden and will go wherever you say. Everything I love has been taken from me, Turi. And I already told you, I would rather die than end up in Ralph’s clutches. So, my options are few, but I refuse to give up. One day, I will see my child again. I know it. I feel it. Till then, I shall endeavor simply to stay alive and well. I submit, therefore, to your protection and your mercy.”
Turi felt himself being drawn into something unexpected. Something powerful and unfamiliar. He couldn’t fight it. Didn’t want to fight it. It seemed he and Cristen were mutually blessed, each finding peace in the other. For the first time in his long life, he was tempted to reciprocate, to bare his soul as she had done. But he tamped down the urge. There was much to do, much to consider. Their future as yet lay in darkness. Only the gods knew what was to come.
Or did he know some of it, too?
“The visions you saw are glimpses of the future, vague reflections of things to come.”
A tingle raised the hairs on Turi’s neck. He had seen two visions on that fateful night years before. One of them had now come to pass. But what of the child? The little boy, galloping around an orchard on his pretend horse? Was it Cristen’s son?
“Then I remain at your service, my lady.” He glanced skyward. Too little of the day remained to set out now. “We’ll leave in the morning.”