Xan gazed at it uncertainly. “What is it?”
“’Tis my family’s heirloom,” Carlo said. “A trinket really—but it holds great personal value for me. I have carried it for many years.” Carlo again gestured with his outstretched hand.
Xan reached out and took the necklace. He’d never seen the pendant this close up. Crafted of dark wood in the shape of a star, an outline of a dragon had been carved in its center. Two green eyes made of some kind of glass shone from within the dragon’s face.
“What do you want me to do with it?”
“Keep it safe,” Carlo said. “’Tis a token of my regret for the evil I have caused you.”
Love . . . pray . . . forgive. Accepting the pendant might be the first step to forgiveness.
Carlo hesitated before speaking again. “I must tell you this, boy. That day in Hardonbury, after you ran from Rummy, a peasant struck one of my men with a shovel. Chaos broke out around us. To my great shame, I ordered my men to retaliate. For that I will be forever sorry.”
Father and the other men had stood together that day in defense of the village. Father had held a shovel. Perhaps he’d been the one to strike that bandit after Xan had thrown the rock at Rummy. If so, then Carlo had just admitted that he’d given the order to kill Father. The truth was that Father had not perished in an accident of flames; he’d been murdered at Carlo’s command.
A rush of anger filled Xan’s chest, as before when he’d remembered that day in Hardonbury with Rummy sneering down at Father from his horse. Rage came over him—the kind that had caused him to punch John in the gut during that game, though the bully hadn’t truly deserved it.
He squeezed the dragon pendant in his palm even firmer than his whittled cross. “I’ll keep this thing safe,” he said, his eyes wet with anger. “But I vow to you now, I’ll burn this dragon on the day you die, just as you burned my village to the ground.”
He returned to Brother Andrew’s body and closed his eyes tight while the guards bustled Carlo from the cottage. The anger and pain were too strong to bear.
Eventually the aroma of the hearth brought him back to himself. He opened his eyes. Father Philip was rubbing herbs on the monk’s chest and gazing silently at Xan. “Child,” the priest said after a while, as he wrapped bandages around Brother Andrew’s head. “’Tis hard on the soul to cling too tight to anger and hate. Our Lord wants us to forgive.”
But is that what Mother and Father would want—for him to forgive their killer? If only he could know their thoughts and feelings. “Will Brother Andrew live, Father?” Xan said, trying to change the subject. He reached to touch Brother Andrew’s hand, which seemed to be a bit warmer than before.
The priest shrugged. “Should he survive this night, it might be so—if God wills it.” Father Philip handed Xan a hot wet rag. “You must tend him through the night and pray for his healing, child. Keep this cloth moist for him, and keep him covered at all times.” The priest then curled up in a blanket on the wide bench to sleep in front of the hearth.
That is how the rest of the long night passed, with Xan falling in and out of a dreamless slumber in the chair by the monk’s side, from time to time dipping the cloth in the warm water and reapplying it to Brother Andrew’s head.
If only Brother Andrew could survive this night, the journey to Lincoln would have been a success despite its tragedy. With Carlo back in chains, the abbot’s plans could still be realized. Tomorrow, Xan could begin the search for Uncle William and his family and discover the path his future would take. Brother Andrew could take the abbot’s letter to the King’s court to arrange for Carlo’s trial. Maybe the monk could inquire about Lucy and her father—even if they were not traveling with this particular royal court, the judges might know their whereabouts.
Perhaps Xan could visit that cathedral Guy talked about. He’d said there was a ghost from the spirit world dwelling within it. If that were true, might it be possible for him to find out what the spirits of his Mother and Father would want him to do?
All was possible tomorrow—if only Brother Andrew could survive the night.
11
New Friends
Child, wake up,” a voice said, tugging at the long sleeve of Xan’s brown tunic.
He opened his eyes. Daylight streamed into the cottage from narrow, shuttered windows and cracks around the doorposts. Father Philip stood over him smiling, with silver hair glistening. “Praise God, you have done well,” the priest said. “See how gently your monk breathes this morning. I believe he will survive.”
Brother Andrew’s face had regained much of its color under his patchy beard. As Xan looked at him, the monk opened his eyes—first the brown one, then the blue.
“Brother!” Xan said.
“Xan? Wh-what happened?” the monk asked, taking in his surroundings from the bed.
Xan quickly explained about the crash in the gully and their journey to the cottage.
Brother Andrew cracked a crooked smile. “My son, I thought you were the one who always wakes in a strange bed with some injury. How is it that I have taken your place?”
Xan laughed for the first time in days. Father Philip approached the bedside, and the two holy men exchanged introductions. Then Xan gave a deeper account of the journey with Carlo, including his arrest by the guards.
“It seems I have missed much,” Brother Andrew said. Soon a knock came at the door; the local healer entered. Father Philip had sent for him because he specialized in herbs and healing.
“’Tis a miracle his body is not broken in a hundred places,” the healer told Father Philip, after applying ointments and new bandages. “He must stay confined to bed the rest of this week.”
“I will see to it,” Father Philip said.
As soon as the healer departed, Brother Andrew tried to sit up on his own. “Ow!” he cried, holding the side of his neck in pain. He lay back against his pillow. “By Adam, how shall I stay in this bed when there is so much for me to tend?”
Xan leapt to his feet. “I can take care of it, Brother. I can try to find my uncle and even take the abbot’s letter to the King’s court, if you wish.” Surely he wouldn’t be forced to sit in this tiny cottage while a whole new world lay outside its doors, including potential ghosts and castles and maybe even Lucy.
“See,” the priest said. “The boy can do anything you might need.” Brother Andrew still looked troubled. Did he not trust Xan to take care of those tasks?
“I also wish to pray with the black monks in Lincoln,” Brother Andrew said. “But if I must pray alone each day, I would do so on my knees. Lent is supposed to be forty days of self-denial.”
Father Philip chuckled. “I am but an old priest sent to care for this little chapel, but I will pray with you, if you wish. And God will understand why you are on your back, not your knees.”
“There also is the matter of—ow!” Brother Andrew had tried to sit up again.
“Andrew, you stubborn monk.” Father Philip laughed. “Why will you not take your rest?”
“There is the matter of the bandit, Carlo,” he replied. “I wish to visit him in the dungeons. It seems he suffered greatly for my benefit.”
The priest nodded in agreement. “I have seen this man’s quality firsthand. Fear not—I will attend to your bandit in the dungeons on the morrow. I assure you he will stay safe.”
Visiting Carlo with Father Philip: that was an errand for which Xan would never volunteer. On the way, the priest would probably try to convince him to forgive the bandit.
“And what of Xan’s uncle?” Brother Andrew asked. “He is a merchant named William.”
“There are many merchants who live here,” Father Philip said. “This is one of the largest cities in England.” The priest paused to think, his pointed nose wagging in the air as he gazed back and forth between the wooden cottage roof and the shuttered windows. Then he turned to Xan.
“Actually, child, I may know someone who works for this uncle of yours.”
&
nbsp; “Really?” That sounded promising. Uncle William truly must be wealthy if he could afford to hire workers. “How do you know this person?”
Father Philip opened the cottage door. Outside, the morning air was warm and pleasant, with the sun shining brightly in a blue sky. April’s showers had passed for the moment.
The priest pointed down a path. “I know a family at Saint Paul’s parish, down the lane. They have a boy, Simon. Once a week, his older sister, Christina, tends the home of a merchant named William, who I think came to Lincoln years ago from Yorkshire. That might be him.”
Xan’s hopes wakened. Locating Uncle William might be easier than he thought. If all went well for once, he might meet his new family before it was time to break the Lenten fast. “Where can I find this Christina?”
Standing on the doorstep, the priest gave him directions to the family’s home. It wasn’t too far, just south of the main city center. “Tell her that Father Philip of the chapel has sent you.”
“Brother, can I go find her right now?” Xan said, rushing inside.
The monk lay fast asleep, snoring.
Father Philip patted Xan on the shoulder. “That, my child, is the sound of permission.”
Xan thanked the priest and—before Brother Andrew might wake up—hurried out of the cottage and down the cobblestone lane, following the directions. He passed a low brown wall of rocks, edging the corners of a cemetery, with slabs of stone on the ground as grave markers. He turned a corner and nearly pinched his skin to be sure he wasn’t in a wondrous dream.
Lincoln blossomed in all its glory before him under the morning sun. Nothing in Hardonbury, the abbey, or even Chadwick Manor had prepared him for this. The other peasants of his village would never believe him if he told them of the busyness and grandeur of this city.
One- and two-story stone buildings lined cobblestone roads that led upward into a maze of noise and commerce. Some buildings were storefronts; others were residences. Signs of all shapes and sizes—most containing pictures with few words—hung down on a row of buildings. Apparently, even in Lincoln many people could not read. But two sights were the most peculiar.
First, the streets were crowded with people in colorful cloaks and puffy dresses and green pants and silky shirts and feathered caps and every other kind of clothing imaginable. They passed by in all directions, some rushing and others meandering slowly, some barely speaking to each other and all of them ignoring Xan. That never could happen on the dirty paths of Hardonbury.
Second, on a grassy hill in the distance stood a towering castle: the largest thing he’d ever seen. It was almost as if the stony gray walls were growing from the steepest parts of the hill, as though planted by God before the beginning of time. A high tower reached up to the clouds, along with a fluttering flag on a pole. From this angle, it seemed the great walls that stretched all around the city had originated from the edges of this castle.
Xan stood mesmerized by the great city’s spell. Surely Brother Andrew could never have described this well enough to prepare him for it. But where was that haunted cathedral? These nearby buildings must be blocking his view.
He crossed a larger intersection and headed down the second path to the left, just as Father Philip had said, at the corner with the butcher’s shop where dead animals hung on hooks. This part of Lincoln seemed less well-kept and more similar to areas he’d seen at Chadwick Manor. This must be where the less wealthy Lincoln-folk lived.
Heading down the inclined lane, he counted to the fifth house; that would be Christina’s home. It looked similar to the other one-story rock cottages in this part of the town, with two shuttered windows facing the lane. He clanged on the wooden door using a circular metal knocker.
The girl who opened the door couldn’t have been much older than him, perhaps fourteen years, yet her features seemed closer to woman than child. A flowering bouquet of hair—auburn and sparkling and full of life—fell loosely over both shoulders and hid her left eye like a veil. She had dimples on her fair, pale cheeks, and her eyes were greener than the glass in Carlo’s dragon pendant, with a mischievous gleam all their own.
“And what do you want?” she said, a bit tartly, as she pulled on the edge of her emerald frock to straighten it. The dress ran to the floor of the cottage and had several faded stains on it.
“I . . . I was told . . .” He stopped and caught his breath. “You see, I need to find . . . well, actually, I’m looking for . . .” Why is it so difficult to speak to this girl? “Father Philip—the one at the chapel—Father said I might . . . that I might could find you here.”
Her lips turned up in an impish grin. “Just learned to speak, have you? You’re not another one of those dirty Northmen boys, I hope. The guards were supposed to get rid of you weeks ago.”
Xan’s face grew warmer than ever, as though the sun were shining on it from two feet away. “Northmen boys? Nay, I come from . . . well, I guess I’m here from Harwood Abbey.”
She looked him up and down. “Kind of small to be a monk.”
This wasn’t starting off well at all. It was supposed to be a simple task: find Christina, tell her the priest had sent him to find his uncle. She would lead him there. Very, very simple.
He cleared his throat. “Let me start again. My name is Xan, and—”
“Your name is what?” she interrupted.
“Xan. Short for Alexander.”
She gave a gentle laugh. “Where’d you get a name like that? I’ve known three Alexanders in my life, and none went by Xan. One used to say Alex, which makes sense—but Xan?”
How exactly could he explain to this girl that Brother Andrew had shortened his name after naming him due to the fact that he’d lost his memory after falling in the forest and being attacked by a bandit? He couldn’t even get his name out right now without making it a jumbled mess.
“’Tis a long story,” he said instead. “I’m looking for my uncle.”
Now she truly did laugh. “I’m sure no uncle of yours lives here. Just me and my family.”
He gave a frustrated sigh. “Nay. I don’t think he lives here. Father Philip said you might tend home for my uncle sometimes. His name is William. He’s a merchant.”
The smile on her face dropped off, though the dimples on her pale cheeks remained. “I don’t discuss the business of my employer, thank you. He’s a very private person.”
“But I think he might be my uncle,” Xan said. Why wasn’t this girl being helpful at all? No one in Hardonbury or the abbey would treat him this way—well, maybe John or Brother Leo. If this were Lucy, she’d have gone out of her way to make sure he’d found his uncle.
“You’re not sure who your uncle is?” The furrowing lines of doubt shone through the shroud of auburn hair that obstructed her forehead. “Don’t know if I can help you with that one.”
“If you could just take me to where he lives, I think it would all make so much more sense.”
She put her hands on her hips. Her fingers were callused, like someone who knew what it was like to labor daily. Yet the rest of her frame told the story of a beautiful princess who had been exiled to this little cottage to give strangers a difficult time when they showed up at her door.
“Let’s be clear, Xander, or whoever you are,” she said—but not meanly—jerking her head so her hair revealed both enchanting eyes. “My employer has good reason not to give strangers the location of his home. So I won’t be leading you or any other tongue-twisted lad to his house today.”
If she’d let him tell the whole story, she might take a new attitude about this. “But—”
“But nothing,” she said. “If he were your uncle, he’d good and well know it and you wouldn’t have to ask the likes of me. Now, if you’d be so kind as to leave me to my chores. Good day, Alexander.” With a curtsy and a polite smile, she closed the door in his face with a thud.
Now what—knock again and try not to mix up his words? For all he knew, this merchant named William wasn’t even his
uncle. There could be ten merchants named William in this town.
“Chrissy can be like that,” a voice said behind him.
He turned. There stood an awkward-looking boy about Joshua’s age, with straight brown hair that hung over his eyes. He wore a wrinkly brown shirt over baggy black pants. Not quite a tall child, still his gawky legs appeared too long for his torso.
“Christina is your sister?” he asked, as the boy nodded. “So you must be Simon.”
“How’d you know that?” he said, his lips parting to reveal two large front teeth with a gap wide enough for a thin strip of rope to fit between them.
“Father Philip from the chapel sent me. I was supposed to ask your sister to lead me to the house of my uncle, but she didn’t seem very interested in helping.”
The boy sighed. “Well, she is Christina.”
Wait! Perhaps he could succeed after all, if this boy would just be willing to help. “Simon, would you be able to take me to William the merchant’s home?”
The boy peered at the cottage door with doubt. If Christina treated her little brother the way she’d just treated him, it was no wonder Simon wouldn’t want to get on her foul side. “I don’t think my sister would like that at all, even if I did know where he lived.”
Xan shook his head sadly. “I was afraid of that.”
“But c’mon,” Simon said, lighting up. “I do know where that merchant works!”
12
Ghost Story
Simon led Xan back up the way he’d come, along the cobblestone path by the butcher’s shop. Then he left the road and went through a break in a row of tall thorny shrubs. On the other side was a grassy channel between the shrubs and one of Lincoln’s formidable walls of stone.
They followed along the inside of the wall, which seemed about five times as high as Xan could reach with his outstretched arms. Soon they came to a high, rocky structure that looked like it might have been some sort of wall or gate in ancient times but had now fallen into ruin.
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