Xan paused another moment as Christina peered at him through worried emerald eyes. She squeezed his hand supportively.
Just then a familiar voice broke the cathedral’s peacefulness. “Xan? Xan, is it really you?”
He turned toward the source of the voice. There stood a girl with raven hair and brown eyes—mouth wide open in surprise—staring at him holding Christina’s hand. This cathedral dream had just turned into a nightmare. Could that truly be Lucy standing there, her thick hair pulled tightly back upon her head?
He flicked Christina’s hand away and stepped closer to the girl, who wore a white tunic and dainty belt around her waist. There was that telltale mole on her cheek.
Of course it was Lucy. He’d always known there was a chance she’d come to Lincoln with her father and the King’s court. And she, of all people, would have sought out this cathedral, not because of any ghost story but because she’d want to spend time here in prayer.
“Lucy! I can’t believe you’re here!” A rush of feelings—joy, amazement, and even anxiety—jumbled within. What would Lucy think about him standing there next to Christina?
“I said we would meet again if God willed it,” she reminded him. Then she looked inquisitively at Christina, who was also peering curiously at her.
“Oh!” Xan whirled to make introductions. “This—these are two people I met today who—I’m trying to find my uncle, you see, and—” He stopped and took a deep breath.
Christina’s face dawned with understanding. She strode toward Lucy and smiled. “I’m Christina, and this is my brother, Simon. We were just showing Alexander here around this place.”
“He wants to see the ghost,” Simon said.
Gazing at Xan, Christina laughed. “He already looks like he’s seen a ghost.”
Lucy gave Christina a nod. “Nice to meet you.” Then she turned back to Xan. “Whatever are you doing in Lincoln?” Lucy knew nothing about what was going on, did she? Not about Uncle William or head money or Carlo or ghosts. Definitely not about how he’d wound up in a cathedral holding a girl’s hand.
Thankfully his senses seemed to have returned to him. “Let’s go outside,” he said, “where we can speak freely.” He led them back under the soaring archways and into the blinding sunlight. They plopped on the grass—Lucy closest to him and Christina farthest away—and Xan told the full tale of his journey to Lincoln and his need to find his uncle, ending with the account of him and Simon and the two henchmen in Uncle William’s shop.
At that, Christina took to her feet with a more compromising expression on her face. “I’ll take you to William tomorrow,” she said. “I promise. But Mother sent me here for Simon; we have a days’ worth of chores at home.” She gestured to her brother. “C’mon, you.”
The boy groaned but reluctantly obeyed. “See you tomorrow, Xan. Bye, Lucy.”
Just like that, Xan was alone with Lucy as if the weeks they’d been apart had never happened.
“And what of you?” he asked. “How has it been, traveling with your father?”
She sighed. “I don’t see him much. The lord has him busy tending to matters from dawn until dusk. And we’ve traveled so much and so far. You wouldn’t believe how big England is, Xan—wide and green and going on and on forever.”
“Have you seen any trials with the court?” Maybe she could watch Carlo’s trial and see him punished properly.
“Nay. Those judges don’t want children around, especially not girl children. I spend most of my time working in the stables or helping out the cooks.”
They spoke together a while longer with the breeze passing over them, as though they were back at Harwood Abbey sitting at the fountain watching the striped fish swim in circles. Somehow, God had brought them back together despite all the empty miles between them.
“Now what is all this talk about a ghost?” Lucy asked.
“I’ll tell you all about it on our way to Father Philip’s cottage,” he said, standing and putting out his hand. “Brother Andrew will want to see you for certain.”
She took his hand and smiled. They marched across the grass and down the incline, finding their way to the cottage with little effort. Lucy had been in Lincoln three days and had become familiar with her way around.
When they arrived at the cottage, Brother Andrew was awake and sitting up in bed, though still worn and bruised. He welcomed Lucy and insisted that she fill him in on her travels since she’d gone. Then Xan told them about his uncle and the henchmen and the ghost in the cathedral.
“That old cathedral’s got quite a strange history,” Father Philip said, taking a seat at the hearth on the wide bench, his silver hair glowing in the orange light. “Some say ’tis cursed.”
Xan and Lucy knelt together by the priest’s feet as he spoke, basking in the warm fire.
“That cathedral is not the first church to be built on that spot, you know. The Saxon church of Saint Mary Magdalene had stood there for centuries—from ere the time of the Conqueror.”
“The Conqueror?” Lucy asked.
“You know,” Xan said. “William the Conqueror: King William.” Brother Andrew had taught him about King William, a duke from Normandy, across the channel near the Kingdom of France. William came to royal power after defeating King Harold at the Battle of Hastings a hundred years ago. Everything in England had changed after that.
“Aye,” Father Philip said. “The Conqueror arrived from Normandy and had his bishop destroy Saint Mary Magdalene’s to make way for his new church. He tore it down and built the cathedral over the crypt below the old Saxon church. Some say he even left the ancient tombstones there.”
That seemed spooky—all those tombs deep beneath the cathedral in an abandoned crypt.
“You speak of Bishop Remigius,” said Brother Andrew.
“Aye, Andrew—one of your black monks, the Conqueror’s first English bishop. He vowed to build the grandest cathedral in Europe, but poor Saint Mary Magdalene’s stood in his way.”
“Is that why God might have cursed the cathedral?” Xan asked. “Because of the old crypt?”
“Who knows? Maybe God sought to punish proud Remigius, who died ere his work was done. They buried him in his new cathedral, in front of the altar. Then one night, a terrible fire broke out and the burning beams of the roof crashed upon his tomb, splitting its stone slab in two.”
“I think I saw it there!” Xan said. “A black slab with a jagged crack down the middle.”
“Aye,” the priest said. “’Tis still there. After the fire, they remade the cathedral greater than before: stone ceilings, rich designs, grand artwork. And so it stands to this day.” Father Philip grew silent, as though lost deep in thought.
Xan stared into the hearth. The flames of Hardonbury had taught about the killing power of fire, and that cathedral had learned the same lesson. Maybe those ancient bones had mocked from the crypt below when the arrogant cathedral burst into flames, breaking Remigius’s tomb in half.
“Have you ever heard of a ghost in the cathedral?” Xan asked.
“Only recently,” the priest said. “Indeed, last week a deacon who serves the cathedral was praying alone. From across the nave came a grating sound of metal upon stone, like a chain dragged across the floor. The building trembled for an instant; a painting fell from the wall. Then came the mournful wail of a child—from the floor, from the walls. But when it ceased, no child was there.”
Brother Andrew made a tsking noise. “By Adam, Father, surely you do not believe such superstitions. Xan, I assure you there are no curses or ghosts of little girls in God’s cathedral.”
Father Philip chuckled. “Brother, what do you know of kings and cathedrals, ghosts and curses? You have spent your life locked away in a monastery.”
“Not my entire life, Father,” Brother Andrew said. “Do not judge a monk by his robes.”
But why couldn’t there be a spirit in the cathedral? God spoke to people in dreams, so why not with spirits too? And how else cou
ld Xan find out what Mother and Father wanted from him?
Lucy stood. “Father will start to wonder where I’ve been if I don’t get back to the castle.”
“You’re staying at Lincoln Castle?” Xan said. Maybe she’d even met dukes and princesses.
“Only in the servants’ chambers. I’m no ladies’ maid, just a poor stable girl.” She bid farewell to Brother Andrew and the priest, and Xan walked her to the door.
“I do so miss the abbey,” Lucy said, pouting. “Sister Regina; little Maud; you, of course. I miss all the time we spent together talking about nothing or about anything, really.”
He smiled. “Will you come with me tomorrow when Christina takes me to my uncle?”
Upon hearing Christina’s name, Lucy’s face dimmed. “She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”
He shrugged but didn’t attempt to look her in the eye. “I hadn’t noticed.” He’d never lied to Lucy before that moment. Why did it seem so important for him to deny that Christina was pretty? There were beautiful girls all over Lincoln, probably.
Plus, Lucy was just as pretty as Christina. He hadn’t said that out loud to her, either.
She frowned. “’Tis not a crime to be pretty, Xan. You can just say it, you know.”
“Fine, she’s pretty then,” he said, a bit shortly. Why did it bother him so much that she insisted he admit it? “What does it matter, she’s just taking me to my uncle? So, are you coming?”
“All right. I’ll come by when the bells ring after morning Mass.”
Good. Somehow it would feel safer having Lucy there with them. Plus, tomorrow might finally be the day he’d been waiting for—to perhaps find family again, and a new future too.
14
Family Reunion
The next day, after the bells of Lincoln Castle rang the call that Mass had finished, Lucy returned to Xan at Father Philip’s cottage. Together, they traveled to Christina’s home.
This time, the girl did not refuse him at the door but immediately emerged from the house, clothed in a frock as blue as the flowers in Sister Regina’s garden at the convent.
Simon followed close behind her, again in black baggy pants, but now with a stained gray shirt hanging over them, which evened the proportions of his torso to his long thin legs.
“Come on, then, Alexander,” Christina said. “Let’s see if this uncle knows who you are.”
He sighed. There’d be no use telling her a third time to call him Xan. She clearly was determined to do whatever she wanted.
“Good dawning, Lucy.” Christina gave her an embrace. Her blue frock pressed against Lucy’s white tunic, and her hair of orange sun mingled with Lucy’s hair of darkest night.
“And good day to you,” Lucy said, seemingly surprised by the warm greeting.
Simon gave a wave and a gap-toothed smile, heading to the cobblestone path. “Come on!”
“Did you tell my uncle to expect me?” Xan asked Christina, as she led them along the road.
“Well, I haven’t seen him yet today, now have I?” she said teasingly.
“Oh. So, what can you tell me about him? Is he a good man? Do you think he’ll like me?”
She laughed. “I hardly know if I like you yet. I will say that he’s not an unkind man.”
The girl no doubt knew everything Xan wanted to learn about Uncle William and his family, but getting the information from her would be frustratingly difficult.
“What about his wife?” Xan asked. “What is she like? And does he have any children?”
Her face scrunched up in confusion. “What wife? Your uncle has no wife. At least not yet.” No wife. That meant no children. And that meant no new family for Xan.
All this time, he’d been wondering about the size of Uncle William’s family and whether he would be welcomed as another son. Yet, if Christina spoke true, his entire family was but a single person.
Simon suddenly jumped in front of Christina’s path and started oohing in a teasing voice. “Oooh, Chrissy, you wanna marry him, don’t you?”
“Don’t be silly,” Lucy said. “Xan’s uncle must be three times your sister’s age.”
Simon folded his arms. “Our cousin is only fourteen, but her parents made her marry the butcher, who must be well over fifty years old.”
If Uncle William were a successful merchant, perhaps Christina truly had considered marrying him. Maybe that’s the reason her parents allowed her to help in his home. How awkward it would be if Xan had to start calling her “Auntie Chrissy” or something. That wasn’t the kind of family he’d sought. Indeed, how could this pretty girl of similar age ever be a mother to him?
“Well,” Christina said. “The man I marry will have lots and lots of money, and I don’t care how old he is. Father will see I go to a proper home, where all my needs will be met.”
Xan shook his head. “Based on what happened yesterday, I’m afraid my uncle might not have any money left at all. Those two brutes were taking all his goods, and it sounded as though he owed this Master person much more than that.”
Christina shrugged. “The business of my employer is for him to share with those he wishes. I won’t discuss rumors about his personal finances, even with his own nephew.”
She led them across town, winding through narrow streets and up a steep incline until they reached a row of houses that were larger than the little cottage where Christina lived, with a second story and shuttered windows and better-crafted stonework.
“Here we are.” She pointed to the last house on the dead-end road: the grandest one of all.
“That’s my uncle’s home?” Xan asked. “You work in there?”
Christina nodded. “Once a week. Pretty fancy, eh?”
“So lovely,” Lucy said. “Xan, your uncle must be a very good merchant to live here.”
Christina stepped to the door and knocked strangely: three light knocks, one heavy knock, and then two more light knocks. Footsteps inside approached the door and jingled a chain or lock.
That must be Uncle William. He and Christina must have their own special knocking code.
The door opened to reveal a tall, middle-aged man dressed as finely as any person Xan had seen in Lincoln. His neat green tunic hung over fitted pants that drew down to fine leather shoes. Over his shoulders lay an embroidered mantle, clasped at his chest with a green button.
“Christina!” the man said. “I see you brought—”
He stopped speaking when he caught sight of Xan, who had glanced at the man’s face and gasped, taking a step back. This could be the ghost of Father standing before him.
The man also reacted with surprise, peering closely at Xan’s face before suddenly lighting up with recognition. “Stephen?” he said. “Is that my brother’s boy? Can it be?”
Indeed, the man’s face was like Father’s, yet his voice was deeper.
“Uncle—Uncle William?” Xan was still staring at him.
Aye, this was his uncle. He’d visited Hardonbury at least one time, when Xan was five or six years old. Uncle William had got on his hands and knees and barked like a dog. Then he’d made horse sounds and told Xan to ride on his back. All around the cottage Xan had ridden him, circling the hearth and skipping like a horse’s trot. All the while, Father had laughed.
Uncle William stepped out the door and swooped Xan up in an embrace. “Well met, Stephen! My, have you grown. But what brings you to Lincoln? How are your mother and father?”
Xan’s cheeks turned cold. How could he tell Uncle William that he’d lost his brother forever, unless he believed in ghosts?
“Who’s Stephen?” Christina said. “I thought your name was Alexander.”
Lucy stepped forward and curtsied politely to Uncle William. “I’m Lucy, a friend of your nephew. Maybe it would be best to speak in the comfort of your home. There’s a lot to say.”
“Of course!”
Uncle William hastened them into a large room with six leather-covered chairs that must have been stuffed with wool becau
se they were as soft as sheep. Surprisingly, the walls of the home were bare—no fine paintings or decorations, no vases or artifacts. Indeed, the entire room consisted of the chairs and a thick oak table that crouched close to the floor.
“Now tell me, Stephen, how is my brother? And what brings you all the way to Lincoln? ’Tis been seven long years since I spoke with your father. Many times I have resolved to visit you in Hardonbury, and as many times my business has prevented me.”
Xan frowned. He’d become a harbinger of death, hadn’t he? Yet, who else was left to break this news to his uncle? It was only right this tragic report should come from family.
“I’m afraid you are too late now, Uncle,” he said finally, a tear slipping down his cheek. Then, with a deep breath and a silent prayer for strength, he spoke of the attack on Hardonbury, the death of Mother and Father, his loss of memory and new name, and even his new home at Harwood Abbey. As he explained it all, even Christina seemed moved by the story, although she’d heard much of it before.
Uncle William said nothing for a long while. Then he excused himself, rushing up the stairs to the second floor of the house before returning a while later.
At their greeting, Uncle William had been youthful and boisterous and full of smiles. After his return, the bags under his brown eyes, now puffed and bloodshot, gave the sickly appearance of one who had spent days in a dungeon. He sat back down and peered at Xan.
“You do seem very much like your father, Stephen, you poor boy,” he said.
Except Xan wasn’t Stephen any longer. He’d left that name behind him at the graves of Hardonbury, much like the monks took new names at their vows; just as Brother Andrew had grown up as Robert before changing his name.
Christina was gazing sadly at Xan, for once without mischief in her green eyes.
“William,” she said. “Did you not hear? Your nephew goes by a new name—Xan. Perhaps he would be more comfortable if you called him by that name from now on.”
Somehow, she’d known what he was thinking. She was more perceptive than he’d realized.
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