The Cast Of A Stone

by Avril Borthiry

  Still, he tried to redeem Alicia's name. He told Alex what she'd said, explained how the child was conceived. But the telling of it sounded outlandish, even to Francis's ears. Alex sneered, called Francis a fool, and cursed him for hiding Alicia and allowing Edward to live, thus condoning their actions. Alicia's ridiculous claims were merely the sorry lies of betrayal. She'd been delusional, wracked with guilt. The child was Edward's bastard and Alex wanted nothing to do with her.

  Francis visited Emma every day, his heart increasingly heavy with sorrow. She was a sickly, mewling child, and not thriving. He was told she would be with God before summer's end.

  Hope flared in his heart a few days later when Alex showed up at the abbey. But his son regarded him coldly, saying he was there out of curiosity, nothing more. Emma had cried most of that morning, but to Francis's amazement, her crying stopped the moment Alex leaned over her crib. She smiled at him, reaching out with her scrawny little arms. Alex ignored Emma's obvious plea to be held, hardened his expression, turned and walked away, followed by the child's frantic screams.

  Francis hated his son at that moment. He hated himself even more.

  But only two days later, Alex returned. Without speaking to anyone, he went to the crib and lifted Emma from it. The child gave a squeal of joy and touched a tiny hand to Alex's face.

  Something passed between his son and that frail little girl; a connection of spirit so strong it sparkled like sunlight on a lake. Perhaps it was divine, certainly it was magic, but most of all, it was truth. Francis felt the warm spill of tears down his cheeks. Any lingering suspicion he might have had about Emma's parentage evaporated.

  Christ be praised, Alicia had not lied.

  “Surely you can feel it, lad?” he'd demanded of his son. “Surely you can see it? 'Tis obvious whose child she is.”

  But Alex, the stubborn fool, refused to see, refused to accept what lay before his eyes. He would never believe such an impossible truth, such heresy. Aye, it was obvious whose child she was. Emma was Edward's bastard, but she could not be held responsible for the sins of her mother. He told Francis of the promise made to Alicia before she died. Foolish, perhaps, but as a man of his word, he'd decided to honour that vow and raise Emma as his own.

  “One day, you'll be forced to see the truth, my son,” said Francis. “The past does not stay in the past. It circles around to greet us as we step into the future. One becomes the other. Thus has it always been.”

  Alex looked at him with cold eyes and spoke the words that ripped through Francis's soul. “There is only one truth. The two people I loved most in the world betrayed me. My wife died in my arms. You both died in my heart. May God forgive you, Father.”

  He took Emma from the abbey that day, rode north, and disappeared into the forests of Cumberland. A few weeks later, unable to reconcile the parting words of his son, Francis renounced his vows to the Circle and entered the abbey.

  He had not heard from Alexander in sixteen years.

  * * *

  Keir and Stephen left Creake Abbey at dawn, heading north, back to Thurston. Other than the soft clip of horses' hooves on the packed dirt road, nothing disturbed the tranquillity of the morning. Frost had descended during the night, covering the earth with ragged silver threads that glistened beneath the first rays of a feeble autumn sun. Even the birds had lapsed into silence, seeking shelter in the protection of the forest. The only sign of warmth came from the cloudy breath of horse and man.

  Keir appeared calm, apparently accepting the incredible revelations of Alex's father with little difficulty. Stephen, on the other hand, could barely sit the saddle for the churning in his stomach. He glanced sideways, attempting to read his companion's face. He didn't dare try to read Keir's mind.

  “A wise decision, young knight.” Keir looked at him with knowing eyes “Your self-discipline is improving.”

  “I'm struggling, my lord.”

  Keir shrugged. “As a Guardian, you often will. It's tempting to use –”

  “That's not what I meant.” Stephen let out a deep breath. “I'm struggling with the ramblings of an old man whose mind has been twisted by time and grief.”

  “Ah. You speak of Francis.” Keir raised an eyebrow. “You don't believe his story?”

  “I'm finding it difficult to accept.” Stephen shook his head. “His claims - Alicia's claims - are beyond impossible. Do you believe them?”

  “I believe Francis told the truth as he sees it.”

  “Which means what? That he refuses to see the lies told by an unfaithful wife? That Emma is the result of some magical union? That Alicia died for naught?”

  “Francis's tale warrants, and will receive, further investigation.” Keir's eyes narrowed. “Yours is a powerful mind, Stephen. Do not close it to realms of the impossible. We have guarded the stone for sixteen centuries, yet still do not know all it can do.”

  “But transporting a man halfway across the earth in one night to lie with his wife?” Stephen rubbed the back of his neck, trying to visualize the images that Francis had described. “'Tis incredible. Besides, I do think Alex would remember such an experience.”

  “Whatever the case, truth has a way of emerging from even the darkest depths,” said Keir. “Also, Alexander does possess some God-given abilities of his own, outside of what he has learned from us.”

  “Aye, that he does.” Stephen gave a wry smile. “He has a special affinity for crows in particular.”

  “He connects with many living things, including humans, on a level beyond our comprehension. His mother was descended from a line of Highland women who were...gifted in certain ways.”

  “You mean witches?”

  Keir scowled. “That is narrow-minded superstition. I mean gifted in certain ways. They shared a great knowledge of medicinal plants and herbs, some had the ability to glimpse into the future, and others could apparently connect with departed souls.”

  “Aye, like I said. Witches.” Stephen waved away Keir's disapproving glance. “I jest with you, my lord. What happened to her?”

  “She died of a wasting disease when Alex was but twelve. Francis brought him back to England and settled in Norfolk.”

  “Francis was a Guardian at that time?”

  “Aye. But we all knew Alex would be the next one. Even at that young age, he showed great promise. He trained all through his adolescence, into manhood, and took the vows just before he left for the Holy Land.”

  Stephen pondered Keir's words. A thought surfaced in his mind, prompted by something Francis had said.

  “How long did Alex intend to serve there?”

  Keir frowned. “The Holy Land? I believe he said he'd be gone for two years. Why?”

  “I'm wondering why he came home early. Do you know?”

  “I have no idea. Perhaps he missed his wife.”

  “Or perhaps something motivated him to return earlier than planned.”

  “What are you getting at, Stephen?”

  “I'm not sure yet.” Stephen chewed on his lip, trying to reach another relevant thought that lay just out of his reach. “'Tis like a great puzzle.”

  “Has Emma shown any abilities? Any special talents?” Keir asked.

  Stephen smiled, his heart quickening at the thought of her. “Several. She can walk through the forest as silent as a ghost. She can sing like an angel. I'm living proof of her talent for bringing wounded knights back from the brink of death. And she can catch fish with her bare feet.”

  Keir laughed. “All commendable. But is there anything she has done or said which might help solve this mystery?”

  Emma's words flashed through Stephen's mind. His breath caught in his throat.

  I knew he was my father.

  “Dear God.”

  “I take it you've remembered something?”

  “Aye. Something that happened to Emma as a child, something she never told Alex. She told me of it the day you arrived at Thurston, which is likely why I forgot about it until now.” Stephen adde
d an edge of sarcasm to his voice. “If you recall, my lord, that was also the day you threatened to kill me.”

  Keir grinned. “You must have misunderstood my meaning. You're still alive and I never make idle threats. What did Emma tell you?”

  Stephen shook his head. “I promised her I'd say naught of it to anyone, but it does relate to Francis's story. All at once I find myself doubting my doubt.”

  “Hah! See what happens when you open your mind? Perhaps you can ask her about it upon our return. Do you think she might be willing to share the information with Alex? Or Caleb, I should say.”

  “She might.” Stephen sighed, his thoughts clouding with doubt once again. “'Tis still difficult for me to believe a man can be transported halfway across the world and back in the space of one night.”

  “Perhaps he was not physically transported,” Keir suggested. “Perhaps it was his essence, his soul. All that a man truly is beyond the body.”

  “'Tis more plausible. But I still don't understand why it would happen. Why would his...his essence do that? Was it prompted? And if so, would he not remember it? And how could he get his wife with child if he left his physical body behind?”

  “All good questions, lad. Keep on asking them.” Keir smiled. “Leave that door between your ears open, and see what happens. You might just find the answers you seek.”

  “Well, we've a week in the saddle to think about it.” Stephen grimaced. “Too bad the stone couldn't pick us up and transport us back to Thurston in the blink of an eye.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Emma rolled onto her back and blinked into soft candlelight. The bed linens were cold, the bed large and lonely. She ached for Stephen's touch, longed to hear his voice, to share her thoughts with him. As if missing Stephen wasn't bad enough, now Caleb had gone too.

  She covered her face with her hands, pushing her fingertips into her eyes to stop the tears. Over a week had passed since the incident on the moors, since Caleb left, yet she still had difficulty dealing with what had happened.

  Night after night, unanswered questions, unexplained memories, and unfounded suspicions ran ragged through her mind. And sleep, when it did come, was a restless affair, disturbed by a hoard of strange dreams and nightmares.

  With a frustrated cry, Emma flung back the blankets, slipped out of bed and grabbed her cloak. She stumbled, her head spinning with familiar fatigue, nausea rolling through her belly. Her stomach clenched and she swallowed the bile that burned in her throat.

  “Promise me you'll stay strong.”

  Damn all the lies. Damn them.

  The dizziness gone, she wrapped her cloak around her and stepped into the hallway. A solitary candle burned on a small table at the top of the staircase, casting a feeble light across the walls. The flame flickered, as if disturbed by a sudden draught. Emma froze, her skin prickling, certain she'd seen a dark shape duck back into the shadows on the stairs. She held her breath and peered into the gloom, the sound of her heart thudding in her ears.

  All else was quiet. The candle burned steadily, undisturbed. Emma took a deep breath, turned, and crept along to the oak door at the end of the hallway. With a quick glance of assurance behind her, she pulled the door open and started up the steep steps.

  The rooftop had become her nighttime refuge. She relished the openness of it, the exhilaration of being so high up. It was a place to think, away from the confines of thick stone walls that kept people in as much as they kept people out. At first, she'd stayed away from the roof's edge. The low wall offered little defence against a stumble or, God forbid, one of her increasingly frequent dizzy spells.

  But strangely, that same week, Christophe had arranged to have the wall heightened and crenellations added. The work was still ongoing, but parts of the wall already stood at chest height to Emma, which meant the heart-stopping drop to the bailey had been obscured.

  She stepped out beneath a clear cold sky, drawing her cloak tightly around her. Not a whisper of wind stirred as she gazed across the countryside. A bright quarter moon hung in the eastern sky, surrounded by a halo of silver light. Below it, the meadows and forests of Yorkshire lay in peaceful shadow. Here and there, off in the distance, wisps of smoke from peat fires traced soft grey lines up to the heavens, their comforting smell wandering through the night.

  She studied the stars, savouring the familiar sensation of wonder and amazement that gripped her. The universe was exciting, intriguing - a profound mystery beyond the understanding of men. Her life was also shrouded in mystery - a mystery she needed to solve.

  Emma sighed. She still wasn't sure what happened that day on the moors, why Caleb - or Alex - had collapsed and tumbled to the ground. The event had terrified her, seeing him so helpless, not knowing what was wrong. Yet Finn knew, for he reacted with urgency rather than surprise. When Emma asked him why Caleb had left so suddenly, he mumbled a tale about a childhood affliction that coincided with some forgotten business in the north that required immediate attention.

  He had told everyone else the same story. It amazed Emma that they accepted the Irishman's explanation so easily. She knew there was more to it than Finn's vague allegory.

  Much more.

  It had something to do with the geese, she decided. Alex had heard something in their cries, a message of some kind. But what? It must have been something terrible to put such an expression of fear in his eyes. Not fear for himself, mind. That, she had never seen. The fear was for someone else. But who?

  The revelation about Caleb's true identity shocked her at first. What shocked her more was the sudden awareness that she'd known it all along. She realized she'd recognized Alex the moment she spoke with him in the forest on that misty morning over a month before. But she hadn't voiced it to anyone or even admitted it to herself. Why? Because logic told her such a thing was impossible, unacceptable. It was easier to deny it than accept it.

  Denial. Was it not a convenient yet sometimes dangerous shield for those who chose to hide behind it?

  Each time she visited the childhood memory of recognizing Alex at the abbey, denial stepped in, pushing her instincts aside. Recently though, that denial had been put to the test. Everything she thought she knew, whether dictated by logic or instinct, had changed since Alex had left Thurston.

  “God help me,” she whispered to the sky, for her tortured mind could find no peace.

  As if in response, a different childhood memory emerged from her torment, the intensity of its arrival forcing a small cry from her lips. The stars blurred behind a haze of warm tears.

  She saw herself as a small girl, clad in a thin cotton shift, padding barefoot into Alex's bedchamber in the middle of the night. She'd clambered up beside him and placed her lips to his ear.

  “I cannot sleep, Cùra”.

  Alex merely grunted in response, so Emma lifted one of his eyelids with her finger. The eyeball beneath rolled around to look at her and she giggled with mischievous delight.

  “Cùra, are you awake?”

  In the gloom, she saw the hint of a smile on Alex's lips.

  “Nay, a ghràidh. I'm sound asleep. And so should you be.”

  “But I cannot sleep.”

  “Why not?”

  “My head is filled with too many thoughts.”

  “What thoughts? Tell me.”

  “'Twould be easier to count the stars in the sky.”

  “That many?”

  “Aye, I swear it.”

  He sat up and studied her for a moment, then slid out of bed, opened a shutter and peered outside.

  “Go and get your blanket, Emma.”

  “My blanket?”

  “Aye. And don't dawdle.”

  Alex bridled Bart, but didn't saddle him. With Emma wrapped in her blanket, safe in his arms, they rode bareback, by starlight, to the shore. He stopped Bart at the water's edge, the estuary spread out before them like a large dark hand. Beyond that lay the wide expanse of the Irish Sea. Emma had never seen the sea at night before. How empt
y and black it was. She shivered, and Alex wrapped the blanket more tightly around her.

  “Look up, a ghràidh, and tell me how many stars you see.”

  Emma raised her eyes and scanned the expanse above. Without the hindrance of trees and mountains, the sky lay open from horizon to horizon.

  “There are so many, Cùra. They go from one side of the sky to the other. I cannot count them all.”

  “Then guess.”

  “Maybe three hundred?”

  She felt the warm breath of his laughter against her hair.

  “A good guess, but there are many more than that. There are more stars up there than you could count in your lifetime.”

  The wonder of his words quieted her for a moment. Her eyes continued to search among the glittering milky splash that meandered across the sky.

  “'Tis so big. Where is Heaven?”

  “Only God knows the answer to that.”

  “Mama and Papa too, because that's where they are. Do you think they can see me from up there?”

  Emma remembered the ripple of tension that ran through Alex's body. He didn't respond to her question, but tugged harshly on Bart's reins and set off toward home. She wondered what she had done, what she had said.

  “I'm sorry, Cùra.”

  “For what?”

  “For making you angry. Please forgive me.”

  She felt the harsh rise and fall of his chest against her as his arms pulled her close. He rested his cheek on the top of her head, his voice gentle as he spoke.

  “Ach. There's naught to forgive, child. I'm not angry with you.”

  But words were left unsaid. And she didn't dare ask him what they were.

  She would dare to ask him now, though. She knew his reaction that night had to do with the truth about her mother. And her father. As soon as she returned to Cumberland with Stephen, she would face all her fears, ask Alex all the unasked questions, and insist on truthful answers.

  And, in turn, she would tell him what she knew. What she remembered.

  “Emma?”