Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  He let out the breath he was holding and bowed his head. “Thank you.”

  A knowing smile returned to his Choosers lips and Notus patted his hand. “Now that is taken care of –”

  “— we will stay to see the night through –” he continued. The corner of his mouth lifted. Maybe the worst was over.

  “— and make the best of it,” finished Notus as he slipped his arm through his sons, slowly making their way through the crowd of guests.

  Conversation had quickly picked up with his descent into the hall. Most discussion consisted of the new and hot topic for the night – the Angel. He tried to ignore it and focused on the colours of elaborate dress. Gowns of embroidered silk flashed in the light of flaming braziers. Veiled heads of younger women bent together to privately comment on the virtues of current available men. Large plumed hats and turbans with liripipe denoted the men in bright clothing as colourful as what the women wore. Music of harps, drums and flutes overlaid the buzz of conversation. Only the very brave ventured a comment or two towards Notus and the Angel. Others shied away, allowing the strange pair to pass more or less unhindered.

  He observed it all, the glances, the gestures, the expressions, and tried to steel himself from it. By far the tallest man in the room it was easy for anyone to spot him, and one person in particular did. Making a bee line towards he and Notus, a man of average size and colouring, wearing religious vestments, ploughed through the crowd, followed by a young man with a lady, no more than a girl, on his arm.

  “Father Paul, how good it is to see you again,” declared the man, a smile on his face and he looked up at the Angel. “And you as well.”

  “It is always a pleasure, Abbot,” bowed Notus as his son inclined his head. “I hope the evening has been pleasurable despite the rain.”

  “Oh quite.” The Abbot of Westminster flashed a brilliant smile that quickly faded. “I wish you would reconsider and come stay at the abbey. Then you would not have to travel so far to the Library. Not to mention many of us would love to have a man of such talent teach the novices your fine craft with quill and brush.”

  “I thank you again for the kind offer,” replied Notus, “but I like being close to those who need me most and I don’t think the Angel would find the restrictions accommodating.”

  “Ah well, one has to try.” The smile returned and he opened up the space to allow the finely dressed couple to step closer. “Father Notus and the Angel, may I introduce Lord Henry of Bolingbroke, Earl of Derby and of Hereford, and his wife, Lady Mary.”

  “A pleasure, my Lord.” Notus withdrew his arm from his son’s and held out his hand.

  The young earl brought his attention from the one the Abbot called the Angel and took the monk’s hand. “And mine as well, Father. The good Abbot here has told me much of your kind works.”

  “You are the one the people call the Angel.” Lady Bolingbroke’s voice was high and clear with youth, yet hesitant as if she was not yet used to her station. Her husband eyed her suspiciously.

  She was pretty. Long brown locks were hidden under a veil yet the plaits before her ears were left free. Her hazel eyes blinked nervously.

  Unable to find his voice, he was relieved with Notus’ response. “Yes he is, my Lady.” The monk flashed a smile that was gratefully returned.

  “My cousin speaks oft of the Angel,” replied the Lady, more confidently, “And how no one has ever laid eyes upon him. I must assume, sir, that it is a great honour to have you here.”

  He stared at her outstretched hand not knowing what to do or say. The thin blue veins of her translucent wrist held a sweet treasure that he would never allow himself to discover. The Earl and the Abbot stared curiously at his distress.

  Take her hand in yours, say thank you, and kiss it, sent Notus, coming to his rescue.

  Her pale hand was warm to the touch and her blood drew him even further. Straightening, he did not return the smile. A crowd of young eligible women watched in breathless anticipation, their eyes focused on him. Their whispers in the midst of the party were easily heard and he turned to stare in amazement when he heard one wondering to one another what it would feel like to be kissed by the Angel. The girl, having noticed his gaze, squeaked in surprise and instantly hid in the midst of her friends giggles.

  “Your cousin, my Lady?” asked Notus, bringing his Chosen’s attention back.

  “My cousin, Father,” replied the young Earl, “is King Richard the Second.”

  He glanced over his shoulder to where two men sat in high backed chairs, one young and handsome, the other older and darker in complexion. On either side sat two young ladies. The two men were caught up in conversation and the girl on the older man’s right smiled at the Earl who nodded his head in response.

  Notus’ eyes widened at the revelation and then shook himself as he suddenly remembered the book in his embrace.

  “I almost forgot,” the monk held the leather bound package out to the Abbot. “I finished this tonight.”

  The Abbot’s eyes brightened as he took it, unwrapping the package and opening a page at random. He gasped at the sight and stood transfixed as he slowly leafed through the pages. Curious, the Earl and his wife peeked at the book and their eyes widened.

  “This is more beautiful than I ever expected,” exclaimed the Abbot, breathlessly. Notus’ smile widened. “Such artistry cannot go unacknowledged. It would be a sin!” The Abbot carefully closed the book to the regret of the onlookers, wrapped it up and handed it back to Notus. “You must present this gift with me.”

  “What?” Notus stood flabbergasted, the book in hand. “I cannot. It is yours to give.”

  “Nonsense,” replied the Abbot, firmly, and grabbed Notus’ free arm, leading him through the crowd before the monk could utter another word of protest.

  A smile lit his ruby eyes yet did not touch the rest of his face as he watched his Chooser dragged away. Somehow it seemed justified to allow the Abbot to manhandle Notus so. There was no danger from the exuberant mortal and it was doubtful that the Abbot was in danger from the stunned Chosen he dragged. Without Notus, he glanced down at the young couple. The Earl seemed more interested in the on goings of a small group of men in lavish dress, while his wife stared up at him, a soft smile on her face.

  Returning his attention to his wife, the Earl of Derby and Hereford patted her hand and unhooked her from his arm, saying, “Excuse me, my Lady, but I need to talk to Thomas.” He scowled momentarily at his wife’s frown and addressed the Angel awkwardly. “I…if you would be so kind as to stay with my wife, I would deem it a great favour.” He turned and moved off into the crowd, leaving no room for protestation.

  He watched as the Earl was consumed by the wave of people. The smile from his eyes now gone, he glanced down at Lady Mary who seemed unsurprised at this turn of events.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” she attempted. “My Lord has a tendency to be focused only on fighting.” She stared sadly in the direction that her husband had gone. She could not see, for all the people in her path that his height allowed, Lord Bollingbroke being slapped on the back from his friends and laughing along with them.

  She attempted another smile and held out her hand. At his frown, Lady Bollingbroke cocked her head to the side. “Is there a problem?”

  There was a problem. Her husband left her in the custody of someone who craved to drain her of her life, but instead he took her hand, wrapped it around his arm, and was rewarded by a true smile. Her touch and proximity made him nervous. It was not just the lust for her blood as she led him through the crowd along the path the Abbot had trailed Notus along.

  “You do not talk much, do you?” she asked demurely, nodding her head in acknowledgement at a guest. “I take it that you would like to be anywhere but here.”

  Her astute observation surprised him and he stiffened under her light touch.

  “I suppose I can understand that. Tonight you are the talk of the party. Tomorrow you will be the talk of the city.”
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  He hesitated in mid-step, unsure of how to take the observation.

  “I do not mean to pain you, but you are a rare person. Mysterious.” She halted, bringing them to a stop and turned to face him. “I can see, as can any other person here, that your secrets are a temptation to discover and the one who discovers them will be the most sought after person, besides yourself, of course.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” He already knew what Lady Bolingbroke had said. He had experienced this in the past but not on such a grand scale. So many people who feared and despised him were also inexplicably drawn to him.

  Surprised that he actually said something, it took her a moment to formulate an answer. “Because I would not wish to see the Angel entangled in this royal game.” She threaded her arm through his and led the way.

  He gazed down on her and was surprised at the affection he suddenly felt for her. Never before had he been treated in such an accepting manner from a complete stranger. It made the night seem worthwhile.

  They halted before a large open space before the enthroned monarchs and in which stood the Abbot and Notus. King Richard was leaning to see the open book in his guest’s lap oblivious to all else. He stood silently at the edge of the crowd, watching, Lady Bolingbroke’s arm resting on his.

  “This is most extraordinary,” exclaimed the English Crown. “I have never witnessed finer.”

  “Nor have I,” replied the Ambassador of Portugal, his accent thick yet unmuddied. He handed the Missale Romanum to a short, stocky man with dark features, in a lavish green and blue houppelande and a gold circlet holding back his silver streaked hair. The man opened the book, allowing a woman in equally elaborate dress to see the work of art. She was short, with her dark hair in an ornamental fillet. Her gasp of surprise was accompanied by the man’s huge smile through thick neatly trimmed beard. A little girl jumped to try and get a better look.

  “This truly is a magnificent gift. Thank you,” beamed the Ambassador in delight. Suddenly his brown eyes went wide and jaw slacked. His body trembled while his breath came in quick gasps. King Richard, wondering at his guest’s plight, looked up and directly at the Angel.

  Suddenly uncomfortable with the royal attention, he tried to take a step back but Lady Bolingbroke held him fast. He watched as the royal eyes filled with fear and then childlike curiosity.

  Notus glanced nervously between his Chosen and the King and wondered what would happen next. It seemed that a hush had fallen upon the guests as they too waited apprehensively.

  Time halted for what seemed like hours, only to be abruptly broken by the crash of the double doors flung open. He turned with the rest of the crowd to find an average sized young man swaying in a state of disarray. Soaked head to toe, and toe it was for he wore only one shoe, his ripped green doublet sported stains of unknown origins and his white hose were splattered with mud. The young man opened his mouth to say something and then shut it as if thinking better of it. When he opened his mouth again a deep resinous belch cut through the silence.

  “Christ that was good.” His accent, slurred as it was, was the same as King Richard’s royal guests. Sniffing loudly, the drunken young man half staggered, half fell down the handful of steps, causing a few of the less sober guests to snicker at the plight of the youth as he haphazardly made his stumbling way through the crowd. Those he passed, especially the women, emitted short exclamations as his hands touched inappropriate places.

  The Angel watched this spectacle, wondering why no one was dealing with this impudent party crasher, and turned back to the monarchs. Richard and his Queen stared in dumbfounded surprise while the Ambassador seemed ready to order an execution.

  What caught the Angel’s attention was the man holding Notus’ gift was turning a lovely shade of dark purple and how the woman beside the Noble now clutched her rosary, fervently praying. The little girl between them was unsuccessfully trying not to break into fits of giggling.

  It did not take long before the drunken young man broke from the crowd to stand, teetering on rubbery legs, before the monarchs. Unsuccessfully attempting a deep bow, he caught himself to the laughter of some guests. Straightening, he smiled wickedly at his soon to be queen and blew her a kiss.

  Phillipa stared in horror.

  “Fernando,” bellowed the infuriated man behind the royal couple.

  Fernando appeared shocked, gazing through glassy eyes. A few unsure steps brought him in front of the royals, a smile warping his handsome face. He said something in a language the Angel did not understand that was met with gasps of horror to those who understood. Richard glanced around for a translation from the English man standing behind him. Utter rage swept over his features.

  “I beg pardon,” slurred the young man, cutting off Richard’s chance to call the guards and attempted another bow. This one seemed more balanced and when he lifted his head the Angel noticed that the drunkard had turned slightly green.

  “I – I being sick,” stammered Fernando.

  The Angel was beside the young man in an instant, forcing the mortal to his knees before he could vomit on the royals. He held the man’s feverish neck, disgusted as a night’s worth of drinking splashed to the stone floor. Murmurs of revulsion reverberated through the hall as well as orders to get the mess cleaned up. Not surprisingly, the body beneath his hand went limp and he had to catch Fernando by the collar to halt him from falling into the mess. The drunkard dangled in his grasp.

  “Where do you want him?” he asked the Crown.

  King Richard stared in fury at the hanging bundle. “So it seems that the Angel is not predisposed to help only the poor.”

  He stiffened at the acknowledgement.

  “Take him to his quarters,” ordered the Ambassador.

  He glanced at the man at the end of his fist and wondered who the hell this idiot was so as not to warrant being tossed directly into the dungeon. He gave a little shake and was rewarded with a moan. When he looked up he found the woman behind the throne standing before him clutching her rosary. She seemed very tiny, as if she consciously tried to contract herself into something unnoticeable. She reminded him of a mouse in the den of lions.

  “Please, you come.” Her Portuguese accent was very thick and it was obvious that her English was hampered by the fear she felt.

  He nodded in reply, sympathetic to her plight, and glanced over to his Chooser. I will be back momentarily.

  Notus nodded, I will see what I can do here.

  Hoisting the dead weight easily over his shoulder, he stood and followed the Lady out of the crowd into a hallway lit with interspersed flaming braziers. The little girl, obviously the Lady’s daughter, followed gleefully, and by her tones he knew her to be berating and poking fun at the unconscious young man. The mother reabsorbed herself into her prayers, the rosary clicking as she walked, ignoring the little girl.

  They walked along the poorly lit corridors, shoes and gown making soft scraping sounds against stone. Occasionally they passed guards who stood in place and servants who scurried out of the way. Deeper they went and soon he had lost his bearings. He would need someone to show him the way back. Up a flight of uneven stone steps and a turn brought them to a heavy wooden door that opened on well oiled hinges.

  The room was large and obviously part of a suite. Candles illuminated the rich room, bouncing yellow light off the elaborate tapestries used for decoration and insulation against the cold outside. Across from the big bed, neatly dressed with a large coverlet and down feathered pillows, a large gloaming hearth flickered and danced. Finding no more appropriate a place to dump the body, he let the unconscious man collapse on the mattress, and turned to leave only to find the Lady before him.

  “Please, you check?” She nervously asked, swatting the little girl’s hand away from tugging on her gown. It was plain that the girl could not care less for the state of the young man and desperately wanted to go back to the party.

  He nodded and sat on the side of the bed in an attempt to alle
viate the Lady’s worries and to get out as quickly as possible and without hassle. He guessed Fernando to be in his early to mid twenties, but it was hard to tell for sure because the alcohol made his rumpled features appear drawn and older.

  Dark, almost black hair lay strewn across a face slightly darkened with stubble, and he stank with ale and vomit that almost cut out the strong hot smell of blood coursing through his body. The vessel in Fernando’s neck throbbed invitingly. If they were alone, without either the Lady or her daughter, he would not have stopped himself. He would not have killed the mortal, only added to the disagreeable state the young man would find himself come morning. It would be a fitting punishment.

  Jostled by his movements to stand, the young mortal opened his dark brown eyes and let out an earth-shattering scream before passing back into oblivion.

  Burning red eyes, the Devil’s eyes, infected every alcoholic nightmare, so when the bucket of water was emptied onto his prone form Fernando was at first relieved and then cursed. Lightning bolts lacerated the insides of his eyelids and every beat of his heart pounded painfully through his head. He hoped that he was not dead because if he were then he would be in Hell and the thought of spending eternity in this state was too horrible to bear.

  “My Lord, your Lord father demands your presence immediately,” came a voice from the darkness.

  Fernando recognized Pedro’s voice but could not respond. Sometime during the night his tongue had grown thick and impotent.

  “My Lord, are you awake?”

  It took an immense effort to moisten his parched mouth enough to croak out a monosyllabic reply.

  “Please, my Lord, you must rise. Your Lord father expects you promptly and if you are late it will not bode well for you.” Worry mixed with panic tinged the servant’s normally non-emotive tones.

  Cracking open an encrusted eye, Fernando was met with the bright light of an early afternoon and Pedro’s hovering form. “Go away,” he hoarsely ordered and closed his eye. He did not care about Pedro and the thought of his Lord father made him ill.