Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  He ignored Jeanie’s cry and Fernando’s cursing. The only thing that mattered was his need to get away from the white-faced demons that had invaded his waking world.

  On the horse sped into the dark, his cloak flying behind him, snapping heavily with each movement, his face stinging and wet from the cold rain mixing with his tears. It was only when his horse slipped and stumbled before righting herself on the muddied road that he resigned and reigned in to a slower pace. Had he been able, he would have pressed on.

  Ignoring Fernando’s shouts, he stared through the curtain of near frozen water for any sign of his tormentors.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” demanded the Noble, his horse sideling up to the Angel’s. Everything had seemed so peaceful then suddenly as the rain poured down, the Angel bolted. Cold water showered over him, quickly drenching him. Fernando silently swore that whoever made him lose his cloak in the Thames would pay dearly for his misery. Catching the cape, he pulled it tight around his body.

  Glancing at Fernando’s seething features, the Angel was glad for the rain that washed away his tears. Realizing that he could give no answer, he turned back to focus on their journey, praying that his tormentors would not return.

  A signpost stood in stark relief against the clouds as they came upon the crossroads. Tilting his sodden hood back to read the carved and painted lettering, he allowed the cold water to wash over him as he read. His shoulders slumped in the realization that they were a little more than halfway through their journey. Turning his horse to follow the road to Balinghem his eyes widened in surprise as Fernando leaned over and grabbed his horse by the bridle.

  “I asked you a question,” seethed Fernando. His grip hardened around the wet leather, causing it to creak. The black tried to dance out of his grip.

  “Let go of my horse.” Anger surged, warming him. He knew it was not the Noble he was upset with, rather it was the white faced demons that he was powerless against, and Fernando had made himself into a handy target.

  “I will not.” Fernando eased his horse over to the Angel’s in an attempt to straighten up in his saddle without losing his grip on the bridle. He would not look up at the Angel’s reaper like features; Fernando had to retain some sense of his anger. Witnessing the Angel’s eyes lit with fury was not something he wanted to see.

  “Release my horse,” demanded the Angel through clenched teeth. He pulled the reigns causing the black to try and wrench her head from the Noble’s grasp but failed.

  “You idiot,” spat Fernando, ignoring the rain as it turned into stabbing ice needles. “I’ll not have you cause my horse to pitch me into the mud. I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you. You’re the one who wanted to bring these damned beasts because you wanted your mortal paramour to come along.”

  Fernando eyes lifted to defiantly meet his own. They glared at each other through the hissing downpour. Finally, the Noble reluctantly removed his hand from the bridle once he realized no answer was forthcoming.

  Chucking the reigns, the Angel forced his horse past Fernando’s scowling form, his own restrained anger crying out for bloodshed. His left hand absentmindedly crossed over to rest on the hilt of the sword rocking on his hip. Never before had he desired to feel his blade cut through flesh and bone, to spray hot blood, to take a life. All he needed was one more excuse to let loose the rage and his slim control would be broken. Once past the Noble’s hot glare, a part of him was disappointed that the Noble had backed off.

  The sleet turned into rain and back again as he rode, soaking through his wool cloak until he could feel the cold water dripping down his back. His hand loosened its grip on the sword. The water washed away his burning anger, leaving a sullen desire to be out of the persistent downpour and the potential of further contact with the demons.

  “Gwyn!”

  The name shouted through the night snapped his attention backwards as he pulled his horse to a halt. Hearing the name on Fernando’s lips unnerved him and he knew the Noble had used it explicitly to gain his attention. Schooling his features into cold anger he watched Fernando thumb in Jeanie’s direction.

  “We need to find shelter now,” shouted Fernando through the downpour. “I’d prefer to be out of this horrid weather and I don’t believe your mortal housekeeper can keep to her saddle much longer.”

  His gaze followed the Noble’s to find Jeanie swaying in her saddle, her curling hair plastered straight against her head and shoulders. She had said nothing throughout their tumultuous ride and witnessing her pale wan features he felt a hard knot of guilt rise in his gorge. In his self absorbed brooding he had completely forgotten that Jeanie rode with them in a deadly frigid rain.

  Swinging down from his saddle, his shoes squelched in the ice-slicked mud as he strode over to her and placed a pale hand upon her freezing face. Fear for Jeanie’s well-being caught his breath. Fernando was right; they had to find shelter and fast.

  Green eyes flickered open and gazed unfocused upon him.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled through chattering teeth.

  Shaking his head against the apology, he could not believe her audacity as she sat her horse completely rain drenched and frozen to the bone. He had to get her off the horse and warm her lest the cold send her to an early death.

  “Can you unhook your leg?” he asked, his features filling with worry.

  A vague expression clouded over Jeanie’s sickly pale features and she frowned. “Eh?”

  Grasping her clammy leg, he slipped Jeanie out of the saddle and carried her to his horse where he settled her astride and then swung up behind her. Deftly, he curtained his cloak around the both of them in the hopes that his meagre body heat, mingled with the horse’s, would help Jeanie retain some of her own. Even soaking wet, his wool cloak should provide some insulation against the storming night.

  With one arm around Jeanie, he picked up the reigns forcing the black into motion. He heard her sigh and felt her body go slack against his. Jaw clenched in worry he searched the dark night for any sign of a place to sequester themselves from the rain. The road was familiar and he thought he saw what he hoped to find. Indicating to the horse to move faster, he found the turn off from the main roadway and down another that was hardly more than a cart track.

  “Where are we going?” Fernando brought his horse up beside the Angel’s, his eyes squinting against the watery onslaught. “This isn’t the way to Balinghem.”

  “You wanted out of the rain.” He searched through the darkness of the tree-canopied track. The mould scent of fallen leaves filled the air. “Jeanie needs to be indoors.” He glanced over at the Noble’s wary features and then to the track ahead. Again Fernando’s strange compassion mixed with conceit confounded him.

  Fernando frowned. “There’s nothing down here. All there is are open fields past these damned trees.”

  “We’re on the outskirts of St. Martin’s Abbey.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” Fernando shot the Angel a look of surprise as he twisted in his saddle to see if they had passed some sort of sign that he missed.

  Squinting through the rain, he saw what he was looking for – lights from the Abbey. “Notus and I stayed here for a year before we returned to England,” he answered matter-of-factly. He kicked his horse into a trot; seeing the Abbey so close drove his worry.

  Fernando followed suit, happy that he would soon be able to dry off even though it would cost them even more time from searching for the estate.

  “What were the two of you doing here?” asked the Noble, recognizing an opportunity to uncover more secrets about his elusive partner.

  The question surprised the Angel. Fernando had not tried to pry into his past for some time, but this query seemed to come from genuine curiosity.

  “Notus did some restoration work on some of their older manuscripts and trained those interested in the art of scribing and illumination.”

  Strangely, talking about Notus seemed to ease his mood and he wondered if some s
emblance of a connection between he and his Chooser had re-established itself. He shook that notion off with a frown, knowing the distance between them was too great.

  Amazed that a Chosen would desire to live for year amongst mortals, let alone work alongside and teach them, Fernando mutely shook his head before a confused frown took its place. “And what did you do there? You don’t strike me as one to follow holy orders and practices.”

  “I hunted, read, or practiced,” he answered laconically. The turn from talking about Notus to himself prickled and he hoped his terse reply would halt any further inquiry.

  Fernando let his horse fall back a length, surprised at the Angel’s response. Another question formed, ready to leave his lips, but something in the Angel’s tone told him not to press the issue. He was getting further in his discoveries about the Angel and to be stymied yet again frustrated the Noble into calculating silence.

  Chapter XXX

  Rounding the bend, the trees gave way to the stone wall surrounding the cluster of buildings that was St. Martin's Abbey. Yellow light flickered from ancient windows indicating that at least some of the inhabitants were still awake. Between the stone walls an arched opening revealed a muddied track leading into the monastery's grounds. Turning his horse he ducked under the arch and followed the flickering lights to the Cathedral in the hopes that the doors would be unbarred.

  Movement off to the left caught his attention. Squinting through the heavy rain he saw a young monk not much past his early twenties shuffling in his drenched black robe. Equally sodden logs of wood balanced precariously in his arms as the monk endeavoured to find his way back into the dry shelter of monastery. Hearing the horses approach, the monk turned his head and lost his balanced burden in a clatter of wood smacking against wet wood before landing with a splash. Eyes widening at the strangers approach, the monk ran for the side door that was left ajar. His thin voice rang through the downpour.

  The Angel watched the fumbling display with a mixture of relief and annoyance. Swinging down from the horse, he scooped up Jeanie’s unconscious form and carried her up the few steps to the Cathedral’s doors barely aware that Fernando followed. Through the rain splattered night he could hear men’s voices chattering nervously from behind the doors. With hands full, he gritted his teeth in frustration that the doors had not opened and gave the old wood a kick, leaving behind a streak of mud.

  The doors boomed and shuddered against the hinges with the promise that with another such forceful pounding it would cave in. Glancing down at Jeanie’s sickly pale face, her breath slow and shallow, he knew that if they did not open the door in the next moment he would force them down. Preparing his stance for another blow that would shatter the heavy doors from their frame he relaxed his posture at the sound of the bar being lifted and the door opened. Without so much as a word of thanks he strode into Cathedral and demanded to see the Abbot from the cluster of monks surrounding the drenched young man he had seen in the courtyard.

  An old monk with rheumy grey eyes stepped forward from the group - his age, if not his tenure in the monastery, lended to leadership. “L’Ange, is that you?”

  Relief flooded through the Angel and he tossed his head back to throw off his hood. Long white locks of hair draped free to add to the sound of dripping.

  “Yes, Brother Bartholomew,” he replied. Ignoring the surprised gasps of the other monks, he gazed down at Jeanie’s slack form in his arms not bothering to hide the worry from his face. “We need help.”

  Brother Bartholomew’s gaze shot at the girl in the Angel’s arms and began to shout orders to the other monks milling about. They bolted into action. The young wet monk sighed as he sullenly ambled out of the door and back into the rainy night.

  “Come with me,” ordered the old monk. Turning on his sandaled heel, Brother Bartholomew strode down the corridor, taking them out of the Cathedral and towards the guest rooms of the monastery.

  Two monks walked at a casual pace ahead of them and turned at the sound of the ringing approach of booted footsteps against the stone floor. Their eyes went wide at the sight of the Angel carrying a young woman and another man striding behind.

  Brother Bartholomew’s features, set in stone, called out to the two. “Brother Marc, go and find the Abbot. Brother Claude, go and fetch Brother Absolon and tell him we have need of his medical knowledge. Don’t stand there gaping, go!”

  The two younger monks fled down the corridor and through a doorway.

  “I’m not going to ask you what has brought you here on this horrible night,” proffered the old monk as they made a turn down a darkened hallway. “I’ll leave that to the Abbot. I’m sure he’ll have the same questions I have.” He halted at a door and finding it unlocked, Brother Bartholomew turned the handle and opened it.

  The Angel would have smiled at the sight of the old room he had shared with Notus but relief filled him at seeing two young monks moving quickly to make the room hospitable. A third successfully started a fire in the hearth and began to set and light beeswax candles in the sconces. Finding the single bed made, he gently laid Jeanie down, her frozen soaked hair drenching the pillow beneath her. Already the warmth seemed to be doing its work until he noticed that her breathing and heartbeat were near non-existent. Panic flooded through him and he watched in dazed horror as Brother Absolon flew into the room.

  “Oh it’s you,” commented Absolon before turning to attend to his patient. “Get out and let me do my work.”

  He was about to demand to stay when he felt gentle hands on his arms guiding him out into the hall. It was only when the door had closed, cutting him off from Jeanie that he noticed the Abbot standing before him.

  “Don’t worry, my son, Brother Absolon may have a horrendous bedside manner, but his medical talents are God given.” The Abbot eyes fell to the scowling Noble, frowned and then looked back up at the Angel. “Where’s Father Paul, l’Ange?”

  Emotionally exhausted, he leaned against the wall, his sword clattering against stone. Eyes closed and head leaning against the wall he was aware that he was leaving a puddle on the floor. What could he say to Notus’ good friend? The truth was impossible. “He’s in London.”

  “Then why aren’t you there with him?” The Abbot’s terse tone cut through him.

  He opened his eyes to look down at the dark haired, plain looking monk in black robes and prayed his lie would be taken for the truth. “I’m on an errand for him.”

  “All three of you?” A thick brown brow rose in incredulity.

  “Yes,” responded the Noble.

  Surprised at Fernando’s rescuing of the situation, he glanced down at the other Chosen and was met with a smile that told him that this little favour would have to be returned.

  Not noticing the truth of the exchange between the two guests, the Abbot turned his attention to the Angel’s companion. “And you are?”

  “I am Fernando de Sagres, the last heir to the Fidalgo de Sagres.” Fernando made a swooping bow to the Abbot that was tinged with mockery.

  The Abbot grimaced. “And the young woman?”

  Fearful that the Noble would say something completely inappropriate, the Angel cut him off before Fernando could reply. “Jeanie Stuart – Father Paul’s housekeeper.”

  “Father Paul sent his housekeeper?” asked the Abbot, aporetically.

  Fernando glanced up at the Angel with a shrug that told him he was on his own to answer this one. With a sigh, the Angel met the Abbot’s gaze.

  Identifying the sad weariness in the Angel’s disturbing crimson eyes, the Abbot visibly softened. “That’s alright, my son. You will tell me the truth when you are ready. In the mean time I will have guest rooms made up for you and your companion.” He turned to leave his two guests.

  “Father Theodore,” called the Angel. He stood up away from the wall and took a pace towards the Abbot. “I wish to stay in my old room.”

  The Abbot shook his head. “Miss Stuart is in there being tended to by Brother Absolom. In an
y case, unless the two of you are married, it would not be proper.”

  “Please Father.” He hated pleading in front of Fernando and knew he would pay dearly, but he was loath to leave Jeanie’s side. “Let it be like when I stayed here with Father Paul.”

  Face screwed up in consternation, the Abbot shook his head in disbelief. “A pallet on the floor by the door? Again?”

  “Yes.” He ignored Fernando’s stare of wonderment.

  “And what of your friend?”

  “I’ll have my own room, thank you,” replied the Noble.

  Father Theodore nodded. “Fine. I’ll have the room next door made up for you and, l’Ange, a pallet will be brought for you.”

  “Thank you.” He offered, recognizing the extreme generosity of the Abbot.

  “Don’t make me regret it, l’Ange,” called the Abbot as he went in search of some Brothers to set things up for his guests. “Make yourself at home. Don’t brood outside the door. I’ll come find you when Brother Absolom has word.”

  Around a turn, the Abbot disappeared from view, but his presence still filled the halls.

  Shoulders slumping, he removed his cloak pin, allowing the waterlogged fabric to slump to the floor and removed his sword to stand it against the wall. He slid his back against the wall until he sat on the cold damp stones, his arms resting on his raised knees.

  “He said not to brood outside the door,” smirked the Noble.

  A spark of annoyance filled him as he looked up at Fernando standing before him. Recognizing that if he stayed there the Noble would badger him; he stood and grabbed his sword. The cloak could stay there on the floor until he returned. The Abbot said he would find him when there was word on Jeanie’s condition.

  Taking long strides in the Abbot’s path he heard Fernando call out as he retreated. “A pallet?”

  “The beds are too short,” he replied brusquely. Ignoring Fernando’s laughter he turned the corner in the hopes to find some solitude.