Chloe's Guardian (The Nephilim Redemption Series Book 1)

by Cheri Gillard

  “You insolent wenches!”

  “Uh-oh.” Kaitlyn lowered the cup from her mouth.

  Lady Gordon slammed her palms on the table, making the jug jump on the tabletop.

  “All this time, pretending not to spake English!”

  “You are the one who didn’t use English,” Chloe said.

  She pounded the table a few more times.

  “Dinna be impudent. I spake both Gaelic and English to you. Even Français. And you just babbled some gibbering foolery. I should flog you for the trickery.”

  Kaitlyn twitched and whimpered. Chloe touched her arm to reassure her.

  “We weren’t trying to trick you. Really. We just talked and no one understood us. I don’t know what happened,” Kaitlyn explained.

  The image of a rack in the dungeon loomed in Chloe’s mind.

  Lady Gordon rubbed her forehead. “My head is pounding awful. Play some nice music for me. I am over-vexed by all this commotion. The Queen’s men without are set on sending in an emissary and I need my head to quiet if I am to handle them well.”

  She turned her attention back to her servants.

  “That is so odd,” Kaitlyn said. She followed Chloe over to their instruments.

  Chloe said, “I think you were right about Pan. He is like Horace. Remember out in the yard when he touched us and said something weird? I think he was casting a spell. He must have made it so we can understand now.”

  Kaitlyn picked up her viola and sat next to Chloe. “If he’s like Horace, then he can fly. And if he can fly, he can take us back home.”

  “He’s different somehow, though. He’s got that scar on his face. You know how Horace’s leg healed after he became an angel? If Pan could change into an angel, too, he wouldn’t look so mangled. If he could change, why would he be working for Mr. Gordon? Why would he travel by horseback with those two who obviously aren’t angels? Why would he kidnap us?”

  Lady Gordon clapped at them. “Play, play. There is little time afore I must meet with the emissary.”

  They started an improv piece in the style of a Celtic jig. Chloe played the bass note of each chord and Kaitlyn played a melody in six-eight time. They may have been playing something that hadn’t been invented yet, but Chloe didn’t really care. She was thinking about Pan and Horace and how to get home.

  As they played their jig, a woman entered the dining hall, ran up to Lady Gordon, and hugged her. They sat down together at a table too far away for Chloe to hear what they said. But they talked a lot. Every few minutes, the newcomer—a woman in her early twenties—watched Chloe and Kaitlyn play, like she was actually listening to their music instead of what Lady Gordon was saying. Her worried look softened as she listened. Eventually, Lady Gordon’s face changed from grumpy to angry and she got up and left the room. The young woman came over and sat down next to them. Her foot tapped to the beat.

  They played “Danny Boy,” “Si Bheag, Si Mhor,” and “Road to Lisdoonvarna.” Then they made up a tune that sounded a lot like River Dance.

  When they finished, the young woman clapped and bounced in her chair. “Ah, that was lovely. Just lovely. I have never heard music like that.”

  “We just made that one up,” Kaitlyn said.

  “Well, it was just lovely! I am Agnes, the Lady Gordon’s niece. They sent me in here to talk her into opening the gate. I have only succeeded in making her angry. Please, play more. I enjoyed it so much.” She beamed a smile at them that was the nicest thing Chloe had seen in a long time.

  They started another piece when Lady Gordon returned with a parchment folded up and sealed with a chunk of shiny wax. She jabbed it toward Agnes.

  “Give this to Queen Mary. It will explain everything. I canna open the gate to her men.”

  “Aunt Lizzie, it might not go well for you then. Please reconsider.”

  Her lips got thin and tight.

  Agnes thought a moment. “Can I take these girls with me then? Their music is very pleasing to me. Mayhap they will soothe the Queen’s anger.”

  Lady Gordon waved both hands, like she couldn’t get rid of them fast enough. “Aye, take them off my hands. Just be careful. They are full of tricks, they are.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, like her headache was getting worse.

  “Wait,” Chloe said. “Pan told us to wait here. He’d be back for us. We can’t go anywhere.”

  Kaitlyn said, “What if he can’t find us?”

  Lady Gordon grunted and waved them off again. She walked away and said over her shoulder, “Best be back outside afore I decide to hold you hostage.”

  Agnes jumped up and clapped her hands together. “Fabulous. This is will be so fun. Get your things and let us be gone.”

  “We don’t have any things,” Kaitlyn said. “Except for these instruments, but we just borrowed them.”

  “Wonderful. Bring them along,” she said with a big smile. “Then we need not wait any longer.”

  Suddenly the man with the eye patch was there, stepping out of the shadows. He signaled for Agnes to follow.

  “Come along, then,” he said impatiently. “No time for anymore of your folly. You best be gone afore the chance is taken back.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “This is taking entirely too long,” Horatius blasted at the sky.

  “I know,” Billy said walking alongside Horatius on the mule. “You told us a hundred times already today. And another hundred afore that.”

  Horatius’ throat burned. All he could think about was beer. Except when he could put beer out of his mind and think of whiskey. Then he could forget about beer. He needed to numb the agony in which this ridiculous curse had left him. His vow to virtue was useless if he couldn’t do a thing to take care of himself. The sun beat down on him, the mule was as comfortable as riding a tree trunk, and he had not had a decent meal in days.

  “I dinna think it will be much farther,” Billy said. “See?” His skinny finger stretched out at a tiny pin prick on the horizon where smoke swirled in the sky above a distant town.

  It took too long to get there, and when they finally did, Horatius was ready to forgo lodging and food and go straight to Billy’s source for atoning sacrifices. He had to transfigure, find the girls, and make things right.

  “Who is it who makes blood sacrifices anymore? How do you know about him?” Horatius asked.

  “He used to be the priest in my village. Afore the purge. Afore he had to flee. He owes me a favor.”

  “Priest? As in Catholic priest?”

  “Is there another kind?”

  “Catholic priests do not make blood sacrifices.”

  “A course they do. Grisel Fergusson told me. Grisel said they even—” Billy mimed swooshing a sword then stabbing it forward. “—kill little bairns!” Billy stretched up toward Horatius on the mule’s back to whisper, waving him to bend down. “They do all sorts a heathen rites and such. Grisel saw them—”

  “Who is Grisel?” Horatius demanded.

  “The baker’s wife. She knows everything.”

  “She knows nothing.” This was all a useless journey, chasing after a vicious rumor. “We came all this way following a newsmonger’s imagined nonsense. A hag like that should be drawn and quartered for all the harm she does.” His words snapped out harsh and edgy. Now he really needed whiskey. And lots of it.

  After a couple of minutes, Billy was gone. Horatius twisted around and looked behind. Billy stood in the middle of the road far back with his arms crossed in defiance. If he had been closer, Horatius knew he would see a withering glare that would take a few feet off his height.

  “Billy,” Horatius shouted. “Come on, now. Don’t just stand there.”

  The knot of Billy’s crossed arms tightened and his chin rose higher. Horatius kicked and prodded and yanked and jostled the mule until it finally turned around and returned to where Billy stood rooted.

  Children’s temper tantrums can go to the devil. What was he supposed to do with such obstinance?
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  “That is enough. It is nearly nightfall. Time to go into the town.”

  Billy looked past Horatius and refused to acknowledge him.

  “Did you hear me? I said that’s enough. We are going in.”

  He didn’t move. Did not even blink.

  “Do not make me come down there!”

  A smirk escaped Billy. But he suppressed it quickly.

  “I mean it! I will give you a whipping like you never imagined.”

  Billy let go of all pretence of being deaf, dropped his defiant arms, and turned to look right at him with a giant smile. “A course you willna come down here and beat me, you big oaf. You canna even walk.” He laughed without a bit of ill will. “You need me more than ever now.” He grabbed the mule’s bit, turned it back around with exasperating ease, and led it toward the town. “The priest will help us find a rabbi then. They kill things.”

  “No, they do not. Not anymore.” Horatius could barely keep up with Billy’s caprice.

  Billy looked back at him. “Nay?”

  Horatius shook his head.

  “Then a Muslim. Those Infidels still kill things, I am sure. Grisel said—” He stopped himself. “I have heard they like to sacrifice goats.”

  More than ever, Horatius needed a drink. A drink would soothe away the disappointment that Billy’s plan all along was for an obsolete priest and take his mind off his inability to transfigure.

  They entered through the town gates and the mule clopped among the pedestrian traffic with carts and animals, taking Horatius and Billy toward the center of commerce.

  “We should find a pub first and slake my thirst. And I suppose you might want something, too. It has been awhile since either of us had anything.”

  Billy didn’t answer. He was watching the commotion and buildings along the narrow, crowded street. He moved in close to the mule and squeezed against Horatius' leg. The edge of Horatius’ tunic was crumpled in his fist.

  “Billy. Bil-lee?” Horatius sang.

  Billy’s eyes were too big for his face. The fright in his expression was something Horatius would not have believed possible. Fearless Billy was terrorized.

  “Have you never been to the city before?”

  The faintest tremble shook his head. The boy who had talked nonstop for three days was suddenly struck mute.

  Horatius put his hand down on Billy’s shoulder and Billy melted in close and tight. A few more pounds could not make a difference to the mule.

  “Want to come up here with me so you can see better what is going on?”

  Billy was up sitting in front of Horatius before he finished asking the question. He shrank and disappeared against Horatius. He stayed hidden there as they plodded through the town. After passing along several streets, Billy finally spoke.

  “It is so…big.”

  “It looks big compared to where you come from. It’s no more than lots of what you know jammed into a small space. And the buildings are taller for sure. One there even has a third floor.”

  Horatius could feel Billy’s head moving back and forth against his chest taking in the sights. But he was not letting any daylight get between him and Horatius.

  Horatius decided to skip the drink for now. Maybe the priest would offer something better quality than watered down tavern lager.

  “Let’s get to your priest so I can get you out of here.”

  “I didna know there would be so many people.”

  “We will find the priest and leave. Okay? Where does he live?”

  “I mean,” Billy emphasized, “I thought we could just ask the first person we saw and he would tell us. I thought he would be easy to find.”

  Horatius stopped trying to direct the mule to process Billy’s words. The beast stopped in the middle of the street and brayed long and mean.

  “You mean to tell me, you do not know how to find him?”

  Billy shrunk against him and whispered something.

  “What?” Horatius sounded harsher than he wanted to.

  “Sorry.”

  “What is his name then? Maybe I can find someone who knows where to find him.” It took more control that Horatius thought he could muster to keep his voice steady.

  Billy squeaked out, “Hugh.”

  “That is his given or surname?”

  “I only ever heard him called Hugh.”

  Horatius could not help it. His yell came out of its own volition.

  “How in the name of all the blasted saints are we to find a stinking priest who cannot admit he is a priest whose first or last name might be Hugh in the midst of a thousand people?”

  Billy did not answer. Of course not. Because there was no answer. They would never find him. They had come this far for absolutely nothing.

  He could not take it anymore. He had to do something. He had to transfigure. Horatius raised his arms, sat as tall as he could, and roared.

  CHAPTER 37

  The eye patch man led the three of them to a small door in the wall behind the castle. A man up on the wallwalk signaled him and he unbarred the door and yanked it open. He pushed the three of them out and slammed it shut again. The beam thumped back in place behind the door.

  Outside of the wall, an army idled across the open field. At the far edge of the cluster was one closed wagon with a team of four giant black horses. The fighting Chloe imagined wasn’t happening. It was like they were all just waiting for something, like for a picnic to begin, or for someone to give them directions.

  Agnes led the way. “Come with me.”

  She lifted her full skirts and marched forward. She approached the group of soldiers and an older officer stepped out to meet them.

  “Sir Kirkcaldy,” Agnes said.

  “What of this?” he asked.

  “The door will remain closed to us. We must be back to Aberdeen.”

  “But your aunt—your laird husband thought for certes she would listen.”

  “She will not. Ready the men. We will return at once.” Then to the girls she said, “Come along. You will ride with me in the litter. I want to hear more music.”

  As silly as she’d acted inside, Agnes carried herself like a queen when she gave commands. And it seemed certain she was taking them away.

  “How far away is Aberdeen?” Chloe asked. She hoped it wasn’t so far that Pan wouldn’t be able to track them.

  “About twelve or thirteen leagues, I venture.”

  She didn’t know what a league was but it sounded too far.

  “We should be there by late tomorrow,” Agnes added. “Plenty of time for much music.”

  “Don’t worry, Cello. Pan will come. Mrs. Gordon can tell him we went with Agnes. Then Pan will be sure to find us.”

  They climbed up into the wagon. A man yelled at the horses and the wagon jolted to a start. Chloe and her cello lurched and she sat down hard on the cushioned bench. She didn’t want to play. She wanted to go home.

  Kaitlyn played a piece so Chloe didn’t have to. It was sweet and beautiful. Chloe closed her eyes and tried to relax. Which was impossible, the way the wagon jiggled around. She was surprised Kaitlyn could even play.

  At least an hour passed, maybe more. Kaitlyn was tireless. Chloe finally relaxed enough to doze in and out, letting go of her worries for a brief time. She didn’t know how long she’d been out when she roused and repositioned. The music had stopped.

  “Where are you from?”

  Chloe opened her eyes. Agnes was watching her.

  “Your speech is very unusual. And your clothes. They are they strangest I have ever seen. Is that what they are wearing in France now? Is that where your home is?”

  “No. Much farther away than France.” The thought of home tightened her throat and filled her eyes with tears. Kaitlyn looped her arm through Chloe’s elbow.

  “You miss your home. We will go to the Queen then I shall take you to my home. We will stay there while my husband goes with his sister to subdue George Gordon.”

  “What did George Gord
on do—besides not let you into his castle?”

  “That is a long story.”

  A little window next to Chloe framed a whole lot of open space. “We’re not going anywhere for, what, twelve or thirteen leagues?”

  She smiled again—her beautiful, gracious smile. “Gordon is an arrogant magnate of the northern Highlands. And he is still Catholic. His errant son John has been harassing Queen Mary all along her entire northern campaign. And he is a criminal. He nearly killed James Ogilvy, Master of the Queen’s household. Then he escaped prison and came north and has been harrying the Queen since. With his father, they have together attempted to kidnap the Queen so that John can marry her. Absurd, to say the least.”

  “You guys kidnap a lot, huh?”

  Agnes pulled her eyebrows into a frown.

  “Is it bad to be Catholic?” Kaitlyn asked.

  “For twelve years Scotland has been Protestant. But Queen Mary is privately Catholic, though forces none of her courtiers to be. In fact, it is because she is a papist that Gordon thought he could join forces with her to convert all of Scotland back. Again, absurd.”

  “The queen is your husband’s sister?” Chloe said.

  “Aye.”

  “Why isn’t your husband king then?” Kaitlyn asked.

  Agnes chuckled. “James Stewart was not born of the legitimate bed of King James, Queen Mary’s father. He leads her troops and is her cherished advisor, but he cannot be king.”

  Kaitlyn sighed. “I bet you’re glad for that.”

  “Why ever would I be grateful for such a thing?”

  “She means it must be a hard life to be married to a king, rather than just an advisor.” Should they really be talking about all this? They might say something outrageous and not even know it.

  “As you can see, I still must undertake arduous tasks. This delegation, for example, is a strain. I would much rather ride a horse than sit in one of these litters, but when the Queen commanded I come as emissary, my husband insisted I only go if conveyed this way. He worries overmuch about my safety.”

  The only sound for a while was the whir of the turning axles and the wheels rattling over the packed earth.