by Shea,Lisa
“I did this often as a young man,” Jack admitted with a smile. “Maybe it is good for the system, to do it every few years. We can get a good night’s rest this coming evening.”
Still, as the day wore on and they moved into more populated areas, the strain of watching each new face wearied him. Eventually they found a quiet hill between villages to have their evening meal. Dinner conversation was lively between Peter and the three boys, but Jack found himself hard pressed to get caught up in it.
Dusk drifted into an ebony night, and soon a large, full moon slowly rose in the sky. He acknowledged to himself that he had been quiet since Catherine had left, and was tingeing his observations with that melancholy, but even so the moon looked pale and shadowy through the mists. A chill drifted through his soul.
He waited for the boys to settle down to sleep, then headed out on a long walk while Peter took the first watch. The damp moss underfoot gave a musty smell which soothed him, but a tenseness remained across his shoulders. As he neared the camp again, Peter came out to meet him.
“What is bothering you, Jack,” asked Peter, his voice low with concern. “You have seemed on edge all day. You should be asleep now, catching up on lost rest. This is my watch.”
Jack rubbed at his neck absently. “I know I will need my sleep, to be alert when my turn comes. I just cannot seem to do it.” He cracked a half smile, sighing. “Perhaps I am coming down with something.”
Peter patted his friend on the shoulder. “I think we know where your ‘illness’ lies,” he grinned. “If anyone is truly sick, I am,” he added. “My throat is killing me!”
Jack rolled his shoulders to release some of the stress that had settled there. “It is more than just missing her,” he insisted. “It is a strong sense that something is wrong. Something with Catherine.”
Peter looked fondly at his friend. “We have talked about the logistics a hundred times,” he soothed gently. “Catherine will be fine. She is somewhere safe, and she is on an important diplomatic mission. She would not be any safer if she was here in the woods with us. She will catch up with us in no time.”
Jack shook his head. It was as if something were buzzing at him, gnawing at his memory. “I imagine you are right,” he acknowledged without much enthusiasm. “It is just -”
A strangled cry split the night, coming from the direction of their camp. Both men burst into a run, sprinting the short distance to the small clearing.
The campfire had been kicked out of its stone ring, the sprawled logs sending flickering light wildly across the scene. The elderly priest was standing behind it, white with horror, shaking like a leaf.
John and Michael knelt on either side of Walter, holding him up in a sitting position, trying desperately to staunch the heavy stream of blood pouring from a gaping wound in his stomach.
Chapter 18
Peter immediately ran to Walter’s side, dropping to one knee to examine the wound. Jack quickly scanned the area, but seeing no enemies, he moved to the priest, taking his arms gently but firmly in both hands.
He strove to keep his voice calm, to focus Father Berram’s attentions. “Who was it? Who attacked?”
The elderly priest shook his head in confusion, his grey wisps of hair wildly askew. “We did not see anybody,” he insisted, fear causing a tremor in his voice. “None of us did. We woke up when Walter cried out, but there was nobody here. It does not make any sense!”
Peter called over to Jack, his voice low but urgent. “He is hurt badly. I cannot handle this myself. We have to get him to Oxford immediately.”
Jack did not question his friend. Within five minutes they had the camp packed into the wagon and were moving at a fast pace toward the cathedral. They had planned on arriving there the following afternoon, taking their time. Jack hoped desperately that they could cover the distance in only an hour or two if they pushed the horses as fast as they could go. Every extra moment reduced Walter’s chance of survival.
The travel spun by in a blur of speed and worry. The moment that the cathedral was in sight, Jack galloped on ahead to get the gates open in advance of the cart. To his annoyance, the guards on watch questioned him at length about the group, ignoring his pleas for haste. The Captain of the Guard himself came up to the wall to shout down queries, which Jack tersely responded to. The wagon had almost reached the gates before the guards reluctantly pulled them open. Then each man was thoroughly patted down; all weapons were removed before they could move to the central courtyard.
Walter had not regained consciousness and his pulse was faint. Leaving Peter to get the others settled, Jack picked Walter up in his arms. The wound seemed even worse in the bright torchlight of the hallways, the blood and bile staining his clothes. A young, freckled page appeared, leading Jack through the maze of buildings and hallways to the infirmary area. A pair of doctors waited, apparently alerted by the guards, and went to work immediately. Jack took a deep breath and fell back onto a wooden bench that lined one wall, exhaustion nearly overwhelming him.
He turned to the young page. “Can you tell my companion, Peter, where I am?” The boy nodded and ran off. The two doctors worked in near silence, mopping at the wound and attempting to clear it out. Jack knew better than to trouble them with questions while they worked, and watched with his lips moving in silent prayer.
In about fifteen minutes Peter came in to sit beside him. He was rubbing his throat, his face serious. “The others are settled in a room, and the Captain has put a guard at their door. I did not question him; he seemed rather testy. In fact, the whole cathedral seems to be on alert. There are a number of guarded rooms, and none of the soldiers I passed were in a mood to talk. What is going on?” He gave a few hacking coughs.
Jack shook his head and looked over again at Walter lying motionless on the table. “I do not know,” he murmured quietly. “I just do not know.”
One of the doctors let out a long sigh, and Jack looked up. The doctor was holding a finger against Walter’s neck, and shook his head at the other doctor. The two men looked over at Jack and Peter.
“I am very sorry,” consoled the elder doctor, his voice somber. “He lost too much blood. I am afraid he has passed on.” The doctor took a cloth from a nearby table and laid it over Walter’s body.
Jack stood and walked over to Walter, laying a hand on the sheet for a moment. This had happened on his watch. He had been responsible for the group, and he had let himself get distracted. This was his fault. Shame and anger burned hotly on his face.
Peter’s hacking at his side grew worse, and Jack felt irrationally upset with Peter for disturbing the death bed. One of the doctors gave Peter a large mug of mulled wine and a brown scarf dipped in herbs to wrap around his throat. Peter tied it and almost immediately his cough lessened. Jack bowed his head and gave a silent prayer for Walter.
After a few minutes Jack let Peter lead him away, up the stairs to the room the two were to share.
A wooden platter of bread and pints of ale waited for them in their room; Jack realized he was starving and exhausted all at once. It was a few hours after midnight. The full moon was now obscured by thick clouds, and the candle on the table barely held off the pitch darkness.
The pair ate the bread as they talked, trying to make sense of the evening’s events.
Jack shook his head. “Why would they have killed Walter, and then vanished?” he asked for the tenth time. “Why Walter, and not the others? Was anything stolen?”
“No, nothing,” rasped Peter, looking down into his ale. “We went over everything we could think of during that ride. There was nothing missing. The others do not remember anything at all out of the ordinary - not a noise, not a movement. It is as if a ghost slipped in, singled out Walter for some reason, and then fled again.”
He took a long swallow, grimacing as the liquid moved down his throat. “John and Michael could not think of any enemy at all in Walter’s life. No unpaid debts, no badly used girlfriends. Walter was a friend to everyo
ne he met. There was nothing, nothing.”
Peter looked up at Jack, an idea flashing into his mind. “You were feeling nervous right before they called out. Maybe you had heard something? Sensed something?”
Jack shook his head, taking another swallow of ale. “That was not it,” he avowed, although uncertainty crept into his thoughts. He had been sure it involved Catherine. Maybe he had just assumed it was about her, and had missed a vital sign of an attack? Could he have been that distracted? He had not slept for over twenty four hours - maybe his irresponsibility had caused him to overlook something critical ...
A loud knock came at their door, startling both men into standing.
The door opened without further preamble, and the Captain of the Guard briskly strode in. He was middle-aged and robust, with short cropped hair and a full, grizzled brown beard. His body was girded in solid, well used leather armor from neck to ankle. The captain looked between the two men in a manner which was apologetic but no nonsense. “I am very sorry for your loss; I have just heard about your friend,” he stated with sincere concern. “You must understand that I was doing my duty ...”
Peter waved his apology away. “We understand completely,” he responded hoarsely. “Walter was grievously injured; I did not give him much hope of surviving from the moment I saw the wound. Your infirmary offered but a stray dream. While I am in grief that he did not survive, I do not lay the blame at your feet. That blame lies with the man who put the dagger into his stomach.”
“So you are Peter, Captain of the Guard at the Worcester Cathedral?” asked the Captain, moving directly on to the next topic.
“Yes, that is correct,” answered Peter, glancing at Jack in curiosity.
“The Bishop asks for you to attend to him directly,” continued the Captain, his voice slipping automatically back into the short bark of command. “It involves the Lady Bowyer. Apparently she refuses to talk with anyone but you, and is threatening to leave immediately. I realize it is very late, but as you might imagine the situation is quite a volatile one.”
“The Lady asked for me?” responded Peter in confusion. “Why is she here? Why would she want to talk with me?” He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Yes, of course, I will come right away.” He walked to the open door.
Jack fell into step besides Peter. “I intend on accompanying Peter,” he commented to the Captain in a low but resolute voice. He would definitely like to hear from Catherine’s mother why her daughter had been forced into the marriage, and why the council had lied to Catherine about his own background.
The Captain nodded. “That is fine with me,” he responded evenly. “My orders are merely to bring Peter; you are welcome to come as well. If you would follow me, I will take you to where she and the Bishop are waiting.”
He took the lead and guided the group down a fieldstone hallway. Torches flickering in wall holders threw spots of light and shadow along their path. The Captain walked steadily, visibly reining in his stride to wait for his exhausted guests to catch up to him. “Again, I apologize for the late hour,” he offered as they ascended a narrow flight of stairs.
Peter gave a cough to clear his throat. “How long has Lady Bowyer been here?”
“She was escorted in a short while after dusk,” responded the Captain distractedly, taking a left down a hallway. “One of our patrols came across the fighting. There were perhaps seven dead, from which side we cannot yet tell. The Lady was facing down five bandits. The attackers fled as our patrol approached, and the Lady made to go after them. Our patrol had to physically restrain her and bring her back to this Cathedral for her own safety.”
He took the next right. “The patrol had quite the time getting her into the building despite her efforts to get free. Even now she is insisting on going out immediately and tracking down those bandits.”
Jack felt the ghost of a smile pass his lips. Apparently the mother was much like the daughter. “Surely you cannot hold her against her will, if that is what she wants. Why not send a patrol out with her, to track the vagrants down?”
The Captain snorted in disbelief. “Tonight? Send her out with one patrol? Our carrier pigeon house has not had one moment of rest since dusk.”
He held up a hand and began ticking off the messages.
“The entire town of Bowyer has been burnt to the ground. It appears that every man, woman, and child has been slain. Every Bowyer that we know of who was out of the enclosure has been killed by assassins. The visiting sword master in St. Albans, the female diplomat up north, the two herbologists in St. Giles, the elderly nun visiting here in our own Cathedral. Every one. Undoubtedly that is why your group is here, seeking medical help for your friend.”
He shook his head, moving quickly down the hallway. “Lady Bowyer is the only noble Bowyer left alive. Her entire immediate family has specifically been accounted for and is dead, perhaps with only Raymond’s body still missing. You cannot expect us to willingly let her leave these walls?”
Jack’s vision closed down around him. He put a hand out to the wall to steady himself.
Catherine was dead.
He had known something was wrong; he had sensed death in the air. He had not been there to protect her ... he had failed her as well ...
Peter was at his side in an instant, his hand resting gently on his shoulder. “I am so sorry, Jack,” he consoled softly, his own voice ragged.
The Captain stopped, realizing the effect his words had had on the two. “I thought you knew?”
Jack could barely get the words out. “Is Catherine dead? Are you sure?”
“I am afraid I do not know specific names,” apologized the soldier. “I only know what I have been told, that all have been accounted for. Our Bishop was very clear on that point.”
Jack’s world dropped out from beneath him. “When did it begin?”
“The attacks started right at sunset. We have been receiving reports in every way you could imagine.” The man looked between the two newcomers. “I had assumed your party fell victim to one of these attacks.”
Jack shook his head, willing the tears away. His mind raced through the possibilities. “It might be that Walter was somehow related,” he suggested uncertainly. “If so, he never spoke of it.” He glanced over at Peter, who looked as baffled as he was.
“He did not tell me of any such relationship, either. Maybe he was keeping it hidden for some reason.”
Jack took a deep breath and forced himself to start walking again. It seemed infinitely wrong that the world continued on as before, and yet Catherine was no longer a part of it. “Let us go talk with Lady Bowyer,” he recommended somberly, his voice rough. “Maybe she can shed more light on this.”
The two soon reached the end of the hallway, where the Bishop stood in a thick, dark burgundy robe. He was dressed for sleep, and his hair was tousled. The door before him had an outer grate of metal as well as an inner door of thick wood.
The Bishop gave a nod. “This is our most secure room,” he explained to the two men by way of greeting. “It is used when we welcome a visiting abbess or other woman of great importance. I felt it appropriate in the current situation.”
Jack and Peter both bowed to the elderly man. Peter saw that Jack was lost in thought and gave the response. “Thank you for offering us shelter on this evening,” he stated hoarsely. “We will be glad to assist in any way we can. You said I might be of help in this matter?”
The Bishop’s eyes went to the closed door. “She refuses to speak with any of us,” he explained, his voice tinged with confusion. “Maybe it is the shock of the events. I cannot be sure. The only person she has mentioned at all is you. She said at one point, ‘If you had Peter of Worcester Cathedral around, now he would be worth my time to talk to.’ I do not know why, but when the Captain said that you had just arrived, I thought you might understand.”
Peter shook his head. “I have only met her a few times, long ago,” he recalled, his voice reflecting his confusion. “However
, I will gladly talk with her, and do what good I can in convincing her to stay here in safety.”
The Captain opened the metal grate, and then knocked on the inner wooden door. After a few moments, when there was no answer, he motioned for Peter and Jack to head in.
Jack and Peter stepped through the doorway, pausing a moment to let their eyes adjust to the deep gloom. The large room was wreathed in darkness, with only two guttering torches throwing a flickering light from opposite sides. A canopied bed occupied one wall to the right. Shelves on the left held scrolls and pottery. A large bearskin rug stretched out in the center of the stone floor. The far wall held two large windows, both open to the night air. By the left window they could barely make out the back of a figure in a long, dark cloak, the hood pulled up. She stood motionless, looking out past the dark town to the forest beyond. As the door closed behind the pair, she spoke to them without turning.
“I told you to leave me alone,” she growled wearily. “I am Lady Bowyer; I am not subject to your commands. You have no right to keep me here.”
Peter stepped forward, his voice hesitant. “My Lady, I was told that you had asked for me.”
Jack saw the shake of the head, but the figure did not turn. “I do not ask anything of you. I do not need anything from you. There is nothing that I want that you could possibly give me. It is all gone. My entire family is dead. Everyone is gone ...”
Peter waited a moment, then spoke into the silence that she left. “I am deeply sorry for your immense loss, My Lady. Maybe I can be of help. You asked to talk with me. I am Peter of Worcester Cathedral. The Bishop told me ...”
The woman did turn at that, a slow, feline motion that somehow seemed full of malice. Jack saw the glint of long steel at her side and realized that she was fully armed. She had not relinquished her weaponry at the entry gate.
Slowly she strode toward the two men. Her eyes, so much like Catherine’s, flashed with anger from the shadows of her hood. Jack felt a dagger of agony strike him as he once again was reminded of the still incomprehensible loss.