The cries of those trapped in the flames tore into him like blades. The women. The children. More torturous yet was the terrible, subsequent silence. With the stench of burned flesh and spilled blood turning his guts, Turi carried on fighting. He meant to fight to the death. For him to survive beyond this night was unthinkable. His life had to be forfeit. Such a paltry, insignificant sacrifice. But he had nothing else to offer as an atonement. When the Roman blade at last struck him down, he almost wept with relief.
May the gods damn his soul for all eternity.
“Turi.”
A cool breeze brushed across his brow. It smelled of thyme. And perhaps a hint of lemon. He filled his lungs with the sweetness of it.
“Turi, please. Wake up.”
Something touched his face. A hand. Small. Soft. Gentle. He sought it out, wrapped his fingers around it. Light streamed into his head and his dark thoughts scurried away like beetles. He opened his eyes.
Cristen was there, leaning over him, face ghostly in the gloom.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “I think you were having a nightmare.”
“Aye.” Curse the gods. “Forgive me. Did I frighten you?”
“Nay.” She pulled her hand free of his and, to his utter surprise, settled at his side. “Do you have them often?”
Turi continued to breathe her essence. “Every night,” he admitted, without thinking. “I have them every night.”
“Dear God.” She shivered against him. “How awful for you.”
“Are you cold?” He reached across to pull his cloak over her. “’Tis perhaps best you stay close to me for warmth.”
Turi held his breath and waited for an objection that never came. Moments later, he heard the soft, rhythmic sound of Cristen’s breathing. She slept. Slept at his side.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Diolch, fy aderyn bach,” he whispered, and dared to press a kiss to her hair. Then he closed his eyes and descended into a calm, blessed sleep.
*
Turi awoke on the threshold of dawn, its arrival marked by the subtle hint of light visible through the gaps in the barn wall. He lay still, discomforted by a fading arousal but, thanks to the girl’s magic, naught else. His sleep had been profound. Deep. Free of disruption.
Cristen still slept soundly beside him, her small form buried beneath his cloak. At some time in the night, her hand must have wandered and come to rest atop his heart. Turi had no desire to disturb the lass. Not yet. She’d been through much these past few days and her exhaustion the previous night had been obvious. Apart from that, and perhaps the more pertinent of reasons, the tranquility of her touch was the sweetest elixir.
Trust.
It seemed he had gained it, albeit in a fragile form. Turi reckoned he had the measure of his little bird. If pushed, she resisted. Cristen St. Clair needed to be coaxed, but in a surreptitious fashion. Without her realizing it.
There had been nothing furtive about his nightmare, however. But it had turned out to be a godsend, apparently capturing her sympathy. Was he using her? Aye, without doubt. But, in return, she had the sworn protection of an immortal and highly-skilled warrior. A mutually beneficial barter, he reasoned.
The church bell pealed; a sudden and loud clamor that all but shook the barn walls. Cristen let out a squeak as her head emerged from beneath his cloak, wayward strands of red hair floating about her face.
“A rude awakening,” Turi said, biting back a temptation to smile at her alarmed appearance. “Take a moment if you need it, but we’d best be off without much delay. Folks will be up and about already.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Cristen sat up and blew a curl from her eyes as the bell continued to peal. “Goodness, that is loud. Did you manage to rest after your nightmare?”
Turi got to his feet and held out a hand. “I did, my lady. Thanks to you.”
She appeared puzzled for a moment, but allowed him to pull her upright.
Turi gathered his things and then led the way outside, where the fog remained as thick as it had the night before. Perhaps a blessing, he thought, settling his cloak around his shoulders. It offered them some cover, at least.
With the night in rapid retreat, they set out again, following the track through the village and into open countryside. Turi, with Cristen’s hand tucked into his, said little, focusing instead on their surroundings. So far, he’d seen no sign of trouble or any indication they were being hunted. He wondered if anyone would even bother searching for the rapist’s killer. Somehow, he doubted it. Especially with the fog still thick on the ground.
Cristen glanced behind. “Do you think they’ll be searching for us?” she asked, her thoughts obviously exploring a similar path.
Turi shook his head. “I think not. There were no witnesses, so they won’t know who they’re looking for. The fog, too, will deter them. For now, at least.”
Cristen released a small sigh. Of relief, Turi thought. Then she appeared to ponder further. “This morning, when I asked if you’d rested, you said you had, thanks to me. I’m trying to understand your expression of gratitude. What did you mean? What did I do?”
He shrugged and told her a semblance of the truth. “You remained at my side. I found it comforting.”
“You did?”
“Aye.”
Again, her expression became thoughtful. “Who is Nareen?”
Turi cursed in his native tongue. “I spoke her name?”
“Several times,” she replied. “Forgive me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“I am not offended, aderyn bach. Merely surprised.”
“Is she your wife?”
“Nay. I’m not married.”
“Your lover, then?”
Turi gave her a sideways glance. Did he imagine the hint of dolefulness in her voice? “She was my lover, aye. A long time ago.” Although it seems like yesterday.
“Did she die? Is that why you have nightmares?”
“She betrayed me.”
“Ah, I see. How sad for you.” Cristen shook her head. “I’m of the opinion true love is a rare creature, if it even exists at all.”
Turi glanced about, able to discern a line of trees off the right. From somewhere to the left, he heard the distant hiss of waves upon the shore. It seemed the fog was lifting. “You are young to harbor such convictions,” he said, turning his gaze to the encouraging brightness above. “The cruelty of one man does not speak for all men, just as one lover’s betrayal has not destroyed my faith in women.”
“You are entitled to your opinion, sir,” Cristen replied, a slight waver in her voice, “and ’tis true I have but eighteen summers behind me. Yet I have already been given to two men, both times against my wishes. One was older than my guardian and kept several mistresses, the other was a monster who taught me how to hate. I believe I am also entitled, then, to my convictions.”
Turi uttered a soft curse and halted his stride. “Explain,” he said, feeling the sudden, fierce rattle of his heart. “Explain what you mean by ‘given’.”
“I-I mean in marriage, of course.” Cristen’s pale cheeks flushed pink. “I have been wed twice. I was orphaned at the age of twelve and became a ward of my uncle. He did not exactly mistreat me, although I knew he viewed me only as mere chattel. I was but fifteen when he gave me to his friend. Walter was not unkind, but neither was he faithful. The marriage lasted a little more than a year. He died of a sweating sickness during Christmastide.”
Turi frowned. “And Cedric?”
“My uncle owed him money. A gambling debt, I believe.” Her lip quivered. “Cedric agreed to take me instead.”
Turi’s free hand clenched. “And what of this uncle? The man you claim did not exactly mistreat you. Where is he?”
“He died in a hunting accident several months ago.” She released a sad little laugh and looked down at the ground. “Now I think on it, the men in my life do not fare well at all. Perhaps you sh
ould run from me, Turi. It would appear I am cursed in some way.”
Turi hooked a finger beneath her chin and raised it. Her eyes had tiny, gold flecks in them, he noticed. “Your perception is misplaced, aderyn bach. The fault does not lie with you, but with the men who mistreated you, including your uncle.”
Cristen drew breath and glanced over her shoulder. “Maybe. But now I’m a fugitive and I warrant there’s already a price on my head.” She turned wide eyes back to him. “And you will answer for it if you are found with me.”
Turi held her gaze, trying to define a sudden and strange emotion that tugged at his heart. “Being found with you is a prospect that holds no fear for me,” he said at last. “Come. The fog is lifting. We should move on.”
Chapter Five
Mood as sour as vinegar, Ralph St. Clair emptied the contents of his goblet down his throat and gazed, unseeing, out of the window. For the past two days, the world around him had all but ceased to exist. Instead, he’d spent most of his time living in the fabricated world between his ears. In the dark recesses of his mind, he could give free rein to his rage and live out his fantasies. Punish the one who deserved it, over and over again. Revel in her cries of pain and her pathetic pleas for mercy.
Curse the bitch.
His brother’s sorry fate had little bearing on Ralph’s anger. He knew Cristen had fled in fear of repercussion, but he also knew the lass didn’t have the strength to topple her husband. The daft whoreson had undoubtedly gotten drunker than a brewery rat and tripped over his own feet.
What enraged Ralph to the point of rupturing a testicle was that the lass had disappeared without a trace. She had outfoxed them and made them look like fools. Two days they had searched without any success. It seemed no one had seen her at all.
News of her misdeed and disappearance had since spread. A reward had also been offered for her capture, alive and unharmed, or information leading to it. The lass had obviously gone to ground somewhere, but she’d have to surface eventually.
And when she does…
Ralph’s knuckles whitened against the stem of his goblet.
A knock on the door dragged his mind away from his venomous thoughts. “Aye,” he growled, belching as he lolled back in his chair.
The door creaked open and Frehampton’s steward peered in.
“There’s a man requesting to speak with you, my lord. Says he believes he saw Lady Cristen the day afore yesterday.”
Unwilling to acknowledge a momentary flare of hope, Ralph sighed and leaned forward. There had been several similar claims recently – suspected sightings of Cristen here and there. None of them, so far, had borne fruit.
“Very well, send him in.”
Hat in hand, a small man sidled into Ralph’s chamber, head bobbing like a chicken. “I thank ye fer seein’ me, milord,” the man said. “I don’t think ye’ll regret it.”
“I hope you’re right.” Ralph drummed his fingers on the armrest. “What’s your name and occupation?”
“Irwin, milord. Cobbler.”
“Well, Irwin the cobbler. Out with it. Tell me what you saw.”
“’Twas near dusk on Monday night.” Irwin sniffed. “On the Melcombe road. Lass came out o’ nowhere, all wide-eyed and scared lookin’. Nearly ran ’er down with me cart, I did.”
A pulse throbbed in Ralph’s temple. “Describe her.”
“A little lass with red hair, wearin’ a –”
“God’s bollocks.” Ralph squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead. “I swear this wretched land is fraught with idiots.”
Irwin’s head continued to bob. “Milord?”
“The lady we seek has fair hair,” Ralph said, through gritted teeth. “Not red.”
“Aye, that’s what I heard, but –”
“I should have you lashed for wasting my time.”
The man paled. “Oh, nay, milord, I’d not dare to waste yer time. If ye’ll only hear me out, I think ye’ll agree I ’ave good reason to be here.”
Ralph eyed the man for a moment. A niggle in his gut told him to listen, give the man a chance. “Very well,” he said, biting back his temper. “What makes you believe the lass you saw was the one we seek?”
“My wife.”
“Eh?”
“My wife was with me. Said the red hair weren’t natural. Reckoned it’d probably been dyed with marigold. She knows about these things, my wife.”
The hair on Ralph’s neck lifted. “Marigold?”
“That’s what she said, aye.” Irwin sniffed again.
Ralph leaned forward. “What was she wearing?”
“The wife?”
Ralph slammed his fist on the armrest. “Nay, you damned fool, the lass!”
“Oh. A green mantle with fancy stitchin’ around the hem. Wife said it weren’t somethin’ a country lass would wear, neither. More like a noble vestment.”
The description matched that of Cristen’s cloak. Could it be? Red hair? If so, she’d obviously had help from some quarter.
An icy tingle settled between Ralph’s shoulder blades and the pulse in his temple quickened. “Melcombe, you say?”
“Looked to be headin’ that way, milord.”
“Where, exactly, was this sighting?”
“Jus’ past Ringstead.” Irwin cleared his throat. “The wife said I was to be sure an’ ask about the reward, milord.”
Ralph’s eyes narrowed. “The reward is for information leading to the capture of the girl. Since she is still at large, it remains to be seen whether or not you merit compensation. Leave your particulars with the steward.”
“Ah, right.” Irwin took a step back. “So, there’ll be no reward today, then?”
Ralph rose to his feet, smiling over his desire to throttle the man. “Nay,” he said, fingering the hilt of the dagger at his belt, “and I’ll not say it again. Now get out.”
“We leave at dawn.” Ralph paced the floor like a caged beast. “She’s had a good head start, but at least this time we have a definite direction.”
Dudley, Ralph’s most trusted knight, sat on the window ledge picking at his teeth. “You’re convinced it’s Cristen?” he asked and spat out a liberated crumb.
“Aye, I am. The healer confessed to coloring the bitch’s hair. It took a little bit of persuading, mind you.” Ralph’s mouth twisted. “The bruises will fade, though.”
“Should be easier to track the lass down now we know where she’s headed.”
Ralph hissed through his teeth and continued his pacing. “I’ll not rest till the bitch has been caught and my brother avenged. She’ll be sorry she ran. I’m wondering, though, why she’d go to Melcombe.”
“Why wouldn’t she?” Dudley shrugged. “She’s on the run. Doesn’t mean she has a destination.”
Ralph grunted. “The lass isn’t daft. I have a feeling there’s a reason she’s gone that way.”
“A secret lover?”
He gave Dudley a withering look. “I’m not even going to honor that with a response.”
Dudley grimaced. “Aye, good point. Seeking a boat to France?”
“I doubt it. She has no family there and the country is rife with sickness.”
“Relatives down that way?”
“Not that I know of. Her uncle was the last and he died soon after she married Cedric.” Ralph’s frown deepened. “I don’t recall anyone else from her side being at the wedding.”
“Friends?”
“Nay. She never –” Ralph paused as an image arose in his head. Cristen sitting beside the priest at the wedding feast, their heads bent, deep in conversation. “Father John,” he muttered. “Could that be it? But why would she…?”
Dudley spat again. “You remembered something?”
Ralph curled his lip. “Spit on my floor one more time and I’ll make you lick the damned thing clean.”
Dudley paled. “Sorry, milord. Um, you were saying?”
“The priest who officiated at the wedding had a soft spot for the las
s. I seem to recall him being offered a post as abbot at some monastery out that way.”
“Abbotsbury is not far from Melcombe,” Dudley said. “’Tis a Benedictine house.”
“Aye, that’s the one.” Ralph halted his pacing. “She might have gone there seeking his help, although I’m not sure what she thinks he could do. Taking refuge in a convent would make more sense. Still, it’s worth checking.”
“For sure.” Dudley grimaced. “Then again, my lord, on second thought, it might be as well not to get your hopes up.”
A scowled darkened Ralph’s bearded face. “Explain.”
“’Tis a good walk to Melcombe. A noble lass wandering the countryside unescorted? Certain to attract the worst kind of attention. Chances are, she’s laying dead in a ditch somewhere with her throat cut.”
“Christ, ’twould be a shame, that,” Ralph muttered, his rage bubbling up anew. “Death is too easy. I want to see her punished. I want to hear her beg for my mercy.”
“And will you give it?”
Ralph remembered all the times Cristen had snubbed him. Ignored him. Avoided him. “Nay,” he said, unable to stop the smile that twisted his lips. “I will not.”
Chapter Six
Abbotsbury Abbey, Dorset
Abbot John awoke before the bell for Lauds, a sudden and startling departure from sleep. Heart racing, he lay still and stared into the darkness, waiting for his inexplicable anxiety to pass. It was a remnant, no doubt, of a forgotten dream. But the anxiety remained, pressing on his chest as if it had clambered up and sat on his ribs. He felt like he’d committed a wrong and been found out. Yet his conscience, as far as mortal sin went, was not overly burdened. Had he forgotten something of importance? Nothing came to mind. Maybe he was sickening for some reason. His hand drifted to his forehead. No fever. He moved his limbs. No weakness.
The bell sounded, pulling John from his self-examination. He whispered a prayer for relief and rose to begin his day.
His malaise continued through Lauds, where his additional prayers for a reprieve appeared to go unheard. The unsettling sensation cast troubling ripples across his usual calm demeanor as he went about his morning business.
The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3) Page 6