Perhaps he’d eaten a bad shellfish, he mused, since he’d feasted well on mussels the previous night. Or perhaps he’d washed them down with a little too much wine. Yet, on reflection, he discarded those notions, too. Not a great lover of wine, he’d been quite sober come bedtime and not in the least discomforted by symptoms of overindulgence. Besides, the turmoil in his gut didn’t feel like a digestive malaise. It felt like apprehension.
Nay, God help him, it felt like fear.
But fear of what? Something intangible. For the umpteenth time, he tried to recall his dreams, wondering if some dark vision had contaminated his spirit in the night. Then it occurred to him. Maybe God was trying to tell him something. In that case, he needed to listen. To try and understand the message being imparted.
After morning prayers, which again granted him little relief, John decided to go for a walk, seeking to meditate among nature’s blessings. Not that he could see much of what nature had to offer. A bank of thick fog had rolled ashore the previous eve and still remained. Unperturbed, he headed for the beach. The crunch of gravel beneath his feet and the endless whisper of tumbling waves never failed to soothe him. There, with prayer and contemplation, he hoped he might at last find some solace.
The sacred walls of Abbotsbury soon vanished into the fog as John wandered down the rutted track leading to the shore. The monastery’s guest house loomed ahead, overlooking a large inland lake. Of all Abbotsbury’s blessings, he secretly found the most pleasure in the scene he now beheld. Naturally formed, the shallow stretch of water sat between land and shore. Known as the Fleet, it served as one of Abbotsbury’s most renowned assets – a swannery.
The flock of several hundred mute swans was a remarkable sight. On this particular morning, their graceful, white forms created a stark contrast against the gray. Their presence, however, while pleasing to the eye, actually served a practical purpose. Swan, plucked, roasted and stuffed, was a gracious and common addition to the abbey’s banquet table. Honorary visitors always applauded the sumptuous feast.
John skirted around the perimeter of the mere and paused at the edge of the beach. The horizon lay hidden and a prickle ran across John’s scalp as he peered out into nothingness. The narrow sea lay buried in the fog. Only the sound of the waves, falling in endless succession onto the pebbles, hinted at what lay ahead.
He paused a moment, noting that his angst still remained, and then picked his way to the water’s edge. There, he kicked off his sandals and allowed the gentle waves to wash over his bare feet. At first, he relished being surrounded by the fog. It subdued all earthly distractions and allowed him to turn his sight inward with ease. Yet inner peace continued to elude him, as did an explanation for his troubled mind.
After a while, in contrast, the persistent fog became oppressive. Stifling. It served to intensify rather than ease his apprehension. Becoming desperate, he paused and looked back toward Abbotsbury, all trace of it hidden from sight.
I should go back.
It was a fleeting thought. At the same time, something compelled him to turn his gaze seaward. A chill brushed the back of his neck as he squinted into the impenetrable mass. Not a sound disturbed the eerie silence. Even the sea seemed to slumber beneath its thick, gray blanket, listless waves tumbling ashore in slow, melodic succession. John held his breath as if waiting for something he could neither identify nor understand.
God help me. Am I possessed of some madness?
He crossed himself and mumbled a few words of supplication. He had the sudden and distinct impression that something was out there, buried in the mist. A ship in trouble, perhaps? Doubtful. There had been no storms of late, nothing that might cause a ship to founder. Invaders, then, preparing to sneak ashore unseen.
No, that makes no sense. Yet…
He took a step closer to the water’s edge as if the single stride might allow him to see farther into the gloom. Then, from somewhere in the murk came the mocking cry of a gull, a sound akin to laughter that grated on John’s weary nerves. Uttering a curse worthy of the Devil, he picked up a good-sized pebble and hurled it into oblivion. He didn’t hear a splash. He heard a muffled thud.
The stone had hit something solid.
With a gasp, John stumbled back, one hand seeking out the cross that graced his chest. Every instinct told him to run, yet fear and fascination kept him rooted to the spot. As he watched, a large section of the fog appeared to darken and bulge as if some trapped behemoth was struggling to free itself.
Still grasping his cross, John fell to his knees. “What, in God’s name…?”
In response, a ship slid out of the mist like a morsel regurgitated from the depths. Ghostly in appearance, she drifted toward the shore in silence, guided solely, it seemed, by the slow, steady hand of the tide. Only when the encrusted hull buried its spine in the seabed did the ship release a strange, shuddering groan. The limp sails trembled from the impact before settling back to their motionless droop. A gull cried out again, the waves continued with their lazy rhythm, and John struggled to his feet.
He waited, wondering why no one had stepped up to the bow or peered over the side. Why had she foundered? Was she abandoned? He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hoy!” he shouted, his voice dampened by the fog. “Any souls aboard?”
Nothing moved. John glanced back toward Abbotsbury, uncertain of what to do. This event was the cause of his angst that day; he knew it beyond all doubt, and God had undoubtedly guided him to the shore. He was surely meant to be there to help those aboard. He resisted an urge to return to Abbotsbury and seek help. He reasoned he had nothing to fear. He was a priest – an abbot, no less – a blessed vocation that surely offered some extra divine protection.
So, he waded into the waves, flinching at the chill. The sea pulled at his robe, weighing him down with each step he took. By the time he reached the hull, the water was waist deep and his teeth chattered with cold. He looked up at the ship’s name, written in faded gold lettering on her bow.
Gabrielle
A vessel with such a heavenly name could not, surely, be a harbinger of anything evil. But how to board her? John’s gaze raked the ship’s stout hull, seeking a net, a ladder.
There!
A single strand of rope, draped over the side, and within his reach. Would it hold him? Eager, he pushed through the waves with little care and stepped into an unseen indentation. He went under like a bag of rocks, taking in a mouthful of salty water before breaking the surface again, coughing and sputtering.
“By all th-things h-holy,” he stammered, reaching for the rope, wishing he’d discarded his robe before entering the water. The saturated weight of it pulled at him as he hauled himself up the side of the ship. By the time he reached the top, his arms burned with pain. Breathless, he leaned over the rail, balanced on his heaving rib cage, and surveyed the deck.
The stench hit him before his brain processed the cause of it. John tasted vomit, tumbled from the rail, and fell back into the merciful safety of the sea.
*
John had no memory of climbing the cliff path. Indeed, he remembered nothing but the hellish vision of what he’d seen aboard the ship. Yet, to his great confusion, here he was, standing in front of the door to his office. His legs ached and his teeth chattered so loud his head hurt. And the stone floor felt like a block of ice beneath his bare feet.
Bare feet?
Puzzled, he looked down. Where were his sandals? Then understanding dawned. In his panic, he must have left them on the beach. Ah, but he couldn’t go back there to look. Not yet, at least.
Something touched his shoulder and he let out a yelp.
“My lord abbot,” a quiet voice said, “what ails you? Why is your robe soaking wet? And why are your feet bare?”
John blinked and regarded the monk at his side. The man’s face looked familiar but his name remained elusive. Lucas? Aye, that’s it.
“It is here.” John shifted his gaze back to his door, pushed it open, and stepped insi
de. “May God help us all, Brother Lucas, it has arrived.”
“What is here?” Lucas asked, following John over the threshold. “My lord, of what do you speak?”
“That French wine merchant said it would come.” John, still shivering, began to tear off his wet robes. His heart felt as heavy as a stone and cold as his flesh. “I confess I doubted him. My mistake, for it is clear he spoke true, although it is far worse than he described. Pass the word, Brother, and may God grant us His divine mercy. The Devil’s pestilence is upon us.”
Chapter Seven
“Abbotsbury,” Turi said, drawing Cristen’s attention to the monastic buildings visible in the distance.
A breeze had risen up soon after dawn, blowing in from the southwest to shoo away the fog. Now, with the sun climbing toward its apex, clouds of flawless white chased each other across a sky of vivid blue. For Turi, the disadvantage of the bright, summer morning was that Cristen had long since released his hand and now walked unaided at his side.
“I see it,” she replied, a hint of trepidation in her voice.
As yet, Turi had no knowledge of what the lass hoped to learn at Abbotsbury. Likely he’d find out soon enough. He intended to remain at her side no matter the day’s outcome. With that in mind, he resolved to acquire a strong horse to take them wherever fate decreed. It would be faster and less tiring than walking. And, most importantly, more intimate. His little bird could tuck herself behind him. Or, better yet, perch on his lap.
Turi squeezed the hilt of his sword as a bitter taste came to his mouth. For some reason, his self-indulgent thoughts no longer manifested with their previous indifference. Cristen St. Clair had his protection but, unbeknownst to her, it came at a price. A hard question kept nagging at his brain. Had he not felt the magic of her touch, would he have offered to escort her to Abbotsbury? Of course he would, he told himself. He’d never have left the lass alone in that dark alley and returned to savor Edyth’s attributes. Would he?
Turi allowed himself the benefit of his doubt, but silently admitted that chivalry was not a banner he had unfurled often enough during his long life.
The bitter taste remained.
He regarded the girl at his side. Her hair, despite its somewhat garish red disguise, glinted with subtle hints of gold in the sun. The same, strange sensation stirred within him again, pressing on his heart like a warm hand. Cristen obviously sensed his scrutiny and met his gaze. The smile she gave him faltered.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Turi softened his expression. “Nay. I was just –”
He halted both words and stride, nostrils flaring at a faint, but unmistakable, odor in the air. He narrowed his eyes and looked about, seeking its direction.
It carried on the breeze from the southwest. From the shore.
“Turi?” Cristen clutched at his sleeve. “What is it?”
He rested his hand on the small of her back. “Something in the air,” he murmured. “Can you not smell it? Stinks like death.”
“Yes,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “I can. Is it cause for worry, do you think?”
“Nay. I’m just curious about its source.”
Maybe the decayed carcass of some great fish had been washed ashore. Or perhaps a sheep or an ox had died nearby and now lay rotting in the sun. But, by all things sacred, it stank like the towns and villages of Italy and France.
Since setting foot on his native shore, Turi had set thoughts of the great pestilence aside. But now they returned, full force. He had no doubt the blue sickness would eventually find its way across the sea and ravage the Britannic isles.
Thus far, because of his immortality, the malady had been no threat to him. But his blood would soon begin to flow again. Then he’d be as vulnerable as the rest. And as for Cristen – his oath of protection meant nothing against the vicious disease. He was helpless to protect her from what was sure to come. Turi continued to mull over such thoughts as they moved on, Cristen still clutching his arm.
“What will you do now?” Her voice broke into his musing. “Return to Melcombe?”
The question snared his attention. “Why would I do that?” he asked, glancing at her.
She shrugged and answered without meeting his gaze. “You have done as promised and escorted me safely to Abbotsbury. You must have had other intentions before coming to my aid. I assume you still intend to continue with them, and I simply wondered what they were.”
Turi had no intention of going anywhere without Cristen St. Clair, but he answered her question truthfully. “My intent is to return home.” Eventually. “I haven’t been back there for a good while.”
Almost thirteen centuries, to be precise.
Her fingers tightened on his arm. “A fine intention, indeed.”
A hint of sad resignation threaded Cristen’s voice. What Turi had hoped to hear, in truth. Did it mean the lass actually wanted him to stay with her? A sudden emotion, both familiar and foreign, flooded Turi’s weary spirit. Happiness, he realized, suppressing both shock and a rare urge to grin. With it came the temptation to soothe her, to erase her fears, but he decided to remain silent. Best to wait. The day had yet to unwrap its mysteries.
Abbotsbury Abbey sat atop a gentle rise, its sanctified walls overlooking a patchwork of orchards and meadows that sloped down to the coast. Off in the distance, the narrow sea sparkled in the sun. Turi frowned at the sight of a beached ship and his hackles rose.
“God have mercy, it must have foundered in the fog,” Cristen said, obviously following his gaze. “I hope no one was hurt.”
Turi’s nostrils flared as another whiff of death brushed across his face. With his gaze still on the ship, he sucked in a quiet breath and cursed the sharpness of his instincts. At that moment, they all but sliced an icy gash down the length of his spine.
The abbey’s bell began to toll. A death knell, Turi thought.
“’Tis the call for Terce,” Cristen said and glanced at the sky as her fingers tightened on his arm. “We’ve made good time.”
“May I know the name of your friend?” he asked, sensing her trepidation.
“His name is John. He’s the abbot here.” She lowered her gaze to the ground. “He officiated at my marriage to Cedric.”
“And you’re certain he’s still here?”
Cristen gave a soft laugh. “I confess I cannot remember a time when I was certain about anything. But when he left Frehampton, he gave Abbotsbury as his destination. He also said…” Her voice faltered and she drew breath. “He also said if I ever found myself in need of help, I should contact him. He’s a kind man, Turi, and very astute. I believe… nay, I know he had the measure of my husband.”
Turi suppressed a sigh. Part of him wanted to know about the cruelties she had endured. At the same time, he wondered if he could bear to hear them.
“Frehampton was your home?”
“I would not call it that. ’Tis Cedric’s manor. A pretty place. It sits in a vale to the west of the Royal Forest.”
The bell continued its steady toll as Turi and Cristen drew near to the main gate, which stood wide open. Beyond, in a shadowed quadrangle, a group of black-robed monks stood chatting in a loose circle. They appeared flustered, Turi thought, noting the spirited hand gestures that accompanied the hushed prattle. Something was obviously afoot. No doubt it had to do with the shipwreck.
“Shall I speak for you?” he murmured, and Cristen nodded.
“Please.”
Turi cleared his throat with exaggeration and the conversation halted as if spliced by an axe as all eyes turned toward them.
One of the monks stepped forward, his gaze raking over both Turi and Cristen. It lingered for a moment on Turi’s sword and bow. “Good day to you,” he said. “May we be of assistance?”
Turi inclined his head. “Good day to you, Brother. Aye, you may. We wish to speak with Abbot John.”
The monk blinked and gave them a stiff smile. “That is not possible, I’m afraid. Abbot John
is not here.”
Cristen gave a soft, little cry. “Not here?”
The monk’s smile faltered and his gaze flicked toward the shore. “Er… not at the moment, no. Is this a matter of urgency?”
“Somewhat,” Turi replied, following the monk’s brief glance with an extended one of his own. “When did yon ship founder?”
A worried expression settled on the monk’s face. “Early this morning, in the fog.” He crossed himself. “Abbot John is the one who discovered it. Apparently, all aboard are deceased. ’Tis a terrible thing.”
Turi’s gut tightened as he voiced a question he didn’t need to ask. “How did they die?”
As if seeking permission to answer, the monk looked back at his companions, who stood watching in silence. “We are not yet certain.”
“Abbot John is certain.” Another of the monks stepped forward, fingering a string of prayer beads that dangled from his rope belt. “He claims it is the blue sickness.”
“He says we are all doomed,” another monk said, while chewing on his thumbnail.
He is correct, Turi thought, and turned to Cristen.
“In that case, we should not stay here,” he said to her. “We need to leave. We need to head north.”
Her eyes widened. “Leave? Oh, nay!” She gave her head an emphatic shake. “Nay, Turi. I cannot leave till I have spoken with Abbot John. You are not obliged to stay, of course, so leave if you must. But I cannot. Not yet.”
“You will find him down at the shore with the others.” The nail-chewing monk spat out a splinter of thumbnail. “They are trying to decide what to do with all the bodies.”
“I’d prefer you stay away from the ship, my lady,” Turi said.
Cristen nodded. “I do not disagree. I’ll wait till the abbot returns.”
Turi hoisted his bow higher on his shoulder and regarded the monk. “In that case, is there somewhere safe the lady might rest for a while?”
The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3) Page 7