The first monk gave Turi a withering look. “Women have no cause to fear anyone at Abbotsbury.” He turned his attention to Cristen. “But there’s a private chapel for female visitors in the guest house. You are welcome to wait there for the time being, my lady. May I know what business you have with my lord abbot?”
Cristen opened her mouth, but Turi cut in. “Nay,” he said, “you may not. ’Tis a private matter. The guest house, you say?”
“You were rather abrupt,” Cristen said, a short time later as they wended their way down the path. “The man was only trying to help.”
Turi snorted. “The man was prying. And he looked at you as if you’d just crawled out from under a log.”
“That’s because I’m a woman and inferior in his eyes.” A corner of her mouth lifted. “We are a temptation to men, Turi. We lead them to sin. Surely you know that.”
Turi bit back a smile. “I do not need to be led, aderyn bach. I can find my way there blindfolded.”
Cristen gave a soft chuckle. Then she asked, “Will you be leaving today?”
The question, edged with anxiety, served as a mask to hide other, deeper inquiries. Will you wait with me? Stay with me? Abandon me?
“I have no desire to stay here,” he said, truthfully. “But I’ll wait till you’ve spoken with the abbot before deciding what to do.”
Again, he wondered what had driven the girl to this corner of England. Where would she go from here? It all depended, he supposed, on what she learned from the abbot. For some reason, he suspected the odds of finding what she sought were against her. And from the uncertainty he’d noticed in her eyes and heard in her voice, he suspected Cristen knew it, too.
Even so, alone and afraid for her life, it stood to reason she’d seek out someone she trusted. Someone who might offer her a safe place to rest, albeit temporarily. Abbot John was a holy man and, by all accounts, a kind man. The only glimmer of light in Cristen’s darkness.
Till now, Turi thought.
The door of the two-story guest house stood wide open. The chapel, on the ground floor, was little more than a closet. It had no window. A single taper, flickering atop the small, cloth-covered altar, gave off a feeble light that failed to chase the shadows away. A simple cross above the altar served as a focal point. Made from smooth, richly-grained oak, a single pew offered seating for maybe five or six worshipers.
The idea of leaving Cristen alone grated on Turi’s nerves. The alternative did not, however, merit any kind of consideration. As they’d drawn closer to the shore, the stench of death had thickened.
Here, in this small sanctuary, the only noticeable scent was that of incense. Turi touched Cristen’s face and breathed in. By all the gods, he had no use for hidden chapels and adorned altars. This wretched slip of a girl, with her sad, blue eyes and broken heart, was the only sacrament he needed. “I’ll speak with the abbot,” he said. “Wait here till I return. Swear to me you will not move from this spot.”
Cristen placed her hand over his, where it cupped her cheek. “I swear it,” she said. “But please hurry.”
*
Cristen’s parting plea had not been necessary. Turi had no intention of delaying. Weighed down by his usual angst, he strode past the swannery with only a brief glance at the splendid, white birds. Shortly thereafter, his feet crunched as they stepped onto the gravel beach, where a group of twenty or so monks had gathered. In contrast to the elegant swans, and due mostly to their black habits, the men reminded Turi of a flock of dark, balding birds. Noisy birds, too. Turi sensed their fear and uncertainty. More than that, he shared it.
At the center of the group, a monk taller than the rest appeared to be listening to several conversations at once. Beyond them, the grounded ship had been abandoned by the tide and lay embedded in the sand. Turi’s nostrils flared as a waft of foul air struck his face.
His approach went unnoticed until he was mere steps away. Then the taller monk caught sight of him, surprise flicking across his face as he raised a hand for silence. Abbot John, no doubt.
The conversation dissolved and Turi halted as each man turned a curious gaze his way.
“Good day to you, sir.” The abbot pushed through the crowd and glanced briefly at Turi’s sword. “As you can see, and no doubt smell, we face something of a dilemma here. ’Tis, perhaps, not a good day for a stroll on this particular stretch of beach.”
Turi inclined his head. “’Tis Abbot John I seek. Have I found him?”
“You have, indeed.” The abbot eyed Turi with more interest. “May I know who is asking?”
“My name is Turi.”
“Turi.” The abbot appeared to mull it over. “An ancient name, is it not? Most uncommon. I’d be interested to learn of its origin. Later, perhaps, you might indulge my curiosity. For now, though, I have more pressing matters to deal with. How may I be of assistance to you?”
Turi’s shoulder muscles slackened as he absorbed the sincerity in the man’s demeanor. “I bring news of a mutual friend, my lord, and would ask a private word with you. It will not take much of your time.”
The abbot blinked and raised a brow. “A mutual friend?” He glanced back toward the ship. “Can you speak of it here and now? Walk with me a little farther, if you prefer, till we’re out of earshot.”
“Here and now is fine,” Turi said, as the abbot fell into step beside him. The gravel crunched beneath their feet.
Abbot John cleared his throat. “I am intrigued,” he said, keeping his voice low, “and, I confess, a little concerned. Your demeanor does not seem to imply good news. Who is this mutual friend you speak of?”
“Her name is Cristen St. Clair.”
Abbot John gasped and grabbed Turi’s arm, halting their progress. “Dear God above, please tell me the poor girl has not been harmed.”
Turi gave a grim smile. “’Tis perhaps best if she explains the situation herself, my lord.”
He gasped again. “Are you telling me Cristen is here? At Abbotsbury?”
“Hiding in the guest house chapel, aye,” Turi replied. “And, in truth, I am not comfortable leaving her without protection. She’s no doubt being sought by those who would do her harm.”
John’s eyes narrowed as he gave Turi a probing glance. “Are you the reason she is being sought?”
Turi smiled and shook his head. “Nay, my lord. I am merely someone who came to her aid.”
“Hmm.” John sighed. “I’ll go to her, then, and learn what this is all about.” He nodded toward the ship. “As you can see, your timing – her timing – is unfortunate. The ship foundered this morning. I was here, walking, when it drifted ashore. Thinking to help, I climbed up to the ship’s rail. What I saw on the deck defies description. Everyone aboard is dead and they died horribly. ’Tis the blue sickness, I’m certain of it. May God help us all.”
“I suspected at much,” Turi said. “The stench is familiar to me. I’m recently arrived from France and a Hell such as that wrought by this pestilence cannot be imagined.”
“Then please tell them.” Abbot John gestured to the monks who had resumed their animated conversation. “Tell them what you have witnessed. I’m inclined to burn the ship simply to rid us of the stink, but there are those who are against such action. They are worried about mortal souls that have, I’m sure, already been accepted into God’s grace. A few agree with me, but perhaps you can persuade the naysayers. A first-hand account of the horrors you’ve seen might be enough to convince them. From what I saw this morning, to remove and bury the bodies would be beyond disagreeable.”
Turi hesitated. Being away from Cristen chafed his nerves and not simply because of the relief her touch provided. She was alone and, therefore, vulnerable. He offered up a measure of defense. “I swore I would not be gone long, my lord.”
“Nor shall you be.” The abbot patted Turi’s shoulder. “Don’t fret. Cristen will be quite safe. I’ll take care of her and hear her story. In any case, I cannot act until I find out what she expects fr
om me. When you return, come to my private office. She’ll be there.”
Turi wanted to argue, but realized his insistence to return to Cristen’s side would have sounded irrational if not unbalanced. Abbot John, after all, had no idea of Turi’s unearthly motivation. So, cursing inwardly, he gave John a nod of acquiescence and wandered over to the monks who continued to argue. The tide had already turned, he noticed, and had begun to creep around the ship’s barnacled hull.
They fell silent as he approached.
“I am recently arrived from France,” he said, “where this pestilence has an iron foot pressed against the country’s throat. The Abbot spoke to me of your argument and I agree with him. Burn the ship. Burn it now.” He held up his bow and raked his gaze over the monks, some of whom regarded him with uncertain expressions. A few nodded in silent agreement. “Fetch me some oiled rags and a flint. I’ll dispatch the flaming arrows myself.”
“We are not pagans.” A monk scowled at him. “The bodies should be buried according to the rites. Feet to the east, head to the west.”
“But to remove and bury them would be most unpleasant,” another countered, holding his sleeve across his face. “I have an urge to vomit as it is.”
“They are entitled to a Christian burial, not a pagan pyre,” the monk insisted.
“How do you know they were all Christian?” Turi asked, clenching his fists. The need to return to Cristen’s side gnawed at his insides. “The ship may have carried men of differing faiths. Jews, perhaps. Or Muslims.”
“A good point,” another said, and covered his mouth against a fresh wave of foul air. “We have no way of knowing the faith practiced by those aboard.”
“Are you sure they’re all dead?” another asked.
Turi clenched his jaw, swallowed his ire, and used some Christian reasoning. “Does the stench not answer your question? Not a soul breathes on that ship, I guarantee it. ’Tis naught but a coffin. I do not like the idea of committing their bones to the flames either but, in this instance, I do not see any other option.” He crossed himself with feigned drama. “Besides, this pestilence has surely been wrought upon us by the Devil himself. Fire might cleanse the evil, keep it from our shores for a little longer at least.”
A murmur arose among the monks. Then another voice chimed in. “Are you sure naught can be salvaged?”
Turi shrugged. “There’s no way of knowing what cargo the ship is carrying. Any metal or jewels will not burn, though, and might be found once the tide has ebbed.”
“What banner is that?” the same voice asked. “Portugal?”
“Spain,” Turi said, and a chorus of comments began.
“I wonder where she was headed.”
“I wonder how long she drifted.”
“Do we even have the right to burn the ship? It must belong to someone.”
“Aye, a good question. Do we?”
Turi raised a hand. “Abbot John will speak for you, if need be. But I’m certain not even the Pope himself would condemn your actions here today. Besides, no one but you knows where the ship is. When she doesn’t return to port, they’ll likely assume she sank.”
Another murmur arose and Turi’s patience snapped like a worn bowstring.
“You are all fools,” he said through gritted teeth. “None of you understand what is about to happen. None of you have seen what I have seen. The flesh of those afflicted rots from within. They vomit and piss blood. They are stricken with putrid black boils as big as apples. This pestilence does not discriminate or show mercy. Man, woman, or child. Christian or Muslim. High-born or slave. It does not pick and choose. All are at risk. If you doubt me, climb the sides of yon ship and see what horrors have been left upon the deck. The suffering is over for those aboard. Yours has yet to begin. Do as you will, then. ’Tis of no concern to me.”
He spat on the ground, spun on his heel, and started back up the beach. He heard some hushed mumbling and then, “Wait!” a voice called after him. “Wait, please.” Turi paused and turned to see one of the monks approaching.
“Wait, please,” the man said again. “I’ll fetch the oiled rags and you can dispatch your arrows.” He was young. Little more than a boy, in fact, with fear in his eyes. Turi gave a single nod and bit down against a sudden pang of sadness. He imagined the same beach a few weeks from now. A desolate beach, with burnt timbers scattered along the shore. The stench of death would still be here, though. Coming from the land this time, not the sea. All those here today would probably be dead.
Or dying.
A short while later, Turi tied a strip of oiled rag to an arrow and watched as it was set alight. Then he raised his bow and unleashed the flaming projectile. It sailed through the air like a thunderbolt, leaving a smoky trail. He fired three more and then stood back, watching and waiting.
At first, only a small wisp of smoke arose. Then another, and another. Then flames appeared, leaping up from the deck, licking at the mast and the sails.
Soon the Gabrielle burned like a funeral pyre, the fire cleansing all it consumed.
“What’s that?” one of the monks asked, drawing Turi’s attention. “There. Look. Dropping into the water. What is it?”
Turi blinked through the heat haze. Sure enough, small dark shapes could be seen falling – no, leaping – from the stricken ship and splashing into the shallow water.
“Rats,” he said. “They’re rats, escaping the flames.”
The Gabrielle crackled and spat as she burned, the intense heat reaching even to where they stood. Turi tried to find some satisfaction in what they had done. Yet the chaos in his head gave him no room for relief. Besides, he felt certain the evil would find a way to escape the flames, if it hadn’t already.
He needed to return to Cristen. Find out if Abbot John had given her the information she sought. With a final glance at the engulfed ship, Turi turned and started up the beach.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement and glanced over to see a small, black rat sitting on a nearby rock. Soaking wet, it sat up and sniffed the air as if deciding upon its direction. It looked at Turi with eyes that appeared to reflect the flames and then scampered across the beach toward the cliffs.
A shrewd little creature, Turi thought, watching as it disappeared from view. It had obviously come from the ship. Its ability to survive against the odds could only be admired.
Turi hurried back to the abbey and sought out the abbot’s private house, surrendering his weapons with reluctance before being allowed entry. He bent his head to the office door and listened, hearing nothing but silence within. A chill brushed across his neck as he gave the door a solid rap.
It opened a few moments later, its arched frame filled by the robed figure of Abbot John. Turi’s eyes narrowed at the serious expression on the man’s face.
“Turi! Come in, please.” John stood aside and gestured for Turi to enter. “I understand the ship and all aboard have been dispatched. My sincere thanks.”
Turi gave a single nod and stepped into the chamber. It was smaller than he’d anticipated, with uneven, lime-washed walls and shadowed corners. A carved oak cupboard sat against one wall, its top adorned with a plain, brass cross and several religious icons. In the opposite wall, a narrow, wooden door sat flush in its frame.
In front of the single lancet window stood a massive oak desk. Upon it, a crystal inkstand and goose-feather quill rested beside a carved seal-box. The desk’s waxed oak surface gleamed beneath the flicker of a fat candle, its pillared column crusted with layers of dribbled tallow. The smell of incense and camphor smothered the chamber in an invisible shroud.
And Cristen was not there.
Turi growled and reached for his absent sword as he spun round to face the abbot. “Where is she?”
The abbot brushed past and patted the back of a chair. “Lady Cristen is quite safe. Sit, please.”
Turi responded with a humorless smile. “Tell me where she is, my lord.”
John sat at his desk and ge
stured toward the narrow door. “She is at prayer in my private courtyard. Unless one has wings, the only access to it is through here. You need not fear for her safety, I assure you. Sit, please. There are things I feel compelled to say.”
Turi hesitated for a moment. Being apart from Cristen had, of course, darkened his mood. But he saw no reason to doubt the abbot’s words.
“Were you able to help her?” he asked, settling into the chair.
The abbot opened his mouth as if to respond and then appeared to reconsider. He folded his hands atop his desk and regarded Turi with intense, gray eyes.
“Cristen told me of your actions. How you saved her from a serious violation and escorted her safely to these walls.” His jaw tightened visibly. “I thank God you were there. She also told me your original plan was to return to your home in the north after a long absence. I’m curious to know, then, why you still linger at Abbotsbury.”
“I killed a man last night.” Turi shrugged. “I would not wish it to be for naught. I need to know the girl is safe before I move on.”
The abbot heaved a sigh and sat back. “What if I told you that Cristen St. Clair will never be safe? She has confessed her transgressions to me, Turi. The death of Cedric St. Clair will not be allowed to go unpunished by those who seek her.”
“I’m not certain she’s guilty of a transgression,” Turi replied. “She did not intend to harm her husband. He was intoxicated and attempting to molest her.”
John shook his head. “I do not condone Cedric St. Clair’s behavior. He was an unpleasant man, to say the least.” He grimaced. “But as to a charge of molestation, I doubt the law would see it that way or find in Cristen’s favor. She was his wife and, therefore, his property. Nor can I keep the girl here indefinitely, which means I have but two options.”
Turi fidgeted. “Which are?”
“I arrange for an escort and commit her to a convent,” he replied, “but even that might not guarantee her safety. Cristen’s flight has done her no favors. In fleeing, she has all but declared herself guilty in the matter of Cedric’s death. I warrant Ralph St. Clair will not stop till he finds her and brings her to justice. Besides, she told me she has no desire to hide behind the veil, so I suspect she would likely rebel against it.”
The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3) Page 8