Chapter Fourteen
“My family had been Christian for several generations,” Agatha said, “but they had Arabic skin and wore Arabic clothes. A crusader’s blade did not pause to ask which creed its victims followed. It struck down that which was perceived as an enemy of Christ – a perception based purely on appearance.” Despite the slant of her words, the nun spoke without malice, her accent soft, robes rustling as she led Turi along the path to the hospital. “My grandfather was the third of five sons, and the only one to survive a crusader attack on Nazareth. He and some other Christians fled to Damascus, where he married my grandmother, and… well, I will not bore you with the subsequent history of my family. Suffice to say, their faith did not waver. At age fourteen, I joined a convent in Rome and took my vows there, but I have been in England for several years now. I consider Westwood Priory, and England, to be my home.” She pushed the infirmary door open. “And I am curious to know how you came to speak Arabic with such purity.”
“I am a well-traveled man,” Turi said, ignoring the stirrings of yet another memory and a vague suspicion that felt like a cold breath on his neck. “And I’m blessed with an aptitude for languages. I find them easy to adopt.”
“So it would seem. Ah, your lady is still sleeping.” The nun bent and lifted something from the foot of the bed. “Your shirt,” she said in a whisper as she handed it to him. “We laundered it. The bloodstains have gone. We have also cleaned Cristen’s robe, but it is not yet dry.”
“My thanks.” Turi took the folded shirt, his gaze fixed on Cristen. Dressed in a pale shift and partially covered by a thin blanket, she lay on her back, arms at her side. A hint of pink colored her cheeks and her hair had obviously been brushed and braided. Relief lifted Turi’s spirit. He ached to gather her close and feel her warmth. “She looks better. Much better.”
“She is much improved over yesterday,” Sister Agatha said. “Even so, I suggest she remains here for another day at least. To move her now would not be wise. Where are you headed?”
“North,” Turi replied. “Close to the border.”
The nun arched a dark brow. “A good distance yet, then. All the more reason to let her rest and recover for a while longer.”
“I submit to your recommendation,” Turi said, “and I am indebted to this house.”
Sister Agatha cocked her head and gave him an assessing look. “Your lady is of the Christian faith as is your elderly traveling companion. But you are not.”
“You are astute, Sister Agatha.” Turi held the nun’s gaze. “Does the direction of my faith matter to you?”
“Not in the least,” she said, smiling as she turned to leave. “I was simply making an observation. I’ll be by later to check on her.”
Turi removed his cloak and placed it on the end of the bed as he pulled on his clean shirt. Then he settled on the small stool beside the bed and took Cristen’s hand in his. Eyes closed, he breathed deep, drinking in the inexplicable relief her touch gave him.
“What language was that? Arabic?”
His eyes flew open and met Cristen’s. “Hello, little bird,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. “Aye, Arabic. How do you feel?”
“A little sore.” Cringing, she shifted slightly. “But better. They have been very kind to me. You look tired, though.”
“I didn’t sleep well.” His mouth twitched. “Gilbert snores like a bear.”
It was only a partial truth. The tale of Turi’s immortality had not been enough for Gilbert. It had merely resulted in a cascade of questions about druidic justice, and the condensed recounting of a life that spanned thirteen centuries. For the first time ever, Turi had shared the truth of his existence with another. As a result, both men had lain awake most of the night. The old man had finally succumbed to sleep a little before dawn and his snores had, indeed, been quite spectacular.
Turi’s mind, however, would not be still. Thoughts swirled around it like autumn leaves in a gale. Missing Cristen and seeking distraction, he’d wandered to the edge of the trees to watch the sunrise. It had arisen directly behind the priory, creating a brilliant backdrop to the red brick buildings. Sorting through the turmoil in his head, Turi had stared into the golden light till his eyes could no longer tolerate the brilliance.
A week had passed since he’d set foot on English soil. A single week out of so many thousands, yet it had probably been the most significant of them all.
“Can we leave today?” Cristen’s question gathered his focus. The hopefulness in her voice was reflected in her expression.
“It wouldn’t be wise, love,” he said. “Sister Agatha says you need more time to rest, and I agree with her. Another day at least.”
The expectation on her face disappeared as her gaze shifted to some random spot behind him.
“Is it over, Turi?” Eyes bright with tears, she regarded him once more. “Or do you think more will come looking for me?”
Turi groaned. He moved from the stool to the edge of her bed, sitting sideways as he gathered her, gently, into his arms. “It’s over,” he said, holding her as tightly as he dared. “First of all, it could be weeks, if at all, before anyone at Frehampton decides to launch another search. By that time, we’ll be at Eamont and the trail will be cold. And all that aside, the country is about to descend into chaos with this pestilence. People will have other things to think about. Put your fears aside, aderyn bach.”
Her breath felt warm and strong against his chest. Yet her hand, in its familiar nervous motion, clenched and unclenched the fabric of his shirt.
“It seems you have other fears,” he murmured.
“Not fears, exactly,” she said, after a pause. “But there is something that weighs on my mind.”
“What is it?”
Another pause, then, “When Ralph threatened to kill me, only two things frightened me about dying. I could think of naught else but them.” She lifted her head from his chest and regarded him. “One was that I would never see Jacob again.”
The vision of the boy in the orchard arose in Turi’s mind. “I made a vow to you,” he said. “I stand by it.”
A sad smile accompanied a flare of hope in her eyes, which then faded. “And the second thing, was that I would die without fully earning your trust.”
Turi flinched inwardly.
“Just now,” she continued, “when I heard you speaking a different language to Sister Agatha, it served to emphasize how little I know of you.” She touched his face. “Please, Turi. I need to know who you are. Where you’re from. I want to know what Nareen did and why her betrayal gives you nightmares. I want to hear about your life, learn about those who have been a part of it. How it is that you speak other languages. I want you to trust me as I trust you.”
“’Tis not unreasonable, is it? To learn a little about the one who travels with me?”
“Not unreasonable at all, my lady, as long as the courtesy is returned.”
And Cristen had returned it. She trusted him with her secrets. He had not returned that trust through fear of losing her. Was his fear unfounded?
“You won’t lose me, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” she said, lifting her head to look at him. Her perception, sharper than his blade, prompted him to smile. “I’ve told you, Turi. No matter what you’ve done in the past, it will not change the way I feel about you.”
He had little choice but to acquiesce. Either way, he risked harming what they shared.
“As you wish,” Turi said. At that same moment, someone coughed, a harsh, hacking sound that echoed off the bare walls. “But not here. Not now.” He cupped her cheek. “What I have to say will take some time. I need to be alone with you.”
A door hinge creaked, and a nun entered carrying a bowl and washcloths. An older woman, she gave Turi and Cristen a disapproving glance as she swept by.
“Do I have your word?” Cristen asked, ignoring the nun’s reaction. “When next we are alone. In an inn, or… or making love beneath an elm tree in the for
est, you will tell me then?”
“Tell you my life story while we’re making love?” He chuckled. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to do both at the same time.”
“Turi!” The smile tugging at her mouth belied the hint of irritation in her voice.
He assumed a serious expression and raised a hand. “I swear it.”
“You’ll tell me everything?”
“Aye, little bird.” He bent his head and kissed her. “Everything.”
Two days later, they left Westwood and looked to the north again.
Chapter Fifteen
The moon, hanging full and bright above the far horizon, had thrown a silver path across the tidal waters of the môr-afon. The opposite shore appeared as a thin, black line, punctuated here and there by a faint, yellow light. A torch, perhaps. Or a campfire. Evidence of human occupation.
Even after thirteen centuries, the air smelled the same. Salt, estuary mud, and wood smoke, the damp, earthy scent of the forest. Turi’s spine tingled with the familiarity of it. It was a torture both painful and sweet.
Cristen, her back to Turi, stood in silence on the river bank, staring out across the wide expanse. A soft breeze played with her skirts, rippling the fabric as it did the water. In the moonlight, her silhouette appeared black, and she was hugging herself.
Behind them, in gnarled columns of light and dark, stood a bastion of nature. Descendant trees of an ancient deciduous forest, where Turi’s people had once lived. He had chosen this place purposely to tell Cristen the truth about who he was. It seemed fitting, somehow, although it had meant taking a detour from their set path, and had cost them a day of travel. For Turi, though, it was a nostalgic visit, one Gilbert fully understood.
They had found a nearby inn and secured their accommodations. Then Turi and Cristen had left Gilbert feasting on roasted chicken, and ridden out along the river.
As the sun had set, the moon had risen. Turi tethered Samson to a nearby sapling, spread a blanket on the grass, and proceeded to tell Cristen his story.
Thus far, unfortunately, it had not gone well.
Indeed, Turi doubted the lass was even aware of the nocturnal splendor surrounding them. Her sight, he suspected, was turned inward, questioning and doubting what she had heard. Her faith in him, he knew, had taken a hard hit.
His announcement that he’d been born in a village not two miles from where they sat had been met with a smile of genuine interest. The subsequent declaration that his birth had occurred approximately twenty-two years after the death of Jesus Christ had been met with a reaction of a different nature. Cristen’s brief expression of incredulity had been followed by one of mild amusement.
Of course, she didn’t believe him.
For a little while, she’d continued to stare at him, her expression one of anticipation. Then her smile faded to a frown as she waited for him to speak further. She expected him, no doubt, to counter his absurd statement with an amended one that made sense. But Turi had remained silent, his expression serious, gaze unwavering.
Due to the subdued light, he wasn’t certain what he’d seen flaring in her eyes. Anger? Disappointment? Certainly not acceptance. Whatever the emotion, it had pushed her to her feet and made her step away from him. A stretched period of silence had followed and still continued.
Heaving a sigh, Turi rose and approached, halting an arm span from where she stood.
“My people called themselves the Setantii,” he said, his voice steady. “We were one of many tribes. To the south of us were the Gangani and the Coritani. To the north and east, the mighty Brigantes. And so many more – too many to name. We occupied all the corners of this isle as well as Éire. We traded with each other. Fought with each other. We were fierce. Wild. Passionate. We served many gods, both male and female.” He paused and gazed up at the stars. “I am bastard-born. My mother’s name was Arianwen. I never knew her. She died birthing me. My father’s name is Pendaran. He yet lives. He is a god among men. An immortal. But I already told you that.”
As he spoke, Cristen’s tense posture tightened further. When he finished his telling, she let out a short, bitter laugh and shook her head. “Does it amuse you, Turi? To mock me?”
Turi parted with another sigh and moved closer. “I do not mock you, aderyn bach.”
“In that case, I beg your pardon,” she said, without turning. “I must have been mistaken in my impression. Likely due to the improbability of what you would have me believe. Please, carry on with your remarkable tale. What were you saying? Ah, yes. You’re the illegitimate son of an immortal father. A god, no less! And you were born … let me see, that would be, um, thirteen centuries ago. So, you have obviously inherited your father’s immortality. Have I got it right so far?”
“Not quite,” he replied. “My immortality is not inherited. In fact, it is about to end.”
“About to end? Oh, I see.” Sarcasm and sadness edged her voice as she turned to him at last. Only the sadness showed in her eyes. “And what happens then, pray tell? Will you ascend to some unearthly realm? Or… or change into something else? A unicorn, maybe. Or a dragon.”
He sighed again. “I will simply become mortal. I will continue to age. I will have no defense against sickness or infection. And I will bleed like other men.”
A frown flitted across her face. “Bleed.”
“Aye.”
She huffed. “Are you saying you don’t bleed now?”
“Nay.” He grimaced. “I mean, aye. That is what I’m saying.”
Another bitter laugh tripped off her tongue and a tear cascaded down her cheek. “Why are you doing this, Turi? Is it a test? Some kind of trial? One meant to challenge my faith in you?”
He shook his head. “Nay, my love, ’tis no test. A trial, aye, and a difficult one for both of us, I can assure you. Since you refuse to believe what I say, I will have to show you.” He rolled up his shirt sleeve and unsheathed the dagger at his belt.
Cristen sucked in a breath. “What are you doing?”
“Watch,” he replied. “Trust me. And don’t be afraid.”
Cristen’s eyes widened, but before she had a chance to speak further, Turi slanted the blade across his forearm and scored a deep, dark cut into the flesh. A moment later, without a drop of blood spilled, the cleaved flesh reunited, leaving only a thin, shadowed line.
Cristen’s hands flew to her mouth, capturing her squeal. Still staring at the healed wound, she shook her head. “Sweet Mother of God. What unearthly magic is this?”
“Touch it.” Turi took hold of her wrist and guided her fingers to the new scar. “Feel it. Now tell me you believe me, my lady. I need to hear you say it, for I cannot bear to see distrust in your eyes when you look at me.”
She shook her head. “It defies belief, Turi.”
“Did you not see it? Did your eyes deceive you?” He rested the blade on his arm once more. “I can show you again, if you wish.”
“Nay!” She placed a hand on his, where it grasped the dagger. “Please. No more. I believe you, Turi. But, by God and all His saints, I cannot begin to understand it to save my soul. Not any of it.”
“Then allow me to explain,” he said, “but there must be no more doubt. No more accusations of mockery or trials. Your reaction is understandable, and precisely why I hesitate to tell you anything. Before I continue, I must remind you of your vow of faith in me, for there is yet much you have to learn.”
Dismay evident on her face, Cristen gazed at him. “Oh, Turi. I’m so ashamed,” she whispered, shaking her head. “After all I said and all I promised, I have failed you. Please forgive me.”
“Nay, hush.” Turi bent and kissed her. “The truth of who I am is not an easy thing for a mortal to accept.”
Cristen inhaled, squared her shoulders, and looked about. “The Setantii, you say?”
“Aye.” Turi watched her, amused by the sudden, determined set of her jaw. “Till the Romans came, all the land along this western shore was ours, from what is now Chester
to as far north as Lancaster, and east to Sheffield. None of those places existed then, of course.”
“But this area here is where you grew up?”
He nodded. “I used to fish off these banks and hunt deer in these woods. It was on such a hunt when I first met Nareen.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Just over there, in a forest clearing.”
“Oh!” Cristen blinked. “Nareen was a woman in your tribe? I thought you’d met her recently.”
He shook his head. “Nareen has been dead for almost thirteen centuries.”
A shudder ran through her and into him. “Yet the memory of what she did still haunts you?”
“Nareen’s betrayal led to the deaths of eleven women and fifteen children in my village, but the blame for their deaths is entirely mine. She told me she was an escaped slave on the run from Roman persecution. I believed her and took her back to my village, ignoring the condemnation of those who doubted her story. They were right. I was wrong. Nareen was no slave, but a Roman scout. I awoke one night to find her gone from my bed. We were attacked by a Roman patrol that same night and I knew, even before the first blood had been drawn, that Nareen had led them to us. I remember everything about it. Everything. As if it happened yesterday. But there’s a reason for that.” Turi gave Cristen a critical glance. Moonlight accentuated her ghostlike pallor and the shadows beneath her eyes. The lass had been through much in the last fortnight. The wound in her side continued to heal well, but Turi knew the weight of recent turmoil and persistent grief pressed on her mind and heart constantly. “Are you tired, little bird? We can continue this back at the inn if you wish. Or on the morrow.”
Again, she looked about. “Nay. I think it fitting that I learn about you here, surrounded by the ghosts of your past. But I’m cold, Turi. Can we make use of the blanket?”
Turi smiled. “Come.”
*
Gazing up at the stars, Cristen lay still and listened to Turi’s voice. The tale he continued to unravel defied belief. It went against all she knew and understood. Her faith. Her convictions. All she had ever held true. As he spoke of his life, her own view of life changed. Things were not as they seemed. Ever.
The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3) Page 16