The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3)

by Avril Borthiry

  “Thirteen centuries,” she murmured as he paused. “My God, Turi. You have been a witness to history. All you must have seen.”

  “I have seen much, aye,” he said, “and I have also forgotten much. My memory is not finite and my mind was under a constant onslaught.”

  “It was – is – a harsh punishment.” She shifted against him, wincing a little. The wound in her side still pained her some. “To be so burdened for so long.”

  “It has not been without some benefits. I have seen most of the known world and speak several languages.” He gave her a slight squeeze. “Arabic being one of them.”

  “And you’ve never seen your father since that night?”

  “Nay. At least, not that I’m aware of. He said he’d be watching me so I must believe he has done so.” He drew a slow breath. “There have been occasions when I thought I sensed a presence. Usually when I’ve been in the depths of despair and cursing the world. But it might have been my imagination.”

  A question had been dancing around Cristen’s mind for a while and she dared to voice it. “And what of…?” She grimaced and clutched at his shirt. “Mmm, never mind. I’m not sure I should ask such things of you.”

  Turi moved his head to look at her. “Ask me anything you like, Cristen. I have naught to hide. I’ll not lie to you.”

  “Well… I’m curious about the women you’ve known,” she said, feeling a flush of heat rising in her cheeks. “Lovers and wives. There must have been many.”

  “Ah.” Turi sighed and shifted slightly. “Lovers, aye, I have had many. Wives, none.”

  Cristen gave a soft gasp. “You never married?”

  “Nay, it would not have been wise,” he replied. “Time would have eventually revealed my secret. I rarely had a relationship that lasted more than two or three years.”

  “Of course. I should have realized that.” Cristen frowned. “You must have broken many hearts. You must have also suffered the pain of many losses.”

  “I won’t deny it, but it became part of my existence,” he said, “a risk I chose to take.”

  “And what of children?”

  Turi remained quiet for a moment. “None of my lovers ever got with child. Whether due to my immortality, I cannot say. I suppose, once my mortality returns, I’ll find out.” His hold on her tightened. “We will find out.”

  “It will make no difference,” she said, pressing a kiss to his throat. “I’ll love you anyway. I cannot imagine my life without you.”

  “Fy aderyn bach,” he murmured. “You have not yet heard your story. You play a part in all this.”

  “My story?”

  “Aye,” he replied, nuzzling her hair. “I’ve been saving the best for last.”

  They rode back to the inn in the latter part of the night, when the sky could not be blacker or the stars brighter. The moon had already moved across the heavens and the first bird sang his song from the treetops.

  “A nightingale,” Turi said.

  “It’s beautiful,” Cristen replied. “I don’t recall ever hearing one before.”

  Turi murmured something in his language and rested his cheek against her hair. He had told her the rest of his story, and it contained a revelation she could never have foreseen.

  It seemed she possessed a magic of her own, and had not understood the depth of its influence. It went beyond a simple measure of comfort and companionship. She had the ability to quell the endless torment of a man who had lived for thirteen centuries. Unknowingly, she granted him peace of mind. Vanquished the pain of his guilt and remorse. Halted his nightmares. And all with a single touch. No other mortal, man or woman, had done for him what she had.

  But learning of her ability had given rise to a bothersome question. One that begged to be asked, although she had not yet dared to voice it. Fidgeting, she silently cursed her self-doubt. Turi loved and protected her as no man ever had. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if his dedication was – or had been – conditional on her ability.

  “We are together now,” Turi said, startling her, “and that is all that matters. The past cannot be changed. To dwell on it, then, serves no purpose.”

  Cristen twisted her head to look up at him and her heart skipped a beat. Sweet Heaven, he was handsome beyond words. By the bluish light of the moon, his face appeared to be sculpted from burnished steel. He looked like the immortal he was.

  “I don’t recall you mentioning that you read minds, Turi.”

  A smiled curved his mouth. “Only yours, it seems.”

  “Is that so? Then what am I thinking?”

  “I suspect you are questioning your worth to me.”

  His insight made her heart skip a beat. “Why would I do that?”

  A remnant of the smile remained as he assumed a puzzled expression. “I cannot say for certain. Men have forever been mystified by the workings of the female mind. But perhaps an epilogue to my story will settle your foolish doubts once and for all.” He cleared his throat. “Are you paying close attention, little bird?”

  “I am,” she said, smiling.

  “Good. So, in summation, I have come to believe we were destined to meet, you and I. As soon as you walked into the inn that first night, I felt a connection of sorts. The mystery of you intrigued me. When I realized you were in danger, I went to your aid instinctively. Nothing else mattered. I knew I had to save you. Protect you. I have also come to believe that your blessed ability to soothe me has naught to do with my inherent anguish or my immortality. Had I been as other men, I would still have responded to the sweetness of your touch. I guarantee, when my mortality returns, you will still have the same effect on me. Does that answer your question?”

  Tears blurring her eyes, Cristen nodded and looked down at Turi’s hand, where it clutched the reins. She traced her fingertips across the back of it and heard his slow intake of breath.

  “That is all it takes,” he said. “A simple touch and I am lost. I love you, Cristen. More than my life.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The wild northern landscape of Cumberland, with its wind-swept hillsides and craggy peaks, excited Turi’s pagan spirit. This had once been part of the ancient kingdom of Rheged, a territory that encompassed much of the northwest of England and southwest Scotland. The native language, a dialect so similar to his own, had all but disappeared.

  His flesh tingled as he lifted his head and breathed in the crisp, sea air. It aroused his most deep-seated instincts. If not for Gilbert’s company, he’d have stopped and made love to Cristen among the heather and bracken.

  “Stirs the blood, doesn’t it?” Gilbert asked, as they crested the top of a rise and reined the horses in.

  “Aye, that it does.” Turi saturated his lungs again and gazed out across the Irish Sea and the distant Firth of Solway.

  “The land on the other side of yon stretch of water,” Gilbert said, pointing, “is Scotland.”

  Cristen craned her neck. “And where is Eamont, Lord Allonby?”

  The old man pointed again. “Over there. You can’t see it yet, but we’ll be home well before dark.”

  “Home,” Cristen repeated, her voice wistful.

  Turi gave her a gentle squeeze as they resumed their journey. The previous week of travel had not been easy. Except for the past two days, the weather had been damp and miserable. Cristen had not complained once, but Turi was fully aware of her fatigue and sensed her anguish. He knew questions about Jacob’s whereabouts and welfare were never far from her mind.

  “You’re going to rest for at least a sennight when we get to Eamont, my lady,” he said. “No arguments.”

  “You’ll get none,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’m looking forward to sleeping in a proper bed. And a bath. Oh, how I long for a bath.”

  “I don’t have many servants,” Gilbert said, “but the ones I do have are highly esteemed. My chatelaine’s name is Bess. She misses my daughter, and will no doubt want to fuss over you, Cristen. Please allow h
er to do so. She also bakes the best bread in the land. You’ll wake up to the smell of it every morning. Thomas is my steward, although he’ll turn his hand to any task. He’s finicky and sometimes needs reminding of his station, but I’d be lost without him and he knows it. I have a garrison of two knights, both of whom reside within Eamont’s walls. There are a couple of tenant farmers, too. The Scots tend to leave me alone. I’m descended from a respected lowland clan on my mother’s side, and it seems that grants me a certain amount of respect. As I said, Eamont is not grand, but it is welcoming. I trust you’ll be comfortable.”

  “I’m sure we will, Lord Allonby,” Cristen said. “We are fortunate to have met you.”

  The old man gave a soft grunt. “None of us would be here if it wasn’t for Turi. That I’m able to give something in return after all this time gives me more pleasure than I can say.”

  Turi merely smiled, hoping it hid his twinge of guilt. He had yet to tell them of his plans, yet to confess that he would not be staying at Eamont for long. A sennight, maybe a little longer. But he couldn’t afford to wait. The pestilence had already begun to spread its tendrils northward. Ralph St. Clair and his unfortunate cohort had been proof of that. Better, then, that his search for Jacob began sooner rather than later.

  Where to begin it was a different matter. But the seed of an idea had already settled in his brain and taken root.

  Eamont was a small, unassuming bastion. Surrounded by wild and rugged countryside, it stood atop a rise within sight of the Scottish border. The main keep was solid sandstone, three stories high, with rounded corner towers. The curtain wall, which encompassed a large inner bailey, had a watchtower on each corner. The castle had no drawbridge or moat, but a hefty oak gate and portcullis provided a secure entryway.

  A warm, and somewhat chaotic, welcome awaited them. It became clear, within moments of arriving, that Gilbert Allonby was a well-loved lord, and had been greatly missed. Even the castle dogs joined in the fray. One, a large black beast, seemed especially happy to see Gilbert.

  “His name is Loki,” Gilbert said, bending to pet the animal. “He’s my son’s dog. Broke his heart when Henry went off to fight. He didn’t eat for a week. And, of course,” Gilbert’s voice faltered and he cleared his throat, “Henry never came back.”

  Turi’s scalp prickled as he crouched and looked the dog in the eye. “I think I know who you are, Loki,” he murmured, scratching the dog behind the ear. “I hope I’m right.”

  As Gilbert had predicted, Bess, after tearful introductions, fell on Cristen as if she were a long-lost daughter, and whisked her away to “get the lass settled properly”. Turi took a slow breath as he watched her leave. He had become adept at handling the return of his angst during their temporary separations. Soon, that adeptness would be put to a much more rigorous test.

  “She’s in good hands,” Gilbert said. “I warrant she’s never been so well pampered before. I told her to put you both in the southwest chamber. I thought you, especially, might appreciate a room that faced the direction of your home.”

  “The world needs more men like you, Lord Allonby.” Turi squeezed Gilbert’s shoulder. “I’m glad I was there that day.”

  Gilbert’s eyes softened. “As am I, lad. Come, I’ll give you a brief tour of the place, and then you can settle in. What’s mine is yours, so just take or use whatever you need.”

  Thomas, Eamont’s steward, joined them on the tour.

  “We primarily farm sheep and pigs,” he said, a note of pride evident in his tone, “and there’s a fine trout stream that runs behind Eamont. Our woods run with deer and boar, and the tenants grow vegetables. We buy our grain, or barter for it. The land is not suited to such crops.”

  Turi listened with half an ear. Seeing Loki had stoked a spark of anticipation. “Is there an orchard?” he asked, interrupting the steward’s ongoing narrative.

  “Um, aye, there is.” Thomas, looking a little puzzled, gestured toward the western end of the bailey. “’Tis over there. Just past yon rise. Won’t be any fruit for another month or two, though.”

  Gilbert peered at him. “Is there a reason you ask?”

  Turi smiled and bent to scratch Loki’s head. “Nay, I just wondered.”

  He made gentle love to Cristen that night between fine linen sheets and, afterwards, slept soundly till a little before dawn. Then, being careful not to disturb Cristen, he slid from the bed, pulled the shutters back, and looked to the southwest.

  It was not the direction of his original home he sought, although his eyes made a reverent pause at a certain point as they swept the darkness. But after that, his gaze turned more to the west, to a particular spot in the Irish Sea. As yet, it was too dark to see the familiar outline on the horizon. The sacred stepping-stone between Britannia and Éire. The Isle of Man. The place where his immortal journey had begun.

  Ellan Vannin.

  It would be Turi’s first destination in his search for Jacob. Releasing a soft sigh, he glanced over at Cristen. Despite his determination to find the boy, the thought of leaving her weighed heavy on Turi’s heart. He would have to steel himself, too, against her reaction, for he knew she’d insist on going with him.

  But the dangers were too great, the risk too high. He had to do this alone.

  *

  “This must be it.” Cristen squinted up into the branches. “Gilbert said to turn right at the oak and follow the deer path to the river.”

  Turi paused, his ancestral blood surging at the sight of the mighty tree. He placed a reverent hand on the hard, furrowed bark. “This has been here a long time,” he said, following Cristen’s upward gaze. “Centuries. The oak was a sacred symbol to my people.”

  “’Tis magnificent,” she said. “I’ve seen carvings of oak leaves in churches. A reminder of the ancient beliefs, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.” Turi smiled, and turned onto the narrow path. “Come.”

  This would be the last day spent with Cristen for some time, although she didn’t know it yet. According to Gilbert, the reflection pool, as he called it, was a calm and secluded spot.

  “A good place to tell your lass the news,” he’d said, after hearing Turi’s plans. “She’ll not be happy.”

  An understatement.

  The path ended at a large, flat rock that jutted out over a curve in the river. Here, the current slowed, forming a clear, languid pool before sliding over a placid waterfall.

  “Oh, Turi.” Cristen went to the rock’s edge and looked over. “It’s beautiful. The water is so clear. Look at the fish!”

  “Trout,” he said, setting down the blanket and food. “Aye, ’tis a bonny spot.”

  Cristen gave him an odd look. Then she heaved a sigh, spread out the blanket, and sat down.

  “When are we leaving?” she asked, looking up at him.

  Stumped, he raised a brow. “We only just got here.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She heaved another sigh. “I’m referring to Eamont. That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it? To tell me we have to leave.”

  Turi cringed inwardly. She knew him too well.

  “Nay.” Steeling himself, Turi sat crossed-legged before her and echoed her sigh. “We don’t have to leave. I do. I’m leaving tomorrow to begin my search for Jacob.”

  Her eyes widened. “Then I’m coming with you.”

  “Nay, you are not. You’re staying here.”

  Color flooded her cheeks and she regarded him as though he’d grown an extra head. “You jest.”

  Frowning, he responded with silence.

  “Turi?” A hint of panic edged her voice. “Please tell me you don’t mean it. I will not stay here without –”

  “Aye, you will!” The rebuke came out sharper than he’d intended and Cristen flinched as if struck. Her reaction tore a hole in Turi’s heart and a groan from his throat. He uttered a curse and ran a hand through his hair. “Forgive me, please,” he said. “I did not mean to speak so harshly. But I knew you’d fight me on
this, Cristen, and I will not be swayed. I will not.”

  Tears in her eyes, she glared at him. “You can’t leave me here all alone.”

  “You won’t be alone.”

  “Yes, Turi, I will. If you’re not with me, I’m alone.”

  Groaning again, he got to his feet and began to pace. “I swear I’d rather fight a Roman legion single handed than tangle with you over this. It you think for a moment that leaving you will be easy for me, think again.”

  Cristen stood. “Then take me with you. Please, Turi.”

  Turi mumbled another curse as he went to her. He looked down into blue eyes bright with tears – and a fair hint of stubbornness. His mouth quirked. “My answer will not change, little bird. I’ll be faster and more efficient knowing I don’t have to worry about you. Besides, chances are, Jacob is somewhere in the south. Do I need to remind you what recently landed on this island’s southern shores?”

  “But… but you said yourself, you don’t know when your immortality will fail. What if it fails while you’re away? You’ll be as defenseless as everyone else.”

  “Which is why I’m leaving now, while I still have some time.” He cupped her cheek. “I need your blessing, love. Not your dissent.”

  She gave a little cry and stepped into his arms. “You have it, Turi. You know you do. I’m just afraid, that’s all.”

  “Don’t be.” He tipped up her chin. “There’s something I didn’t tell you. It might make you feel better about this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sit,” he said, and settled back on the blanket beside her.

  He told her, then, of the visions he’d had so many centuries before. The courtyard at Abbotsbury, the orchard, the black dog. And the child, riding his pretend horse.

  “My father said they were glimpses of the future.” Turi lifted Cristen’s hand to his mouth. “One of them has come true, and I believe the second one will, too.”

  Cristen released a soft sigh and wove her fingers through his. “I hope you’re right. I pray you are. But I will miss you, Turi. God knows I will.”