The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3)

by Avril Borthiry

  *

  A single candle burned atop the small table beside their bed. The glow it cast warmed the stone walls and threw shadows into the corners. Naked, Cristen lay on her back, her flesh tingling beneath Turi’s scrutiny. And his touch.

  The expression on his face was one of wonder. Absorption. Fascination. Propped up on an elbow, he trailed a single fingertip across her forehead, down over her nose, her chin, and her throat. Then, with the hint of a smile on his lips, he traced a line around her breast, circled in smaller circles until he arrived at her nipple.

  Cristen pulled in a breath as he touched the peak with a whisper-soft touch. His eyes flicked to hers for moment, and his smile grew. His hand, flesh dark in contrast to hers, cupped her breast for a moment before continuing down over her belly.

  He shifted and moved to cover her, sliding a leg over hers as he bent to kiss her. His arousal felt like warm steel against her hip as their tongues tangled in a slow, intimate dance. Cristen reached down to stroke him and he growled his pleasure.

  She loved the way Turi so obviously enjoyed her, and the rapt attention he gave her body. It was an unselfish sharing of love and passion. Her pleasure, she knew, was more important to him than his own. This would be their last night together for a while. Who knew how long?

  “Fy aderyn bach,” he murmured, his thumb caressing the corner of her mouth. “How I do love you.”

  Cristen blinked away a prickle of tears as his mouth descended on hers again. She would not cry. Not now. Not yet. She closed her eyes and drifted into the sweetness of their lovemaking, committing every moment of it to memory. At last, she cried out his name, and rode a wave of ecstasy as Turi took his own pleasure.

  Afterwards, laying in his arms, she fought against sleep, meaning to stay awake to listen to his breathing. His heartbeat.

  But when next she opened her eyes, it was to an empty bed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Driven by a brisk westerly wind, clouds charged across the dawn sky in great dappled herds. The same breeze whistled a hollow tune as it danced around Eamont’s gray walls. Turi blinked against the onslaught as he slid Samson’s bridle over the horse’s head. Ears twitching, Samson regarded Turi through his one blue eye, an unspoken question seemingly reflected in its scrutiny.

  “Aye,” Turi murmured, arranging the horse’s forelock over the browband, “we’re leaving.” Uttering the words made his stomach churn.

  He had left Cristen sleeping, unwilling to see the pain in her eyes when she awoke. Unwilling for her to see the pain in his.

  Not that he had any intention of leaving without saying goodbye, but it would be easier, he reckoned, to face her out here.

  “I’m a coward,” he said, fastening the cheek-strap on Samson’s bridle.

  From somewhere nearby, a cock crowed, the cry snatched away by the wind. From somewhere behind came a soft footfall and Turi summoned up his resolve. He didn’t have to turn to see who approached.

  He heaved the saddle Gilbert had given him onto Samson’s back, settled it in place, and tugged the creases from the saddle blanket. Then something nudged his calf and he glanced down, locking eyes with Loki. The dog whined and wagged his tail. Turi paused, his hand frozen in place against Samson’s belly.

  Cristen was there. Right behind him.

  “Loki knows you’re leaving,” she said.

  Turi frowned and swallowed against an unwelcome onslaught of emotion. “Aye,” he replied, and continued to fuss with the saddle blanket. “He’s not daft.”

  There came a moment of stark silence in which Turi held his breath and waited.

  “Please let me come with you,” Cristen whispered. “Please.”

  Turi clenched his jaw. “We’ve been through this.” He reached under Samson’s belly, grabbed the girth, and pulled it tight. “You’re safer here, Cristen. I would not leave you if I thought otherwise. Gilbert will take care of you. I trust him and you should, too.”

  “I’d rather be in danger with you than safe here without you.” The comment, despite being snatched up by a sudden gust of wind, still found its way into Turi’s ear, and from there to his heart.

  His throat tightened. “Have mercy, lass.”

  “But we belong together, Turi. You said so yourself.”

  At that, he spun round, mouth open and ready to utter a firm word, but the sight of Cristen’s fear-filled eyes halted him. The reprimand became a groan as he pulled her into his embrace.

  “Please understand,” he murmured, threading his fingers through her silken hair, “if I could, I would take you with me, you know that. But I told you, the risks are too great, and I’ll travel faster and easier knowing you’re safe here.”

  “Travel where?” She sniffed. “You have no idea where Jacob is. You don’t even know what he looks like. He may not even be in England. God help me, he may not even be alive.”

  “Of course he’s alive. I saw him in my vision, remember? Just as I saw you in Abbot John’s courtyard. I have to trust it. I’ll find Jacob because I’m meant to find him.” He tipped up her chin. “As for what he looks like, he has dark hair like his sire and beautiful blue eyes like his mother. I’ll know him when I see him. Have faith, please.”

  Capitulation, of a sort, showed in Cristen’s face. “I shall pray for you every day, Turi.”

  “Good.” He cupped her face and then kissed her. “Between your Christian god and my numerous deities, I’m sure to be well protected.”

  “Well, being the son of a god should count for something.” She wrinkled her nose. “It does in my faith. Maybe your father can help you to find Jacob.”

  Turi bent to pick up the saddlebags. “I’d have to find my father first,” he said, hoisting the bags across Samson’s rump.

  “Maybe he’ll find you first.”

  “From your lips to his ears, my love.”

  “Don’t worry yourself, Turi.” Gilbert’s voice drifted through the air and Turi looked up to see the old man approaching. “Cristen will be quite safe here.”

  “I know.” Turi smiled. “I am indebted to you, my lord.”

  “I believe the debt is all mine, lad, and will always be.” Frowning, Gilbert scrutinized the saddlebags. “Did Bess see you right?”

  Turi nodded as he hooked his quiver to his belt. “Enough food for a week.”

  “And you have coin?”

  “Aye, my lord. I have everything I need.” He looked at Cristen. “Almost.”

  “Oh, Turi.” Eyes bright with tears, she stepped into his arms again. “Please be careful.”

  “I will, don’t worry.” He smiled and tucked an errant curl behind Cristen’s ear. “I love you very much, little bird. Be brave for me.”

  A tear spilled down her cheek. “I love you, too,” she whispered. “I shall pray for your safekeeping every day.”

  Riding away from Eamont was one of the hardest things Turi had ever done. He paused at the gatehouse for a moment and looked back. Cristen had not moved. In the twilight of dawn, she appeared almost ghostlike. As he committed the image of her to memory, the blue of her robe brought to mind another.

  The image of a man. Nay, not a man, but a god, striding across the earthen floor of a druidic meeting house, blue robes floating around him. A being Turi had not seen in thirteen centuries.

  I shall continue to watch you from afar, as I always have.

  His father would not have said such a thing flippantly, but if Turi had been watched, he’d never been truly aware of it.

  Cristen was right. Turi had no idea where to begin his search for Jacob. He needed help, and only one person on earth had the ability to provide it. But would that person agree? Pendaran’s words rang out from the distant past.

  Do not think to call upon me and beg for help or with frivolous demands. My intervention will only occur in the direst of circumstances and entirely at my behest.

  “I have asked nothing of you, Great Lord,” Turi muttered, shifting in the saddle. Samson’s ears twitched. “No
thing, in thirteen centuries. But I mean to ask something of you now.”

  Jacob’s whereabouts might be a mystery, but Turi had a good idea of where to find his long absent sire.

  With that in mind, he turned Samson west and followed the remains of Hadrian’s great wall out to the Solway Plain. By that afternoon, they’d turned south, following a route through the rugged and beautiful terrain of Cumberland. At last, after three days of navigating around lakes and over mountain passes, Turi stood atop a sand dune on the Cumberland coast and gazed across the Irish Sea.

  There, on the distant horizon, lay his destination. An enigmatic, black shape rising from the sea, outlined by a fiery sunset. Turi’s heart stirred as he looked upon the hills of Ellan Vannin. The sacred isle. Thirteen centuries had passed since his banishment from its shores.

  He had never returned.

  Even so, it still occupied a sacred spot in Turi’s heart. It was, after all, his father’s ancient domain.

  The next morning, Turi secured a spot for himself and Samson on a trading ship out of Fowdray Island on the Furness coast. The Irish Sea was in a merciful mood, and passengers and crew sailed unscathed into the harbor at Bala Cashtal, a main port on the Isle of Man, shortly after midday.

  The Romans had given little consideration to the isle, but others, over the centuries, had taken turns to lord over the small domain. First the Gaels, then the Anglian kings, followed by the mighty Norsemen. Turi’s memories of the landscape needed some resuscitation, but he felt the inherent pull of the island’s enchanting history. It was in his blood.

  On his way out of the town, he reined Samson to a halt and gazed up, for the first time, at Castle Rushen’s massive walls. He had heard of the place. The castle, overlooking the harbor, had been a Norse stronghold for a time, but now rested in Norman hands.

  Invaders’ hands.

  Shrugging off the familiar sense of resentment, Turi gathered himself and focused on his purpose. To begin, his destination lay a full day’s ride to the north; a patch of sacred ground deep in the woods, not far from the ancient Field of Tombs. In truth, he had no idea if what had he sought still existed, or in what form. For sure, Pendaran’s wooden temple had long since turned to dust. The ancient oak, too, no doubt. After all, it had been several centuries old back then. But perhaps another had sprung from an acorn, and replaced its ancestor as a revered symbol of enduring strength and magic. If so, would his prayers to the gods be heard? Would his sire heed his request for help?

  Turi followed the coastline and, with Samson’s reliable plod, put most of the miles behind him by the time evening fell. When the first stars appeared in the sky, he took shelter in a small stand of trees, quieting his hunger with some dried meat and apples. Then he lay back and watched the sky, remembering Gilbert’s words.

  I find it brings things here on earth into perspective.

  But Turi’s perspective, without Cristen beside him, remained unchanged. It took some effort to steer his thoughts away from the pitfalls in his mind. Eventually, he drifted into sleep, dozing fitfully till a blackbird’s song trilled from the overhead branches.

  He rose, readied Samson, and resumed his journey. Guided by the familiar shape of the hills, Turi at last turned away from the coast and headed inland. At the Field of Tombs, he dismounted and walked among the sacred, moss-covered stones. They marked the resting places of ancient druid priests, bones long since consumed by the earth. It was said the voices of those buried there could often be heard.

  One only needed to know how to listen.

  Seeking an elusive moment of solace, Turi placed a hand on one of the ancient monuments, closed his eyes, and breathed deep. As the noise in his mind faded, he cocked his head and absorbed the sounds around him.

  Prickly gorse bushes, not yet laden with their mantle of gold, trembled at the touch of a sea breeze. The endless song of a skylark cascaded down from above. Sheep bleated to each other in a varied and rough chorus. Samson, grazing nearby, tore at the grass with powerful teeth.

  Perhaps Turi imagined the distant voices of men and the faint echoes of ancient songs. Then a trickle of a child’s laughter flowed past him as if borne on wings. It sounded hollow. Without substance.

  Turi opened his eyes and the laughter stopped as if a door had been slammed shut. Heart racing, he looked toward the distant line of trees. Somewhere within that dark stretch, thirteen centuries before, he had learned of his incredible fate. And the truth of his bloodline.

  Weary of the saddle, Turi took hold of Samson’s reins and set out on foot. Scouting the tree boundary, he soon discovered a narrow path and headed into the heart of the woods. He need not have worried about finding the sacred spot. His instincts led him to it unerringly.

  The clearing was as he remembered. At its center, an oak, undoubtedly an offshoot of its predecessor. Nevertheless, its impressive girth and gnarled branches gave testimony to its great age. Turi dropped Samson’s reins and approached. Placing a hand upon the thick bark, he gazed up into the branches.

  “I have endured, my lord,” he said, “and till now, I have never sought you out or asked anything of you. And I know I have not led…” Turi bit down and shook his head. “There’s no need to recount tales of what I have and have not done. You’re already aware, I’m sure.”

  Filling his lungs, he stepped back and glanced around. Sunlight skimmed the tops of the trees, casting streams of light and shadow across the space.

  “I am here because I need your help.” Turi threw his voice into the surrounding forest, pivoting as he spoke. “It is not for me, but for the girl I saw in my vision. She is real. I love her. And I seek the whereabouts of her son.”

  He paused. A fly buzzed his ear and he brushed it away. A bird chirped out a song from one tree. A crow cawed from another.

  “Pendaran, great druid priest of the Setantii tribe, do you hear me?” he called. “Or am I merely talking to the trees?”

  The fly buzzed again. This time, Turi ignored it. He pivoted once more, eyes searching the perimeter, hoping to see a robed figure emerging from the shadows. But the shadows remained empty.

  “I need your help, Father,” he said, hope evaporating. “Please.”

  Samson shook his head, rattling his bit. The crow called again, several times, a mocking sound that grated on Turi’s disappointment. Bile burned the back of his throat. It seemed he had wasted a journey. And time.

  “I will search for the child anyway,” he shouted, striding over to Samson, “with or without your help. Maybe I’ll ask the Christian God for guidance. He also had a son.”

  “A son who sacrificed his life for a cause.”

  Turi gasped and spun round. Clad in a flowing robe the color of ivory, Pendaran stood in shadow beneath the oak tree. Like Turi, time had not marked him. After thirteen centuries, he looked the same. Exactly the same.

  Even from where he stood, Turi caught the unmistakable scent of thyme, and the sharp edges of his mind softened. Snared by a sudden rush of emotion, he blinked back tears.

  “My lord.” Turi took a step forward. “By all the gods, it gladdens my heart to see you. Will you help me?”

  The druid’s expression remained impassive. “Would you sacrifice your life for this child and his mother?”

  The question caught him off guard. “Aye,” he said, after a moment. “Without question.”

  “Hmm.” Pendaran narrowed his eyes. “You ask for my intervention, and then mock me when I do not rush to respond. I’m disappointed in you, Setantii. Such childish tactics never work with the gods.”

  Shame washed over him. “Forgive me, my lord.” He shrugged. “I was frustrated. And hope is a harrowing thing to lose.”

  A softer gleam settled in the druid’s eyes. “It is almost over.”

  Turi knew what he meant. Coming back to this place had only served to amplify the merciless noise in his head. “Aye.”

  “So, there is a reckoning to be done. A little sooner than anticipated, but ’tis of no great co
nsequence.” With a swish of pale robes, he turned and set off toward the trees. “Come, Turi, and bring your horse.”

  “A reckoning?” Turi grabbed Samson’s reins and hurried to catch up. “What do you mean?”

  “An accounting of your life. If you recall, I told you not to waste your immortality, but rather strive to redeem your soul –”

  “In readiness for its eventual journey.” Dread snaked its way through Turi’s gut. “Aye, I remember. And what if I have failed to do that?”

  “It will not bode well for your future,” came the grave reply. “A man must always reap what he sows.”

  “Then I suppose I must ready myself,” Turi mumbled. “I confess, I have not lived the life of a saint, my lord.”

  “I’m fully aware of how you’ve lived your life,” his father said, throwing Turi a dark glance, “and you will be held accountable.”

  “So be it, but I care little about my own fate,” he replied. “’Tis Cristen who merits some mercy.”

  At that moment, the path opened out onto a coastal meadow. Turi paused to absorb the view, his spirit stirred by the beauty his eyes beheld.

  Dotted here and there, native loaghtyn sheep, easily distinguishable by their four horns and brown fleece, grazed on the wiry grass between the gorse and heather.

  At the center of the meadow, resting on a natural shelf in the earth, a stone longhouse, topped with a thatched roof, overlooked the Irish Sea. The distant Scottish and English coastline, touched by the rays of the setting sun, appeared to be on fire. Perhaps, Turi thought, Cristen was marveling at the same sky.

  “Impressive,” he said, turning to his father. “Seeing this – the longhouse, you, standing there in your robes, I could almost believe time has stood still on this sacred isle, and I’m back with my people.”

  “The stable is at the rear,” his father said, after a moment. “See to your horse and then come inside.”

  Turi frowned, wondering if he’d imagined the brief expression of sadness on his father’s face.