The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3)

by Avril Borthiry

  With Samson settled, he entered the dwelling through the central doorway. Instantly, nostalgia wrapped around him like a cloak, and he breathed a lungful of air that might have been thirteen centuries old. There, the similarity ended. The interior, clad in the comfortable fittings of the time, belied the traditional exterior.

  The fire pit, its peaty contents aglow, occupied the traditional place in the center of the house. Rushes, fresh and sweet smelling, carpeted the earthen floor. A long oak table, framed by matching benches, stood against the back wall. Doorways, left and right, apparently led off into additional chambers.

  His father, seated by the fire on a wooden chair that looked as if it had been stolen from a Pharaoh’s palace, looked up as Turi closed the door. “Sit,” he said, gesturing. “Are you hungry?”

  “Nay.” Turi sank onto a padded stool, his eyes continuing to absorb details. “Do you live here permanently, my lord?”

  He was rewarded with a scathing look. “I am never anywhere permanently, Setantii. Are you ready to begin?”

  The rigid response drew Turi away from his trivial distractions. “Do I have a choice?”

  “You may leave if you wish, but I would not recommend it. Nor would I expect it from the son of Pendaran. It would be a disappointment. To say the least.”

  Turi sighed and rubbed a hand across his bristled jaw. “I fear I am already that,” he said. He rose to his feet and began to pace. “In short, I have bedded thousands of women, many of them whores. Drunk more wine than there is water in the ocean. Fights? I cannot even begin to estimate how many.”

  Expression impassive, Pendaran sat back. “Anything else?”

  Halting his stride, Turi scoffed. “Is that not enough? I will say, in my defense, that all of those things helped to –”

  “You have no defense, Turi,” his father said, scowling. “You did have choices. And you made them.”

  A bitter taste settled on Turi’s tongue. “Aye,” he said, dropping back onto his seat, “you’re right. Just as I made the choice to come here. Let me make this easy for you, my lord. Tell me where I might find Cristen’s son and allow me to return him to her. After that, you may cast me into Annwn’s fire if you wish. There. No need for anymore reckoning. This tribunal is over.”

  “This is not a tribunal,” his father replied. “I passed judgment on you thirteen centuries ago.”

  “But, as you rightly say, I have no defense here today. My actions over the past thirteen centuries do not cast my soul in a pure light.”

  “Is that so?” Pendaran narrowed his eyes and stared at Turi. “Well, now. I suspect, were she still alive, that Julia Marcella would beg to differ. ’Tis more than twelve centuries since you saved her from the flood-swollen Welsh river she’d tumbled into. She was but seven summers old at the time, I believe. The only daughter of a wealthy Roman merchant. You took her back to her father’s villa, deposited her at the gate, and then left without seeking any kind of reward. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but as a result of her story, in which she declared a tribesman as her savior, her father granted freedom to his tribal slaves. Indeed, he paid them thereafter for their service to him. And Julia lived a long and productive life. Do you remember her, Turi?”

  The memory had long been dead and buried but, like a ghost, it rose again in his mind. A tiny girl, with chestnut hair and olive-green eyes, she’d slid off the muddy bank and the swollen rapids had taken her like a leaf. Turi had stretched out, belly down, on a half-submerged rock, and pulled her out by the scruff of her neck as she’d floated by. Terrified, she’d clung to him like a limpet.

  “Aye,” he murmured, frowning. “I remember her.”

  “I thought you might. Then there’s Leofric, the Saxon monk trapped in a burning monastery after a Viking raid. You saved his life, too.”

  “Trapped?” Turi scoffed. “The man was blind drunk at the time. Couldn’t have found his way out of a chair.”

  “You didn’t know that till after you’d saved him, though, did you? Who else? Ah, yes. Abdul Rahman. A Christian Arab. A simple herdsman without an evil bone in his body. You helped him escape a Crusader’s reckless blade and then served as his protector when he fled to Damascus. A man of good heart, he married and had several children. His granddaughter’s name is Agatha. She now serves as a nun at Westwood Priory and is blessed with the knowledge of healing. You met her not long ago, did you not?”

  Turi merely nodded. His father returned the nod.

  “Then there’s Gilbert Allonby and his seventy-six summers,” he continued. “I doubt he would question the light that shines in your soul, Turi. You not only saved his life, you changed it, for you made him believe in miracles. And we should not forget poor Edyth, who, because of the coin you gave her, was granted the freedom to at least attempt an escape from the pestilence.” He paused, and pulled in a slow breath. “As for Cristen St. Clair…”

  “I don’t see how,” Turi said, voice grating, “these few incidences make up for all my transgressions.”

  Pendaran looked surprised. “Oh, but there are more than these few, Turi. You have touched many lives over the centuries. Besides,” his mouth quirked, “pleasuring a willing woman is not, in my opinion, a transgression.”

  Turi managed a smile. “Even so, I am no saint, my lord.”

  Pendaran scratched his jaw. “I would question the identity of your sire if you were,” he said, and then cleared his throat. “Let us not forget, either, the reason you are here. In this year and in this time. It is because you showed mercy to a woman who begged for your help.”

  Turi flinched. “A woman who betrayed me. Betrayed us.”

  “The cruelty of one man does not speak for all men, just as one lover’s betrayal has not destroyed my faith in women.” His father rose, went to the table, and filled two goblets from a wine jug. “Those are not my words, Setantii. They are yours. That your faith in mankind has remained intact after all you have witnessed is commendable. Your soul may not shine with a pure light, but it is not as stained as you believe it to be. I am proud of you, in truth.”

  “Have there been others like me?” Turi asked as he took the goblet from his father’s hand.

  “Nay.” He sank back into his chair and a softness came to his eyes. “I broke an immortal rule when I mated with your mother. No other woman ever affected me the way Arianwen did.”

  “I know the feeling,” Turi said, and took a sip. “I wish I could have known her.”

  “You have her spirit.” Pendaran raised his goblet. “All that is good in you comes from her. Not me.”

  Turi gave a sober smile. “So,” he said, “I’m not to be cast into Annwn’s flames?”

  “Not today,” his father replied, with a shake of his head. “But I’m afraid this new challenge you face, like the others, should be met without interference from me.”

  Turi grimaced. “Then it will likely be my greatest challenge of all. Those who knew of the child’s whereabouts are dead. I wouldn’t know where to even begin looking for him.”

  “I said should be met, not must be met.” Pendaran assumed a thoughtful expression. “Seek out a man named Cuthbert. He is a friar at Newstead Priory, in the shire of Nottingham.”

  The goblet stopped halfway to Turi’s mouth. “Jacob is at Newstead Priory?”

  “I did not say that, nor will I say aught else about it, except to ask you this.” He leaned forward. “Do you truly understand the danger you face, Setantii? When the magic of Gwaed Tragwyddol has run its course, you will be as vulnerable to disease as any other man.”

  Turi nodded. “I understand it well, Father. But I had a vision, remember? The little lad, riding around an orchard on his pretend horse, a black dog nearby? Eamont has such an orchard and such a dog, and I believe it was Jacob I saw in my vision.”

  “Visions are always at the mercy of destiny, which is fickle. Nothing is ever certain.”

  “My faith remains certain, my lord,” Turi replied, “and I have to trust it.”

/>   Chapter Eighteen

  On a damp Tuesday morning, nigh on a week after he’d left the coast of Ellan Vannin, Turi rode up to the solid oak gates of Newstead Priory. Set deep in the royal forest of Sherwood, the priory was a relatively small Augustinian establishment.

  Turi should have felt some enthusiasm. Some eagerness that he might, at last, learn the whereabouts of Cristen’s son. But, as he eyed the priory walls, he felt only a sense of foreboding. Surely, his father had not misled him. Why, then, did he feel as he did?

  He dismounted and tugged on the bell rope. Moments later, a small hatch in the gate opened and the clean-shaven face of a man peered out.

  “Good day to you,” Turi said. “My name is Turi, and I wish to speak to one of your brethren. Brother Cuthbert is his name.”

  The friar appeared startled. “Are you a relative?” he asked, his voice wary.

  “Nay,” Turi replied, puzzled by the cleric’s response. “In truth, I’ve never met the man. I’m seeking the whereabouts of a child, a young boy of three summers who was erroneously placed in a monastic establishment. I act on behalf of the boy’s mother and carry a signed statement from her. I’ve been told Brother Cuthbert might know where the child is.”

  “I see,” the friar replied, although his expression seemed to imply otherwise. “Normally, there would not be a problem with your request but, at the moment, I’m not certain Brother Cuthbert would be able to speak to you, since he is unwell.”

  Turi’s hackles twitched. “Unwell?”

  “Yes.” The man appeared to ponder for a moment. “I’m afraid I must ask you to wait while I make some inquiries. I’ll return shortly.”

  The little hatch closed before Turi could respond.

  “There are times, my friend, when I wish my gut feelings were wrong.” Turi reached up and tugged on Samson’s ear. Samson shook his head and rolled a blue eye.

  At that moment, from somewhere within, the sound of a melodic chant rose into the air, the notes pure and clear. They did little to ease Turi’s angst or quell his thinning patience as the moments passed. At last, he heard the sound of a heavy bolt being pulled and the gate swung open with a metallic groan.

  “Good day to you. You are called Turi, I believe? I am Edwin, the prior here at Newstead. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Come in, please, and bring your horse, too.” The man, who barely rose to the height of Turi’s shoulder, stepped aside and pointed. “You may tether him over by yon trough and leave your weapons there also. Then I’ll take you to see Brother Cuthbert.”

  Muttering his thanks, Turi did as bid, and then fell into step beside the prior as they strode through the cloisters. The sour smell of unwashed flesh surrounded him like an invisible blanket.

  “You are seeking the whereabouts of a child, I understand,” Edwin said. “I’m curious to know how this child came to be lost.”

  “He was taken from his mother by his stepfather, who recently died without disclosing where the child is,” Turi replied. “With respect, Prior, I will say little else, except that the child’s mother, understandably, would like her son returned. I recently learned that Friar Cuthbert may have information about the boy.”

  Edwin grunted. “It sounds like a sad affair. I would ask, though, that you do not tax the man too much. He has been quite ill. In truth, I’m not certain how responsive he might be to questioning.”

  “May I know the nature of his illness?” Turi asked.

  “’Tis a bad case of the flux,” Edwin replied. “Also, at times, he seems to be…hmm, distracted, shall we say? He looks at you, but it’s as if he does not see you. He became ill on his way back from Bristol. He was visiting a sick friend at Austin Friary. Cuthbert was a resident there some years ago.”

  “My thanks,” Turi said, committing the name of the Friary to memory. “That may be helpful to me.”

  Edwin smiled, halted by a small, arched door, and pushed it open. “He has twice evacuated his bowels and stomach this morning and is, consequently, in a weakened state. Please do not expect too much from him.”

  Had Turi not been told of Cuthbert’s bodily evacuations, the thick stench in the small room would have announced them. His throat closed as he entered the windowless cell, the only light coming from a thin taper that flickered on a bedside table. The table and the bed were the only items of furniture, the latter occupied by the man Turi sought.

  Facial features unclear in the gloom, the gray edges of Cuthbert’s tonsured haircut suggested a man of middling years. His eyes were closed, lips parted, chest rising and falling with successive, rasping breaths. Turi touched the man’s forehead. There was no sign of fever, but Turi knew the pestilence had several modes of attack. Not all victims suffered from a noticeable fever, even though they exhibited signs of delirium.

  “Brother Cuthbert.” Turi leaned down. “Can you hear me?”

  The man’s eyelids twitched and opened. Glazed, dark eyes darted about before finally settling on Turi’s face. Then, like a blind man, Cuthbert reached out, groping the air around him.

  Turi grasped his hand.

  “Who are you?” Cuthbert said. “Do I know you?”

  “Nay.” Still holding the man’s hand, Turi crouched at his bedside. “You don’t know me, but I’m hoping you can help me. I was told you might.”

  Cuthbert swallowed and licked his lips. “Help you?”

  “I’m seeking the whereabouts of a child. A young boy. His name is Jacob. Jacob Walter de Lussan. He came from Frehampton Manor, in Dorset.”

  Confusion crept across Cuthbert’s face. “There are no children here.”

  “I know.” Turi squeezed the man’s hand. “Where were you before you came to Newstead, Friar Cuthbert?”

  “I was in Bristol,” Cuthbert replied. “Austin Friary.”

  “And was there a small boy there named Jacob? Two or three summers old, with dark hair and blue eyes?”

  “Jacob? Nay. My friend’s name is…” Cuthbert frowned. “I forget. He is sick. By my soul, there are many there who are sick. May God help them.”

  Turi took a breath. “Were there any children there, Friar? Do you recall a child named Jacob? He would likely have been placed by a nobleman named St. Clair. Cedric St. Clair.”

  Cuthbert’s lip curled. “That man is no saint.”

  “You know him?” Turi’s heart raced as he leaned closer. “You know Cedric?”

  A sudden look of alarm flashed across Cuthbert’s face. His jaw trembled as he gripped Turi’s hand with surprising force and tried to raise himself from the pillow. “Oh, God… help me,” he said, the feeble plea followed a moment later by a choking gush of bloodstained vomit.

  “Cuthbert has been tended and is resting.”

  Turi, slumped in a chair in the prior’s private chamber, raised his head as Edwin entered.

  “Good,” he said, attempting to slough off his dark mood. “Did you examine him as I suggested?”

  “We did.” Face grim, Edwin sank onto an adjacent seat. “It seems your suspicions were not without foundation. There are swellings beneath both Cuthbert’s arms and he cried out in pain when they were touched. He is also bleeding from his rectum. It would appear the pestilence has reached our gates, and may God have mercy. I confess I find it difficult to fathom His holy wisdom in visiting this punishment upon us.”

  Turi had no suitable rejoinder. He glanced out of the window, the thick glass turning the outline of the nearby church into a blur. The bell would be ringing for Cuthbert soon, he thought.

  “I should be on my way,” he said, heart heavy as he rose. The visit to Newstead had served little purpose. He had learned next to nothing, in fact. He could only hope that someone at Austin Friary knew of Jacob’s whereabouts.

  Edwin folded his hands atop his lap. “You’re welcome to stay the night if you wish, Turi.”

  Turi shook his head. “My thanks, but nay.”

  “Your choice, of course. But I doubt you’ll make Thurgarton before dark. ’Tis at least twelve miles
.”

  “Thurgarton?” Puzzled, Turi shook his head. “Why would I go there?”

  Edwin raised a brow. “You told me you were going to Cuthbert’s previous house. Is that not so?”

  “Aye.” An odd little chill brushed across Turi’s neck. “But he told me he was at Austin Friary.”

  “He was, but only for the past month to visit a friend. You must have misunderstood. Cuthbert came to us from Thurgarton Priory last Christmastide.”

  Turi left Newstead before dawn the next day with a full belly and a smattering of hope in his heart. As usual, though, he had slept little. His thoughts had taken him north to the wild borderlands and kept him there with Cristen for most of the night. When at last he had slept, to his surprise and delight, she had remained in his head and kept his nightmares at bay.

  He urged Samson into a gentle trot, but had not gone far when the toll of Newstead’s bell caught up to him. It was not, he knew, a summons to worship. Turi reined in beneath the spread of an ancient oak and spared a thought for Cuthbert.

  Then they continued on, the canopy of oak and birch offering shelter from a gentle rain that tumbled from above. At one time, the great forest had been home to the Corieltauvi, a peaceful tribe who preferred agriculture to warmongering.

  In the more recent past, it had been a refuge for outlaws, which made it a risky passage for unprotected, wealthy travelers. Turi felt no fear. To the contrary, he felt at home. He had been born and raised in a forest. He met and passed several folks on his way, exchanging greetings. Nothing gave him cause for concern.

  It was about an hour after leaving Newstead that Turi first noticed the sound. It was separate and apart from the natural noise of the forest. Rain still fell, a gentle whisper on the leaves, and the occasional bird announced its presence. Not a breath of wind stirred.

  But there was something else. A sound difficult to identify. A low hum, not unlike a swarm of bees. Turi tilted his head, trying to catch its direction, but it seemed to come from all sides. Samson heard it, too, judging by the nervous twitching of his ears. Then a violent shudder ran through the horse and he startled, dancing sideways.