The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3)

by Avril Borthiry

  “Hello, Jacob,” she said, still crouched. “Do you know who I am?”

  His frown vanished as his eyebrows shot up in question. “Are you my mama?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.” Her body trembled with a need to run and scoop him into her arms, to smother him with kisses and tears. Instead, she knelt where she was, struggling to keep a rein on her chaotic emotions. “I’m so happy to see you, Jacob. I’ve missed you very much.”

  “You have?” He stuck his bottom lip out and appeared to ponder. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  She laughed and held out her arms. “Would you like to give me a hug?”

  He pondered again. “All right,” he said, after a moment. He dismounted from his stick, set it carefully on the ground, and then ran to her. Cristen groaned and gathered him close, burying her face in his hair.

  “Oh, thank God,” she murmured, breathing in his familiar scent. “Thank God. Thank God. I have missed you so much, Jacob. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I’m glad, too.” His little arms wound around her neck. “You smell nice, Mama, just like Turi said you would.”

  “Turi?” She gasped and set the child back from her, eyes searching his little face. “Where is he? What happened to him, Jacob?”

  The frown returned. “He got very sick,” he said. “Everybody got sick and died. It smelled terrible.”

  Cristen whimpered and pressed a hand to her mouth. Oh, God help me.

  “Except for me and Turi,” Jacob finished. He cocked his head and wiped a grubby hand down Cristen’s cheek. “Why are you crying, Mama?”

  “Except for you and Turi?” A laugh and a sob spilled out at the same time. “Turi didn’t die?”

  “Nay.” Jacob peered over her shoulder and pointed. “He’s over there. See? With Loki.”

  Cristen gasped. She staggered to her feet and squinted into the sunlight, shading her eyes against the glare. Gilbert and Pendaran had gone. In their place stood a solitary figure, his silhouette outlined by the sun at his back.

  Turi?

  Stunned by what her eyes beheld, she stared at him for a moment, hardly able to breathe.

  Jacob’s voice broke into her stupor. “Do you want Turi to give you a hug, too, Mama?”

  You have waited a long time, Cristen. Don’t wait any longer.

  “Yes, Jacob,” she whispered. “Yes, I do. Very much.”

  Still fearful this was naught but a dream and that, at any moment, she’d awaken alone in her bed, Cristen never took her eyes from Turi’s face as she approached. He remained still, his expression solemn as he watched her. She stopped less than a stride away, her heart thudding in her ears as she gazed into his eyes.

  He released a small sigh. “Hello, little bird,” he said. “I have missed you.”

  It was all she needed. Cristen let out a cry and flew into his arms. They tightened around her, secure and warm. His heart beat strong and steady beneath her ear as she inhaled his familiar, musky scent. Not even Heaven, she thought, snuggling against his chest, could be this wonderful.

  “I have missed you,” he said again, his voice husky with emotion.

  “Oh, Turi.” She pressed her lips to his throat. “Where were you? When I didn’t see you with your father, I thought… I thought –”

  “Hush, love, I know. But I wanted to wait. I wanted you be alone with Jacob, for a little while at least.

  “I can hardly believe it.” She looked back and beckoned to Jacob, who picked up his stick and trotted toward them. “You. Him. Here at last. Isn’t he beautiful?”

  Turi smiled. “I already love him as my own. He’s a brave little soul. Gets that from his mama.”

  “I knew you’d find him,” she said, running her fingers along the line of Turi’s jaw. “And I knew you’d come back. I never stopped believing in you, not for a moment. And I have missed you, too. More than I can say. There were times when I thought I might go mad from it.”

  Turi cupped her face, his dark, beautiful eyes searching hers. “I’ll not leave you again, Cristen, till death do us part.”

  Of course, she realized. He was mortal now.

  She kissed him. “Do not speak of death, Turi. For now, you’re here, Jacob’s here. All my prayers have been answered, all my dreams have come true, and all in a single morning.”

  The sound of Jacob clicking his tongue drew her attention and Turi chuckled as the child drew near, still dragging his stick. “We need to get him a pony,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty

  Four days after his return, Turi stood atop Eamont’s keep and swept his gaze across the surrounding landscape. A full moon had turned the visible world to steel. To the west, the waters of the Solway glinted like a silver blade. To the north, the ancient land of Alba lay in gilded silence. To the east, the moorlands of Northumberland, resplendent in their moonlit glory, stretched away into darkness. And not far to the south, the illuminated fells of Cumberland and Westmorland reached for the sky.

  Farther south yet, beyond his sight, Turi knew the land was covered by an ever-expanding shadow. A darkness that moonlight could not eradicate. An eternal night of sorts, unaffected by the rising of the sun. The shadow had not quite reached the furthermost northern climes yet, but it would. And soon.

  Which is why they had to leave.

  Eamont was only ever meant to be a temporary refuge. Turi had known it even before he’d returned there with his father and Jacob. There was only one place where Turi knew they would truly be safe. His sire had already alluded to it.

  “I am leaving in a few days,” he’d murmured to Turi, while casting a fond eye over Cristen and Jacob. “Consider returning to Ellan Vannin with me, Turi. The old magic is still strong. They would be well protected.”

  The invitation, from someone who had always appeared to value solitude, had taken Turi by surprise. But it had also stoked a spark of excitement. He remembered how he’d felt during his last visit to the sacred isle. At home, he realized. He’d felt completely at home.

  And there could be no doubting the power of his father’s magic.

  A noise from behind drew his attention. He turned to see Cristen emerging from the stairwell. Clad only in her night shift, with unbound hair cascading about her shoulders, she looked like a sprite emerging from the Otherworld.

  “I knew I’d find you up here.” She smiled up at him, as yet unaware of the thoughts in his head, although an unspoken question lay hidden behind her comment.

  “You know me too well.” He wrapped her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  She sighed and leaned into him. “Which means you are troubled.”

  “The world is troubled, aderyn bach. There is a stench beyond those mountains over there, one that will soon be carried here by the wind. And that troubles me. I fear for you and Jacob.”

  The beginnings of a frown settled on Cristen’s face for moment, but failed to form. “So, when are we leaving?”

  A slow smile curved his mouth. “You know me too well,” he said again.

  She smiled back. “Where are we going?” Brows raised, she glanced over her shoulder. “Scotland? We could be there before dawn.”

  “Hmm.” He scratched his chin. “The last I heard, the English were not too welcome there.”

  “Where then?”

  “Ellan Vannin.” Turi placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her, gently, toward the west. “It lies just over yonder, in the sea between Ireland and England. You know it as the Isle of Man.”

  “Your father’s isle,” Cristen said. “The place where it all began.”

  “Aye.” A sudden rush of nostalgia settled a lump in Turi’s throat. “He’s leaving in a few days and has asked that we return with him. We’ll be safe there. My father will make sure of it. He adores you and Jacob.”

  “I adore him, too,” Cristen said, and then fell silent.

  “Tell me,” Turi murmured, folding her back into his arms.

  “I was just thinking about
Gilbert.”

  Turi sighed. “He’ll not leave Eamont. This is his home.”

  “I know.” She echoed his sigh. “I confess I have become fond of it myself. Do you think we’ll ever return?”

  “I don’t know, my love. One day, perhaps. And Gilbert will understand. I’ll talk to him in the morning.”

  *

  “I understand.” Gilbert grimaced as he shifted in his fireside chair. His subsequent smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “In truth, I suspected you wouldn’t be at Eamont for long. When do you plan to leave?”

  “Whenever my father is ready,” Turi said, seated beside him. “Within the next few days, I should think.”

  “That soon?” Gilbert sighed. “Oh, dear. I will miss you, of course. All of you.”

  “We’ll miss you, too.” Cristen, perched on a stool with Jacob on her lap, closed her eyes and buried her face in her son’s hair.

  “Don’t cry, Mama,” Jacob murmured, twisting to look at his mother.

  “I’m not crying, sweetling,” she said, dropping a kiss on the child’s forehead.

  For a moment, Turi’s resolve to leave Eamont faltered. Perhaps the risk was not too serious. Perhaps they could stay. But an inner voice whispered against it.

  “You will always have my fealty and my gratitude, Lord Allonby,” he said. “We’ll return to Eamont one day. I swear it.”

  Gilbert grunted. “I’ll try to stay this side of the grass for a bit longer, then.”

  “You’ll be around for years yet, my lord,” Cristen said. “I’m sure of it.”

  Thomas came scurrying over, all efficiency and competence. “Pardon me, my lord. We have some visitors requesting respite. He announces himself as Hugh Castillon, an eastern baron, and his two knights.”

  “Then bid them enter,” Gilbert said, straightening in his chair. “Visitors are always welcome at Eamont.”

  Frowning, Turi watched the steward leave. “With respect, my lord, ’tis perhaps wise to amend that policy, at the risk of inviting sickness into your home.”

  Gilbert raised his brows. “Aye, you might be right. Didn’t think of that. Something to consider for the future, although we rarely have visitors. I wonder what brings these to Eamont’s gate? ’Tis a bit of a detour from the common track.”

  The mumble of masculine voices could be heard and, a moment later, three men entered Eamont’s great hall. Turi rose, studying the visitors as they approached. He dismissed the knights as typical swordsmen before his gaze came to rest on the baron, who walked slightly ahead. A man of less than average height, and with a stocky build, his straight, brown hair had been bowl-cut to a length slightly above his ears.

  The cloak he wore gaped at the front, exposing brown hose, a green tunic, and the hilt of a sword. The man had a mild waddle to his gait, as if he had been born with an infirmity, or suffered an injury at some time. His clean-shaven but pockmarked face wore an expression of amusement, yet somehow it lacked humor.

  An icy prickle settled between Turi’s shoulder blades. The air around him seemed to thicken and he felt an unmistakable ripple of shock. It pulled his gaze to Cristen, who was rising slowly to her feet, her expression one of abject horror.

  Gilbert’s chair scraped the floor as he stood. “Welcome to Eamont, gentlemen,” he said, apparently oblivious to Turi’s unease.

  The baron inclined his head and curled his lips into a predatory smirk. “I am honored, Lord Allonby.” The smirk remained as he turned his gaze to Cristen. “My dear wife,” he said. “I cannot tell you how it pleases me to see you again.”

  Wife?

  The icy prickle between Turi’s shoulder blades shot down his spine and his hand fell to his sword hilt. “Cristen?”

  Cristen made a sound between a sob and a laugh. “Nay,” she cried, shaking her head, “This cannot be. You’re dead. I saw you fall. I saw the blood.”

  “Dead? Bless my soul, is that what you thought? Nay, my sweet. I was merely incapacitated for a while with a fractured skull.” He moved his gaze back to Gilbert. “You must forgive the little fib about my name, Lord Allonby. A tactical move on my part, since I needed to be certain of entry to Eamont. I am Cedric St. Clair, Lord of Frehampton, and I’m here to retrieve my wayward spouse.”

  He stepped forward, only to be halted by the point of Turi’s sword at his throat. “You will not touch her,” Turi said, his soft tone belying his fury. “You will not even breathe on her.”

  The two knights went for their weapons but Cedric raised a halting hand as a glimmer of fear flared in his eyes. A coward, thought Turi. Like your brother.

  “Call off your mongrel, my dear,” Cedric said, his face void of color, “and I might consider sparing him the noose.”

  Turi snorted. “Are you daft? Did you really think you could just walk in here and take her by force? If so, you’re more addled than your half-wit brother.”

  “So, he did find you.” Cedric’s teeth bared. “I wondered if he had. He left before I was recovered enough to talk to him.” His voice faltered as he added, “Did you kill him?”

  “Aye,” Turi said, “and you should thank me for doing so.”

  “And why, curse your bones, would I do that?”

  “Because the pestilence would have taken him otherwise. He and his pet ape were riddled with it.”

  Cristen, who had pushed Jacob behind her, raised her chin. “I will not go with you, Cedric.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed against the point of Turi’s blade. “You have no choice,” he said, fists clenched. “You’re my wife. My property.” He threw a dark glance at Turi. “The law is on my side.”

  “Ah, but I can bring it over to mine, methinks.” Turi tilted his head and smiled. “I’ll swear I killed you in self-defense. Who will say otherwise? Dead men cannot bear witness.”

  “You entered Eamont under false pretences, St. Clair,” Gilbert said, face flush with obvious anger. “You will take your men and leave. Now.”

  “Not without my wife, Allonby.”

  “But how…?” Cristen’s hand flew to her chest. “How did you even know where I was?”

  “I believe I can answer that,” Turi said, without taking his eyes off his quarry. “It was your son, Cristen. He had people watching the lad in case you showed up at Thurgarton.”

  “Your mongrel is not as dim-witted as he looks, my dear.” Spittle bubbled at the corners of Cedric’s mouth as he took a small step back and threw another scalding glance at Turi. “Too bad the pestilence didn’t finish you, too. It was a test of my patience, lingering around till you recovered enough to journey on. But well worth the wait. You led me straight to her.”

  “But why are you doing this?” Cristen asked, in little more than a whisper. “Why have you even bothered to pursue me? I don’t understand it. You don’t love me. You’ve never even cared for me.”

  “Because you belong to me,” he said, “and I do not surrender that which is mine.” He swallowed again. “I would die first.”

  Turi chuckled. “And well you might,” he said, wondering where Gilbert’s guards were. Two more blades would balance things out. Surely, they had been summoned by now. And where was Pendaran?

  At the same time, he noticed the slight shift in the knights’ postures. Their bodies tensed and their hands gripped their sword hilts a little tighter. It was akin to watching a serpent preparing to strike.

  “My own guards have no doubt been summoned, which will put you and your men at a disadvantage, St. Clair.” Gilbert’s gaze flicked from the knights back to Cedric. “In truth, I would prefer to avoid bloodshed, but I will not allow you to take Lady Cristen from Eamont by force.”

  “Neither will I.” Pendaran’s powerful voice echoed off the walls, its resonance drawing all eyes to the source. Turi stifled a gasp at the image his father presented as he sailed over the threshold. Gone were the noble vestments and fittings. The man – nay, the warlock – striding into Eamont’s great hall had surely stepped out of Britannia’s ancient past.


  Pendaran approached with purpose, each step unerring, pale robe rippling as he moved across the floor. A staff rested in his right hand and Turi recognized it as the sacred stave of the priesthood. Hewn from the magical rowan tree, it was carved with the age-old representations of tribal mythology and religion; dragons, oak leaves, and the mysterious face of the Green Man.

  Turi felt a prickle in the air, like that of a pending thunderstorm. The hair on his flesh lifted and his Setantii blood burned like fire in his veins. He supressed an urge, prompted by pure pride, to grin.

  “Shaner.” Jacob, peeping out from behind his mother’s skirts, uttered the word in little more than a wondrous whisper.

  Pendaran halted not an arm’s length away from Cedric and raised a silver brow. “You entered under a false name, my lord, and you are also here under an erroneous presumption.” He pointed his staff at Cristen. “This lady is not your wife, nor has she ever been. She is, in fact, betrothed to my son. So, I suggest you pack up your toy soldiers and leave Eamont forthwith. Go quietly, and you will not be harmed.”

  Turi’s eyes widened at his father’s blatant falsehood. What, by Aeron’s bloody sword, was he doing? Cedric sputtered and regarded Pendaran as he might a rat. “Bollocks,” he said. “You’re welcome to keep her little brat if you wish, seeing as how you were clever enough to find him. But my wife is coming with me.”

  Cristen gave a soft cry and Pendaran gave Cedric a look that made Turi cringe.

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” Pendaran touched the man’s chest with the end of the staff. “This woman cannot be your wife. She is betrothed to my son.”

  One of the knights growled and half-drew his sword.

  “Stay your weapon,” Turi said, thrusting his blade toward Cedric’s throat.

  “Be at ease, Turi.” Pendaran gave him a brief smile. “They’ll understand soon enough.”

  Cedric shifted on his feet and stared at Pendaran. “Understand what? There is nothing to understand. My wife will leave Eamont with me today or I’ll report her as being abducted.” His gaze raked Pendaran from head to toe. “What, in the Devil’s name, are you? Some kind of mad priest?”