The undertones of William's message had indicated the need for haste, if not outright urgency. A twinge of guilt fluttered in Owen's stomach. Perhaps he should have ignored John Harrington's invitation the day before and pressed onward to the abbey instead. Perhaps his overnight sojourn at Wraysholme meant he was already too late.
No. He lives yet. I would surely know it otherwise.
Yet despite his self-assurance, he bowed his head and offered up a quick prayer.
At last the shore emerged from the haze. Urged on by the promise of shade, Owen steered Arrio up the shingle beach to the tree-lined road. The horse snorted at the sight of a small stream and sank his nose into the cool, fresh water. Owen, keen to stretch his muscles, slid from the saddle. He rolled his shoulders and surveyed the darkening sky with some trepidation. “We'll rest here awhile, old man, but not too long.”
By the time they reached the small town of Dalton, which lay slightly north of the abbey, thunder was rattling the distant skies. Owen found a livery stable, settled Arrio into a stall, and stashed his sword on top of the door lintel. Then, he continued the remainder of his journey on foot. A short time later, he passed beneath the abbey's arched west gate and paused on the sloped cobbled lane. Below him lay the Vale of the Nightshade, home to the great abbey of Furness, one of the most powerful places in the whole of Christian Britain. The immense sandstone church towered over the surrounding monastic buildings, which in turn were surrounded by a protective enclosure of forest.
The sight never failed to quicken Owen's heart.
Behind the impressive facade, wealth and power joined hands with poverty and sickness. The monks owned vast tracts of land and forests for many miles around. They ran several lucrative business ventures, trading with people from all corners of the country and beyond. Politically, the abbey played a game of chess-like diplomacy with the nobles of Scotland, England, Ireland and the isle of Man. Visitors were always welcomed and the poor and sick were always cared for.
Owen paid little mind to the workings of church bureaucracy, political or otherwise. His interests at the abbey were purely personal. As he descended the slope, the air prickled, lifting the hairs on his arms. He glanced up at the towering thunderheads, which seemed to lean over the valley like massive stone pillars about to tumble from the sky.
A young lay monk approached, also glancing at the sky, his hand outstretched in greeting. “Welcome, friend! Your arrival is timely, I think, since it appears the heavens are about to open. You seek shelter for the evening?”
Owen gripped the proffered hand, blinking at the sour odour of unwashed skin that wafted from beneath the monk's dark robes. The man's tonsured scalp glistened with perspiration, and his smile did little to improve the flushed, pock-marked features of his face.
Owen shuddered inwardly. Not one to judge by appearance, his instant dislike for this ill-presented servant of God surprised him.
“I will likely require shelter for several days, Brother,” Owen replied. He released the monk's hand, fighting the temptation to wipe the man's sweat from his palm. “I'm here to visit a relative who resides at the infirmary.”
The monk's eyebrows lifted. “Indeed? Then allow me to escort you to the guest house. I'm Brother Michael, by the way.”
The introduction begged one in return, but something deterred Owen from doing so. He merely smiled and inclined his head in response. Brother Michael’s flushed cheeks coloured further as he cleared his throat and set off toward the guest house. Once there, he paused at the arched entrance and stepped to one side.
“Father Stephen is overseeing the guesthouse today.” He pointed with his chin toward the door. “You'll find him inside. May I know the name of your relative?”
Another prickle ran over Owen's skin, but this one had nothing to do with the unstable weather. Why did the monk unsettle him so much?
“His name is Madoc,” said Owen. “Madoc ap Gruffydd.”
The monk frowned. “And you are?”
“I am his son.”
“His son?” Brother Michael all but squeaked the response. “I see. Be assured, then, I shall advise the master of the infirmary of your arrival.” He gave a curt nod and scurried off down the path as if the Devil was after him.
Owen scowled at the monk's retreating back. “There's something about you, Brother Michael,” he muttered, “that I just don't like.”
An angry rumble of thunder growled overhead and a fat drop of rain splashed on his head. Owen gave the sky another critical glance, opened the guest house door, and stepped into the cool vestibule.
Within, a priest sat at a small table, his fine silver hair shorn in the traditional fashion. A book sat in his aged hands, his pale eyes squinting at the pages. The light of his solitary candle did little to disperse the increasing shadows in the room. The priest looked up as Owen entered, the questioning expression on his face changing to one of delighted recognition. Chair and table flew apart as he leapt to his feet with surprising agility. Face beaming, he hurried over and placed both hands on the younger man's shoulders.
“Owen! Oh, thank the Lord. Aye, thank the Lord indeed. He has heard my prayers. You have returned.”
Warmed by the enthusiastic welcome, Owen chuckled and squeezed the old priest's arms. “Father Stephen. 'Tis good to see you again, my friend. How does he fare?”
“Ah, my son. 'Tis as well you are come.” Stephen shook his head. “There was improvement for a while, but he's not been good of late. He seems...troubled, and he's been asking for you daily. An old friend of his visited several weeks ago. His name was William, I believe. Do you know him?”
“Aye,” Owen replied, “and I know about the visit. It was William who sent a message to Man, urging I visit the abbey directly. William and my father are old friends. They grew up together.”
Father Stephen frowned and nodded. “I see. Still, I feel certain something about that visit upset Madoc. His health declined noticeably after William left. I fear he may not have much more time on this earth.”
Like an omen of dark days to come, a loud rumble of thunder vibrated the air and a weight settled in Owen's chest. “How soon may I see him?”
“Immediately, if you wish. 'Tis perhaps yet an hour until Compline.” He looked at the saddle bags slung over Owen’s shoulder. “Arrio is stabled in Dalton?”
“Yes, Father.”
The priest nodded and gestured toward an archway at the back of the vestibule. “Up the stairs, then. First door on your right. Leave your things there. I'll escort you to the infirmary myself.”
Although small and sparse, the room suited Owen's needs. The whitewashed walls were bare except for a small wooden cross hanging by the door. A narrow bed in the corner offered a clean straw pallet and blanket. A pail of water, complete with washing cloths, stood on the floor by a simple table and chair. Another pail, as yet empty, peeked out from the end of the bed.
A small, arched lead-paned window overlooked the church and cemetery. Owen pushed at the latch and peered out, flinching as a flash of lightning crackled across the sky. Moments later, the rain began in earnest, its steady beat soon turning into a muffled roar. He threw his few belongings on the bed, pulled the window shut, and went back downstairs.
Father Stephen smiled as Owen reappeared. “The room suits?”
“It suits me well. Thank you. And please allow me to give this to you now. I trust it will compensate the abbey for the care it has given to my father.”
The old priest looked down at the pouch resting in Owen's palm.
“God bless you, lad.” He scooped it up and tucked it into his sleeve. “It will be used for good, you have my word.”
Owen smiled. “I don't doubt it, Father.”
The storm continued to vent its fury over the abbey. The two men waited in the doorway, hoping for a break in the downpour. Fascinated, Owen watched the small brook that ran alongside the path. Inundated by the deluge, it was full to bursting, the churning water almost level with the bank on
either side.
Father Stephen eyed the stream with a frown. “I pray to God it does not flood.”
Moments later, the rain ceased its frantic tumble and fell to earth with only a light patter.
Owen's eyes widened. “Well, it would seem God heard you, Father.”
“God hears everyone, lad. Come. I think we can get to the infirmary now without need of a boat.”
Owen smiled, finding some solace in the old priest's indomitable faith.
“Is he entirely confined to his bed, Father?”
“No, not entirely.” Stephen smiled. “He likes to sit by the open window through the day, and insists on walking to the infirmary chapel for Compline, although it fatigues him greatly.”
The pungent air inside the infirmary shrouded them like an invisible fog. Sprigs of thyme, mint and meadowsweet, strewn generously across the floor, didn't quite succeed in masking the underlying stench of sickness and death. Sounds of human suffering added to the dismal atmosphere, their pitiful echoes subdued by the soothing whispers and mumbled prayers of the monks.
Stephen led the way down a familiar passage and past the entrance to the infirmary chapel. At a small arched doorway, which stood slightly ajar, he paused.
“I'm sure your father will be overcome when he sees you, so I must ask, for this first visit at least, that you don't stay too long. He tires very easily. If you require anything for yourself or for him, you need only ask one of the brothers.”
Owen nodded. “I understand. Thank you, Father.”
“You're welcome.” Stephen squeezed Owen's shoulder. “I'm beyond glad you're here, lad. Beyond glad.”
With a soft rustle of robes, the old priest shuffled off, leaving Owen to hesitate on the threshold. Almost six months had passed since he had last seen his father. At that time, though wearied by age, Madoc had still been a man of reasonable vigour. His decision to join the abbey had come as a surprise to Owen, yet he'd respected his father's wishes. Madoc was a man in the twilight of his life who wanted to spend his final days serving God, atoning for whatever sins he thought might be staining his soul.
So what, then, still troubles him? Why has he not found the peace he sought? Apprehension knotted Owen's stomach as he pushed the door open and peered inside.
The chamber was larger than his guest room, but similarly furnished, with a tranquil view overlooking the cloisters. Rain still fell, but in a peaceful manner, and the unfettered air drifting through the open window felt good in Owen's lungs.
The whitewashed walls served to lighten the gloom, their sparse surface graced only by the obligatory cross, which hung at the head of the bed. A large wooden armchair, set on an angle to the door, faced the window.
How well he loved the man who sat in that chair. How well he knew that noble profile. Yet he also saw the frailty of the body and sensed a failing spirit. What once flourished had faded. What remained clawed at Owen's heart.
Madoc ap Gruffydd wore the loose grey robes of a lay monk. Strands of silver glistened in his dark unkempt hair. His chin rested on his chest and his eyes were closed like a man asleep. But he did not sleep, for a string of worn wooden beads slid through his fingers as he muttered sacred words under his breath. It was a litany without pause, interrupted by the rude creak of a door hinge. Madoc opened his eyes, raised his head and twisted in his chair, blinking as if trying to focus.
Owen felt a sting of tears. “Hello, Da.”
Madoc's jaw dropped and he let out a small moan. He blinked again, like someone uncertain of what his eyes beheld.
“Owen?” He stretched out a trembling hand. “Does my tortured mind deceive me? Please tell me it does not.”
Tortured mind?
Owen stepped forward, took his father's hand and kissed it, frowning at the parchment-like skin beneath his lips.
“You are not deceived.” He squeezed his father's hand. “See? I'm here. How are you? Father Stephen told me you have been unwell.” The words sounded forced, his voice ragged and strained with emotion.
Like a starved man blessed with a morsel of bread, Madoc moaned again.
“Dear God, I have prayed for this day. How I have prayed. 'Tis well you have come, my son. There are things to be said, and I fear my time is short.”
“Easy, Da.” Owen knelt at his father's side. “What torments you? Have you not found the peace you sought?”
Madoc shook his head and motioned toward the open window. “Not even this place can keep the demons out, son. Ever since William left, they haunt me. Maybe now you're here, they'll leave me in peace. How long can you stay?”
Demons? Owen's blood felt like ice in his veins. “A week,” he replied, trying to reconcile his vow to Katherine and his father's needs. “Maybe a little longer. What demons, Da?”
Madoc grimaced. “They are wicked. Evil, yet. They seem intent to hurt me. But what of you? You are still with Weylin?”
“Aye.” Owen smiled, trying to cover his fear. Was his father losing his mind? “But I've been given leave for a time. Kate...I mean, the progeny's well-being is threatened. I thought you knew. Thomas sent a message to William, who in turn spoke with Weylin. For some reason, I've been chosen to protect the lass. Since the abbey is so close to Wraysholme, William suggested I take the time to visit you.”
Madoc grunted and looked thoughtful. “What did William tell you of this threat, son?”
Owen sat back on his heels. “That John had betrothed Kate to a man who is...not suitable. I am to persuade him to rethink his decision.”
“Kate, is it?” Madoc's eyes brightened. “Do I take it you've already met Adela's child?”
“Aye. Yesterday. I spent the night at Wraysholme.”
Madoc frowned and looked down at the paternoster beads in his lap, sliding them through his fingers. “Then you've spoken with the English knight as well?”
“Not about the marriage. The meeting with Kate yesterday was not planned. John has yet to find out who I really am, although circumstances prompted me to be honest with Kate.”
“Yet you were invited to spend the night?” Madoc shook his head. “I don't understand, son. What did you do to merit such an invitation?”
“Tis a bit of a long story, Da. Kate stumbled and injured herself on the shore so I escorted her home. Her father offered me food and shelter in return, and I accepted. It gave me the chance to speak with her and meet her betrothed. Edgar is, indeed, not worthy of her.”
“I see.” Madoc appeared to ponder for a moment. “So, how is she?”
“Well enough, I think.”
“Nay, son. How is she?”
Owen laughed as he grasped his father's meaning. “She's extraordinary, Da. Very beautiful.”
Madoc smiled and continued to loop the beads through his fingers. “As was her mother. Tell me, lad, did the lass say anything odd to you? Did you see any sign of her being...troubled by anything other than this disagreeable suitor?”
An invisible hand seemed to reach into Owen's chest and squeeze his heart.
“Why do you ask me that?”
Madoc's eyes narrowed. “By the look on your face, I suspect my question has value. Tell me what you know.”
Owen frowned. “Perhaps you should tell me what you know, Da.”
Like the strike of a serpent, Madoc's hand lunged and curled around Owen's wrist. His weakness had seemingly vanished, replaced by a surprising force.
“What did she tell you?” Madoc's eyes burned with a ferocious light. “Does the lass see that which has yet to happen? Does she see it? Does she?”
Caught up in the intensity of his father's strange behaviour, Owen struggled to breathe. “I'm not certain. She has dreams, aye. Strange dreams. For the love of Christ, what do you know of this?”
The colour fell from Madoc's face. He sputtered and released his hold, gesturing toward a jug and cup resting on the desk. Owen leapt to his feet and poured some ale into the cup, placing it to his father's lips. Madoc coughed, and pushed the cup away.
“Enough,” he said, taking a gulp of air. “Dear God, William was right.”
“Right about what?” Owen crouched at his father's side again. “Please, Da. Tell me what you know of this.”
Madoc shook his head. “Did she describe what she saw? Did she see anyone in these dreams of hers?”
“Aye, she did. She saw me. Many times, apparently.”
“You?” Madoc frowned. “But you...you're no threat to her. Nay, not you. Was there anyone else? A dark-haired man perhaps? Did she mention anyone like that?”
A prickle ran across Owen's scalp as he nodded. “The Dark One, she calls him. He frightens her. Do you know who he is?”
Madoc muttered a curse and crossed himself. “Aye, I know who he is. William hoped the bastard had died, but I think we all doubted...” He took a deep breath and gave a sad smile. “Edgar may not be worthy of her, but he is not the true threat to Katherine. God knows, I have so much to tell you. You must prepare, my son. You must prepare.”
Chapter 10
Surrounded by an ancient stand of oak and elm, two men faced each other in a small forest clearing just south of the abbey. The virgin light of a new moon made little impression on the woodland shadows - a fortunate circumstance for the nefarious pair and their covert dealings.
One was a giant of a man, broad shouldered and thick-limbed. His abundant mane of red hair, tied back with a strip of cow hide, tumbled to his waist. His ample beard, also red, had been twisted into several stiff braids, each one secured with a length of catgut. A short dagger swung from a clip on his belt and the polished hilt of a sword poked out of a leather scabbard strapped to his back. Behind him, a massive black horse snorted and lowered its soft nose to tug at the coarse grass. In contrast to it master, the gelding's mane and tail had been clipped short. The harsh cut accentuated the animal's muscular lines, making it appear even larger.
Gavin, dressed in his monk's garb, imagined a rabbit must feel similar trepidation when confronted by a snarling wolf. To cover the anxiety roiling in his gut, he plastered on a false smile and peered up at the shadowed face of the red-headed Goliath. “I have news, my lord,” he said.
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