The Forgotten (Echoes from the Past Book 2)

by Irina Shapiro

  Oh, she knew she was being foolish, and she should seize this opportunity before Thomas came to his senses and changed his mind, but some small part of her refused to yield. Had she not seen Avery, spoken to him, and told him of Edwin, she would have thanked her lucky stars for having a man like Lord Devon pay court to her, but although her sensible side knew what must be done, her heart just wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t comply. Avery was no more hers for the taking than he had been twelve years ago, but she couldn’t accept that after having found him again. Her soul ached for him, as did her body. After years of being dormant, like a bear in its den, her desire had come awake, yearning for a man’s touch.

  Thomas had brushed his hand against hers on several occasions. His hand was warm and strong, a man’s hand, but it didn’t excite her the way the sight of Avery’s slender fingers and narrow wrists had. Avery had the hands of a scholar and the eyes of a poet. He used to play the lute when he was young, shyly performing for Petra and waiting for her to clap her hands in approval. Did he still play, or had he given up music along with everything else? He must have. Petra couldn’t reconcile the seriousness of Avery’s gaze with someone who amused himself by playing the lute and reciting poems about valiant knights and the beautiful, unattainable ladies they loved. Avery had sacrificed every part of himself that mattered, including his love for her.

  Petra looked up at the sky. It was shrouded in thick, low clouds that completely obscured the moon and the stars. There was hardly any light to see by, and suddenly, she was scared. Most respectable folk were already at home, sitting by their hearths after supper and spending a bit of time with their kin before retiring for the night. Petra longed to be by her hearth with her family. She felt like she hadn’t spent any proper time with them in weeks, particularly the girls, who having taken on some of Petra’s chores, fell into bed right after supper. She missed them, and she missed Edwin, who’d been withdrawn and silent since Candlemas. He wasn’t yet twelve, but he understood the consequences of what occurred and knew that life wasn’t going to be kind to him, one way or another.

  It’d been nearly a fortnight since she’d seen Avery, but Petra hadn’t heard from him nor spied him at any of the Candlemas celebrations. She’d looked for him too, despite her promise to herself not to. There’d been several friars from the priory and Knights Hospitallers dressed in their black capes and tunics with the white cross emblazoned on the front. At least they hadn’t been wearing their chainmail hauberks or helmets, or carrying any weapons besides their swords, it being a day of celebration. All the parish priests were there as well, tending to their flock, but she hadn’t seen Avery anywhere.

  Lady Blythe was long recovered and eager to see her confessor. She’d even sent a message to the priory, but still Avery stayed away. Had Petra offended him in some way, or had she overstepped her bounds by asking him to help their son? Of course, finding out he had a son must have come as a shock to Avery, but she’d had no choice. She had no one else to turn to, no male relatives to offer protection or guidance or much-needed funds. Had she spooked Avery enough to send him running back to Oxford? Or perhaps he’d been ill, shut up at the priory as the brothers tended to him. These questions went round and round in her head, but she was no closer to an answer. Avery seemed to have vanished.

  Petra bent her head into the wind and hastened her step. Every sound startled her and forced her to walk faster. She suddenly felt very alone and very vulnerable. A woman walking on her own after dark was a target for rowdy seamen, and being so close to the port, she was at risk, especially since most of them had been in the taverns for hours and were well lubricated with ale by this point. She could never be mistaken for a whore, but when drunk enough, the men didn’t care; they just wanted a warm body to hold and a willing, or unwilling, wench to slake their lust on. It happened often enough, but the perpetrators were never taken up by the constables or brought before the sheriff. The woman was accused instead if she dared to make a complaint, blamed for being out alone or told that her wanton behavior justified the assault.

  Petra cried out in terror when a hand closed about her upper arm. She whirled about, but couldn’t see the face of her assailant, who was wearing a dark cloak, the hood pulled low over his face. His hand was strong, the fingers like a vice around her flesh. Petra whimpered with fear. She prayed the man might be a Knight Hospitaller, but couldn’t see the white cross. The knights were good men, and protectors of women. They would never assault a woman in the street, so why was this man gripping her arm unless he was bent on an act of violence against her?

  “Shh, it’s me, Petra,” the man hissed. “Don’t be frightened.” He pushed his hood back enough for Petra to see his face. She let out the breath she’d been holding and pulled her arm from Avery’s grasp, taking a step back to regain her composure.

  “So, you’ve taken to skulking in the shadows?” Petra demanded, trying to sound outraged to cover up her initial fear. Her heart was still racing, and her breath came fast and hard, but her fear had turned to excitement at seeing Avery.

  “I can’t be seen with you,” Avery explained as he steered her toward a clump of trees. The trees were old and had thick trunks, completely obscuring Petra and Avery from prying eyes, had there been any at this time of night and with a storm coming on.

  “Won’t you be missed?” Petra asked. Avery looked to be in good health, so he must have been intentionally staying away, avoiding her.

  “I usually return to my cell for solitary contemplation between Vespers and Compline. No one will comment on my absence,” Avery explained.

  “Did you come to see me about Edwin?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Avery replied. Petra could just make out his face in the darkness, his eyes drinking her in, his lips slightly parted. “Oh, Petra, I thought I was immune,” Avery breathed.

  “Immune to what?”

  But Avery didn’t respond. His arm came about her waist and he pulled her close, his lips covering hers with a familiarity that made her weak in the knees. The years slipped away, and they were young again, drunk on the heady emotions of first love. Avery pushed her up against the tree, his kiss becoming more demanding as he pressed his body against hers. There were layers of fabric between them, but she could still feel his heat and his solid strength as he held her in his arms.

  Somewhere in the back of Petra’s mind, she knew she should stop him, but her heart had been frozen for twelve long years, her body used regularly by a man she despised, who’d left her physically bruised and emotionally humiliated. Avery’s kiss made her feel desired and wanton. She could feel his arousal through the fabric of her skirts, and instead of feeling repulsed and frightened as she had since her wedding night, she felt mindless longing and a need to surrender.

  Avery pushed her up against the tree. Petra supposed it was rough and hard, but she didn’t feel anything except searing heat that warmed her to the core. She gasped when Avery’s hand slipped between her legs, his fingers bringing her the kind of pleasure she hadn’t experienced since he left. Avery lifted her up and covered her with his body, his cloak making them one with the dark. He swallowed her cry of rapture with a kiss as he entered her, their bodies joining together as if suddenly remembering something they’d forgotten long since. Petra clung to Avery, every thought and objection obliterated from her mind as he impaled her on his shaft.

  She cried out softly as he moved within her, thrusting again and again until she thought she’d die with the joy of it. Petra began to tremble as convulsions of exquisite pleasure erupted somewhere deep inside her, reminding her of what love was supposed to feel like when both people gave themselves up completely and willingly. Avery lowered her to the ground, but held her until she regained the use of her legs, which felt like stalks of grass in the breeze. He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, taking a moment to allow his breathing to return to normal.

  “I never stopped loving you,” he whispered. “Not for a moment.”

&nbs
p; “What shall we do?” Petra asked, the practical side of her already asserting itself. She thought her longing was one-sided, but now she knew better. Avery must have done a lot of soul-searching before allowing himself to break his vow of celibacy. If he was willing to do that, perhaps there might be a future for them after all.

  “I don’t know. I need time to think.”

  “I must get home, Avery. I will be missed.”

  Avery brushed pine needles off her cloak and adjusted her headpiece. He leaned forward and gave her the gentlest of kisses, making her feel not only desired, but loved. “Give me a little time, my sweet.”

  “I have all the time in the world,” Petra replied. But now it has meaning, Petra thought as she walked alongside Avery. He escorted her as far as he could, then melted into the shadows, needing to return to Greyfriars in time for Compline. He would get a few hours of sleep before the Midnight Office prayer and then be up again before dawn for Matins. The monks are not only denied physical pleasures, but they aren’t allowed uninterrupted sleep either, Petra reflected as she let herself into the house and smiled happily at her family. Her mother threw her a curious look, but she refused to meet her gaze, greeting the children instead and asking about their day as they sat down to a supper of pease pudding.

  Petra excused herself as soon as she could and climbed up to her loft, desperate to wash all traces of Avery from her body. She wasn’t too old to get with child, so measures had to be taken. She knew her mother had smelled a man on her, but she probably thought it was Thomas, and her narrowed eyes and pursed lips screamed her disapproval as loudly as any words. Petra avoided her gaze all through supper. She was experiencing a strange emotion, and it was only once she’d gone to bed and lay awake reliving her reunion with Avery that she was able to put a name to it. She was happy.

  Chapter 33

  January 1347

  Dunwich, Suffolk

  Prior Jacob led the monks out of the chapel after the midnight prayer and watched the men disperse as they shuffled off to get a few hours of sleep before the next prayer service. He knew he should get to bed as well, but although physically tired, his mind was teeming with thoughts and ideas. Prior Jacob walked to the tiny cell that served as his study and lit a candle, his hand automatically going to the letter he’d received earlier in the day. The prior unrolled the scroll and read it again, although he already knew the contents by heart. He finished reading and held out the paper to the flame of the candle, watching in fascination as the paper caught, and the letter began to burn and shrivel, turning into black fragments that eventually blew off the desk by the draft from the window.

  The prior opened the shutters, and a blast of frigid air burst into the cell, making him shiver. He could light a fire, but he relished his suffering, seeing it as penance for anything he might have done wrong throughout the day. He was a conscientious man and liked to feel that he was first and foremost one of the brothers and deserved no special treatment. There were no hearths in the cells. The brothers slept on straw mattresses spread on narrow wooden cots. The windows of the cells were unglazed, the cold kept out only by wooden shutters that did little to keep the cells warm. Creature comforts were not a part of monastic life, and Prior Jacob didn’t seek them for himself.

  He turned his chair toward the window and looked out at the night sky, which was aglow with the light of the moon. Wispy clouds floated over its buttery surface, casting darker shadows over the landscape before finally gliding past and revealing the full glory of the nearly round orb. Countless stars glittered in the heavens, twinkling at the prior and making him momentarily forget the cold. The draft from the window extinguished the candle, plunging the cell into near darkness, but Jacob didn’t mind. He needed to think, and he thought best when he was alert and physically uncomfortable.

  Prior Jacob had been the prior of Greyfriars Priory for only four months. He’d succeeded Prior Francis, who died quite suddenly of apoplexy, leaving the friars to choose his successor. Prior Francis had been at the helm of the priory for nearly a decade and was very popular with the friars. Having ascended to the position of prior when already in his late fifties, Prior Francis took on the role of father-figure for many of the younger members of the order, who were still secretly homesick and were in need of a bit more patience and guidance than the older friars.

  Prior Francis had been short of stature, thick-set, and possessed of a ruddy round face that always wore an expression of attentiveness and understanding. He’d been kind, fair, and humble, a combination of traits that inspired loyalty and devotion among the members of the order. Surprisingly, not many of the friars seemed interested in the office of prior, and only two candidates had been put forth: Friar Jacob and Friar Martin, a man in his late seventies, who was stooped and had a hacking cough that could be heard coming from his cell during the night. Friar Martin was pious and humble, but he had a certain peevishness of character that made him unpopular with the rest of the friars, who weren’t interested in petty slights or keeping score of worthy deeds.

  Friar Jacob was in his early fifties. Tall and whippet-thin, he was in good health and possessed of great physical strength. He no longer had to shave his tonsure since he’d gone bald on top years ago, with only a fringe of light brown hair remaining to encircle his head. He had a lean, almost gaunt face, with light gray eyes and a long, thin nose that dominated his face and nearly obscured his small mouth, one that rarely stretched into a smile. Although somewhat humorless, he was known for being devout, hard-working, and scrupulously honest.

  The vote was twenty-two for Jacob, and four for Friar Martin, whose advanced age and general unpopularity worked against him. The friars wished for continuity, and chose a younger man to fill their beloved prior’s sabots. Jacob had been overcome with gratitude at being chosen and vowed to himself to be the best prior Greyfriars had ever had. He instantly regretted this act of vainglory and asked God for forgiveness, spending several hours on his knees as penance for the sin of pride. He wasn’t there to elevate himself, but to serve God and the other friars who relied on him to communicate with the abbot and see to the smooth running of the priory while they dedicated themselves to hard work and prayer.

  When Father Avery arrived six weeks ago, Prior Jacob had no qualms about welcoming him to the priory. Father Avery was not a Franciscan, nor was he looking to enter a monastic institution. He needed a place to stay while he enjoyed a period of reflection and recovered from an illness which had left him weakened in body and spirit, or so the prior had been told. Prior Jacob was happy to help, seeing it as his duty to offer hospitality and a place of peace to anyone seeking it. Father Avery was gracious, humble, and surprisingly charismatic, and unwittingly reminded the friars of the prior they’d lost so recently. Father Avery had that type of inherent charm that attracted women and gathered men to his side. He was a natural-born leader, a man who had only to speak to someone to gain their allegiance.

  Prior Jacob thought nothing of Father Avery’s presence at first, but after a fortnight, he began to notice the priest’s popularity with the rest of the friars. He wasn’t very well-liked himself, despite his best efforts at being strict but fair. He simply wasn’t the type of man who inspired that type of loyalty. If, for whatever reason, Father Avery decided that he wished to join the order, he would be a rival and a threat, so Prior Jacob decided to find out what he could about the man who could unseat him if he chose to do so. He wrote to a parish priest of his acquaintance who was based near Oxford. The letter that arrived yesterday had been something of a surprise.

  Living in near-seclusion, Prior Jacob had little contact with the outside world. He left the priory rarely, going only to meet with the abbot and to occasionally buy supplies that the friars couldn’t produce themselves. The priory did not have a fish pond or a mill, so Prior Jacob purchased barrels of fish and sacks of flour, as well as beer for the men to drink. He kept the transactions as impersonal as possible, refraining from indulging in gossip or idle curiosity
. Perhaps now he would be more open to hearing the latest news, given what he’d learned. As prior, he had a responsibility to his men, and in his self-imposed ignorance, he’d exposed them to a heretic and a radical. Father Roan wrote:

  Dear Prior Jacob,

  I’m glad that you came to me with your concerns, as they are, indeed, valid. Father Avery is well known to me, as is his good friend and colleague John Wycliffe. As you might not be familiar with the name, allow me to warn you about this very dangerous man. He’s a graduate of Merton College here in Oxford and a seminary professor, as was Father Avery before he was sent away. John Wycliffe is, in my opinion, a heretic who should be excommunicated and exiled, but he is under the protection of those who tend to agree with his ill-conceived views. He has many followers, who call themselves the Lollards.

  Wycliffe speaks openly of reforming the Church, and wages a war against the ideals that have sustained us for centuries. He has dared to openly criticize the sacraments and rituals synonymous with our faith, and even went so far as to question the existence of the papacy. One of his greatest follies, however, is the notion that the common man should be privy to the word of God. It’s said that he has begun working on a translation of the gospels into the vernacular, and means to translate the New Testament with the express purpose of making it accessible to the masses.

  Father Avery has expressed similar opinions to several of his students and has been suspended from teaching for a period of one year. It is your duty as a man of God to help him see sense and prevent him at all cost from spreading his vile influence to the holy men entrusted to you. Maintain your vigilance where this man is concerned.