by Jody Hedlund
“I guess we should go,” I said, although I was unable to keep the reluctance from my tone.
Edmund didn’t respond.
Forcing myself to rise, I walked over to him and stretched out a hand. “Come. Our horses are probably thinking we deserted them.”
Edmund rested his head a moment longer before sitting forward with a start, his eyes opening and lighting with a characteristic glimmer that told me the gears in his mind were spinning and sparking. “We’re looking in the wrong place.”
“I thought for certain ‘S.C. Abbey’ stood for St. Cuthbert’s.”
“It does. But since the clue was likely penned more than a century ago, we must look for the original St. Cuthbert’s, the one that would have been here when the clue was written, likely around the time of King Alfred the Peacemaker.”
I’d assumed the parchment we’d found inside the key was written by the people who brought the treasure to the Great Isle hundreds of years ago. But as usual Edmund was one step ahead of me. St. Cuthbert’s wouldn’t have existed during ancient days. It made more sense the piece of parchment inside the key was placed there in more recent times, perhaps by King Alfred.
King Alfred had been one of the greatest kings to rule the united realm of Bryttania among a long line of strong kings. At his death, King Alfred had split the country into two separate realms, giving one to each of his twin daughters. He’d bestowed Mercia upon Leandra and Warwick upon Margery. They both ruled peacefully until Queen Leandra died. Margery fought Leandra’s heir for the right to Mercia’s throne, claiming the whole kingdom of Bryttania belonged to her. Eventually, Margery lost the fight, only to have her grandson, King Ethelwulf, take up the conquest many years later.
Although I’d always listened to Sister Agnes’s tales of the history of the kings and queens that had once ruled, I’d never truly given her words much thought. Until now. Now I understood all that had happened was the history of my family. My history.
King Ethelwulf had come into Mercia and had attacked Delsworth, taking the peaceful and prosperous kingdom away from King Francis and Queen Dierdal. But he’d done more than that. He’d taken my father and mother, my older sister, and my twin.
He’d also taken away Edmund’s family. And Colette’s. From the tales I’d heard, he’d hurt countless people in his desire to create a united kingdom. Instead of making a stronger and greater nation with Warwick and Mercia as one country again, his cruelty had created only more darkness and despair throughout the land, and his steep taxes had drained the already stretched resources.
Of course, since I’d lived a sheltered and isolated life in the Highlands, I knew only the information Wade gleaned during his trips to town. His news was never good. He complained bitterly of the lawlessness that prevailed throughout the land along with the fear and hardships the people endured under the king’s policies.
If Queen Adelaide Constance took the throne, would the nuns finally feel safe again and come out of hiding? Perhaps people would seek out the convent for help and healing as they’d once done. Perhaps I would be able to bring wellness to many instead of to just a few.
Edmund reached for my hand and allowed me to help pull him to his feet. “We need to look down the hill. The original abbey was built closer to the mine.”
We retraced our steps the way we’d entered. As we descended, Edmund veered off into another tunnel, this one slightly taller than the others. Finally, we reached a dead end.
He tapped against the stone with the hilt of his sword until the resulting thump gave a hollow echo. “We’ll need to tear the wall down here.”
I wasn’t surprised when Edmund used his knife to dig through the mortar and pull the stones apart piece by piece. I attempted to aid him, but he worked with an efficiency and strength I couldn’t match no matter how hard I tried.
When the opening was big enough to crawl through, he went first with the torch and I followed.
“Watch out for the spiderwebs,” he cautioned as he ducked underneath one the size of a full-grown man.
Once inside, I sat back on my heels and looked around in amazement at the old convent that had been sealed off to the world. We’d apparently stumbled into the chapel, for against the far wall sat an altar fashioned from stone. The carvings on the front were covered by more cobwebs, but the detailed cross at the center was still visible.
On one side of the altar stood a tall stone holder that had probably held the Paschal candle. On the opposite side was a baptismal font made of stone, the basin cracked in half. Both were draped with spiderwebs so thick they could have been linen coverings.
Edmund stood and raised his dagger in a position of defense. “This place isn’t safe.” He sniffed the air and peered around the darkened room with narrowed eyes.
I got to my feet, ducking to avoid the webs hanging like drapes from the low ceiling. The air was damp and musty, and it contained a bitter odor I couldn’t name. Even so, I approached the altar. “Surely we can spare a few minutes of searching.”
Edmund stared intently at the passageway leading away from the chapel. “I think we should go.”
I pushed the thick strands from the altar and smoothed my hand over the stone, noting the beautiful carved pattern of vines intertwined with grapes that decorated the outer rim. An altar represented sacrifice to God, laying down one’s own plans and desires. Ultimately, it stood for death.
We needed to find something that symbolized life and healing. I turned first to the Paschal candle stand but stopped abruptly. If anything in this chapel embodied life, the baptismal font certainly did. What could signify new life and healing better than baptism?
Heedless of the webs snagging my veil, I crossed to the font. Like the altar, it was decorated with intricate engravings. I traced my fingers across the dusty but smooth pattern of ivy leaves. And flower blossoms.
The signs of life.
My heart thudded with an extra beat. I skimmed the font, searching for a keyhole or anything the key might fit into.
“We need to go.” Edmund’s voice was low and urgent.
I wrapped my fingers around the back of the font. Scraping aside the web coating, I probed the cool stone of the pedestal and then the base that held the cracked basin.
There was nothing. No keyhole. Not even a dent.
Unwilling to give up yet, I dropped to my knees and brushed my hands across the dusty floor, then returned to the pedestal itself.
“Now, Maribel!” Edmund was backing slowly away from the passageway toward the opening we’d created.
My fingers flew over the raised florets surrounding the base. One wiggled as I touched it. I tugged, digging into the crevices. It fell away, and a moment later I made contact with a keyhole.
“I found it!” I fumbled at my leather pouch for the key.
At a strange hiss and clacking behind me, the hairs on the back of my neck rose, but I made myself focus on getting the key out, reaching behind the pedestal, and inserting it into the hole.
“Hurry!” Edmund called.
My fingers shook, and I couldn’t get the key in. “Calm down, Maribel,” I admonished myself as I took a deep breath and willed my hands to still. Again, I attempted to fit the key, and this time it slid in perfectly. When I twisted it, a soft pop told me it had worked.
The hissing and clacking grew louder, but I didn’t turn to the source. Instead, I fumbled at the back of the base. I couldn’t see anything, but my fingers connected with the part of the structure that had come loose, like a drawer. I tugged at it and was surprised when it slid out.
“Maribel!” Edmund shouted. “We’re out of time. We have to leave!”
I slipped my hand into the narrow space. It was lined in velvet, and a small rolled parchment lay inside. I’d expected to find a treasure, not another piece of paper. Nevertheless, I grabbed the scroll, patted around the bottom of the drawer to ensure I wasn’t leaving something important behind, then scrambled backward.
Only then did I glance
past Edmund toward the passageway. His torch illuminated a sight more frightening than anything from the worst of nightmares. A black-and-brown-striped spider was crawling across the ceiling toward us. A giant spider the size of a goat.
Chapter
6
Edmund
None of my communication would get through to the giant arachnid. I’d only learned a little regarding the language of the lesser creatures, having focused mainly on the wild animals that roamed the Highlands.
Its eight black eyes were pinned on me, sensing my attempt to communicate. But still, it crept closer, the hairs on its legs raised, picking up our vibrations and our scent. In the passageway behind the spider came the clanking and hissing of more. The place was infested with the giant creatures.
I’d heard rumors of large, poisonous spiders once having lived in the Iron Hills in the days before the mines were fully developed. Their deadly bites had killed many miners until the spiders had been hunted to extinction.
How had these survived?
I thrust my sword, attempting to discern the best way to attack. Its hard exoskeleton would be difficult to penetrate. I’d likely have to start by slicing off its legs while dodging the dagger-like claws on each tip as well as the pedipalps next to its fangs.
With a last desperate effort at communicating, I issued a short hiss, telling it to withdraw. It hissed back, releasing an odor that told me it had every intention of killing us.
“Crawl through the opening, Maribel,” I said as the creature neared, so close that it was almost overhead. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed another one entering the room, as big as the first. Although I could possibly battle one, I wouldn’t be able to defend Maribel from multiple spiders at once. Not from overhead and certainly not with so many claws and legs.
She moved to obey me but then stopped halfway through the space. “Give me your dagger, and I shall help you fight them.”
“No! Make haste through the hole and leave space for me to dive out after you.”
She did as I asked, no doubt hearing the strain in my voice. As a third spider crawled into the room, this one on the floor, I knew the only way we could escape was to attempt to outrun them.
As if sensing my plan, the spider above me lunged, releasing silk from its spinneret as it descended. I spun and tossed my torch and sword ahead.
“Start running!” I forced my head into the hole and scrambled to pull my body through. But I was too late. A jab into my calf was followed by piercing pain so intense I couldn’t hold back a cry. The spider had punctured my tender flesh with one of its claws. Within seconds, it would riddle me with more cuts from its other legs before finally biting me with its poisonous fangs. There was nothing I could do to stop it except attempt to crawl away and get as much of my body out of its reach as possible.
“I have you!” Maribel shouted, clutching my arms and hauling me. I pushed with her, throwing myself forward. Another spider claw hit my thigh, grazing my flesh like a cat scratch.
With Maribel dragging me, I managed to wriggle both legs through. Once out, I jumped to my feet. Heedless of the pain in my limb, I shoved stones over the opening. Maribel joined my efforts. Working frantically, we tossed and stacked but managed to block only half of the opening when a spider leg shot out and almost pierced Maribel in the chest.
I shoved her away in the direction we’d hiked. “Time to go.” Grabbing both the torch and my sword, I waved her ahead of me. “Run, Maribel!”
With the blood from my wound running down my calf and seeping into my hose and boot, I limped after her. The spider claw had penetrated deeply, but thankfully, from what I could tell, it hadn’t damaged muscle or bone. I needed to stop and tend it, at least slow the flow of blood. But first we had to put distance between ourselves and the spiders.
“Would it help if I cover our trail with Mountain Essence?” Maribel called as she stumbled along the rocky path. The nuns had developed the herbal mixture long ago in an effort to keep tracking dogs and wolves from picking up their scent. It worked well in many instances and had been one of the ways Wade had been able to cover his scent during his forays up and down the mountains over the years.
“It won’t suffice this time.” My breath already was labored, and I was weakening from the loss of blood, but I pushed onward, praying I’d make it to the horses without passing out. “Even if you mask our scent, the hairs on the spiders’ legs will pick up our slightest movements.”
“Can we outrun them?”
“Yes, if we don’t stop.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. But it wasn’t the entire truth. Spiders could crawl exceptionally fast. Each of their eight legs contained six joints, making them versatile. Our only hope was that the stones in front of the opening would delay them enough to give us an advantage.
“Make haste,” I urged Maribel even as I began to lag, the pressure and discomfort in my leg burning with every step. The pain rose up, making me nauseous, and I breathed deeply to stay conscious. Behind, I could hear faint hisses and scrapes, informing me the spiders had broken free of the stones and were on our trail.
After passing under a gate at the end of a low tunnel, I yanked on the rusty iron grill. Protesting and screeching, it gave way, sliding down far enough that it would impede the spiders—at least for a little while.
When we finally reached the mouth where we’d tied our horses, I fell to the ground, trembling and weak. Maribel paused in untying the lead rope of her horse and rushed to my side. She took one look at my leg, frowned, and then ripped a strip off the shift beneath her habit.
I needed to protest, tell her we didn’t have the time to tend my wound, but I sensed myself beginning to fade. I felt her tie the linen above my wound to staunch the flow of blood. Then just as quickly, she pressed something into the puncture before covering it with another piece of cloth.
“Come now,” she said gently, slipping her arms underneath mine and lifting me so I was sitting. “I shall help you onto your horse.”
The clacking of the spiders was closer. We had only minutes, if not seconds, before they surrounded us. As much as I wanted to push her away and tell her to go, I realized Maribel would never leave me alone to fend for myself. Her physician heart wouldn’t allow her to abandon someone in need, and I’d only waste precious time arguing with her to do so.
With the last vestige of strength I could muster, I climbed onto my horse. Maribel scrambled onto hers, releasing a frightened scream as the spiders crawled one by one out of the tunnel into the cave, their multiple black eyes all focused on us. I leaned down into my mount, wrapped the reins around my arms to stay astride if I lost consciousness, and then whispered the words that would communicate to our horses the need to travel faster than they’d ever gone before.
We charged into the growing darkness, the coldness of the coming night slapping us with the reminder we were still in a wild and dangerous land, that anything could happen, and that I couldn’t let my guard down for a second if I hoped to protect Maribel.
The movement of my horse jarred my calf wound, but whatever Maribel had put there began to numb the pain, making it more bearable. The scratch along my thigh stung as well, and the blood from it had seeped through my layers of clothing. It was apparently deeper than I had first suspected. I’d likely need stitches for both injuries.
As we rode, I could feel Sheba’s presence nearby, which brought me a measure of relief. The harpy eagle had accompanied us through the Highlands. And now, if anything happened to me, I could count on her to take care of Maribel. The bird had picked up on how much the young woman meant to me and was as protective as if Maribel had been a hatchling.
After several hours of hard riding, we reached a small cave Wade and I used when hunting. In the moonlight, I’d noticed Maribel’s growing struggle to stay awake and hold herself aright. It was no wonder, after being up all of last night and then again today. Since we were far enough from St. Cuthbert’s and wouldn’t need to worry about the spiders, I decided we’
d rest a few hours before finishing our journey home.
Maribel started a fire with flint while I tended to the horses. She found the small iron pot and a few other necessities Wade and I kept in the cavern. As industrious as always, she melted snow and began to heat water. When I limped into the warmth of the cave a few minutes later, the pot was bubbling, and she’d set out the few remaining food rations we’d brought along—goat cheese, smoked venison, and dried apples. She also had her medicinal satchel untied and laid open and was threading a needle.
“Eat first,” she said. “The nourishment will provide strength for my mending.”
I lowered myself gingerly on the opposite side of the fire and cringed at the throbbing surge of heat in my calf. Whatever she’d given me to ease the pain was wearing thin.
As I ate, I sat back and watched her at work. Using a splash of boiling water, she mixed together several of the herbs she’d taken from her bag. She made two different kinds of paste and then finished with a tonic.
I never tired of seeing her mixing her medicines. Her long fingers were deft but careful, elegant and yet proficient. I followed her every movement, the way the firelight flickered upon her bent head, highlighting the blond and spinning it into gold, the way loose strands of hair brushed her neck, and the way her pretty lips pursed in concentration.
Finally, she turned to me, her blue eyes probing mine, gently questioning. “Are you ready?”
“Whenever you are.”
She began arranging her supplies next to me. “I shall wash the wounds first with warm water then numb it with the paste.” Her fingers shook a little. Was she nervous?
I reached for her arm and squeezed. “I’ll be fine, Maribel.”
She nodded but lacked her usual confidence.
“You removed two teeth from Sister Margaret’s mouth a week ago,” I said, wanting to see her lips curve into a smile. “Surely this will be easy in comparison.”
Instead of smiling, she frowned. “This is different. What if I make a mistake? What if I make things worse instead of better, as I did with Sister Agnes?”