In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

The battered German stumbled forward and Will seized the opportunity to slip his trench knife from its sheathe in his boot. Just. Just. God is just. The words became a chant, ringing through his mind with each step he took.

  “Will, hurry.” Malcom’s panting voice reached Will’s ears just moments before he caught up to them. Will grinned. Malcolm was tired after the fight whereas he was fresh. He therefore had an advantage.

  “There!” Will followed the general direction of Malcom’s finger. They were not far from their own lines.

  “Remember, the watchword is—”

  Malcolm never finished his sentence. Will grabbed the German by the shirt and smashed the butt of his pistol into the side of the prisoner’s skull.

  The man crumpled onto the ground without a sound.

  “What are you doing?” Malcolm stared at the fallen body.

  Will’s answer was to spin on his heel and ram his head into Malcolm’s stomach. Malcolm dropped his pistol as they crashed to the hard earth with Will on top. Malcom struck down with his elbows.

  Will felt the shock of contact but slammed his head into Malcom’s gut again.

  “Are you crazy?” Malcolm twisted under him, rolling to one side as he jerked his knee into Will’s chest.

  Will grunted, his taut muscles absorbing the shock. He struck back, slamming the back of his hand against Malcom’s face. “Where is she?”

  Will ground his knee into Malcom’s chest, pinning him to the ground. “You know where Eleanor is.” He pressed his knife against Malcom’s throat. “Now tell me!”

  “Will I—”

  “Shut up, Malcolm! Where is she?” Will increased the pressure on the edge of the blade. He was losing control. Rage was darkening his reason, deforming Malcolm into a German soldier.

  “I don’t know anything!”

  “Malcolm, I swear if you don’t tell me now I will slit your throat like the dog you are!”

  Malcolm grew still, the whites of his dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Etaples.” His chest heaved under Will’s knee as he sucked in a breath. “She’s been waiting for you at Etaples. She’s a nurse of sorts.” He licked his lips. “I’m sorry. I-I wanted to tell you, I—”

  “You knew.” Will rocked back on his heels, the knife of betrayal slicing more deeply than the one in his hand ever could. Malcolm’s confession numbed his mind. How could he?

  “Over a year together and you never said a word.” His face hardened. “I could’ve died a hundred times over and you would’ve never told me. Why?” He spat in Malcom’s face. “Tell me why!”

  “I... was jealous.”

  “Jealous?” Will’s voice cracked. “You fool! Do you know what you’ve done?”

  Fury overwhelmed him. With a strangled cry, he lifted the knife high, ready to plunge it into Malcom’s chest when a stream of light flew upward. An explosion of white light filled the night sky, silhouetting the two figures on the ground. German flares.

  Distracted, Will shielded his eyes from the sudden glare. In that moment, Malcolm slammed his fist into Will’s chest, sending him crashing to the ground as he rolled to one side. Malcolm rammed his boot into the prostrate man’s hand, knocking the knife out of his grasp. Will lurched to his feet and swung wildly at him as another flare turned the night into day.

  Malcolm feinted right then swung his left fist outward, catching Will on the side of his cheek. He followed the punch up with another blow from his right fist.

  Dazed, Will stumbled backward dimly hearing German shouts. He swung around to see a stream of enemy soldiers rushing toward him.

  “Run Will! Get out of here.”

  With a snarl, Will pivoted back toward Malcolm and charged forward. If he had to die, so be it. But he would take the man who had ruined his life with him.

  Malcolm shifted left, chopping the back of Will’s neck with his right palm then rushed toward the British lines as a stream of bullets kicked up dirt at his feet.

  Groaning, Will staggered upright and spun back toward the Germans. They were advancing on his right with rifles pointed at him. He pivoted to his left. More rushed toward him on that side. Backtracking, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that Malcolm had almost reached safety. A line of hurried Germans cut off his access to the British lines. He was surrounded.

  Both armies, alerted by the noise and the flares, began firing at each other. Artillery shells whistled through the air, making the earth tremble when they landed. The rapid chatter of machine guns was followed by miniscule streaks of fire as bullets cut through the air.

  “Surrender Tommy!” A heavily accented voice shouted the order. “Surrender or die.”

  Will placed his hands on his head. A soldier quickly roped his hands behind his back and force-marched him toward their lines.

  “Hands off me, scum!” Will’s snarl was answered by a blow that made his ears ring.

  They dragged him toward their own lines, spurred on by the mortar fire that carved holes in the ground. Screams and nightmarish explosions made the scene apocalyptic.

  He was dragged into an underground, concrete bunker similar to the one he had raided only an hour before and made to kneel before his captors. Outside, Will heard muffled shouting as the battle raged on above ground.

  “God, spare my life.” Shame made his throat tight. He had been captured by an enemy he had sworn to destroy. The mumbled words were a prayer of desperation. A few moments before, he would have welcomed death. But the knowledge that Eleanor was still alive and at Etaples made life, with all its misery, something he could no longer willingly discard.

  A German officer pushed his way through the crowd of men. His nose protruded like a raven’s beak from his sullen face. An eyepatch covered his left eye socket and his remaining eyeball seemed to bulge out from beneath his forehead as he glared at the man who knelt before him. “It is over Tommy.”

  A blast aboveground made flecks of dirt trickle down on the small group.

  Will’s mind spun. The irony of his situation made him sick. He had finally learned his wife’s whereabouts only to be captured by the enemy.

  “I’m your prisoner.” The words stuck in his throat. He wanted to plunge into this group and take as many of the savages down with him as he could but, reluctantly, he shoved the thought aside. Dead, he could not escape. Alive, he still had a chance.

  The officer issued a string of commands in German and rough hands jerked him upright. As he faced his captors, a soldier let a wicked grin slip over his face. He pulled back his rifle and slammed it into Will’s temple. One thought crossed the prisoner’s mind before the world slipped into darkness. She’s alive!

  MALCOLM DASHED FORWARD, keeping his head low as bullets from both sides spattered the air and ground around him. He threw himself to the ground as a howitzer shell whined overhead. The bomb plowed into the earth, gouging out a massive crater.

  He lay still for a moment, his blood hammering in his ringing ears. Should he lie still or make a run for it? Another explosion, too close for comfort made the decision for him. He was about to resume his mad race for freedom when a still form caught his eye. Will’s prisoner.

  Quickly, Malcolm slapped the man awake then pulled his own knife from his boot and held it to the prisoner’s back. “Go!” He shoved him forward.

  They lurched toward British lines. Fifty yards became forty... then thirty. He could see the glaring eyes of the sentries as they trained their rifles on him.

  “Cottonwood!” He swung his arms over his head. “Don’t shoot! Cottonwood!”

  I’ve made it. Relief washed over him. He prodded the German with his knife but, instead of moving toward the British trenches, the German swung his elbow backward into Malcolm’s nose.

  Pain blinded him, and Malcolm staggered backward, as bursts of sticky blood spurted down his face. In an instant, the soldier pounced on him, ignoring the angry shouts from the British troops on the parapet.

  Malcolm kicked out with both legs, catching his enemy in the side. The
man’s hands flew up as he staggered backward and the watching sentries took the opportunity to riddle the German’s chest with bullets.

  Malcolm shoved himself upright.

  “I made it.” His tongue felt thick in his mouth. He staggered forward. “I—”

  A bullet from behind bit into his side, touching his ribs with scorching fingers. Pain mushroomed in his mind. He stumbled, pressing his hand against his side.

  Pough!

  His body jackknifed then crashed to the ground as another bullet slammed into his back. Gasping, he clawed his way forward. He could hear the screaming voices of those on the parapet.

  “Move, laddie!”

  That voice. He knew that voice.

  “Move, you bawface, move!”

  Move.

  Screaming, he pulled himself to his knees, each motion producing an agonizing burst of pain. He clenched his jaws. Move. If he wanted to live, he had to move. The world seemed to spin as he stood upright. He swayed, no longer certain of his direction.

  “So close. So... close.”

  Pough!

  Another bullet slammed into his stomach, sending him sprawling backward. Malcolm crashed to the ground and lay prone, with his arms outstretched. He could feel his blood gushing into the rocky soil beneath his body.

  Thirsty. I’m... so thirsty.

  The sound of guns and mortar fire faded away but the night sky continued to burn with the fire of exploding bombs. Or were they demons whose malicious grins filled the gloom that was sucking him into its abyss? Screams from the dying rose on all sides. Or were they the voices of lost souls come to drag him down to hell?

  The fires that blazed above morphed into faces from his past. Leila cackled as she watched him writhing in agony on the blood-soaked ground.

  “Help...”

  She laughed at his pitiful croak. Malcolm slammed his eyelids shut but there was no escape. Leila’s face shifted into his father’s. Thomas glared down at him in disappointment.

  “Forgive me, Father... I... have sinned.” Was he saying the words? Or had his silenced conscience finally regained a voice?

  His father’s eyes narrowed. Then, he opened his mouth and a stream of fire poured out upon the prodigal who wallowed in the filth of his own blood.

  “Father!” Malcom heard his voice, calling out as though from a great distance away. He coughed twice as his body spasmed, causing more of his blood to seep into the ground. Then his head lolled to one side and Malcolm Steele knew no more.

  Chapter 28

  Northshire Estate, Great Britain. July 1916

  The smoke-gray Vauxhall slid to a smooth stop on the round cobblestone courtyard of Northshire Estate. “Here we are, sir.” His driver pulled on the handbrake. “Right on time.”

  A soft smile touched Thomas’s lips as he caught sight of the flowers that his wife had planted a few years before her death. The pink climbing roses tastefully added color and fragrance to the tan marble pillars that graced each side of the wide double doors. The stone walls of the castle were a beige stucco, rising seventy-five feet above the ground and topped by a walled balustrade.

  “Thank you, Jamison.” Thomas stepped out of the vehicle, breathing in the scent-laden afternoon air and let his eyes wander over his home.

  A tower, adorned with smaller conical turrets, reached gracefully upward at each of the four corners of the castle. Soaring above them all, stood a massive one-hundred fifty-foot colonnade on which a red and blue flag, emblazoned with the family crest, hung suspended.

  He turned to the driver. “Do you know how long it’s taken to bring this estate to where it is now, Jamison?”

  Jamison cleared his throat. “No sir. Probably a long time, sir.”

  “Three generations have dedicated their lives to improving Northshire Estate. The entire façade of the northern and western sides of the mansion were redone in the latter part my father’s life while I have focused on repairing the southern and eastern sides of the castle.” Thomas shook his head. “It took thirty years to complete the work, you know.”

  “Right impressive, sir. If you don’t mind me sayin’ so. It’s a right pretty place to live and work, sir.”

  “Thank you, Jamison.” Thomas stepped forward, and his gaze drifted to the massive Steele crest that stood on a marble pillar in the center of the courtyard. A golden eagle gripped a sword between its impressive talons, powerful wings were outstretched. Its supple legs were curved beneath its lithe body as though it awaited only the next gust of wind to take flight.

  His father’s words, spoken so long ago, resonated through his mind.

  That eagle represents the Steele name, son. You are our wings, destined to take us higher than we’ve ever gone before.

  Thomas tightened his grip on his briefcase. He had labored to increase his family’s wealth and influence and, as far as that was concerned, he had succeeded. In addition to Northshire Estate, he owned property in Switzerland and had invested much into the Swiss economy.

  Over the years, his influence in the political arenas of both Switzerland and Great Britain had increased. Frankly, Swiss neutrality had been partially due to his relentless efforts to persuade the seven-member governing body known as the Swiss Council to avoid conciliatory relations with the Triple Alliance.

  It was his rising influence that alarmed Sir Robert Hughes and, Thomas had to concede that the man’s concerns were not without merit. Seventy percent of the war costs in the past year had been financed through funds supplied by his bank—a bank in which he held large shares. Never in the history of Great Britain had the Steele name risen as high.

  His eyes narrowed as he crossed the intricate stonework that made up the courtyard floor. But Malcolm’s recklessness could bring his life’s work hurtling to the ground. While his son’s heroic actions on the battlefield indicated that he was trying to change, Thomas had seen too much evil in the world to put faith in good intentions.

  He nodded briskly to the guard who stood on duty outside the door. Leila was his latest proof that anyone could start anew—if they were willing to surrender to Christ. Throughout the past year he had watched her faith blossom.

  The corners of his mouth tipped upward. At first, his decision to shelter her at Northshire had been based upon her potential usefulness to the empire as well as an intuition that she possessed a clear head and open heart that would be needed to safeguard the estate through the tumultuous years ahead.

  But her spiritual transformation had added an entire new dimension to their relationship. Thomas had chosen to foster her enthusiasm by weaving her hunger for God with direct instruction on how to run the estate. Over the past year, he had watched as her growing knowledge and love for Northshire’s tenants slowly began to heal the unseen wounds of her soul.

  His smile widened as his steward opened the door. No doubt she impatiently awaited his arrival, so she could—

  Thomas froze, then pivoted on his heel and stormed back to the guard.

  “Soldier!” He closed the distance between them in three long-legged strides.

  The slouching man jerked upright. “Sir!” He snapped out a sharp salute.

  “I’ve never seen you before, yet you let me pass without asking for identification.”

  The guard, a wiry rat-like man with shifty eyes, stiffened. “Jones is me name, sir. This is me first day on duty, sir.”

  Thomas drilled him with an unrelenting stare. He knew the names of every person he employed, from the field hand to his butler. He had never engaged the services of anyone named Jones. The guards on his property had seen over a year of service at Northshire and he had not hired any additional personnel.

  “Is something wrong, Your Lordship?” Greyson stepped from the shadowed alcove and stood by his side.

  “Yes.” Thomas’s chin jutted forward. “We have a soldier who is derelict in his duty.”

  The soldier’s Adam’s apple bobbed wildly as he swallowed. “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again, sir. I swear it.”r />
  “Indeed.” Thomas thumped his walking stick against his palm. “Indeed.” He drew himself to his full height. “You have been given a solemn duty to protect this family. See that you carry it out.”

  Thomas left him gaping and stepped inside.

  “Greyson,” he glanced over his shoulder at the butler, “join me in my study at once.”

  THOMAS WAITED AS THE great oak door, that provided access to his study, settled into position with a soft thud. Greyson stepped forward and dipped his head. “You wished to see me, Your Lordship?”

  The Earl of Northshire came directly to the point. “We have a spy among us, Greyson.”

  “A spy?” The muscles in Greyson’s face tightened. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but...?”

  “I know it sounds ridiculous but I’m afraid Hughes has added to our number of guards by at least one.” Thomas rubbed a hand over his chin.

  Understanding lightened Greyson’s eyes a shade. “The guard at the main entrance!”

  “Yes. Hughes must have assumed that I wouldn’t recognize one additional guard. He was a navy officer after all, not infantry, so it’s to be expected. Navy officers don’t get very personal with the staff aboard those ghastly boats.”

  Thomas sniffed. “The old fox probably thought I wouldn’t notice the man if he offered to polish my shoes!”

  “Would you have me dismiss him?”

  “No. It’s better to keep our enemy close where we can contain him. We’ll keep Hughes in the dark about our knowing what he’s up to.”

  Greyson nodded. “Very good, Your Lordship. But if he has accomplices scattered over the Estate?”

  “That is a possibility.” Thomas strode over to the window that overlooked the northern fields. Northshire was over a thousand acres of rolling hills, tilled fields, and wooded forests.

  He tugged at the curtain and peered outside. Nothing seemed abnormal, but it would be uncharacteristic of Hughes to put all his trust in one agent. There would have to be others scattered across the vast property, waiting like serpents in the dark, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.