Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  He raked his hair back out of his face to stare at the fire.

  And what about Fernando? The Noble seemed to relish in his discomfort and even tried to provoke it. The curiosity was invasive, rude. But there was no choice, Fernando was right; to solve this situation as quick as possible they had to work together no matter how each detested the notion.

  He gazed down at the first page, an illuminated panel that surpassed most of the monk’s works. It was an illustration of him and Notus seated outside a grey and black shadowed cave framed by two large conifers. The night time image was alive through the use of silver leaf for stars and to outline the blackness. He stared at the remarkable likenesses. Even the image of Notus was precise, down to the silver streaked dark hair. Somehow the monk’s preternaturally steady hand captured his red eyes. A trembling pale finger lingered momentarily on his ghostly image before quickly turning the time darkened parchment. Flipping magnificently scribed work, searching for what, he did not know.

  “G’nigh’, err, I guess ‘mornin’, Violet,” Jeanie yawned through her smile and closed the door behind her. She had not expected Violet to be back at the inn before her and was more surprised by the prostitute’s insistence that Jeanie join her for a nightcap.

  Well, it was more than insistence. Violet nearly dragged Jeanie into her room and Jeanie had let her. She was too tired to resist. Too tired to be angry with the woman the idea of relaxing with a bottle of twelve year old Scotch enticed her.

  Despite Alice’s regard for Violet and Jeanie’s own opinion of the girl’s chosen profession, Jeanie enjoyed having someone about the same age to talk to. After a few drinks she had angrily recounted the disaster that Violet’s suggestion had resulted in. Violet frowned and immediately came up with new ideas, most of them shocking, and before the crudity descended further Jeanie quickly put an end to the scheming.

  With a shrug Violet shifted the conversation by asking for extremely specific details of what happened, making Jeanie repeat the story, searching for any juicy morsel she could find. These Jeanie tried to avoid, and did so somewhat successfully without becoming too angry with the prostitute. She did not want to think about the horrendous mistake, and turned the conversation around to Violet and her men. A topic Violet was always pleased to discuss. Before long they were on the floor sore from laughter.

  Now Jeanie stood outside Violet’s door and gazed wearily down the hall to her room, her soft bed calling. Over the years Alice had seen to her comfort, providing a down bed with matching pillows and furniture she would have expected to see only in a Lairds manor. Jeanie suspected it was the Good Father’s doing, but allowed Tom and Alice to take the credit. Now Jeanie had the best room at the inn. Wearily she pushed herself away from Violet’s door and made her way down the corridor.

  The wooden door opened at the turn of the key and into the dark room illuminated by the large picture window. The bed called her even more strongly, its coverlet folded down invitingly. Smiling at Alice’s considerations, Jeanie stepped into her room, unbuttoning her blouse. Stars exploded in her eyes an instant before the world turned black in a mire of pain.

  The parchment lay wordless. The painted illumination took up the whole sheet within the journal. At first glance it seemed out of place in a book filled with radiant colours. This panel was all grey and silver and black. In fact it looked quite ominous. If it were not for the fact that he recognized the figure draped in black armour as him he would have snapped the book shut.

  Whatever had possessed Notus to draw him like that? He had not needed to dress in that manner in centuries. The only real colour in the panel was, again, the redness of his eyes. The ancient sword Eira had given him was drawn tip down and his black gauntleted hands rested on the pommel. It was a disturbingly menacing portrait, even to him.

  It took an effort to move his hand from his image. Had he looked so horrific? He had not meant it to be so, but the black leathers and armour had given him the protection he needed not only from the iron weapons he met so often in battle, but also from searching eyes. The only thing that was inconsistent was the black helmet that had a thin black fabric over the eyeholes so that he could see during the day, when he was expected to fight at that fearful time. No one on the battlefield ever saw what he looked like, especially his eyes.

  Hesitantly, afraid to find what other examples of Notus’ visions of him held, he turned the page, breaking the trance the picture held on him. The lack of artistry and the disarray of the penmanship shocked him and he read the first few lines at the top of the page. The High Latin came easily to him as if he had been born to it.

  Oh, my dear God. I have sinned most terribly in Your sight with my arrogance, stubbornness and vanity. I do not ask You for forgiveness for I will never forgive myself. Only within these pages do I confess to You, Redeemer of all Men, my sin against my son.

  The book slid off his lap to lay on the floor, the page with all its words clearly legible in the firelight. If the illuminated panel had surprised him, this revelation floored him. Closing his mouth with a swallow, he stared at the writing with fearful wondering. He knew of no sin or injustice imposed against him by Notus. This was ludicrous. Notus generally had his best interest in heart, no matter the situation and the circumstances.

  Returning the journal back to his lap, he continued to read, curiosity driving him through each painfully written word.

  I do not know where to begin. I want to tell everything, yet the rush of words fills my head, confusing me more and more. I must start at the beginning, as all stories must, and pray that I make sense.

  The year it happened was in the year of our Lord 1191. We had returned to London so that I could pay respects to the new Master on behalf of my son and I, after spending nearly a century in Wales. It was here I learned that horrendous barbarians called Saracens overran the Holy Land, the place of our Lords birth and sacrifice. It was unbelievable that something like this could have happened. War raged on sacred soil and England’s King, stirred up the fever to free Jerusalem.

  I am ashamed to admit that this fervour swept me into its insane embrace. I, a Chosen, caught in the hysteria of mortal men, but as a servant of our Lord I knew what I had to do. Disregarding my son’s protests and fears, I hired a wagon that was a wooden box on wheels that would protect us from the searing sun and prying eyes.

  I horribly know now that I should have listened to him. We could hide the fact that we are Chosen – I have done so hundreds of times through the ages – but I could do nothing to hide my son. Even the name would draw attention. The Welsh are not well accepted by the English. So intent on witnessing Jerusalem freed, I overrode his arguments with ones I believed logical at the time. I had the black leathers and armour made for him. Knowing how adamant I was and that I would have indeed left him terribly alone in England, my son begrudgingly agreed to join me. Once again he took up the task of my warder, slipping it on like a well-worn shirt.

  We were accepted by the army and were allowed to join them in their travels, travelling with the baggage train and the camp followers, far behind the Nobles, the Knights and, of course – King Richard.

  During the day we slept in the safety of the wagon while David drove. David, a most wonderful and dedicated mortal, bound by words and Chosen powers never to reveal us and to defend us. David, a young man with no other prospects and abilities to serve the Crusade, but serve he desired. He was loyal and good and true and I paid him well.

  At night we camped within the boundaries of the army, sharing space with the armourers, blacksmiths and the many others who are never documented but are necessary for any army to go to war.

  To the footsore soldiers, it seemed, drew faith and strength at my presence and I revelled in it, ignoring my son who stayed in the confines of the wagon except to feed. In all the time it took us to reach the Holy Land my son spoke naught a word. I had grown accustomed to his lengthy silences in the centuries, but this was more. He was angry and deeply uncomfortable. He had turned
inward.

  Again, in my folly and exuberance of being of help to the mortals, I ignored him. It was only when one of the soldiers asked who the cloaked figure I traveled with was did my attention briefly turn back to my son and explained that he was for my protection.

  Thus we travelled on, hiding the fact we are Chosen by time-tested methods. I told one Captain that I swore an oath not to see the sun until the return of the Lord. It seemed that reason was as good as any. All the time my son spoke to none and hid his features under his black cloak. I revelled in the attention from the soldiers.

  It did not take long before we saw battle once in the Holy Land. My son had taken to wearing the leathers, armour and sword under his cloak after being accosted one night by two drunken soldiers after a small victory over the barbarians. He had rendered them unconscious very quickly, but they had seen his face. No one believed them, but it did not matter to my son.

  The following night, just before dawn, the Saracens attacked us. It was quickly over in our part of the encampment. My son had jumped unarmoured into the thick of it when one ululating heathen took up a torch and tried to incinerate our wagon, in which I was hiding. I saw my son in his deadly dance. His sword sprayed Godless blood over the thirsty ground and coated him as he slew mercilessly and silently. It was quick, and it was, in a perverse way, beautiful to behold.

  Once the remaining attackers fled, there was a pile of corpses littered around my boy. His sword gleamed and dripped red in the firelight. Exposed, his white hair mottled red with drying blood; he quickly covered his head with the hood of his cloak. It was too late; too many surviving soldiers stared in dumb shock. Whether at his colouring or at his massacre I do not know. Probably both.

  Centuries had made my son a very efficient killer, but the soul within despised it, and it showed. Bending down, he wiped the blood off his blade and strode into the solitude of the wagon, pushing me from the door.

  I was surprised by his actions, not about what he did to the attackers, but how he basically ran me over with no thought or recognition of my presence. And that was when he rounded on me, his voice husky from disuse and filled with raw anger. “Don’t. Do not say one word,” he commanded, and violently sheathed his sword.

  I stood there, my mouth ready to praise him, and stared in shock. Never before had I heard my son speak like this, with such venom and self-loathing. I was just as unprepared for the rest of it.

  “Do not praise me for murdering those men. Killing to feed or in defence of life is one thing, but this … this was senseless slaughter by people defending their land, not ours!”

  “Those were not men,” I hotly replied, caught up by his anger and fuelled by my disjointed beliefs; the old arguments rushing to fill my hurt. “They are Saracens – barbarians. They took the Holy Land away from God!”

  I know now that I should have said nothing. I was as fanatical as the King himself. I was out of my reason. Even the horrified expression on my son’s face should have brought me to my senses. Instead I came down even harder. “They must be driven out at any cost.”

  I shudder to think that I actually spoke these baleful words, words that would haunt me to this day and cause my son so much hardship and pain.

  Anger flashed in my son’s eyes, suddenly making me fearful. “If God wants Jerusalem then He can take it. He does not need us,” he said slowly in measured tones.

  My own anger flared, or was it his that I felt, I will never know, but before I could retaliate with words of my own a new din took up outside. The King had come to our portion of the encampment! Cries from the soldiers, hailing the Lion, swung my attention from my son. My anger dissipated into excitement. The King was here!

  I left the wagon to stand in the precarious twilight of dawn, hoping to see this great man I have only heard of. I was oblivious that my son followed me, the anger still smouldering within him.

  “Where’s the fight?” hollered the Coer de Leon, in his resplendent plate armour, flanked by his banner men, guard and collected nobles. His voice was commanding, authority driven and charismatic. Everything about the man, even to the way he sat his horse, demanded and expected obedience.

  The soldiers cried their garbled replies of how they drove off the Saracens. Richard looked impressed, it was obvious the fight had gone harder elsewhere, and nodded knowingly. Again his voice boomed over his men. “The desecrators flee!” A roar resounded from the crowd, my voice added to the cacophony. “They retreat, screaming that Shai’tan fights for us.”

  All sound stopped. Only that of distant continued fighting and dying screams of fleeing Saracens filled the predawn. It was then that many of the soldiers now gawked openly at my son standing silently cloaked and hooded behind me. Richard followed their gazes and turned his horse towards us, his face set in stone.

  I ignored my son’s rising panic. I was too caught up in the attention of the King. He nodded at me and joy filled my soul, and then he did the undreamable, he spoke to me.

  “Father, is this the one those dogs are running from?”

  Too stunned to reply, the soldiers around us filled my silence.

  “- killed a dozen before they knew it –”

  “- moved faster than the eye –”

  “- swoosh an ‘e took off ‘is ead –”

  “- saved me from bein’ chopped in two –”

  “All those o’er there are his, Your Highness.”

  “Is this true, sirra?” Richard tried to get a glance under my son’s cowl, wanting to see whom the enemy was calling the devil, and who his troops declared as saviour.

  Silence fell between us. I could feel the rage and the fear in my son and knew he had fallen silent again. He would not speak to the man he perceived to be the cause of my madness.

  “It is true, Your Highness,” I piped in. The look on that rock hard face forced me to continue. I did. I was elated. I, Father Paul Notus, was talking to the King! “Please forgive my intrusion. I am Father Notus –“

  “Does he have a name?”

  I could hear the word “no” form in my son’s mind and interrupted before he could speak. “Gwyn, Your Majesty. His name is Gwyn and he is my Warder.”

  The King studied me up and down, and then he did the same to my son. I was excited. Reining his nervous brown horse to stand still, he ordered, “Pack your things and move them next to my palisade. You now serve me.” With that he turned his horse and rode back to his camp, his nobles following.

  I bade David to pack our things and hitch the horses. We were in service to the King. So elated, I once again ignored my son and completely forgot our fight – our first and only fight.

  In the weeks that followed I became more involved with the people who surrounded Richard, and at times spoke with him. Other nights I enjoyed the songs and tales with which Blondel, Richard’s minstrel, entertained us. But more often than naught I spent the nights with the wounded, nursing those who would heal and giving the dying to God.

  Once I asked my son why he would not join me with the wounded as he had at other battles in other times. I did not expect an answer and was surprised to hear him state, “Here I am the Devil, not Death,” before he stalked away from me.

  My son now worked for King Richard and he seemed resigned to the fact. He did not speak, nor did he allow the King to see what he truly looked like. His Highness seemed content with that so long as my son followed orders successfully.

  In the weeks that followed it became my son’s duty to go out and hunt down bands of Saracens. If the group was small enough my son was to slaughter them all; if they were too large he would come back and write down where the allied forces could find them. When he came back from a slaughter he always brought a strand of ears as proof for the King and a wineskin filled with blood for me. Praise he ignored, thanks he scorned, and he withdrew further into himself, doing what others wanted him to do so that I could get what I foolishly thought I wanted – to see Jerusalem freed.

  I did not see his sacrifice until it
was almost too late.

  It was two months before Acre, and in retaliation for a failed assassination attempt on the King’s person, King Richard sent my son to assassinate Salah al Din ben Yusif, better known amongst the ranks as Saladin. I know now how self absorbed and obsessed with his own ego the King truly was, but at the time I believed that a great honour had been bestowed upon my son. Oh how wrong I was!

  Clad only in black leathers, his cloak and a band of braided black leather circling his head to keep his long white hair out of his face, my son left on the black charger the King had given him. His cloak merged two dark figures into one.

  Saladin’s army was several leagues away and it was up to my son to sneak into the encampment filled with thousands of soldiers so as to fulfill the King’s quest to kill his rival. It was suicidal, but he went anyways, leaving as the new moon slowly dipped westward. I watched his lonely solitary figure shrink and disappear in the distance. Having no comprehension how large an army Saladin actually possessed I assumed it would be an easy task and that my son would return triumphant and Richard would reward our presence. I went about my nightly routine spurred by excitement.