Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  It could not be, he had steeled himself from this possibility for so long. To have it happen again, now, confounded and horrified him, yet he so wanted to drink it in and let it wash over him.

  Retreating to the washbasin, he found it filled with fresh water and placing his folded cloak on the chaise he went and dunked his trembling hands in the cool water. The scratch on his right hand cooled significantly, but the redness remained. It felt worse than it appeared and he flexed and extended his fingers experimentally. Hopefully it would be better come sunset.

  After splashing water on his face, he kicked off his shoes and collapsed on the chaise. It would be a very uncomfortable day’s sleep. Blanketing himself with the cloak, he shifted the throw pillows and lay on his side, feet sticking off the end of the chaise, knees hanging off the middle. From this angle he could keep watch over Jeanie and closed his eyes. Before long the fatigue of the night’s adventures pulled him to sleep.

  Chapter XIV

  The road was muddy, pocked with puddles of unknown depths and contents, and grew larger in the addition of the heavy rain that fell in torrents. Every so often the guard would march by, seemingly oblivious to the rain yet obviously bogged down by the drudgery of labouring through the deep, sucking mud. Occasionally horse and rider would kick up and churn the sodden street, casting globules of brown muck onto those unfortunate not to have removed themselves from the downpour.

  Bouncing lights in enclosed lanterns usually commanded this time of night. Now they remained stationary as members of the watch would step into a local tavern to wash away the cold dampness. A few brave souls dawdled along, cloaks and lanterns swinging in the wind, fulfilling their nightly duty.

  1386 was turning out to be a miserable year.

  For two hours past sunset the evening seemed more alive than usual. Coaches, elaborate in their workmanship and pulled by the finest breeds, forced the guard apart as they passed. Attendants in rain-slicked cloaks, heads down in dour misery of the weather, glanced at the occupants of obvious noble worth.

  Lightly, he hopped back; mud caked on his boots, in an attempt to dodge a spray of mud kicked up by the speeding wheels of a coach. Fast as he was, the splatter dotted his wool cloak already heavy with rain. There was no use trying to clean off the muck so obviously infectious to clean garments. With a resolute sigh he plodded on.

  Hunger satiated earlier with the help of a one handed beggar tired and sick of life, he now only wanted to get out of this all pervading rain and into some dry clothes. Water had seeped into his boots not a moment after exiting the small back room of the warehouse that served as their home. Now he walked in water. The mud had not decreased the intake as he had hoped. His cloak hung heavily from his shoulders and had long since ceased to be effective. Rivulets ran down his back, milk white hair plastered against his pale skin, and his leather breeches clung uncomfortably as he walked.

  Pulling the hood farther over his forehead, he hoped in vain that it would keep the rain out of his eyes. It was a miserable night and so was he.

  A turn off the road and down an alley led him straight home. Homeless dotted the side of the building in hopes of at least a dry place for the night. Most were solitary, huddled beneath eaves, but there was one small group. As he approached the door to his home a small child broke from the group and ran to him. Her fair hair stuck to her thin face and her bare feet kicked up mud that stuck to her threadbare robe.

  “Wait,” she called, finally catching up to him.

  Deciding that it did not matter if he got any dirtier, he knelt down on one knee and immediately regretted it. On nights like these the ache in his leg would spontaneously appear. He had thought that nearly two hundred years was long enough to heal completely. Evidently he was wrong and ignoring the shooting pain he quietly asked, “What is it, Sarah?”

  “Ma’s started coughin’ ‘gain.” Worried blue eyes fell to the mud.

  “Did she not take the medicine Father Notus gave her?”

  She bobbed her head and gazed up into the darkness of his cowl. “It’s not workin’ nomore.”

  He noticed the dark circles of privation and worry. “Did you not ask Father Notus for more?”

  “I tried, but he’s not home.”

  He frowned and glanced at the door. Notus said he would not be going out and that he had work to do. It was probably that his Chooser was so engrossed as to have not heard the rapping on the door. There was not much that he could do to help Sarah and her mother and sadly wondered what would happen to Sarah and her brother when their mother finally succumbed to the ravages of the cough. He did not doubt that that time was not too far off.

  Reaching into the drawstring purse hanging from his belt, he counted out several shillings and handed them to her. “Get yourself and your family out of the rain and into someplace warm. I will tell the Father about the medicine.”

  Sarah’s eyes went round at the sum of money in her frail hands. With a jingle, her hands closed in tight fists to ensure the protection of the gift. Her eyes were still wide as she flung her arms around him, repeating her thanks over and over.

  Thrown off balance, both mentally and physically at the unexpected assault, he could only gape at her blonde head nestled against his chest. Closing his mouth, he reluctantly returned the embrace. She was thin, too thin. Her shoulders felt insubstantial under his hand and she shivered in the cold rain. Her heat warmed him and the smell of her young blood intoxicated him. It would be so easy to release her of the pain of this life. He shuddered at the thought, at his own ruthlessness. He would not do such a thing. It would go against everything Notus ingrained upon him. She still had a life to live and to take from an innocent was abhorrent. The villains and those asking for release were his prey.

  He removed her bony arms from around his waist and forced her back a step. Her eyes were bright with excitement and he felt himself return her smile.

  “You had best get going before all the inns are filled,” he ordered, the usual sternness replaced with something more accepting.

  She nodded enthusiastically and turned to go but before she had taken a step Sarah swung about, lifting up on her toes, and kissed him square on the cheek. Flashing another radiant smile she ran back to her family shouting, “Thank you.”

  He blinked in astonishment, the touch of her lips still warm on his face, and painfully rose to his feet, mud sticking heavily to breeches. He hoped that she would be all right and be one of the few in her position to make it to adulthood. The reality was that she would be lucky to live until next winter.

  The mud squelched beneath his boots as the rain ebbed its downpour. Placing his hand on the door, he turned for a final glance back at Sarah and her family’s departure, and then pushed in, the hinges squeaking with dampness.

  A few candles illuminated the small room. One on the rickety table in the centre at which Notus worked unaware of his sons appearance, and the other two hung on the back wall in sconces. Without the need to glance up, Notus dipped the quill into the black pool of ink.

  “Don’t just stand there, close the door before you get everything wet,” remarked the monk, carefully scribbling in a thick leather bound book.

  Wordlessly, he closed the door and threw the latch. Aware of the puddle he was causing on the floor he removed the cloak and hung it from a peg beside the door and then proceeded to remove his boots.

  Finished with his line, Notus sanded the expensive vellum and then poured it off into the little dish beside the book. “What took you so long?”

  Surprised at the annoyed tone, he dropped a boot beside the cloak. “Besides the usual and slugging through the rain and mud and being stopped by Sarah, not much,” he replied, tersely. He let one boot drop next to the other. The dirt on the floor stuck to his damp feet and he ran a hand through his rain soaked hair.

  Notus blinked, finally taking in the full sight of his son. “You’re soaked,” he exclaimed, and stood up to find an extra blanket folded neatly on a shelf. “Don’t move.
I don’t want you getting water all over the place.”

  Taking the rough spun woollen blanket from his Chooser, he began to undress. “I did say it was raining outside.” He placed his sodden shirt on another peg to drip dry and unlaced the fly of his breeches.

  “So you did. So you did.” Notus turned back to the table and the book, flipping through the pages of ornate illustration and masterful calligraphy. This was some of his best work ever. Closing the book, he placed it on a waterproofed hide. “What did Sarah want?” He wrapped the book and tied it tight with leather thongs.

  “Her mother started coughing again.” He used the blanket to towel himself dry now that his breeches hung on the last peg. “The medicine you gave her is not working.”

  “It isn’t?” Notus stood perplexed and watched his son cover his head with the blanket, furiously trying to dry his white locks. The long thick scar on his son’s left thigh gleamed silver in the limited light, bringing horrific memories back to the monk.

  Allowing the blanket to slip down, he swept his tangled hair from his face. “Did you not hear her knock?”

  Puzzled, Notus slowly shook his head. “No.”

  He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and walked to his pallet on the left wall. “It’s all right. I gave them a few shillings and sent them to an inn. What is this?”

  Releasing the blanket, it fell to the floor and he lifted up a finely tailored black gipon with silver ornamental buttons and silver embroidery. Even the small buttons on the sleeves, from elbow to knuckles, were finely crafted silver. Under the gipon lay a dagged mantle, obviously meant to button on the left shoulder, hose, shoes and an elaborate silver girdle lay neatly arranged on the bed.

  “It is your outfit for the evening,” replied Notus with a smile.

  Open-mouthed, he could only turn and stare at the monk, and realized that Notus was wearing his finest habit and new sandals.

  “You had best get dressed.” His Chooser picked up the black hose, holding them out to his son.

  Declining to take the material, he stared suspiciously. “What for?”

  “To go to the royal wedding feast, of course.” Notus hitched a shoulder and placed the hose back on the pallet. “I told you about this months ago. The Abbot of Westminster commissioned a copy of the Missale Romanum to be given as a gift to King John.”

  “John is not king. He’s been dead for nearly two hundred years,” he stated slowly. He could not make any sense of what Notus was talking about.

  Notus let out an exasperated huff. “Not John Lackland. John of Portugal.” Still seeing the confusion on his son’s face, Notus explained, “To seal the Treaty of Windsor, the Duke of Lancaster’s daughter, Philipa, is marrying – or will marry – King John of Portugal, and we have been invited to the feast in her honour before she departs to Portugal so as to allow the Abbot of Westminster to present that” – he pointed to the wrapped book – “as a wedding gift. So get dressed. A carriage will be here soon.”

  It took a moment for the reality of the situation to sink in. Anger and anxiety vied for supremacy. “No,” he stated.

  “No?” replied Notus, blinking incredulously.

  He dropped the gipon onto the bed, the silver buttons clicked together. “I am not going.” Anger tightened his jaw. “I have had my fill of royalty, whether it is Chosen or mortal. I will not be an oddity of speculation to be placed on display. Not again. Not ever again.”

  He stared out the window of the carriage, his face seemingly stuck in a perpetual frown. To halt the monk from continuing his sermon of honour, duty, responsibility and how he should, at least by now, be able to deal with larger crowds of people, he finally acquiesced and hurriedly clad himself with Notus’ help. The long tightly buttoned sleeves were annoying and he wanted to give the designer a piece of his mind for fashioning the sleeves to end at his knuckles, leaving only his fingers exposed to the night. The heavy silver girdle resting on his hips made sitting uncomfortable. He hated the fashions of this age.

  Already he regretted coming along. The driver and footman had stood agape when they saw him, and he expected if not the same, still more of a reaction come the reception. His scowl deepened at the happy humming from across the bench. It was next to impossible to get Notus to move on an issue when he was involved in any aspect of his work. For the first time people were going to have a face to go along with the Angel.

  The carriage came to a sudden lurching halt under an overhang that led to large double doors ajar enough to permit light and laughter to spill into the night. On either side of the doors torches burned, sometimes hissing in the dampness. Beyond the doors would be a hundred or more people. He gave his happy Chooser one last look.

  “You look as if you are going to be executed. Cheer up,” grinned Notus.

  His scowl deepened.

  The footman opened the door and helped the monk out. Doubtful that the evening would be anything less than a disaster, he shook his head and followed Notus. Together they stood on cobbles slick with mud and water, and beyond the overhang the downpour petered into a slight drizzle. He hoped that the rain would end before they left, which he prayed would be soon.

  They walked up to the doors that seemed to have sprung open, as if on cue, by two young pages that appeared out of nowhere. Notus’ thanks could not remove the terrified stares of the boys. Refusing to acknowledge them, he felt the movement of air as the doors quickly shut behind him and heard through the thick wood their shocked whispers. Dismissing the expected response with a shake of his head and a sigh he focused on the alcove in which he and Notus now stood. A few other guests, escaping the heat of the hall, gaped openly. Only the occasional whisper or shocked expression floated to his sensitive ears. He noticed that the monk’s smile had slipped.

  They approached the double doors leading to the hall. Silence was behind, music and laughter was before, and he desperately fought the urge to flee. Two terrified pages stood ready to pull open the doors at the herald’s command.

  The herald stood at the centre, dressed spectacularly in a dark blue cote-hardie and a red and gold tabard denoting his position. His eyes were wide and could not bring himself to not stare at the unusually tall young man with the white hair and red irises.

  Noting the rudeness of the herald and feeling the resolute sadness from his son, Notus cleared his throat.

  “I am most terribly sorry, Father,” recovered the surprised herald, finally bringing his attention to the monk. His eyes flickered onto the strange young man. “How shall I announce you and…and your companion?”

  “You know, I had not thought of that.” Notus pursed his lips and turned to his Chosen. “How about Father Notus and the Angel?” He faced the herald. “Yes, that will do just fine.”

  The Angel thought that the man’s eyes could not go any wider and was proved wrong. White showed around the blue-grey eyes while the lips mouthed the title in obvious recognition. Tonight was going as well as expected. All he needed now was someone to try and kill him and everything would be complete.

  “The door if you please,” interjected Notus, his smile gone.

  Blinking as if waking from a dream, the herald coughed. “Yes. Right. Of course,” and straightened his stance. At a clap of his hands the pages snapped to their work. On heavy hinges the doors opened. The herald turned, addressing the hall in a voice practiced and solemn. “Your Royal Highnesses – Father Notus and the Angel.”

  The closest to the doors turned their heads to see who the new arrivals were and their inviting smiles instantly transformed into wide gaping stares punctuated with the occasional look of terror. One woman in a flowing saffron houppelande and a chaplet head-dress let out a strangled cry and promptly fainted into the surprised arms of her husband. Gradually, bit by bit, each searching for the reason of the increasing silence, the hall fell quiet.

  He did not need to look up to see all their eyes upon him. He felt them. Their heat was overpowering and the smell of mortal blood mixed with smoke and al
cohol was intoxicating. He wanted to devour them. He wanted to run. To stop his trembling, he balled his fists and glanced at his Chooser. Notus did not look at all pleased as he walked down the steps to stand before the brightly coloured crowd. Left alone before the doors with sole attention upon him, he quickly followed down the few steps, catching up with his Chooser.

  Grabbing the monk’s sleeve, he forced Notus to face him. You knew, as well as I, that this would happen, he sent. Panic filled eyes penetrated through his cold mask. This is why I did not want to come. We never meant the Angel to be revealed, and now I am. Why?

  Sad soft brown eyes met his. “I am truly sorry, my son,” apologized the monk, taking his son’s hand between his own. I often forget how different you are, different from mortals and different from the Chosen. I only see you. I do not see what others see, and I am only reminded at times like these, after I realized the folly of my persistent nature. “But it’s not only that. His Highness, King Richard, wants to meet the Angel.”

  “What?” His voice was strangled. He could not believe this. “Why?”

  “I do not know, but he made it a royal command.” Notus’ eyes fell to their hands. “I know you would have definitely not come if you knew about this.” Sometimes we Chosen must follow the rules of mankind lest we are discovered.

  A slow simmering anger fuelled him. Following the rules of mortals always led him to be discovered and it had nothing to do with being Chosen. Notus was right, if he had known he would have left London, or at least tried to. He wanted nothing more to do with these types of people. Now he was here, in another Richard’s home, with another Richard’s guests and trying very hard not to shake like a leaf. Never do this to me again, he sent. You know I will do anything for you, but never do this to me again.

  Nodding, Notus gazed up at his son. His brown eyes blurred with unshed tears. I swear upon all that is holy, I will never do anything like this again.