The Forsaken (Echoes from the Past Book 4)

by Irina Shapiro

  “The doctor said you must avoid stress. This”—Gabe held up the sword—“is not an object devoid of stress.”

  “Leave out the rosary then,” Quinn insisted. “How distressing can a rosary be?”

  Gabe’s eyebrows shot up, making Quinn laugh. “Are you joking?”

  “Gabe, come on, you know I won’t rest until I know what happened to this boy. Please. I’ll set the rosary aside if I start becoming upset.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I promise,” Quinn pleaded. She had to know more. Already she was involved, and she wouldn’t rest until she found out what had happened to this poor boy and how he had come to be buried beneath the kitchen floor with an object of war and a symbol of faith.

  “I will let you have the rosary on one condition,” Gabe said, eyeing her suspiciously.

  “Which is?”

  “You will only handle it in front of me, and if I see you getting worked up, I will take it from you. Agreed?”

  “Dictator!”

  “I prefer ‘loving husband’,” Gabe replied with a charming smile.

  “All right. Agreed.”

  Chapter 5

  Quinn woke up with a start. Moonlight streaming through the net curtains silvered everything in its path, including Gabe, who appeared almost otherworldly in its glow. The house was quiet, or as quiet as a centuries-old house could be when it creaked and groaned like an old man complaining about his aching joints.

  She lay still and tried to calm her racing heart. She’d had the dream again. She was locked in the Talbot vault, and Brett Besson was taunting her through the locked door, condemning her and her baby to death. She knew her fear was irrational, but the darkness of the night contributed to the feeling of being buried alive. The beam of moonlight reminded her of the flashlight she’d used to illuminate the tomb and shine a light on Madeline’s remains.

  Quinn slid out of bed and padded to the door, careful not to wake Gabe. A small smile tugged at his lips, and his dark lashes rested against his lean cheeks as he slumbered on, worn out by hours of digging.

  She belted her dressing gown and made her way downstairs. The ground floor was much darker than the bedroom, since the corridor had no windows, and the doors to the various rooms were firmly shut. Quinn felt her way along the passage until she found the door she was looking for—Graham’s study. In centuries past, the study had been the heart of the estate, the room where all important decisions were taken and every farthing of estate funds flowed through. During Graham’s time, it had been a room in which to smoke a cigar while sorting through outstanding invoices or read a fishing magazine. Graham Russell hadn’t been much of a fisherman, but he’d subscribed to several fishing magazines, particularly ones dealing with fly fishing in Scotland, and pored over them endlessly, probably more to get away from his bossy wife than because he was planning a fishing expedition.

  Quinn crossed the room and sat down in the old studded leather chair. It was a man’s chair: hard-backed, solid, and uncomfortably firm. The two items from the grave rested on the desk. She’d promised Gabe she wouldn’t touch them until they could do it together, but she was sleepless and frightened by her dream. And the artefacts beckoned to her. She had realized something when she’d discovered Madeline’s remains in New Orleans. As much as she hated her psychic gift, she wouldn’t give it up if she got the chance. Her ability took her on an emotional journey, and often left her heartbroken and trembling with rage at the injustice of the victim’s fate, but it also gave her an opportunity to speak for the forgotten and the forsaken, and to give them a voice and a name once again.

  Quinn studied the sword and the rosary, and opted to start with the sword. The rosary was small and delicate, and easily transported and stored, but she wouldn’t dare leave the sword lying around, not with a curious little monkey like Emma in the house. It would be too dangerous, unless they purchased a lockable container long enough to accommodate the sword. The weapon weighed about four pounds, as Gabe had surmised earlier and later confirmed by weighing it on Phoebe’s bathroom scale, and was approximately three feet long. It was a longsword with a cruciform hilt made for double-handed use. The steel blade, surprisingly uncorroded by time, glinted in the moonlight, reminding Quinn that it had probably claimed its share of lives and limbs. There had probably been an intricately patterned and possibly bejeweled scabbard that came with the sword, but there was no sign of it in the grave. The sword had been unsheathed, as it would have been when ready for battle. Whoever the young man had been, he’d been a warrior, and had been buried like one, even if his grave had been kept secret by those who interred him.

  Quinn gingerly ran her fingers along the crossbar of the sword. The pattern was worn, but she felt the etching and the shape of the cool multi-faceted gem that adorned the center. The stone, the size of a pound coin, was a deep smoky blue, most likely a sapphire. This was not the sword of a foot soldier. It must have belonged to someone of consequence, someone who held a place in history, even if his name had been long forgotten. Quinn felt a tremor as the steel began to divulge its memories, taking her to a bloody battlefield.

  Chapter 6

  March 1461

  Towton, Yorkshire

  Guy’s sense of smell was the first to reassert itself, which was unfortunate since the stink of blood, shit, sweat, and death was overwhelming despite the cold. The storm had raged all through the battle, from morning until well into the night. The snow and sleet had come down in sheets, blinding the soldiers and at times immobilizing them for what had seemed like hours, when in fact it had only been minutes.

  The carnage was unprecedented. Guy had seen his share of battles, but he’d never seen anything that came close to what he’d witnessed this day. The dead and dying were piled so high the knights couldn’t get around them, or lift their armor-clad legs enough to step over the fallen. The men were exhausted, not only from fighting but from battling the elements. Countless men had drowned as they tried to flee the battlefield, driven into the river by the pursuing enemy. The water had run red for hours, the scene reminiscent of a Biblical plague. It should have been an easy victory. How had it all gone so wrong?

  With the army of the House of York vastly outnumbered by the Lancastrians, the outcome of the battle had been almost certain, until God had made His will known this Palm Sunday. Harnessing the power of the wind, the Yorkists had shot their arrows further and faster than the Lancastrians, whose own arrows were blown off course and fell at the feet of the Yorkist archers. The whoresons had actually used Lancastrian arrows against them, picking them up as they fell and turning them on the men who’d loosed them. And then the Yorkist reinforcements had arrived, with the Duke of Norfolk leading the charge. The Lancastrian army had been routed, leaving absolutely no doubt as to who won the day.

  For a moment, Guy thought he must have died, since he could no longer hear the clash of steel or the screams of dying men and horses, but there was an almighty roar. The battle was over, so the roar had to be in his head. It throbbed and ached so badly he couldn’t even open his eyes, which were nearly frozen shut from the sleet that had penetrated his visor. No, if he were dead, he wouldn’t be this cold, or feel such searing pain. He was still among the living, if only just.

  Guy tried to move his legs. They appeared to be pinned down by something heavy, likely a corpse, but were both still functional. His left arm felt numb, but his right arm was as heavy as a fallen log and the pain that gripped his upper arm when he tried to move it was so severe he nearly passed out again. He must have blacked out when he was wounded, but if he allowed himself to lose consciousness now, he’d be mistaken for one of the dead and left untended. It would take him hours, possibly even days, to finally die of his injuries or the brutal cold that turned his armor into an icy metal shell. Guy’s mind ordered him to throw the dead weight of the corpse off his legs and rise, but his body wouldn’t comply. He couldn’t seem to find the strength to do anything but lie there like carrion, waiting to
be pecked at by crows until he really was blind.

  Opening his eyes took some doing since he couldn’t use his hands to thaw the ice that had formed on his lids. Guy’s vision was blurred and a wave of nausea threatened to turn his guts inside out. He turned his head just in time to retch into the blood-stained snow. There wasn’t much in his stomach; he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning. He’d had some broth and bread to break his fast, but his body had burned through the meager meal by the time he was clad in his armor and in the saddle, ready for battle. And it had to be morning now, since the sky was just beginning to lighten, and the fury of the storm had abated, leaving behind an eerie calm broken only by the moans of the dying and the cawing of crows gleefully enjoying their gruesome breakfast.

  Guy accidentally moved his arm and agonizing pain shot through his entire right side, making him cry out.

  “Guy, thank Jesu,” a voice from somewhere above him exclaimed. It pronounced Guy as Ghee, the way his French mother had. Few people called him that, so even though Guy couldn’t quite make out Hugh’s face, he knew it was his older brother bending over him. “Are you badly hurt?”

  Guy had every intention of denying his injury, but when he tried to speak, agony laced his voice and he exhaled painfully. “Yes.”

  “Stay here. I’m going for help.”

  That nearly made Guy laugh. As if he could just get up and walk away. He was fairly certain his armor was frozen to the ground and even if it weren’t for his injury, to so much as roll onto his side he’d struggle like a turtle that’d been flipped on its back.

  “Is it over?” he mumbled.

  “It is,” Hugh replied.

  His brother’s grim expression told Guy everything he needed to know. He hadn’t missed a last-minute miracle while he was unconscious. The Lancastrians had been trounced, and many of their comrades were either severely wounded, lying dead on this Godforsaken field, or rested on the riverbed, weighed down by their armor as the rushing water flowed over them as if they were nothing more than boulders. The grim thought made Guy sick again. He unwittingly leaned on his wounded arm to retch and the pain rendered him senseless, which at that moment was a blessing.

  When he opened his eyes again it was very bright. A hazy winter sun glowed through the bare branches of a tree, its limbs black against the colorless sky. Beside him, Walter sat with his back against the massive trunk. The boy was fast asleep, his dirty cheek pressed against the leather of his doublet. Guy carefully reached out and pulled on Walter’s sleeve. The boy came awake with a start and scrambled to his feet, as though ashamed at having nodded off.

  “I’m thirsty, Walter,” Guy whispered.

  “Of course, sir. Right away, sir,” Walter mumbled as he fetched a skin of wine and held it to Guy’s lips.

  Guy took a few sips and pushed it aside with his good hand. “Where’s Hugh?” he croaked.

  “He went to look for your brother, sir,” Walter replied, a mournful expression on his face. He was only fifteen and hadn’t yet learned the art of hiding his feelings.

  “Did William fall in battle?” Guy asked.

  Walter nodded miserably. “He never came back. I’m sorry, sir. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

  “You can take off my armor,” Guy replied. His voice was barely audible and he felt sick and dizzy again. His armor weighed a ton and he could barely move.

  “I have,” Walter replied, clearly confused. “It’s just there.” Walter pointed to a pile of metal stacked to his left. Guy’s sword rested alongside his breastplate, which glinted in the sun and appeared to have been cleaned of blood and gore.

  Guy carefully raised his left hand and touched his head. Sure enough, his helmet wasn’t there, but his head felt as if it were locked in a vise and was too heavy to lift. He moved his hand lower. Walter had removed what he could, but Guy was still wearing chainmail.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I will need help with the chainmail,” Walter explained. “You’re too heavy to lift and your arm is badly injured.”

  “What happened to my head?” Guy whispered.

  “You took a mace to the head. I saw it myself. I had a devil of a time getting your helmet off. It’s badly dented,” Walter added. “I thought you were done for.”

  “I think I still might be,” Guy rasped. He was going for humor, but sounded pathetic and filled with self-pity.

  “You will recover, sir. I know you will,” Walter sputtered. “I will look after you.” The boy’s wide blue eyes looked earnest in his freckled face. Walter was pale, the dark circles beneath his eyes a testament to exhaustion and hunger, and suffering. He’d seen too much for a lad his age, and would need time to come to terms with the slaughter he’d witnessed. Likely, he never would.

  Guy felt a wave of affection for the boy. He was too young and sensitive to be a squire, but it was Walter’s most sacred dream to become a knight, and he had been in the service of the de Rosels since he was eight years of age, as was the custom. He came from a good family, but his father, Lord Elliott, had died shortly after Walter was born, leaving his mother with seven children to raise, six of them girls. Lady Elliott had hated to part with her son, but understood the importance of having the boy properly placed in order to assure his training and future. Walter took his duties seriously and had nearly burst with pride when he was finally elevated from page to squire.

  Guy’s eyes slid to the left when he heard someone approaching. Hugh’s face appeared above him again. Even in the bright light of day his skin looked ashen.

  “William is dead, Guy. I’ll need to find a wagon to bring you both home.”

  “What happened to Somerset?” Guy asked. Henry Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset, was not only the acting commander of the Lancastrian army in King Henry’s absence, but also something of a friend and mentor to the de Rosels, despite his exulted rank. No soldier could match Somerset for bravery on the battlefield, and only the Earl of Warwick, Somerset’s Yorkist counterpart, could be credited with the sort of military prowess and cunning that made Somerset a force to be reckoned with.

  “Somerset escaped. Trollope and Northumberland fell,” Hugh replied curtly. “Walter, see to your master. I will be back presently. I must have a word with Stanwyck.”

  “Yes, sir,” Walter replied timidly.

  Guy closed his eyes as silent tears slid down his temples and into his hair. William was dead. His oldest brother, who had been more like a father to him since the deaths of their parents, was gone, and now Eleanor was widowed. She’d suffered a stillbirth only two months since, and now she’d lost the husband she adored, and their son Adam had lost his father. The boy was only four, and likely wouldn’t remember William once he reached adulthood. Guy barely remembered his own mother, who had died in childbirth when he was nearly six. The child never drew breath and had been buried with their mother on a beautiful spring day, a day so lovely and bursting with the promise of summer that Guy had only wanted to run and play and not stand with his head bowed as his mother was laid to rest. Their father had died a few years later of a fever that had burned hot and bright and took him in less than a week, leaving the de Rosel children orphaned, but not alone.

  As had been previously agreed upon, John Ambrose, the Earl of Stanwyck, a great nobleman who’d had an affection for their father from the days of their youth, had become their patron. William, the new Baron de Rosel, and Hugh had already been in his service, William as a squire and Hugh as a page. Guy was taken on as a page and then elevated to squire after the required seven years of training. The brothers had squired for the earl until their knighting at the age of twenty-two.

  Having been raised and fostered by the supporters of the House of Lancaster, the de Rosels had always pledged their allegiance to King Henry VI and his lady, Margaret of Anjou, and their French heritage had contributed to their loyalty to the French queen. There had never been any question about which side they’d fight on when the conflict between the houses of Lancaster and
York escalated into open warfare with the ultimate prize being the throne of England. And now the Duke of Northumberland was dead, as were Sir Andrew Trollope and Lord Clifford, who had died before the battle of Towton during the retreat from Ferrybridge. The Lancastrian army was in disarray, as was their cause.

  Guy tried to remain alert, but physical pain and emotional turmoil left him disoriented and confused. He fell into a restless sleep, plagued by nightmares of a never-ending battle in which he fell again and again, only to rise, bloodied and battered, to fight on, driven toward the river by his Yorkist foes. At the riverbank, the ground became slippery and uneven. He cried out in frustration as he lost his balance and tumbled backward into the icy river, the rushing water stealing his breath and pulling him down. He sank like a stone, his lungs burning, until his armor-clad body settled on the slimy bottom.

  By the time Guy woke from his nightmare, Hugh had returned and sat on the ground next to Walter, exhaling loudly as he leaned against the tree trunk.

  “Were you able to find a wagon, sir?” Walter asked.

  Hugh nodded. “It’s more of a rickety cart than a wagon, but it’ll have to do. Walter, find us something to eat. I’m famished,” Hugh said as he rubbed his eyes.

  “Yes, sir,” Walter replied. He looked like he was about to cry, but after a stern look from Hugh he set off, weaving between fallen knights and dead horses. Several fires burned on the outskirts of the field where Lancastrian survivors warmed themselves as they tried to regroup and account for their dead. The Duke of York’s army had moved on after the battle. Walter heard it said that Edward had taken his victory to the city of York, where the staunchly Lancastrian population waited in terror for a reprisal from the enemy.

  In the coming days, graves would be dug for the Yorkists who had fallen at the Battle of Towton, but today was the day Edward Plantagenet would celebrate his victory and solidify his claim to the throne. His cousin, Richard Neville, the Earl of Warrick, had proclaimed Edward king less than a month ago, but yesterday’s battle had served to solidify his position. The balance of power had shifted, and every man who had survived the battle, Yorkist and Lancastrian alike, surely knew it.