The Forsaken (Echoes from the Past Book 4)

by Irina Shapiro

  Joan grew silent and Aileen watched in horror as Walter and Alf carried William’s body through the kitchen and into an adjacent chamber.

  “Close the door,” Joan barked at Alf, who was the last one out. “And Walter, wash yer hands before ye sit down to sup.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  A few minutes later, Hugh and Walter came into the kitchen. They’d washed their faces and hands, but must have been too hungry and tired to bother changing their clothes. Aileen vacated her seat at the table and took the turnips with her, retreating to the corner. Walter nodded to her, but Hugh paid her no mind, as if she weren’t even there. He reached for the food and served himself first before passing the plate of pork to Walter. Both men looked up at Kate, as though expecting her to join them at the table.

  “I’ll eat something later, if I may,” Kate said. “I’d like to see to Guy first.”

  “All right then. Come with me,” Joan said.

  Kate was famished, but she couldn’t sit down and eat while Guy lay alone on the stone floor of his bedchamber. She couldn’t understand why Joan wanted him laid on the floor, but didn’t question her methods. Joan seemed like a woman who knew what she was about, and even if she didn’t, she didn’t seem likely to welcome advice from Kate.

  She followed Joan down a narrow corridor toward a stone staircase. The stairs were dark and spiraled upward, but Joan knew her way by heart and didn’t seem to require a candle. She led Kate to the uppermost floor and then walked to a door at the end of the passage. A single sconce burned in the corridor, casting shadows onto the stone walls and a low arched doorway that probably led to the roof. There was one more room, situated across from Guy’s chamber, but its door was firmly shut.

  Guy lay by the fire, his face flushed from the heat. His eyes were closed, but Kate suspected he was awake. A basin of water and some towels had been placed on a small table by the great bed, likely provided by Aileen. Poor girl, Kate thought as she waited to see what Joan planned to do. How awful it must be to live in a world of silence, a world in which she couldn’t hear anything but her own thoughts. Kate wondered if Aileen had been born unable to hear, or been rendered deaf by an illness or an accident. It had been kind of William de Rosel to take in the children and guarantee Jed a future rather than keep him on as a groom for the rest of his days. Kate hoped William’s heir, would honor that promise.

  “Come now, me boy, let’s get ye cleaned up,” Joan said as she extracted a small knife from her pocket and sliced through Guy’s blood-crusted tunic. She did the same to his breeches, leaving him completely naked. Kate looked away, embarrassed, but not before she saw his muscular chest, flat belly, and long, graceful legs.

  “Give me a hand, Catherine,” Joan said, handing Kate one of the towels. “Wet the towel and start at the bottom, with his feet.”

  Kate’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment as her gaze traveled along Guy’s torso toward a thicket of dark hair between his legs. She’d never seen an unclothed man before, and it was a revelation. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it wasn’t the innocent-looking bit of flesh nestled there. How on earth did men beget children with that thing? Kate wondered as she soaped Guy’s calves.

  Joan gave her a pointed look and went to work on Guy’s face and neck. She spoke gently to him, telling him of local happenings and promising to get him back on his feet as she washed the rest of him. Guy’s eyes fluttered open when she touched his wounded arm.

  “It burns, Nurse,” he muttered.

  “I know, me lamb, I know,” Joan replied as she deftly lifted his upper body and pulled a clean shirt over his head. “But Hugh did the right thing. Ye’ll be on the mend now. I just know it.”

  “Where’s Kate?”

  “I’m here,” Kate answered and moved closer so that Guy could see her. Joan’s disapproving look spoke volumes when Guy referred to her as Kate instead of Catherine, but the nurse said nothing and carried on.

  “Don’t leave me, Kate,” Guy mumbled. “Stay with me until I sleep.”

  “Of course I’ll stay,” Kate replied. “Can you eat something?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I have some broth,” Joan interjected. “Broth is the best thing for him right now. Catherine, help me get him into bed.”

  “I think I’d best summon Hugh. He’s too heavy for us.”

  “Nonsense. You just grab his legs.” Joan lifted Guy off the floor as if he were no heavier than a child. Kate grabbed his legs and helped Joan lay him on the clean sheets. Joan pulled the counterpane over him and smoothed back his hair. “How do you feel, pet?”

  “Better,” Guy replied. He grimaced with pain, but seemed afraid of offending his nurse, so put on a brave face. Perhaps her determination was exactly what he needed to recover from his injury.

  “I’ll get ye that broth. Ye stay with him, Catherine,” Joan snapped, clearly annoyed that Guy preferred Kate to her.

  It was well after midnight by the time Kate finally got into bed. She’d eaten, washed thoroughly, and was now wearing a clean shift Joan had brought her.

  “Ye may wish to keep wearing that filthy habit, but if ye change yer mind, I’ve brought ye some clothes,” Joan said as she laid out a sky-blue gown made of fine damask, complete with an embroidered stomacher. There was also a chemise, silk stockings, and a gauzy veil.

  “These are very fine,” Kate said as she looked at the items. “Whom did they belong to?”

  Joan sighed. “They belonged to Marie de Rosel, the boys’ mother, God rest her soul, but she no longer has need of them and ye do. She’d want ye to have them.”

  “Won’t they object to me wearing their mother’s things?”

  “Marie’s been gone for a long while now. I doubt the boys even remember what she wore. I kept her trunk. Shame to throw away such beautiful gowns, and ye never know when a comely young postulate will show up at the door,” Joan said with a sour smile.

  “Thank you, Mistress Joan,” Kate replied, paying no heed to the sarcastic comment. She caressed the lovely bodice of the gown. The style was outdated, but the gown was still beautiful and well made, if a bit low-cut. Kate hadn’t worn anything this fine since she left home, but the thought of wearing something that didn’t cover her from head to toe was daunting after two years of living in a nun’s habit.

  “Ye’d best get used to it,” Joan said, as if reading her thoughts. “Ye’ll never be a nun now.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I will.”

  “Once King Edward establishes his court, the ladies will display all their finery, hoping to catch his eye. He’s still unwed, our new king, and handsome from what I hear. I doubt he’ll marry one of his courtiers, not if Warwick has any say in the matter. Edward will be needing a foreign alliance to secure his throne, but to be the king’s mistress is a great honor, and can be very lucrative for the family,” Joan added. “Will your sire be taking ye to court then?”

  “I doubt it, and I’m not looking to catch anyone’s eye. Besides, I’m hardly worthy of the notice of the king.”

  “Ye never know. Ye never know,” Joan repeated thoughtfully.

  She left the clothes and walked out, leaving Kate to rest. Kate set aside the gown and climbed into bed. What an odd household this is, she thought as she lay sleepless. The lady of the house is treated like a child, while the old nurse rules the roost and holds some rather astute opinions regarding the future of the Crown.

  Kate had yet to meet young Adam, who was four years old, but as she finally succumbed to sleep, she couldn’t help wondering what the future held for the de Rosels now that a child was the head of the family.

  Chapter 12

  July 2014

  Berwick-upon-Tweed, England

  Quinn laid the rosary aside and stared at it thoughtfully. So, the rosary and the sword had belonged to two different people. It stood to reason that the remains they’d found were of Guy de Rosel, who’d been buried with his sword and Kate’s rosary, but why was he buried in the kitchen?
Hugh de Rosel had made it clear that it was very important to him to bury William properly at the parish church. Why would Guy not receive the same treatment, especially if his death was the result of a battle wound? And what had become of Kate? Was it possible that she’d given her most prized possession to a man she barely knew?

  Quinn sighed. She couldn’t wait to share what she’d seen with Gabe, but she’d have to brave his ire first. She smiled, feeling a bit smug. Gabe’s curiosity about his ancestors would overcome his irritation. Gabe was a historian, first and foremost, and he’d want to hear every detail of what she’d seen. Quinn was sure that Gabe knew every name on his family tree and could recall the backstory, no matter how brief, on every person, but she wasn’t ready to find out what had happened to Guy and Hugh de Rosel. She wanted to see for herself and watch their destinies unfold without already knowing how the story ended.

  Quinn left the study and returned to the bedroom. Her earlier nightmare was forgotten and she could still get a few hours of sleep before it was time to get up. She curled up next to Gabe and was asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

  Quinn gazed up at Gabe, bleary-eyed. “What time is it?”

  “Just gone eight.” Gabe had just come out of the shower. Normally, Quinn would have appreciated the sight of him with his hair damp and a towel wrapped about his trim waist, but at the moment she was too tired to admire anything other than a cup of strong tea.

  “Did you not sleep again last night?” Gabe asked as he bent to give her a kiss. “You should have woken me.”

  “I snuck down to your father’s study,” Quinn confessed.

  Gabe’s mouth stretched into a tight line as he crossed his arms and glared down at her. “You promised.” He spoke quietly, but his voice was laced with anger.

  “I had the nightmare again, and I just needed a distraction.”

  “You could have watched television or read a book. You didn’t have to go sneaking behind my back. You’re not taking any of this seriously. You are endangering yourself and the baby.” He strode toward the bureau and grabbed the portable blood pressure kit. “Give me your arm.”

  Quinn sat bolt upright as irritation flared within her. “I’m not a child, Gabe, and I don’t need to be lectured. Seeing into someone else’s life is a lot less traumatic than reliving the nightmare of being locked in that tomb, thinking I’m going to die and you’ll never find out what happened to me or our child. I would never, EVER endanger our baby.” She didn’t mean to get emotional, but tears of hurt slid down her cheeks and she wrapped her arms about herself in an effort to keep it together and prevent Gabe from getting the blood pressure cuff around her arm.

  Gabe set aside the kit, sat on the edge of the bed, and drew her into his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried about you. You seem so fragile these days.”

  “I’m not fragile.” Quinn sniffed into his shoulder. “I’m as tough as a pair of old boots.”

  That made Gabe laugh. “Interesting comparison.”

  “My Grandma Ruth used to say that when my dad tried to bully her into taking things easier.”

  “All right then,” Gabe said as he stroked her hair. “You’re as tough as old boots.”

  “They’re still fashionable boots though,” Quinn mumbled, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

  “Blood-red Dr. Martens with a steel-reinforced toe,” Gabe replied, smiling widely.

  “You remember?”

  “Of course I remember. You wore those bloody boots every day, and when you tripped and fell over me, you kicked me in the shin. It was like being kicked by a donkey. I limped for a week.”

  “How would you know? Have you ever been kicked by a donkey?”

  “No, but I’ve been blessed with a very vivid imagination,” Gabe relied, his impish grin fading as his gaze clouded with desire.

  Quinn lay back and pulled him down on top of her. “Come here, then,” she whispered. “I won’t kick. I promise.”

  Gabe didn’t need to be asked twice. He tossed his towel to the floor and covered her body with his own.

  “You know, you’re very fit for an academic,” Quinn murmured as she ran her hands across Gabe’s hard chest.

  “And you’re wonderfully round.” Gabe lowered his head and kissed Quinn’s belly before sliding his hand up her leg.

  Quinn moaned with pleasure and arched her hips as flames of desire leaped in her belly. Gabe made love to her slowly and gently, as if she were made of glass. Afterward, she lay in his embrace, feeling languid and sated. Gabe’s unwavering devotion banished her nightmares to the deepest recesses of her mind, exactly where she wanted them.

  Chapter 13

  “Gabe, do you know anything about Holystone Priory? It’s not too far from here, is it?” Quinn asked as she pulled on a pair of track pants and a T-shirt.

  Gabe rested his hip against the bureau, lost in thought. “No, it isn’t too far. The Holystone Priory was the home of a cloistered order of Augustine nuns before it was looted and destroyed during the Dissolution of the Monasteries. It was built next to a Lady’s Well, which was believed to be a place of great mysticism and power. My mum actually took me there when I was a boy,” Gabe said. “I kept staring at the Celtic cross rising out of the water, expecting something to happen. I thought it was frightening.”

  “I didn’t see a cross.”

  “The cross was erected during Victorian times, so it wouldn’t have been there in the Middle Ages.”

  “Why did your mum take you there? Did she want to visit the ruins?” Quinn asked.

  “No, we went directly to the Lady’s Well,” Gabe replied. “Come to think of it, it is really odd that she took me there. I’ll have to ask her if she remembers. Why do you ask about Holystone?”

  “The owner of the rosary was a postulate there.”

  “I wonder how she wound up here,” Gabe remarked as he began to dress for the day.

  “She was brought here by your ancestors, Hugh and Guy de Rosel. I didn’t think she’d stay.”

  “Did she?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m working on the assumption that the remains we found are Guy de Rosel. Kate nursed him after he was gravely wounded at the Battle of Towton.”

  Gabe’s jaw tensed at the mention of Towton. The Wars of the Roses was his area of expertise, and the Battle of Towton, fought more than five centuries ago, still pained him since his ancestors had been on that battlefield and fought for the losing side. “What were they like, Hugh and Guy?” Gabe asked as he searched under the bed for his trainers.

  “Guy was unconscious most of the time, so it’s hard to say anything about his personality. He was handsome, though. Kind of looked like you when I first met you at that dig,” Quinn added, smiling wistfully.

  “And Hugh?”

  Quinn shrugged as she tried to marshal her thoughts. “Hugh wasn’t as attractive, but he had an air of competence about him. He was the type of man who got things done. He was a bit gruff too, but I suppose, given the fact that he’d just lost one brother and was about to lose the other, a little gruffness wasn’t unexpected.”

  “And Kate? What was her surname?”

  Quinn was about to reply when Phoebe’s voice drifted up from the foyer. “Are you both up? I’ve come to collect some things.”

  “You go on, Gabe. I’ll be right down. I’m curious about this visit to Holystone,” Quinn added as she reached for her hairbrush.

  By the time Quinn came down, Phoebe and Gabe were already installed in the front parlor, mugs of tea in hand. Phoebe still refused to go into the kitchen, so Gabe made tea and toast and set their breakfast on a low table before the sofa. Phoebe was buttering a piece of toast for herself, but held it out to Quinn while Gabe poured her a cup of tea.

  “You look peaky,” Phoebe said as she studied Quinn. “Nightmares still plaguing you?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Can’t your doctor prescribe something to help you sleep? You need your rest.”


  “I don’t want to take any more medication than I have to,” Quinn replied. “I’m taking enough as is. I’ll manage. I try to kip during the day, while Emma’s at school.”

  “Mum, do you remember taking me to Holystone Priory when I was a boy?” Gabe asked as he spread marmalade on his toast. “I must have been around six or seven.”

  “You were five,” Phoebe replied. She looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

  “Why did we go there?” Gabe persisted.

  “I wanted to visit the Lady’s Well and had no one to leave you with. Your father had gone fishing with some of his mates and didn’t want you under his feet.”

  “Why did you want to visit the well?” Gabe asked. “It doesn’t seem like your sort of place.”

  “I wanted to pray.”

  A hush fell over the room as Gabe gaped at his mother in astonishment. “But you’re not Catholic,” he finally said. “Why would you want to pray to the Virgin Mary?”

  Phoebe sighed and laid down her uneaten toast. “I wanted to pray for a baby.”

  Gabe and Quinn sat in shocked silence, waiting for Phoebe to elaborate. She was the type of woman who went to church to socialize, not to pray. She had once quoted Karl Marx at a dinner party, saying that religion was the opium of the people. Graham had laughed at her and called her a ‘closet socialist’ in front of their friends. Phoebe hadn’t liked that one bit, but she’d stuck to her guns. When Graham died, Phoebe had chosen to have him cremated instead of having a religious funeral service, a decision that hadn’t sat well with Gabe.

  “I suffered several miscarriages before Gabe was born,” Phoebe explained, speaking mostly to Quinn. “I was devastated, and after nearly a decade of marriage I longed for a baby with a desperation only a childless woman could understand. In this day and age, they would have run tests and tried to figure out why I kept miscarrying, but fifty years ago the doctors blamed me. It was always, ‘Did you lift anything heavy? Did you allow yourself to become agitated? Did you take too much pleasure in marital relations?’ That sort of thing.”