“And the second option?”
“I give her money and food and send her on her way.”
Turi scoffed. “She would not last a sennight.”
The abbot gave him a pointed look. “Alone, no, she would not.”
Odd how the gods worked, Turi thought, his eyes flicking to the brass cross. Christian or pagan, the designation mattered not to him, nor was his faith ever in doubt. An immortal, after all, had sired him. Pushed an enchanted blade into his heart and sentenced him to carry his burden of guilt for thirteen centuries. Soon, he would be able to set his burden down.
In the meantime, for a reason worthy of speculation, the gods had seen fit to send him a female. One whose mere touch granted him peace of mind like he had never known. That being so, Turi had searched for a credible excuse to remain at Cristen’s side. And now the gods had granted him one. Better yet, it had come by way of an unspoken, yet clearly intimated, request from a holy man.
Turi ignored the intimation, however, and returned to his previously unanswered question. “Were you able to give her the information she sought?”
“Sadly, no.” The abbot tilted his head and fixed Turi with a penetrating gaze. “You are possessed of an old soul, Turi, one that has spent time in the darker corners of this world. I see it in your eyes. But it is still, I’m convinced, a good soul. You would not be sitting here otherwise. I am also convinced there is something more behind your concern for this young lady. Dare I say, a growing sense of affection? What, then, is your answer? For I know you heard my plea. Will you take Cristen St. Clair into your safekeeping? For what it’s worth, I believe God sent you to her for that reason.”
Turi regarded the abbot with suppressed surprise. As Cristen stated, he was, indeed, an astute man. “Do you happen to be of Welsh descent, my lord?” he asked. The abbot’s brows rose.
“Nay, why?”
“No reason.” He glanced at the narrow door. “What if the lady does not want my protection?”
The abbot’s expression softened. “I’m certain you must know that it has already been discussed. Cristen knows her fate will rest with whoever opens that door. I also know which of us she would prefer to see. So, shall I open it or will you?”
Turi arose, walked over to the door, and placed his hand on the latch. “I’ll need to know everything,” he said, without turning. “She must trust me completely.”
There came a faint sigh and a rustle of clerical robes. “She slept beside you last night, did she not?”
Turi frowned. “Aye, so?”
“Did she sleep soundly?”
Turi’s frown deepened as he pondered the abbot’s words. As the meaning behind them filtered into his troubled mind, his brow cleared. He lifted the latch, pulled the door open, and stepped over the threshold.
Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he closed the door behind him. He looked down to see the same bright stones as those on the beach. The abbot had spoken true. If not for the door, one would, indeed, need wings to enter the small courtyard. Walls, twice Turi’s height, surrounded him on three sides. At his back, the rear façade of the abbot’s private house reached skyward. The sweet scent of honeysuckle graced the air, which hummed with the telltale buzz of bees.
A statue of the Blessed Virgin graced an arched niche in the western wall, a candle burning at her feet. Stone pots of various sizes had been placed here and there around the perimeter, each crowded with a colorful profusion of flowers and herbs. At the center of the courtyard, a young sycamore stretched out its leaf-laden branches, and from some elusive spot came the soothing trickle of water. It was a secluded and tranquil retreat, one obviously created for prayer and reflection.
Turi cast his gaze around, searching for the one who granted him peace. When at last he saw her, his breath caught. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Everything around him, all the sights and sounds and smells, faded away.
She sat on a stone bench beneath the tree, head bowed in profile to him. A pale, delicate profile. Exquisite, he thought, as if seeing it for the first time. She still wore the same robe, the same cloak. Yet while he’d been busy at the shore, a transformation had apparently taken place.
Mottled sunlight tumbled through the overhead branches and captured the gold in her braided hair. Gold. Not red. Her hands, resting in her lap, captured the tears that fell from her eyes.
Turi had been here before. Nay, he had seen this before. Or at least a semblance of it. But where? A moment later, the answer leapt out at him from the past.
“Pay heed to your visions, my son, however trivial they may be, for they serve to guide you to your final destiny.”
The girl made no sound, yet Turi felt her sorrow. As he had so long ago, he felt it to the depths of his soul. Who was she? Once upon a time, he had wondered. Now he knew.
“Cristen.”
She lifted her tear-stained face to his and managed a smile. “Oh, Turi, I hoped you’d come,” she said. “I prayed you would.”
Turi approached and sat beside her. “Speak to me, fy aderyn bach.” He fingered a golden curl at the end of her still-damp braid and then touched his hand to hers. His heart fluttered. “Tell me why you weep.”
“His name is Jacob.” She rubbed tears from her eyes. “Jacob Walter de Lussan. He was born shortly after Christmastide three years ago.”
Turi pondered for a moment. “Your child?”
She nodded. “My son. Walter’s son.”
“Where is he?”
“I know not.” Fresh tears tumbled down her cheeks. “I haven’t seen him since I married Cedric.”
A chill ran across Turi’s scalp. “Your husband took your child from you?”
“Yes.” She hiccupped on a sob. “And I gave him cause to do so.”
Turi shook his head. “What cause could ever justify such an act?”
Her cheeks flushed as she lowered her gaze. “I told you, I do not like to be touched. At least, not…not in a carnal way. The marital bed has never held any pleasure for me. And Cedric was very… demanding. When I resisted him, he took Jacob away as a punishment. I was told I’d get him back once I bore Cedric a son of his own. I did not dare resist him after that.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, tears glinting on her lashes. Pretty, golden lashes that now matched her hair, Turi realized. Damn his self-regard, he hadn’t even noticed the disparity before. Bile burned the back of his throat as he looked down at his hand atop hers.
“But I never got with child,” she continued, “and Cedric grew more impatient as time went by. Each month, when I failed to conceive, he became increasingly angry. More… violent. He said it was my fault, that I was barren, which could not be true since I’d already had a child. Martha – the friend I spoke of – gave me a potion that was supposed to ready my womb for conception, but it didn’t help. She then suggested that the fault lay with Cedric. That I would never bear his child.” She drew a shuddering breath. “I suspected it also and, that being so, I became afraid. Afraid for my life and for the life of my son. That final night, Cedric was so drunk, so… frightening. But, oh, Turi, I swear I never meant for him to die at my hand. He took the secret of Jacob’s whereabouts with him. I prayed Abbot John might know or might have heard something, but no.”
Turi inwardly cursed his selfishness again. His treatment of Cristen had been equally underhanded. Not physically harmful, perhaps, but he, too, had coerced her – nay, tricked her – into touching him. He sighed and moved his hand away.
“What’s wrong?” A glimmer of panic arose in Cristen’s eyes. “Have I offended you?”
“You have not, my lady,” he replied. “I am offended only by my own selfish actions and demands. I didn’t stop to consider the reason for your fears.”
“Oh, nay!” Cristen pulled his hand back and clasped it between her palms like something precious. “I do not fear your touch, Turi. Not anymore. In truth, it takes away my fear. I feel safe when I’m with you. I swear I have never felt as safe in my whole lif
e.”
The declaration sweetened the bitter taste in Turi’s mouth. It obviously came from Cristen’s heart and was more than he’d hoped for. The girl’s faith in him, however, gave him cause to voice his deepest concern.
“I can protect you from those who might do you harm, little bird. But I cannot fight this hellish pestilence that has reached our shores. All I can do is take you away from it. My original direction, then, remains the same, and that direction is north.”
She nodded. “I understand. And I am beyond thankful for your help. I shall try not to be a burden and will go wherever you say. Everything I love has been taken from me, Turi. And I already told you, I would rather die than end up in Ralph’s clutches. So, my options are few, but I refuse to give up. One day, I will see my child again. I know it. I feel it. Till then, I shall endeavor simply to stay alive and well. I submit, therefore, to your protection and your mercy.”
Turi felt himself being drawn into something unexpected. Something powerful and unfamiliar. He couldn’t fight it. Didn’t want to fight it. It seemed he and Cristen were mutually blessed, each finding peace in the other. For the first time in his long life, he was tempted to reciprocate, to bare his soul as she had done. But he tamped down the urge. There was much to do, much to consider. Their future as yet lay in darkness. Only the gods knew what was to come.
Or did he know some of it, too?
“The visions you saw are glimpses of the future, vague reflections of things to come.”
A tingle raised the hairs on Turi’s neck. He had seen two visions on that fateful night years before. One of them had now come to pass. But what of the child? The little boy, galloping around an orchard on his pretend horse? Was it Cristen’s son?
“Then I remain at your service, my lady.” He glanced skyward. Too little of the day remained to set out now. “We’ll leave in the morning.”
Chapter Eight
In the twilight of dawn, Turi stood outside the abbey’s stable and studied the somewhat unkempt beast that had been brought forth. The horse flicked a black ear and stared back at him, one eye blue, the other brown.
“You say he belonged to a knight?”
The young monk, the same lad who had fetched the oiled rags for Turi the previous day, nodded. “The man spent his final few weeks in seclusion here. Bequeathed all his worldly goods to Abbotsbury, including this fellow. His name is Samson. An odd-looking creature to be sure, with those strange eyes. But he has a brave heart and he’s strong. He has not yet seen twelve years. He’ll serve you well, I think.”
Turi lifted the horse’s lips to inspect the teeth and then proceeded to check the animal’s legs, nodding his approval. “Aye, I like him.”
“Shall I saddle him?” the monk asked, the grin turning to a grimace as he rubbed at a spot beneath his arm.
Turi gave the lad a concerned glance. The boy’s eyes were glazed and a thin sheen of sweat covered his brow. Nay. Not yet, surely. But something cold slid down Turi’s spine as he picked up his bow and quiver. A simmering urge to get Cristen away from Abbotsbury churned afresh in his gut.
“Nay,” he replied, bending again to pick up a small satchel of food. “No need for a saddle. He’ll be carrying two of us. Just a blanket, perhaps.”
Turi glanced across the empty quadrangle and willed Cristen to appear. Then he shifted his gaze to the overhead swathe of gray. The air tasted of salt and the slight breeze whispered a clear promise of rain. Another worry, albeit a minor one.
At last, the sound of voices drew his attention – one voice in particular. He turned to see Cristen approaching with Abbot John.
“Does the horse suit?” John asked as he drew near.
“He does.” Turi dug into the purse at his waist and pressed some coin into the abbot’s hand. “Will this compensate?”
The abbot raised a brow. “It will. God bless you, Turi.”
Turi looked at Cristen, noting the shadows beneath her eyes. It appeared she had slept little. He had not slept at all. They had spent the night apart – Cristen in a room at the guest house and Turi on the floor outside her door.
From now on, Turi resolved not to be apart from her again. The thought made his heart leap.
“Are you ready, little bird?” he asked. “We’ve lingered long enough.”
She nodded and lifted John’s ringed hand to her lips.
“Thank you, my lord abbot,” she said, “and I pray trouble will not follow me to your door.”
John gave a grim smile and glanced past her toward the shore. “I fear trouble is already at our door.”
Turi’s gaze flicked to the young monk once more. The lad was staring at the ground, sweat still evident on his brow as he rubbed the back of his neck. A sense of impending doom mingled with Turi’s prevailing emotions. Eager to be gone, and impatient for Cristen’s touch, he pulled himself onto Samson’s strong back. Then he shifted his bow and quiver out of the way and reached for Cristen.
“I’ll sit behind you,” she said, blinking up at him.
“Nay, you will not, my lady. You would be unshielded.” He edged his arse back a little and patted the empty spot between his legs. “Here is where you’ll sit.”
She blushed, but said nothing as he hoisted her in front of him. With barely disguised relish, he breathed in her essence and gave silent thanks to the gods for the umpteenth time.
John placed a hand on Turi’s boot. “May God keep you in His grace and grant you safe passage,” he said, giving Turi’s foot a squeeze. “May you both find the peace you seek.”
Turi raised a brow at the abbot’s apparent insightfulness. Once again, his gaze flicked to the shore. He wondered if the man would still be alive a month from now. Or even a week from now.
“You are a worthy ambassador of your faith, my lord,” Turi said. “I am honored to have met you.”
“Likewise, young man.” John smiled. “I never did learn the origin of your name.”
“Ancient,” Turi replied. Then, with a final nod of farewell, he pressed his heels to Samson’s sides and set out.
*
The rain began not long after they left Abbotsbury, a miserable, drenching drizzle that drifted horizontally across their path. Water soon dripped from Samson’s mane and his hooves squelched in the mud.
Cristen pulled her hood tighter, arranged her cloak over her legs, and dared to settle back into Turi’s warm embrace. He muttered a phrase she didn’t understand and drew his own cloak around her.
Butterflies.
Turi had a knack of making them dance in Cristen’s belly, as they did now. His voice, his touch. The way his dark gaze swept over her. His obvious concern for her safety and well-being. He aroused new and exciting feelings within her.
They served as a welcome and stark contrast to Cristen’s despondency. Images of Jacob were never far from her thoughts. His sweet, dimpled face and the way it lit up whenever he saw her. His giggles and nonsensical prattle. His sturdy, little limbs. Such recollections weighed on her heart like an anvil. Cristen prayed her son had never known cold or hunger, and always slept safe and contented each night. A less desirable scenario was beyond her ability to envisage.
Nigh on a year had passed since she’d seen her son. Given his young age at their parting, he’d most likely have forgotten her by now. A blessing, in one sense, for it meant he’d no longer be pining. No longer missing her. Tears welled in Cristen’s eyes. She knew she’d never be at peace until she found him.
For now, though, she had little choice but to stay with her mysterious protector. Turi had already laid claim to her undying gratitude and the rarity of her trust. The other more questionable sentiments he aroused within her had yet to be explored.
The past few days had seemed like an outlandish dream, a confusing disparity of dark and light. For the hundredth time, she wondered why Turi had committed himself to her welfare with such fervor. She had never met a man like him. She had never met anyone like him, in truth. She had many questions but, thus far,
had lacked the courage to ask them.
As for Turi’s age, she continued to guess. For some reason, it mystified her. Going by his appearance, she assumed him to be a little less than thirty summers. Yet he exuded a strange, indefinable wisdom, an aura of worldliness one might expect from an older soul. Was he of noble blood? Another question still to be answered. The sword at his side was a weapon of the high-born. Yet he also carried a bow and handled it with startling proficiency. He had pride, but was not arrogant. He wore no jewelry. No signet ring. But he was obviously an educated and well-traveled man.
Indeed, Turi possessed many intriguing facets. Some of them she recognized, for they mirrored her own, although she did not know their cause. Sometimes, his eyes reflected a bitter and profound sadness. At other times, they appeared angry. Despite her initial skittishness, however, Cristen had never felt fear in his presence. And no man, except perhaps for her father, had ever treated her with such gentleness and respect.
For now, at least, Turi’s secrets remained guarded. Cristen had shared hers and she hoped, before long, to learn about his. Like her, he obviously battled some personal demons. She had witnessed their attack two nights before, when he had cried out in his sleep. She wondered who Nareen was and why memories of her disturbed him so deeply. He said he’d been betrayed. He must have loved the woman a great deal to suffer as he did.
Cristen shrugged off another foolish twinge of jealousy.
Then her cheeks grew warm as she recalled how she’d snuggled at Turi’s side in the barn. For the first time in many months, she’d slept without fear. For the first time in many years, she had not feared a man’s touch. And her touch had comforted him, or so he’d said. That recollection pushed more heat to her cheeks.
“Despite the strength his name implies, I fear Samson might soon stumble beneath the weight of your thoughts.” Turi’s deep, mellow voice brushed across her ear and a tingle shot down her spine. “Do not dwell too long on your sad reflections, aderyn bach, lest your heart becomes a slave to your mind.”
The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3) Page 9
