“Only my head. It’s pounding like a hammer.” She managed a slight smile. “Ralph hit me with something when I was by the stream. I don’t know what.”
Turi frowned as he rearranged her clothing. “That’s what I thought, since I didn’t hear you cry out. Can you sit up? I want to take a look.”
She winced as Turi eased her upright. He ran gentle fingers over the back of her skull, frowning at her pallor. Even by candlelight, he could see it had gone from white to gray.
“A fine goose-egg, but no blood,” he murmured. Overcome by the events of the morning, Turi groaned and drew Cristen into his arms. For a few moments, he simply held her, soothed by her unique scent as he muttered a silent plea to the gods.
Please. Don’t take her.
“Ralph had the blue sickness, didn’t he?” Her question pulled a sigh from him.
“Aye,” he said, unable to lie, “he did. It doesn’t mean you will succumb to it, though.”
She sighed, her breath warm against his throat. “Don’t be afraid, Turi,” she whispered. “I told you. I’m never ill.”
Chapter Thirteen
Westwood Priory was small; a scatter of modest buildings with a simple church at their center, all surrounded by a gray, brick wall. The hospital, a single-story hall with a vaulted roof, had maybe a dozen cots, a measure of privacy granted by muted curtain divides. Bowls of dried rosemary, thyme and sage, placed here and there, helped to quell the less pleasant smells of sickness.
Turi sat beside Cristen’s narrow bed, holding her hand and watching her sleep. Her wound had yet to be treated, but he’d been told a nun blessed with knowledge of healing had been summoned.
Within an hour of leaving the abandoned church, Cristen had developed a fever, albeit a mild one. The wound in her side, she said, was throbbing, and she felt sick. Some local people had directed them to Westwood Priory and the prioress had accepted Cristen without hesitation.
A shadow fell across the bed. Without releasing Cristen’s hand, Turi turned and rose to his feet, unable to disguise his surprise at the sight of the nun who stood before him. Despite her unflattering brown habit and wimple, Turi could see the girl had an exotic beauty. The olive skin, full lips, and ebony eyes hinted at foreign origins.
“I am Sister Agatha,” she said, her accent soft, and a glint of what looked like amusement in her dark eyes. “And to answer your unspoken question, I am Syrian.”
“I beg your forgiveness,” Turi replied, in perfect Arabic. “My name is Turi. I did not mean to gape, but in my defense, I suspect there are not many Syrian nuns in this fair land.”
The girl’s hands flew to her face. “You speak Arabic, and so beautifully!”
Turi inclined his head. “It is a beautiful language.”
“But how…? Oh, please forgive me also. I forget myself.” Sister Agatha moved her gaze to Cristen. “Your lady is in need of help, I understand. Perhaps we can discuss your remarkable grasp of my native language later but, for now, I must ask you to leave while I tend her.”
Turi shook his head. “I would prefer to stay.”
She gave him a sympathetic smile. “It is not permitted, I’m afraid. Our blessed prioress has relaxed the rules already by allowing you this much freedom within our walls. Your lady will be well cared for in your absence, I swear it. I just need to know how the injury occurred. Indeed, I would appreciate any information that might be helpful.”
Turi was tempted to argue his request to remain at Cristen’s side, but hesitated. He glanced down at her, hearing the slight rasp to her breath and seeing the faint sheen on her brow. “She was stabbed,” he said, clenching his free hand. “An assailant’s knife. The wound is located beneath her ribs on the right side. I used my shirt to bandage it, but it still bleeds a little. She was also struck on the back of her head. There is a swelling, but the skin is not broken.”
Sister Agatha’s gaze had not left Cristen’s face as Turi spoke. “God have mercy,” she said, turning troubled eyes back to his. “Do not fear. I promise I’ll take good care of her. You may return in the morning, after Matins. What is her name?”
“Her name is Cristen.”
The nun’s face brightened. “A blessed named, indeed.”
“You should also know…” Turi hesitated. “You should also know that the man who attacked her was delirious, stricken by a pestilence.”
“What kind of pestilence?”
“The one decimating lands over the narrow sea. It has now arrived on England’s shores.”
“Ah, yes. I have heard tell of it.” She crossed herself. “Given what this assailant has done, it is hardly surprising the pestilence sought him out. God punishes the evildoers.”
Turi doubted the reasoning. He’d seen mothers holding their dead babies and witnessed fathers weeping over the bodies of their dead sons. Innocent souls, all. Then again, who was he to judge?
“Cristen means more to me than my life,” he said, squeezing the small, pale hand that still rested in his. “I could not bear to lose her.”
Sister Agatha smiled and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Then we shall endeavor to make sure you do not.”
*
“’Tis quite the magnificent sight, and also a good sign.”
Turi, immersed in a fog of despair, lifted his head at the sound of Gilbert’s voice. The man stood with his back to Turi, chin raised as he gazed at the western horizon.
“What is?” he asked. Not that he really cared.
“That.” Gilbert gestured toward the fiery sunset. “An evening sky such as that is a sign of good weather. Ask any shepherd.”
Turi frowned. Issues more important than rural predictions occupied his mind. He ignored Gilbert’s remark and glanced over at the distant priory walls. Questions, like a cloud of evening midges, continued to plague him. He wondered if Cristen’s wound had stopped bleeding, and if Sister Agatha had placed a cool compress on Cristen’s head. Had her fever broken or worsened? Had she asked for him? Perhaps he should wander back to the gate and demand to see her. He fidgeted. Then again, perhaps not.
Following a suggestion from the prioress, Turi and Gilbert had camped out in a nearby stand of oak trees. The horses, including the two belonging to Ralph and his henchman, had been hobbled and were grazing on the sweet, green grass in an adjacent pasture.
“It means it won’t rain tonight,” Gilbert continued, grimacing as he rubbed his thigh and settled himself beside the fire. “Which is contrary to what my leg is telling me.”
Turi grunted, plucked a piece of grass, and shoved the stalk in his mouth.
“We need more firewood,” Gilbert went on, with pointed emphasis. “I’d happily oblige, but it might take a while. I’m not as spry as I once was.”
Turi suppressed a twinge of irritation as he tossed the stalk of grass aside. “I’ll go,” he said, rising to his feet. It would give him something to do, at least. Short of immersing himself in a barrel of wine, however, he doubted anything would come close to easing his mind.
A while later, the surrounding trees flickered with shadows cast by a vigorous campfire. Now and then, as a damp log succumbed to the heat, showers of sparks flew into the air. Around them, creatures of the night began to stir. The yip of a fox echoed through the trees. The haunting howl of a wolf drifted in from some distant lair. And the hoot of an owl was preceded by a brief flap of pale wings overhead.
“I estimate we’re about a two-day ride from Chester,” Gilbert said, clasping a half-eaten chicken leg in his hand. “And at least now we know we’re not being pursued by a madman. By my reckoning, it’ll be another week before we reach Eamont. Weather and any other unforeseen events permitting, of course. You should eat, Turi. It was kind of the nuns to provide us with supper.”
“I was born not far from Chester,” Turi said, as much to himself as Gilbert. “That’s where I was headed when I returned to England.” He glanced toward the priory again.
“Don’t fret, lad. Cristen is in good hands
. Eat something and stop flagellating yourself with guilt. It serves no purpose.”
The old man was right, of course, but he had no knowledge of Turi’s eternal, raw emotions. Recent events had only added to an existing weighty burden.
“I’m not hungry,” Turi muttered, returning his gaze to the flames. “I’ll have something later.”
Gilbert heaved a sigh. “On nights such as this, I prefer to sleep out in the open,” he said, glancing up. “I drag a pallet up to the roof of my keep and lie there, watching the stars move across the sky. ’Tis a humbling sensation, being a spectator to such a vast and mysterious arena. I find it brings things here on earth into perspective.”
Turi followed Gilbert’s gaze and looked up through the branches. The sky had darkened to a rich indigo and already played host to several stars.
“I suspect our earthly perspectives are different, my lord.”
Gilbert heaved another sigh. “And I suspect you worry for naught. The lass is part of your destiny, Turi. She’s not going anywhere without you.”
“I have learned to place little faith in such things,” Turi replied and spat into the flames. The gods had taunted him long enough with false destinies. “Life is cruel and hard.”
“Life is unpredictable, I’ll give you that,” Gilbert said, rubbing his thigh. “I faced death myself once, many years ago. Thought it to be a certainty. Yet here I am, an old man, gazing up at the stars. There’s hardly a day passes that I don’t think about what happened back then. I swear it was something of a miracle.”
Turi drew a slow breath. He was in no mood for campfire stories, but he knew Gilbert was seeking an ear. So, he dug up some feigned interest.
“What happened?
“Well, let me first say that I’ve had my share of battle scars, most of them superficial.” Gilbert gestured toward Turi’s shirtless chest. “Nothing like yours. God’s teeth, lad, what do you do? Launch yourself into the fray naked?”
Turi shrugged. “I’m a hireling. I have fought many times and suffered the occasional injury. Fortunately, I’m blessed with a capacity for quick healing.”
“So it would seem.” Gilbert picked up a small twig and threw it into the flames. “I’ve only ever been badly wounded once, and that when I was just a lad. Not quite ten summers.”
Turi rubbed the back of his neck and wondered if Cristen had managed to eat anything. “You were young, indeed,” he said.
“Aye. Took an arrow to the thigh during a skirmish. Hurt like a bastard and bled like a stuck pig. I felt sure I was going to die. My leg still aches at times, especially in damp weather, such as we’ve had lately. I feel it tonight.”
“Where was this skirmish?” A perfunctory question, forced from an otherwise occupied mind.
“Hawarden.”
The familiar name caught Turi’s attention and an old memory stirred deep in his mind. He narrowed his eyes as he regarded Gilbert. “You were at the castle?”
“Aye.” Gilbert cleared his throat and continued to stare into the fire. “I was fostering there when it was attacked by Dafydd, the younger brother of Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, the Welsh prince who –”
“I know his story.”
Gilbert’s mouth quirked. “For some reason, I thought you might. Anyway, I managed to escape into the nearby woods, but not before I took an arrow. The pain was indescribable. So was my fear. I could barely see straight. I slid down a small gully and took refuge beneath an overhanging rock, but the Welsh were everywhere. I knew it was only a matter of time before they found me. I hoped – nay, I prayed – I’d be dead before they did.”
The memory, now fully resurrected and brought back to life, caused Turi’s heart to rattle as he returned his gaze to the flames.
A young boy, breathing hard, eyes wide and bright with pain, pale face streaked with mud. A trembling hand, wrapped around the base of an arrow shaft protruding from his thigh. Damp air, thick with the stink of blood, shit and piss. Combined, those three things exemplified the fundamental stench of battle.
“Obviously, they found you alive,” Turi murmured, and waited to hear what he already knew.
Gilbert shifted, wincing as he did so. “Alive and conscious,” he said. “I confess much of that day is a blur, but I do remember certain things, most of them auditory. The war cries. The screams of dying men and horses. Dogs howling. The sound of my own breath and the thud of my heart in my ears. But the clearest memory of all is an image. An image of the man who found me.” He gave a soft laugh. “Can you believe that, Turi? After all these years, everything about him is still sharp in my mind. His face. His eyes. The scars on his body, one of them right over his heart. I remember him as if it were yesterday. Until recently, though, I thought my addled brain had imagined much of what took place that day. Mostly because what I saw could not have been real. Such things aren’t possible, you see. It goes against nature. Against God. The strangeness of it. The miracle of it.”
Turi willed his heart to slow down but it refused. He pulled up his knees, leaned forward, and rested his arms on them. Being recognized by those he had interacted with in the past had always been a risk, of course. A possibility, albeit an unlikely one.
Against the odds, really.
“The man was bare-chested, as you are now,” Gilbert continued, “and wearing only breeches, cut off at the knee. Not unusual. The Welsh were always a tenacious lot and their infantry rarely wore armor. He was barefoot, too, and carrying a bow and a javelin. I only had my dagger. I remember thinking that, since I was about to die, I might as well go out fighting. So, I bared my teeth like a dog and lashed out. My blade found its mark. It sliced a solid line across the man’s stomach, and I felt a brief sense of elation knowing I’d at least wounded him. But the man didn’t even flinch. He didn’t bleed either. Not a drop. And then, I swear before God and all things holy on earth, the wound closed. The flesh knitted together right before my eyes. All that remained was a thin, red line. I wept, then, for I thought I had already died and this man was the Devil come to take me to Hell.”
Turi stayed silent as the memory ran its course. The boy’s fearful whimpers, trails of tears across muddied cheeks. Lips trembling as they begged for mercy.
“He wasn’t the Devil, of course, but I didn’t know it at the time,” Gilbert went on. “He took my dagger and threw it away, all the while muttering words I didn’t understand. They sounded like Welsh, yet… they didn’t, somehow. Then he hoisted me over his shoulder as if I weighed no more than his bow. The pain must have knocked me out, because I remember naught after that. When next I opened my eyes, I was in the hospital at Norton Priory. Unable to fathom what had happened, I asked one of the monks how I came to be there. He said a man had shown up at the door three days earlier with me in his arms. The arrow had already been removed, the wound cleaned, and my leg bandaged. But I had a raging fever. The man gave them coin and bid them take care of me. Then, apparently, he left and never returned. I asked what he looked like and the monk proceeded to describe him. The description met that of the man who found me. The man who saved me.”
The pyramid of burning logs hissed and spat a shower of sparks into the air. Turi watched them flare and fall away into darkness. Brief and bright. Like all the mortal lives that had gone before. He blinked against a sudden and unexpected prickle of tears.
“Norton Priory is a good twenty miles from Hawarden,” Gilbert said. “This unearthly savior walked twenty miles with a wounded boy in his arms. But I suspect you already know that, don’t you?”
“Unearthly savior?” Turi shook his head. “Such epithets belong only to the gods.”
“Twenty miles, Turi.”
“You weighed little.”
Gilbert sighed. “I’ve never really understood why you did what you did. I was the enemy. Why didn’t you kill me? Or leave me for your countrymen to find?”
Turi frowned. “I had no cause to kill you. You were no more than a child and gravely wounded at that. Not a threat to me or anyone el
se. In truth, I didn’t think you’d survive the night, but you hung on. Your resilience surprised me.”
Gilbert gazed into the flames. “I never told anyone what I saw, but I’ve thought about you a million times since that day. Wondering who you were. Where you were. If you were dead or alive. If what I witnessed had been real or imagined.” He drew breath. “I swear my poor heart dropped into my stomach when you walked through the door of the inn the other night. I thought you were an illusion. A fabricated image, conjured up by an old pair of eyes, a failing mind, and several weeks of weary travel. I wondered if I’d died and you’d come to fetch me. But you were with Cristen, who was no illusion at all, and realizing that only confused me more. You must be a descendent, I thought. A grandson, perhaps. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask. I think because I feared your response. When I saw the scar above your heart today, I knew I had found my answer.”
“And was it the answer you hoped for?”
Gilbert looked startled. “Oh, dear God, yes. I’ve always wanted you to be real. But seeing you unchanged after all these years… well, I never expected that.”
Turi ran a hand through his hair and glanced over at the priory, anticipating Gilbert’s next question. It came a moment later.
“Does Cristen know?”
He shook his head. “Nay.”
“I thought not.” Gilbert leaned forward. “Are you going to tell her?”
“Aye, when I’m ready.”
“And what will you tell her? Who are you, Turi? What are you? An angel?”
Turi gave a soft laugh. “Far from it. I am a criminal, serving a sentence for wrongs I committed many years ago.”
“A criminal?” Gilbert assumed a dubious expression. “What kind of criminal is possessed of such miraculous powers?”
“The bastard son of a pagan god.” Turi turned and fixed Gilbert with a resolute stare. “Sit back, my lord, and be comfortable. I have a fireside tale to tell.”
The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3) Page 15
