There came a sound like lips smacking. “Sorry.”
An immortal druid priest, speaking the Saxon tongue? This was no illusion. Realization hit Turi with the force of punch. He gasped as his eyes flew open. “Father?”
Pendaran, one hand resting on the child’s head, smiled down at Turi, answering this time in the language of his people. “Are you with us now, Setantii?”
“He’s real?” Turi grimaced as he pushed himself upright. Resting on a wobbly elbow, he stared at the child. Wide-eyed, the boy stared back. “By the blessed sons of Albion, you found Jacob?”
“He’s been here almost as long as you,” his father said. “He’s a brave little soul. Sickly, when he first arrived. Not the pestilence, though. A mild ague, perhaps. In any case, he rallied quickly.”
Turi struggled to swallow over the tightness in his throat. “He was at Thurgarton?”
“Aye. I gave them Cristen’s letter. Not that it made much difference. They were happy to let the child go, under the circumstances.”
Turi tore his gaze away from Jacob and glared at his father. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“One thing at a time, Turi. I did not wish to overburden you. It was enough that you were awake and speaking.”
“Shaner?” Turi raised a brow. “The Manx tongue?”
“He had to call me something.” He shrugged. “Shaner is easy for him to say.”
Fatigued, Turi released a sigh and lay back. “You have mellowed, my lord,” he said. “When I was his age, I was afraid of you. You were fierce. A warlock. Casting your spells and placing your curses. I was told you could kill a man with a single glance.”
Pendaran’s mouth quirked as he ruffled the boy’s hair. “When called upon, I can still be that warlock. Cast those spells. The old magic remains strong, you know that. But the world has changed. Men have changed. They seek different solutions, follow different creeds. But you know that, too. What was, no longer is. Man is fickle, though. Maybe some day, in the future, he will discard what is then and seek to resurrect what has passed.”
“And if he does,” Turi said, “you will still be here.”
“If I am needed.” This last was spoken in English as Pendaran straightened. “But for now, we must work on getting you up and out of bed. Then we can take this little one home to his mother.”
Turi raised a brow. “We? You’ll be coming with us?”
“Of course,” his father replied, a gleam in his eye. “I want to meet this girl. This sentinel of your soul. I want to see if the gods chose wisely.”
Chapter Nineteen
A blackbird’s song roused Cristen from sleep. She squinted into the twilight as consciousness emerged. Her pillow felt damp beneath her cheek and she wondered what measure of dream had caused her to weep. Then she forced her mind away from such thoughts. They would only lead to the dark pit of fear that lay at her core, and she could not bear to go near it. The pain was too great.
As the days passed, memories of Turi and Jacob had been pulled farther and farther away from what hope remained in Cristen’s heart. Even so, she clung to her faith and ignored the sympathy so evident in the eyes of others. She knew what they thought. What they believed. She could not subscribe to such thoughts. She missed Turi and Jacob, but steadfastly refused to mourn them. Nevertheless, she could not deny the merciless passing of time, which continued to deliver one empty day after another.
Close to three months had gone by since Turi had ridden away from Eamont. He had left under the protection of his immortality, a long-held shield predestined to fail. Somewhere along the way, it would have done so, leaving him vulnerable to mortal injury and disease.
The Great Pestilence, slowly but surely, had continued to spread across the land. When Gilbert had last visited Carlisle, he had returned with reports of victims as far north as Derbyshire and North Wales. Entire villages further south had been decimated and stood empty. In many rural areas, no one was left to bury the bodies, or feed the livestock, or conduct church services. Cities and towns could not cope with the vast numbers of dead. The country had a noose around its neck and was gradually being dragged to its knees.
Cristen, in a well-practiced fashion, shook off the threatening shadows of melancholy. She slid from her bed, padded across the floor, and tugged the shutters open. The world beyond rested on the brink of dawn as it awaited the sunrise. The sky, for the first time in days, was clear of clouds. There was no breeze to speak of, but a delicate waft of air brushed across Cristen’s face and she snatched a lungful of it. She tasted salt and smelled the earthy scent of autumn’s decay. Off in the distance, the rugged hillsides had changed from green to russet as the bracken had turned brown. With a shudder, she closed the shutters against the morning chill and rubbed the goose bumps from her arms.
Seeking the distraction of human company, Cristen dressed and wandered downstairs. It was yet early, but Gilbert already sat by the great hearth, toasting his toes before a crackling fire. Cristen paused on the threshold and watched him for a few moments, wondering at the sad expression on his face. He looked bereft, the burden of his years more evident than usual. Was he ill?
He noticed her as she stepped into the hall and his face brightened. Cristen had the impression, however, that it was contrived. A mask, meant to hide the true nature of his feelings. Her heart skipped a beat. Had he received news?
“You’re up early, my dear,” he said, as she drew near. “Forgive me if I don’t rise.”
Cristen grabbed a nearby stool, dragged it close to Gilbert’s chair, and sat.
“Is everything all right, my lord?” she asked, studying him with some concern. “Are you unwell?”
He shook his head, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. “I am merely old. And my hip is bothersome this morning.”
The tightness in Cristen’s shoulders eased a little. “Can I fetch you something? A drink, perhaps?”
“Nay, nothing,” he replied, “but you should go and see to yourself, lass. You could use a little meat on your bones. Bess has just pulled some fresh loaves from the oven.”
“I can smell them.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I’ll eat in a while, perhaps. I’m not very hungry at the moment.”
Gilbert’s smile faded. “Listen, my dear, I think…” He pulled in a slow breath and released it. “I think it is time we discussed certain issues. Faced certain… possibilities.”
Cristen lowered her gaze and fiddled with her skirts. “I know what you’re going to say, my lord, and I have no wish to hear it.”
“He’s been gone nigh on three months,” Gilbert said, his tone soft yet somber. “Three months! And not a word.”
Despair tugged at Cristen’s faith as she met his gaze again. “I am fully aware of that. But he is not dead. Neither is my son.”
Gilbert shook his head. “I know it’s difficult to accept, but you should at least consider the possibility that something has gone wrong. Three months without a word. How much time must pass before you’re prepared to admit that Turi might not be coming back? That your child is –?”
“Do not say it.” Tears pricked at Cristen’s eyes as she rose to her feet. “Do not even think it. Turi is alive. My son is alive. I know they are.” She hiccupped on a sob and placed a hand over her heart. “I can feel them in here.”
“Oh, lass.” Gilbert’s eyes shone bright with tears as he looked up at her. “Don’t think me unfeeling. My wife’s death was something of a mercy, since she had been ill for some time, yet I mourn her to this day. And when my son died at Crecy, part of my world crumbled forever. I understand how hard it is to accept certain things. But this waiting, this refusal to face the truth… it is destroying you.”
“You are mistaken, my lord. ’Tis my hope and faith that is keeping me alive. They are all I have and I treasure them. I will not accept what I do not believe.” Cristen brushed a tear from her cheek. “Turi promised he’d find my son and swore he’d return. And he will return. He must!�
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Gilbert released another deep sigh. “The pestilence has all but consumed the southern part of the country,” he said, “and Turi likely rode straight into its jaws. Unprotected.”
“Yes, but maybe his father…” Cristen twisted her fingers together. “Maybe his father gave him additional protection. Turi said he was a true immortal. Surely, then, he would not allow his son to perish in the clutches of a mortal disease. Not after all he has endured.”
Gilbert sighed. “Then why has he not returned? Answer me that.”
“I don’t know.” Cristen voice wavered and she turned away, unwilling to face the sad resignation in Gilbert’s eyes. “I don’t know. Forgive me, my lord. I just remembered there is something I meant to do.”
“Oh, nay, Cristen, don’t run from me. Please understand, I’m only concerned about…”
The rest of Gilbert’s comment faded as Cristen fled from the hall. Her desire to flee expanded into something that resembled panic, and her purposeful walk became a dash. She headed for the small wicket gate in the western wall, stumbled out into the pale morning mist, and set off along the river path. Only then did she slow her stride, her chest still heaving from exertion and distress.
As the sun rose, the mist turned to silver and the meadowlands sparkled with a million dewdrops. The chorus of birdsong and the river’s gentle lullaby supplied her with a pleasant and welcome distraction. Somewhat placated, Cristen allowed her thoughts to wander.
She recalled the time she had walked the path with Turi at her side. She placed her hand in his, heard his voice, smelled his familiar scent, felt his strength. Her hopeful imagination also conjured up images of Jacob, splashing in the shallow edges of the river. She heard his laughter as he paddled, ankle deep, trying to catch minnows and sticklebacks with his little fishing net. He was in his third summer. No longer my baby, but my little boy. Absence. It was a vicious and cruel thing, Cristen thought. It left a hole in the heart that could never be filled.
At that moment, the path veered away from the riverbank and Cristen halted. Ahead lay the woodlands, a melange of chestnut and silver birch, their leaves already hinting at autumn’s arrival. Like a fall of fiery arrows, beams of sunlight lanced through the branches and settled on the ground. Shocked that she’d walked so far, Cristen glanced back the way she’d come. As the mind wandered, time flew, it seemed. The morning was still young and fresh, however, and Cristen had no compunction to return to the confines of Eamont. Not yet. She had a destination, she realized. Perhaps she’d had it all along.
When she reached the sacred oak, she turned and followed the deer path to the river. Once there, she clambered onto the flat rock and gazed down into the water. The pool seemed fuller than she remembered, but its clarity remained.
I should have brought a coin. Made a wish.
She closed her eyes and made one anyway; the only wish that could be made.
Then her eyes flicked open as an odd tingle brushed across the nape of her neck. It occurred to her that the woods had fallen silent. The birdsong had ceased. Other than the trickle of water over stones, not a sound could be heard. The tingle on her neck traveled down her spine and a sensation of being watched flowed over her. Heart racing, she turned and squinted into the trees, seeing nothing. Hearing nothing.
But the feeling persisted. Cursing inwardly, she clenched her hands. In her rush to leave Eamont, she hadn’t thought to bring her dagger. How many times had Turi told her to keep it with her always?
Cristen drew a deep breath and held it, trying to settle her nerves. From somewhere above, the raucous call of a crow made her jump. At the same time, a chaffinch shouted out its familiar cry. Cristen released her breath and drew another. She was overwrought, she reasoned. Her happiness these days was fabricated. It existed only in daydreams, with imaginary interactions and conversations. Was she truly deluding herself? For the first time, a shadow of doubt clouded her faith.
“Nay,” she whispered, hoisting up her skirts as she wandered back down the path. “Don’t you dare give up. Not yet.”
Remorse and guilt accompanied her back to Eamont. Wishing to make amends, Cristen went in search of Gilbert, meaning to apologize for her hasty departure. Being midmorning, most folks had broken their fast, and the great hall lay empty. Thomas, busy stacking logs by the fireplace, gave her a reproachful look as she entered.
“Where have you been?” he asked, frowning. “You had us all worried, running off like that. My lord was quite upset.”
Cristen’s chest tightened. “I know. I behaved badly. I’m truly sorry, Thomas. Where is he? I wish to apologize to him.”
“Outside somewhere.” Still frowning, Thomas set another log on the stack. “A stranger arrived not long after you left. Brought some kind of news, apparently. Seemed to upset my lord even more. He said he needed air and left.”
A stranger?
“News?” Cristen’s heart threw out an extra beat. “What news?”
Thomas paused, but kept his gaze averted. “I couldn’t say.”
He was lying. Hiding something.
“And…and Lord Allonby was upset by it?”
“Quite agitated, aye.” Thomas’ mouth settling into a grim line as he grabbed another log. “Had tears in his eyes. Haven’t seen him that emotional in a long time.”
A stranger with news? News that upset Gilbert? Please, God, nay. Not Jacob. Not Turi. Please, not that.
Cristen blinked away a rush of dizziness. “I’d better go and find him, then. Find out what… what this news is all about. Do you know where he is?”
“They left.” Thomas pointed his chin at the door. “Went outside, I think.”
Throat dry, Cristen stepped out into the bailey once again. It occurred to her that Eamont was unusually quiet. It seemed all but deserted, in truth. Cristen paused, listening for voices.
She heard Loki barking and squinted toward the sound. It seemed to come from the orchard. From where she stood, the leafy crowns of the apple trees were visible over the small rise. Then Loki barked again, a series of excited yaps. Something had obviously caught his attention.
With no one in sight, Cristen set off for the orchard, her mind in chaos. She hardly dared to imagine what might have brought a stranger to Eamont with news that had so upset Gilbert. At the edge of the orchard, she paused, and looked to where Gilbert stood talking to a man. A tall man. Turi’s height – maybe taller, with graying hair that fell to his shoulders.
The two men appeared to be deep in conversation, although Cristen couldn’t make out their words. But she knew, without any doubt, that it had something to do with Turi. Fear knotted her stomach as she forced herself to approach.
Both men turned to watch as she drew near, and Cristen had the impression they’d been waiting for her. Gilbert appeared discomforted, evident by his fidgety feet. The stranger, meanwhile, regarded her with blatant curiosity.
“Cristen.” Gilbert offered her a solemn smile. “’Tis good you are returned. I was worried.”
“I know, and I’m truly sorry.” A rush of blood warmed her cheeks as she felt the stranger’s eyes upon her. “My behavior was inappropriate, my lord. Please forgive me.”
“There is naught to forgive, my dear. You were distraught and understandably so.” Gilbert cupped her cheek. “That said, I’d like you to meet our visitor. He brings news.”
Taking a breath, Cristen lifted a fearful gaze to the man who stood watching her in silent scrutiny. Despite the silver threads in his hair and beard, the man appeared neither young nor old. Handsome, with defined cheekbones, square jaw and well-defined lips. An intelligent face. A wise face. A stranger’s face.
Yet as soon as Christen met his gaze, she knew, in that moment, who he was. Looking into his eyes was like looking into perpetuity, akin to gazing up at a vaulted sky on a moonless night.
“My name is Pendaran,” he said, inclining his head. “’Tis an honor to meet you, Cristen.”
“You’re Turi’s father.” Tears filled
her eyes. “You bring news of him.”
It was not a question. The man would not be there otherwise. Still, she awaited an answer. A frown settled on his brow as he regarded her and her stomach knotted even more.
Why don’t you answer me? Why?
Then Loki barked again, and both Gilbert and Pendaran glanced toward the sound. Their response prompted a similar one from Cristen, who followed their gaze. The dog, tail up, was tearing around the orchard like a puppy.
Then a child squealed. A loud shriek of delight. A moment later, a small, dark-haired boy galloped out from between two trees, a stick thrust between his legs. It dragged on the ground behind him as he clicked his tongue and pretended to whip an imaginary flank.
He squealed again and changed course to pursue Loki, who turned a tight, playful circle and let out another bark.
Cristen’s breath froze in her lungs as she stepped forward. “Whose child is that?” she asked, twisting around, eyes flicking from one man to the other. “Whose?”
Pendaran gave her a solemn smile. “You have waited a long time, Cristen,” he said. “Don’t wait any longer.”
“That’s my son?” A sob arose in her throat as she turned her gaze back to the child. “That’s Jacob?”
Willing her shaking legs to move, she set off across the grass, pinching her arm till it hurt. She need to be certain this was not another dream. The fabrication of a desperate mind. As she drew near, boy and dog both noticed her. Loki parted with another excited yelp and bounded toward her, all but knocking her over with his exuberant greeting.
“Yes, Loki. I know. I’m glad to see you, too.” She crouched, petting the dog without taking her eyes off her son, who stared at her with a small frown on his face. It appeared his hair had rarely, if ever, been cut. Black locks, inherited from his sire, brushed past his shoulders.
No longer a baby, but a sturdy little boy, strong limbed and healthy. His cheeks were aglow and his eyes, blue like his mother’s, made a striking contrast to his dark hair. He was a beautiful child. Her child. And, thank God and all His saints, he had obviously been cared for. Cristen blinked back a tidal wave of tears and struggled to find her voice.
The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3) Page 21
