To Those Who Never Knew (A Monksblood Bible Novel Book 1)

by Isabella Anton

  Placing his head and hands on the steering wheel, he shut his eyes.

  Jade will be fine. She’s a fighter. She will get through this.

  The question was, could he?

  A quiet knock on his window made his heart race. He looked up, annoyed at whoever it was that interrupted his meditation.

  It was Paul.

  Bowen rolled his window down.

  The man stood there with his arms around his body, rocking back and forth to bring warmth into him. His eyes held an insanity to them, while jumpiness claimed the rest of his actions. The whole scene reminded Bowen of the patients he had once witnessed in Bedlam trying to calm themselves after a fit.

  Why is he here? He should be inside with…

  “What?” Bowen’s curt response paralleled his annoyance at the situation.

  “It didn’t work,” he said desperately.

  The air filled with silence, Bowen’s mind reeling with the predicament. “What do you mean it didn’t work? You did give her the right book?”

  “Of course, but nothing happened. You said when she touched it she would disappear.”

  “That’s what I was told,” Bowen cracked, Paul cringing away from his voice and demanding presence, almost tripping over a branch from the aftermath of the hail. Bowen rubbed at the scruff of his beard in frustration. It was minutes before Paul dared interrupt.

  “Obviously she left out a detail or two.”

  “No, she told me explicitly that she disappeared when she touched the book.” Bowen was trying to remember every detail perfectly, but even for him, it was hard after almost seven centuries.

  What if I missed something… Oh God…

  Bowen pushed his way out of the car, its confines unable to contain his emotions. Pacing the expanse of it, his feet bore a line into the ground. He saw as Paul stood there, cheeks red with the cold as a gust of wind sent a spasm through him.

  “Maybe it’s the wrong day,” he suggested.

  That was exactly what not to say. Bowen’s broad shoulders tensed with rage, his eyes unforgiving as he spun on him. “It is not the wrong day! Do you think I would mistake such an important event? Fool!” Trying to wrestle his anger under control, Bowen walked back to the door he had exited, Paul following close behind. “Is she in the office?”

  “No, she’s in the basement with the other manuscripts.”

  Bowen opened the door to the office and went in. “She told me that while she was there the books started talking to her, eventually screaming. It must be happening now. We need to move fast.”

  He went straight for the Monksblood Bible, the same book that made him what he was today, and turned to the bloodied page at the back.

  “Blood.”

  “Yes. The monk’s blood said–”

  “I very well know my own history,” he snapped.

  “Yes. Sorry. What about it?”

  “She told me that her nose started to bleed…” His words trailed off, trying to piece together what could have actually happened.

  “So she needs to bleed on it?”

  “I would think, but we can’t exactly go up to her and ask her to politely bleed on the book.” Bowen pictured it in his mind, a slight smile playing on his lips. It would have been a sight to see…

  He turned to Paul. He was the only one who could do this. “You need to force her.”

  “Me?” Paul’s eyes grew the size of saucers. “Why me?”

  “Because she’s not supposed to know about me yet!” Bowen was close to ripping the man’s neck out.

  Paul backed away. “Alright, I’ll do it,” he stammered.

  Bowen handed him the book and his dagger. “Take this. When she comes out of the room, no matter what state she’s in, you need to get her blood onto that book. We can’t just trust that her nose will bleed on it for us.”

  “Right.” Paul’s eyes went glassy, panic rising.

  “Paul!”

  “Yes?” he snapped back to attention.

  “Just cut her hand, and only her hand. Got it?” Touch anything else and I really will rip your neck off.

  “Got it,” his voice quivered, taking on a childish tone of defense.

  “Good,” Bowen opened the office door. “I’ll be right outside listening. Don’t fuck it up.”

  Sweat seeped into Paul’s collar, his hands turning clammy. Trying to relax he stretched his shoulders—the book in one hand, the knife in the other. He took a deep breath and exhaled.

  Well… Here goes everything.

  A fo ben, bid bont.

  If you want to be a leader, be a bridge.

  - Welsh proverb

  X.

  Bowen

  Bowen knelt at the foot of his bed, his head low and hands raised in prayer. His knees dug into the uneven stone floor of the castle’s quarter but barely registered the pain, the memory of his wife’s and children’s deaths engulfing everything. The cross that hung on the opposite wall was a silent priest letting him confess his sins for that day. The only other furnishings in the room were a night table and basin for washing, its Spartan décor a reflection of the man himself.

  A soft knock on his door interrupted him. Getting up, he strode over and flung it open to find Dakarai, one of the castle’s guards, standing before him. They were equally matched in height, though Dakarai’s uniform made him stand a bit taller. The red and white of the Gruffydd house with the three ravens sewn into the arm stood out against his dark, cinnamon skin, his hazel eyes soft.

  “Yes?” Bowen answered, his face strained with urgency. “Is there any news?” He had waited almost a year to exact revenge on the Brotherhood, but it meant waiting days, weeks, months for information.

  “No, I’m sorry. Anwen sent me to ask that you join her for dinner.” Dakarai stepped back as Bowen moved toward him.

  Bowen knew the stories about himself, how everyone in the castle perceived him. And they were all true. How he was once the most honorable of captains in the Royal Guard but at the loss of his family, turned his back on them and ended up a mercenary, hell-bent on killing the Brotherhood’s men. Now he was an authority on their movements, knowing everything—how they strategized and moved—everything but who the members were. Not even he knew that.

  Grabbing the guard’s shirt, Bowen swiveled him around and against the front of the door. “Dak, do you think I have time to babysit Sir Gruffydd’s daughter?”

  The guard gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort. “Sir, it is my duty as a guard of Llansteffan to take orders from His Lordship and family, so as I have relayed: Anwen has invited you to dinner and you will attend because that is what a guest of the court does.”

  Bowen still had him pinned against the door and stayed there for a few more seconds. He had to admit, he liked the balls on this one, and shoved Dakarai back out into the hall.

  “Fine.” Trying to rein in his anger as best he could, he straightened the belt on his hips. “I will join them. Wait,” and slammed the door in the guard’s face.

  He forewent his usual sturdy clothing that was simply made up of a thick, brown gambeson, trousers, and even sturdier knee-high leather boots. Dining was all about the show, not the practicality. Now he wore a pale blue, thigh-length tunic that fitted snuggly over his muscled body. His legs were covered in gray woolen tights that hugged his legs, while his feet were enclosed in durable brown leather that stretched over their wide foundation (a nuisance to wear anywhere but inside the castle). He donned a short yellow hat with a black feather tucked at the back. With his beard combed out to perfection, Bowen stepped out into the hall, a sour look on his face completing the outfit.

  He followed Dakarai into the torch-lit corridor, the hall otherwise barren except for the few ornate tapestries that clung to the wall, a feeble attempt to keep out the drafty November chill. Arrow-slitted windows lined
the way, giving what little light they could for the fortress while its beige stucco walls were patched in places where it had fallen away.

  Useless.

  Bowen’s past encounters with nobles had led him to think their minds particularly dense when it came to how they ruled their people, their extravagance a waste in the world. Those lower on the hierarchy were less fortunate, their magic out of control as they couldn’t afford the lessons to tame it. Only some were able to get by, learning in the streets, but they were rudimentary tasks, things even he could do. If you were lucky, you could pick up an apprenticeship, if not, then you had to pay your way in.

  Dakarai and Bowen came to the dining hall entrance, the door’s mass twice as large as those scattered throughout the castle. With a loud creak it opened and Bowen was announced into the vast room.

  The aromatic smell of rosemary, garlic, and thyme filled the condensed hot air. The hall was lined with tables of people where, at its head, sat His Lordship’s family who presided over the meal. The walls of the room rose high above the heads of the partiers, the rafters filled with small candles while more audacious chandeliers hung to light that night’s feast. Their flames periodically flickered when a servant would pass through the heavy drapes that led to the kitchens. Bowls of cooked fruits and vegetables ran up and down the lines and at the back where the fireplace sat, a huge suckling pig was being kept warm over the coals, half of the carcass already eaten.

  Even with his announced presence no one took notice of Bowen until Anwen whispered to her father, who abruptly stood and beckoned him over. “Bowen! Come man, sit next to my daughter,” His Lordship gestured to the empty seat next to her.

  Bowen crossed the expanse of the hall, jealous eyes on his form as he walked up to the host’s table. They sat in a line, His Lordship in the middle, his wife to his left and daughter to his right. Anwen followed him with her own eyes, greeting Bowen with a smile as he took the seat to her right. His Lordship had always taken a liking to him. They had fought together in battles before, saved each other’s lives. It was one of the reason His Lordship let him lead the hunt for the Brotherhood in Ceredigion’s borders.

  “I am glad you could join us,” Anwen commented as she reached for her goblet of wine, her long brown hair falling forward over her brocaded orange dress.

  “How was I to pass up the opportunity to sit in the presence of such beauty?” Bowen took a sip from his own cup, trying to hide the dismay of being dragged to the banquet at all. Her Ladyship peeked over her husband’s belly to smile at the compliment.

  “How is the hunt going?” Anwen had no tact when it came to the Brotherhood’s dealings. Bowen had come to realize that her straightforwardness was in part due to her father, though he saw more of her mother in her.

  He huffed a sigh of frustration, but in the end, succumbed to the discussion. “They are on the move, as always. As your father knows, I am waiting for urgent information on the Brotherhood to arrive, so my presence here will be short.” He looked out onto the expanse of those stuffing their faces. They were the chosen few, cushy lifestyles and good pedigree that led them to become a degradation of humanity itself.

  “What a shame. I was hoping that I could accompany you for the night,” Anwen pouted.

  Bowen glanced at Lord Gruffydd who had almost choked on his drink, a clear sign that he had heard the double meaning in his daughter’s words and was about to call her out on the utterance.

  “Anwen–”

  “Lord Gruffydd… Lord Whichnor…” Bowen’s smile was coy, trying to smooth things over by using his more common name. “Take no offense. I think your daughter has confused her meaning to play host at this event with the more crude outcome you were thinking.”

  His Lordship blushed and awkwardly adjusted his position in his chair while Her Ladyship stifled a laugh at her husband’s expense. “I see. Carry on,” His Lordship’s attention torn away by his wife who now badgered him about next week’s finances.

  “Bowen.”

  He looked down at his plate with feigned interest, pretending not to hear Anwen next to him.

  “Bowen!” she said more forcefully.

  “Yes, Milady?” A skittish smile passed his lips. He would rather be in the barracks practicing his swing than be there.

  “What is this Brotherhood agenda, anyhow?”

  Her question was innocent enough, but not to his ears. His face grew dark, the atmosphere that had held a light aura was now heavy with unavenged anger. As much as Bowen wanted intel on the Brotherhood’s whereabouts that did not mean he wanted to speak freely about the situation, especially not to the woman who had no courtesy when it came to such subjects.

  “It is no worry of yours,” he looked to her father, trying to gain his attention in the hopes of an alibi to escape this god-forsaken affair. Anwen wasn’t having it.

  “But I hear the sickness that started in London two years prior was caused by them.” She took a sip of her wine, curiosity lathering her voice. “You would think the public would give them a better name.”

  Slamming his hand onto the rough wooden table, Bowen managed to not only interrupt his own conversation but all those around the banquet hall. Standing, he bowed to His Lordship and Her Ladyship and without another word, took his leave via the kitchen. Sauntering back to his room he was barely able to contain his rage towards Anwen’s naïvety.

  Better name! Better name? No, it’s fine that your people are being hunted down and slaughtered like cattle, instead how about we consider changing the name of the beasts?

  He slammed his door, open and shut, and took his place once again on the floor, praying another hour for his lost family.

  What little light crept through Bowen’s small window indicated the morning’s break. Slowly getting up, he crossed to the short table on the other end of the room, trying to put off the routine that always started his mornings: dunking his whole head into a bucket of ice cold water in preparation for the strenuous day of training and searching. No sooner did he pull his head out was there a knock on his door. His wavy, dark brown hair clung to his face.

  “Dak, if that is you again I’ll bloody-well hang you from your thumbs for coming to my door at such an early hour.” He took the three steps that were needed to cross the room and opened to find that it was not Dakarai, but someone worse.

  “Cachu, what do you want?” Bowen’s Welsh colloquialism was not lost on his visitor’s British upbringing. Tristan, the current captain of the Royal Guard, was standing outside with a glum look on his face, clad in his captain’s uniform. His long, dirty-blonde hair was tied back with a leather strap. Blue eyes indicated he had seen and done some horrible things in his life, the fact shrouded by the humor that played around them to lighten the mood.

  “And a good morning to you. You look like shit yourself.” Tristan had served under Bowen when he had been second–in–command of his unit; Tristan a sniveling twelve-year-old, while Bowen, still a boy of fifteen. In the span of nine years he had challenged the man to countless duels. Both matched each other perfectly, Bowen winning by one. It made for a peculiar friendship that neither could quite explain to the other, or those around them. It was only in the recent months that Bowen’s fanatic behavior caused a greater rift between them.

  “Lord Whichnor has news.”

  Bowen immediately went into action, racing around the room to collect his belongings. Yanking on his trousers and boots, he shot out the door.

  “Is he waiting in the West wing?” Bowen made his way in that direction and only after he got to the end of the hall did Tristan correct him.

  “He is actually waiting in the east wing with the general and other captains,” smiling at his friend’s folly.

  Bowen’s shoulders stiffened, his eyes steel as they stared him down.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Tristan turned serious, the moment’s humor lost. “The only
reason you are here is because your obsession has made you the best mercenary in five leagues and His Lordship still has a soft spot for you, former captain. The fact that you have a personal stake in this war makes you unstable.”

  Bowen strode passed him, Tristan pegging him exactly, while restraint constricted his hand from hitting him in the jaw. “It is because I have a personal stake that I am motivated to bringing an end to the Brotherhood.”

  They walked off, silence the only thing between them.

  Both entered the east wing and into the Old Hall where His Lordship was set up, him and the other men in the depths of a heated argument. The room was not as large as the banquet hall they had feasted in the night before, but the Old Hall was grander in other ways. In its center it held a war table that extended the length of the room, the top carved with details of the surrounding areas: Gwynedd, Powys, and where they resided in Deheubarth, just near Ystrad Tywn. When moving further inland the details became less elaborate, only names carved into their respective places.

  When they saw Bowen, everyone fell silent.

  “What is the news?” Bowen made his way to the other end of the table where Lord Gruffydd stood. Charts and scrolls of the Brotherhood’s movements were sprawled over, indicating in red that they had just moved from Carmarthen to outside Llansteffan’s borders.

  “They are right at our door?” he asked in shock.

  “Yes. We need to move quickly.” His Lordship turned from being a noble into the seasoned general he had been awarded for years ago. “Tristan, I want you and Bowen to lead a small group of men and ambush them. Our informant tells us that they are in the next town over—Llanybri—in the tavern near the border gates. They will not be traveling with many men as I know for a fact that tavern can only house six. We will have the advantage over them.”

  Everyone around the room nodded in agreement. The captains’ squires ran out, His Lordship’s orders clear to gather up a platoon of men.

  Following Tristan to the armory, Bowen collected his chainmail and swords. He always carried not only a long sword but also a blade the length of his forearm in his boot, good for close contact fights. Tristan on the other hand, favored the board sword, its hefty weight balancing perfectly in his muscular arms, and a bow.