Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (16 page)

On shaking limbs he came to his feet wiping away the dampness on his cheeks he first thought was water, and stared at Notus’ desk, desolate and shaken. He understood why Notus had cut himself off. The feelings had come with the words. Feelings of desperation, concern, pain and above all the soul shattering fear for his only Chosen son.

He would not accept it. He could not and resolved to remain open to whatever he could feel of his Chooser. Even pain was better than the absolute loneliness left to him. He could not bear that again. It was too much like being back in that cave so very long ago.

His eyes fell onto the large leather bound tome standing prominently on the top shelf of the writing desk. It was old and it was Notus’ private journal. It called to him, drawing him to open the cover and discover its secrets; the secrets of Notus’ life.
 
He had never broken into Notus’ book and was loath to even attempt it, but he had to do something to alleviate the loneliness. He could not sit there alone in their home disconnected. He needed Notus desperately. The monk had become more to him than any other in the world. Even more so than Auntie or Geraint, he admitted reluctantly.
 
Decision made, he silently prayed that his Chooser would understand.

The leather book felt heavy in his hand as he lifted it off the shelf and went to sit cross-legged before the roaring fireplace. Its flickering luminescence added to the warmth of the gas lamps. Placing the journal on the floor before him, he took off the protective grill of the hearth and carefully added a few more logs, watching as the heat instantly dried the water droplets off his arms.

He left off the screen, watching the undulating flames as he slowly unravelled the knots in his hair until it lay gleaming and dry down his back. He wanted to make sure he was dry before he would dare to open the book, lest he ruin it with water. Notus would never forgive him that. Even though he felt no cold, the fire warmed him.

Laying a hand on the book, its dark leather strongly contrasted his colouring, and again he wondered if he should open it. Never before had he invaded Notus’ privacy like he was about to do, but it was the only way he could feel close to his Chooser; to drive back the sense of despair.

I will get you back, no matter the cost,
he swore.

He lifted the book to his lap, the towel now dry and hesitantly turned back the cover. Unbidden the thought of Jeanie and his acquiescence to let her help came to mind and he groaned. He would have to protect her as well, not only from those poisoning the Chosen, but also from finding out about the Chosen. Burying his face in his hands, he tried to push back the rising anxiety. The cost would be very high now that she was part of the equation. He knew he did not have the reserves within him if he had to pay.
 

He raked his hair back out of his face to stare at the fire.

And what about Fernando?
The Noble seemed to relish in his discomfort and even tried to provoke it. The curiosity was invasive, rude. But there was no choice, Fernando was right; to solve this situation as quick as possible they had to work together no matter how each detested the notion.

He gazed down at the first page, an illuminated panel that surpassed most of the monk’s works. It was an illustration of him and Notus seated outside a grey and black shadowed cave framed by two large conifers. The night time image was alive through the use of silver leaf for stars and to outline the blackness. He stared at the remarkable likenesses. Even the image of Notus was precise, down to the silver streaked dark hair. Somehow the monk’s preternaturally steady hand captured his red eyes. A trembling pale finger lingered momentarily on his ghostly image before quickly turning the time darkened parchment. Flipping magnificently scribed work, searching for what, he did not know.

“G’nigh’, err, I guess ‘mornin’, Violet,” Jeanie yawned through her smile and closed the door behind her. She had not expected Violet to be back at the inn before her and was more surprised by the prostitute’s insistence that Jeanie join her for a nightcap.

Well, it was more than insistence. Violet nearly dragged Jeanie into her room and Jeanie had let her. She was too tired to resist. Too tired to be angry with the woman the idea of relaxing with a bottle of twelve year old Scotch enticed her.

Despite Alice’s regard for Violet and Jeanie’s own opinion of the girl’s chosen profession, Jeanie enjoyed having someone about the same age to talk to. After a few drinks she had angrily recounted the disaster that Violet’s suggestion had resulted in. Violet frowned and immediately came up with new ideas, most of them shocking, and before the crudity descended further Jeanie quickly put an end to the scheming.

With a shrug Violet shifted the conversation by asking for extremely specific details of what happened, making Jeanie repeat the story, searching for any juicy morsel she could find. These Jeanie tried to avoid, and did so somewhat successfully without becoming too angry with the prostitute. She did not want to think about the horrendous mistake, and turned the conversation around to Violet and her men. A topic Violet was always pleased to discuss. Before long they were on the floor sore from laughter.

Now Jeanie stood outside Violet’s door and gazed wearily down the hall to her room, her soft bed calling. Over the years Alice had seen to her comfort, providing a down bed with matching pillows and furniture she would have expected to see only in a Lairds manor. Jeanie suspected it was the Good Father’s doing, but allowed Tom and Alice to take the credit. Now Jeanie had the best room at the inn. Wearily she pushed herself away from Violet’s door and made her way down the corridor.

The wooden door opened at the turn of the key and into the dark room illuminated by the large picture window. The bed called her even more strongly, its coverlet folded down invitingly. Smiling at Alice’s considerations, Jeanie stepped into her room, unbuttoning her blouse. Stars exploded in her eyes an instant before the world turned black in a mire of pain.

The parchment lay wordless. The painted illumination took up the whole sheet within the journal. At first glance it seemed out of place in a book filled with radiant colours. This panel was all grey and silver and black. In fact it looked quite ominous. If it were not for the fact that he recognized the figure draped in black armour as him he would have snapped the book shut.

Whatever had possessed Notus to draw him like that? He had not needed to dress in that manner in centuries. The only real colour in the panel was, again, the redness of his eyes. The ancient sword Eira had given him was drawn tip down and his black gauntleted hands rested on the pommel. It was a disturbingly menacing portrait, even to him.

It took an effort to move his hand from his image. Had he looked so horrific? He had not meant it to be so, but the black leathers and armour had given him the protection he needed not only from the iron weapons he met so often in battle, but also from searching eyes. The only thing that was inconsistent was the black helmet that had a thin black fabric over the eyeholes so that he could see during the day, when he was expected to fight at that fearful time. No one on the battlefield ever saw what he looked like, especially his eyes.

Hesitantly, afraid to find what other examples of Notus’ visions of him held, he turned the page, breaking the trance the picture held on him. The lack of artistry and the disarray of the penmanship shocked him and he read the first few lines at the top of the page. The High Latin came easily to him as if he had been born to it.

Oh, my dear God. I have sinned most terribly in Your sight with my arrogance, stubbornness and vanity. I do not ask You for forgiveness for I will never forgive myself. Only within these pages do I confess to You, Redeemer of all Men, my sin against my son.

The book slid off his lap to lay on the floor, the page with all its words clearly legible in the firelight. If the illuminated panel had surprised him, this revelation floored him. Closing his mouth with a swallow, he stared at the writing with fearful wondering. He knew of no sin or injustice imposed against him by Notus. This was ludicrous. Notus generally had his best interest in heart, no matter the situation and the circumstances.

Returning the journal back to his lap, he continued to read, curiosity driving him through each painfully written word.

I do not know where to begin. I want to tell everything, yet the rush of words fills my head, confusing me more and more. I must start at the beginning, as all stories must, and pray that I make sense.

The year it happened was in the year of our Lord 1191. We had returned to London so that I could pay respects to the new Master on behalf of my son and I, after spending nearly a century in Wales. It was here I learned that horrendous barbarians called Saracens overran the Holy Land, the place of our Lords birth and sacrifice. It was unbelievable that something like this could have happened. War raged on sacred soil and England’s King, stirred up the fever to free Jerusalem.

I am ashamed to admit that this fervour swept me into its insane embrace. I, a Chosen, caught in the hysteria of mortal men, but as a servant of our Lord I knew what I had to do. Disregarding my son’s protests and fears, I hired a wagon that was a wooden box on wheels that would protect us from the searing sun and prying eyes.

I horribly know now that I should have listened to him. We could hide the fact that we are Chosen – I have done so hundreds of times through the ages – but I could do nothing to hide my son. Even the name would draw attention. The Welsh are not well accepted by the English. So intent on witnessing Jerusalem freed, I overrode his arguments with ones I believed logical at the time. I had the black leathers and armour made for him. Knowing how adamant I was and that I would have indeed left him terribly alone in England, my son begrudgingly agreed to join me. Once again he took up the task of my warder, slipping it on like a well-worn shirt.

We were accepted by the army and were allowed to join them in their travels, travelling with the baggage train and the camp followers, far behind the Nobles, the Knights and, of course – King Richard.

During the day we slept in the safety of the wagon while David drove. David, a most wonderful and dedicated mortal, bound by words and Chosen powers never to reveal us and to defend us. David, a young man with no other prospects and abilities to serve the Crusade, but serve he desired. He was loyal and good and true and I paid him well.

At night we camped within the boundaries of the army, sharing space with the armourers, blacksmiths and the many others who are never documented but are necessary for any army to go to war.

To the footsore soldiers, it seemed, drew faith and strength at my presence and I revelled in it, ignoring my son who stayed in the confines of the wagon except to feed. In all the time it took us to reach the Holy Land my son spoke naught a word. I had grown accustomed to his lengthy silences in the centuries, but this was more. He was angry and deeply uncomfortable. He had turned inward.

Again, in my folly and exuberance of being of help to the mortals, I ignored him. It was only when one of the soldiers asked who the cloaked figure I traveled with was did my attention briefly turn back to my son and explained that he was for my protection.

Thus we travelled on, hiding the fact we are Chosen by time-tested methods. I told one Captain that I swore an oath not to see the sun until the return of the Lord. It seemed that reason was as good as any. All the time my son spoke to none and hid his features under his black cloak. I revelled in the attention from the soldiers.

It did not take long before we saw battle once in the Holy Land. My son had taken to wearing the leathers, armour and sword under his cloak after being accosted one night by two drunken soldiers after a small victory over the barbarians. He had rendered them unconscious very quickly, but they had seen his face. No one believed them, but it did not matter to my son.

The following night, just before dawn, the Saracens attacked us. It was quickly over in our part of the encampment. My son had jumped unarmoured into the thick of it when one ululating heathen took up a torch and tried to incinerate our wagon, in which I was hiding. I saw my son in his deadly dance. His sword sprayed Godless blood over the thirsty ground and coated him as he slew mercilessly and silently. It was quick, and it was, in a perverse way, beautiful to behold.