Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (67 page)

“All three of you?” A thick brown brow rose in incredulity.

“Yes,” responded the Noble.

Surprised at Fernando’s rescuing of the situation, he glanced down at the other Chosen and was met with a smile that told him that this little favour would have to be returned.

Not noticing the truth of the exchange between the two guests, the Abbot turned his attention to the Angel’s companion. “And you are?”
 

“I am Fernando de Sagres, the last heir to the Fidalgo de Sagres.” Fernando made a swooping bow to the Abbot that was tinged with mockery.

The Abbot grimaced. “And the young woman?”

Fearful that the Noble would say something completely inappropriate, the Angel cut him off before Fernando could reply. “Jeanie Stuart – Father Paul’s housekeeper.”

“Father Paul sent his housekeeper?” asked the Abbot, aporetically.

Fernando glanced up at the Angel with a shrug that told him he was on his own to answer this one. With a sigh, the Angel met the Abbot’s gaze.

Identifying the sad weariness in the Angel’s disturbing crimson eyes, the Abbot visibly softened. “That’s alright, my son. You will tell me the truth when you are ready. In the mean time I will have guest rooms made up for you and your companion.” He turned to leave his two guests.

“Father Theodore,” called the Angel. He stood up away from the wall and took a pace towards the Abbot.
 
“I wish to stay in my old room.”

The Abbot shook his head. “Miss Stuart is in there being tended to by Brother Absolom. In any case, unless the two of you are married, it would not be proper.”

“Please Father.” He hated pleading in front of Fernando and knew he would pay dearly, but he was loath to leave Jeanie’s side. “Let it be like when I stayed here with Father Paul.”

Face screwed up in consternation, the Abbot shook his head in disbelief. “A pallet on the floor by the door? Again?”

“Yes.” He ignored Fernando’s stare of wonderment.

“And what of your friend?”

“I’ll have my own room, thank you,” replied the Noble.

Father Theodore nodded. “Fine. I’ll have the room next door made up for you and,
l’Ange
, a pallet will be brought for you.”

“Thank you.” He offered, recognizing the extreme generosity of the Abbot.

“Don’t make me regret it,
l’Ange,”
called the Abbot as he went in search of some Brothers to set things up for his guests. “Make yourself at home. Don’t brood outside the door. I’ll come find you when Brother Absolom has word.”

Around a turn, the Abbot disappeared from view, but his presence still filled the halls.

Shoulders slumping, he removed his cloak pin, allowing the waterlogged fabric to slump to the floor and removed his sword to stand it against the wall. He slid his back against the wall until he sat on the cold damp stones, his arms resting on his raised knees.

“He said not to brood outside the door,” smirked the Noble.

A spark of annoyance filled him as he looked up at Fernando standing before him. Recognizing that if he stayed there the Noble would badger him; he stood and grabbed his sword. The cloak could stay there on the floor until he returned. The Abbot said he would find him when there was word on Jeanie’s condition.

Taking long strides in the Abbot’s path he heard Fernando call out as he retreated. “A pallet?”

“The beds are too short,” he replied brusquely. Ignoring Fernando’s laughter he turned the corner in the hopes to find some solitude.

He did not know how long he wandered the hallways of the monastery before the sounds of men in prayer tickled his hearing. Following the soothing sounds that were so similar yet so different than the ones from the East, he found himself standing in the vestibule to the Cathedral. The heavy doors to the outside were closed and barred against the storm and the puddles he had left in his wake had been thoroughly dried. In the Chancel a dozen monks sat in prayer singing Compline.

Something in the sound, if not the words, drew him to find a seat on the pew furthest away, hidden in shadow. Gently, so as not disturb the chanting with discordance, he laid his sheathed sword along the pew beside him.

Still wet from the journey he leaned forward, placed his arms on the pew before him and laid his head. It was an awkward position in the cramped confines, but he could not make himself look up at all the brilliant light that sparkled off of votives and altar candles. It was not the brightness that bothered him, but rather what he felt he did not have the rights to.

Worry squeezed his eyes shut in a vain attempt to keep back the tears. He could not loose Jeanie. It was his self-indulgent thoughtlessness that caused her to be near death. Yet how could he not have reacted the way he did at seeing the manifestation of the demons? A shudder ran through him at the death sentence It had meted out. If only he knew why, maybe he could change it or at least run from it. If only he could run from his dreams.

Never before had they manifested so concretely and he wondered if either Jeanie or Fernando had seen them. That possibility frightened him even more. Whatever he was being led to, he had an ominous feeling that it was not just to find out who was poisoning the Chosen and to free his Chooser. Something darker was at work and he shuddered to think what that could mean.

A warm hand lightly rested on his damp shoulder, its heat penetrating the thin cotton of his shirt. Lifting his head, he sat back feeling cold wood and looked up to see Father Theodore’s gentle face.

The Abbot relinquished his touch and sat down beside him, closed his eyes and bathed in the sounds of prayer.

Realizing that patience was in order the Angel sat in quiet expectation, waiting for the Abbot to speak.

“Your Miss Stuart is going to be fine.”

Father Theodore’s soft voice released the tension he held in an explosive sigh. He closed his eyes as the worry he had held tightly in check bubbled and broke. Swallowing hard, he looked at the Abbot beside him through shimmering eyes.

Father Theodore patted the Angel’s leg and smiled. “Brother Absolom said that had you waited any longer Miss Stuart would have passed from this world from hypothermia. She owes her life to you.”

Guilt screwed up his pale features and he turned his head away to stare into the darkness. Hearing confirmation that it was his actions that nearly caused Jeanie to die cut him to the quick. If Fernando had not brought Jeanie’s condition to light they would still be on the road and she would have died. The thought that it was actually the Noble who saved Jeanie’s life wrenched the guilt further.

“Miss Stuart is more than Father Paul’s housekeeper, isn’t she?” gently ventured the Abbot, seeing the Angel’s reaction. In the year that the strange young man had stayed with the Brothers of St. Martin’s never had Father Theodore seen such emotion on the normally aloof Angel.

Without glancing back at the Abbot he nodded.

The Abbot took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh as if coming to an important decision. “If it is something your kind does with mortals, then have Father Paul marry the two of you.”

Shocked, the Angel turned to face the monk. “How?”

Unnerved by the garnet coloured eyes boring into him, the Abbot stared at the monks standing up and talking to each other before vacating the Cathedral. He nodded his acknowledgement of the monks as they past, offering “good mornings” and blessings to those who offered greeting. Once the last monk had left he returned his attention to his guest. “I’ll not break the seal of the confessional, but I will say this: I know what you are.” He turned to study the surprised pale face beside him. “I know that you will be respectful and leave my brothers alone as you and Father Paul did in your year here, but the other one, de Sagres, - he is of your kind, isn’t he? ” - The Angel mutely nodded. -“Will he?”

He could not believe his ears. The Abbot knew and Notus had probably told him during confession. “I’ll tell him that St. Martin’s is under my protection.”

Father Theodore raised a brow. “Will that be enough,
l’Ange
?”

“It should be, Father,” he frowned. He hoped that Fernando would not jeopardise their stay by feasting on one or more of the monks, and that hospitality etiquette would be something that the Noble still held to.

Standing with groaning effort, the Abbot patted the Angel on the shoulder. “I pray so, my son. In the mean time go and get yourself dry. I know you cannot catch your death, but I don’t appreciate you dripping all over God’s floors.”

He caught the glint in the monk’s eyes as Father Theodore turned and left the Cathedral. A half smile flitted across his alabaster face and then fell. Gazing at his hands nestled on his soggy lap, he turned them over. Black against white, the scrape on his right hand was red and healing well. He clenched his hands into fists and closed his eyes.

Father Theodore’s mentioning of marrying Jeanie had surprised him more than the realization that the Abbot knew he was Chosen. It was something he would have loved to propose had he been mortal, but it was not something he could offer her. He did not know if he could watch her grow old and then pass away, yet he knew that he could not live without her.

The only other option was to make her into one of the Chosen and he knew that Notus would never allow that. It was hard enough to hide his deficient blood from the rest of the Chosen. He could not pass it down to another and have their lives be risked. He could not allow the possibility of having the white-faced demons come to another - especially to one he loved.

His gaze lifted to the crucifix above the high altar. An image formed in his mind, Notus’ battered and blood drained body over that of the gruesome sight of Jesus’ torture. Dropping his gaze back to his clenched hands, he shuddered.

He felt assaulted from every direction, threatening to send him into madness. Only in Jeanie’s arms had he found some semblance of peace since this whole travesty began. Eyes lifting, his gaze fell on the statue of the Blessed Virgin and the blazing votives at her feet.

A tickling of the past remembered pulled at him to peer closer at the loving compassionate features of her face, as it seemed to transform, its deep eyes meeting his gaze. Fear trickled up his spine in expectation of another visit from the white-faced demons.

No, not them,
came a voice of infinite peace.

He could not believe what he was hearing. The many layered female voice seemed to ring throughout the Cathedral, but he knew that the words were only for him. Shaking his head in denial of the reality he was thrust into, he stood ready in attempt to flee from madness.

It’s been too long.

The comforting voice magically sloughed off his fear and he peered closer at the icon of the Blessed Virgin. It appeared to change, transform, to take on the visage of not only one but of three women. He stood fast despite the racing of his heart.

Remember what you have been taught, to remember who you were supposed to be.

The mysterious words pulled at him and he stepped closer to the shrine. Staring up at the fluctuating visage he let out a gasp as a wave of peace flowed through him.

Remember. Speak the long forgotten words.

Placing his sword at her feet, he knelt on the prieu dieu. He rested his elbows on the small desk and buried his head into his hands. He was not Catholic, no matter how hard Notus had tried before giving up centuries ago. Auntie’s teachings were too strongly ensconced even after all these years. Yet, for the first time in his life he felt pulled to kneel before a shrine.

With eyes closed, ancient words from his childhood rose unbidden in his mind and he spoke the long dead language Auntie had taught him beneath the full moon.

The words formed easily on his pale lips. The prayer to the Goddess warmed his body and he joyfully felt his mind slip into a peaceful oblivion.