Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (68 page)

The Choice has been remade.

A fierce scream of wind raced through the Cathedral.

T
he monks had more than satisfactorily set up the quaint, yet
small, guestroom, having covered and stuffed the small window with blankets until not an inch of light would be seen come the morning. It was not long before the young monk who had seen them first in the courtyard, still drenched through and through, had slogged miserably with their luggage after stabling their horses. With a fire raging in the hearth, Fernando had managed to arrange his possessions on the meagre simple wood furniture to steam in the heat or to drip dry.

Fernando closed the door behind him, leaving the blissful heat of his room to the cooler domains of the monastery’s corridors. His fresh clothing clung damply on his body, a testament that even his expensive luggage could not keep out such a downpour, but at least it was better than walking the halls drenched.

The door to the other guestroom opened and Brother Absolom started at the sight of the Noble dressed in shirt and trousers standing before him. The monk queryingly glanced down each end of the hallway. “Where’s the Angel?”

The question should not have surprised Fernando, but he found it odd that the Angel was not with Jeanie and shrugged. “You’re guess is as good as mine, Father.”

A bushy grey brow rose. “I’m not a priest, just a humble monk.”

Rebuke accepted, Fernando flashed a grin and turned to go down the hall.

“Are you not going to inquire as to how the young lady is doing?” asked the monk.

Turning on his heel, Fernando halted. “I figured that had she died you would have told me and you wouldn’t have asked where the Angel was as he would be with her. As it is, I’m sure she will be just fine.”

Surprised at the young man’s obvious disregard for his travelling companion’s fate, Brother Absolom shook his head in disbelief, sending wispy grey hairs flying, and decided to take the opposite way down the hall.

Fernando chuckled as he walked down the darkened corridor. He had no doubt that the Scot’s girl would be just fine, she was too annoying to roll over and die, but he had to admire her determination and her ability to hold her own. Despite her naïveté, innocence and her utter lack of forethought that nearly killed the Angel, Fernando was starting to like her fire and loved to needle her just to see her rise to the bait. It was too easy.

A frown flitted across his face. It was too much like having an annoying younger sister.

Shaking off that notion, Fernando set back his shoulders determined to make the best of the situation. If they could not get to Balinghem tonight to find the records of where
Le Jardin
was, then maybe someone here would be able to lead him to the answers.

Torchlight flickered in their sconces, creating yellow pools of light far enough apart from each other that they formed an archipelago in the darkness. His frown deepened as he realized that at this time of night most, if not all, of the Brothers would be abed and that he should have asked Brother Absolom when he had the chance.

Rounding a corner he collided with the young monk who had brought in his bag.

Still soaked to the skin the monk ricocheted onto the floor with a wet smack. His fatigued glazed eyes blinked upwards to see the monastery’s guest standing before him.

Fernando sighed in annoyance that his nearly dry clothing now clung soggily. He should have heard the mortal sloshing down the hall and damned himself for his sloppiness before he realized his luck.

“I’m sorry, sir,” stammered the young monk. Wet black wool smacked against stone as he attempted to untangle himself and stand.

“My fault,” offered the Noble, recognizing the truth of his words. He held out his hand and hoisted the monk to his feet.

Under the pungent scent of wet wool floated the promise of revitalizing blood. His eyes held the young man’s, feeling the throbbing pulse in their united hands. It would be oh so easy to sup and wipe away the memory of it ever happening.

Shaking off the clasp, Fernando backed away, damning the protocols of etiquette that demanded that any Chosen housed or guesting under a mortal roof would be forbidden to partake of that mortal’s blood.

“Are you alright, sir?” queried the monk, witnessing the Noble’s sudden anger.

“Fine, just fine,” scowled Fernando. “Maybe you can help me.”

“I’ll try,” said the monk, diminutively.

Fernando peered closer at the young man. “You haven’t been a monk long, have you?”

The monk lowered his eyes. “No. I took my vows last year.”

That explains it,
sighed Fernando.

“I’m looking for a villa – an estate – in these parts. It’s called
Le Jardin
. Do you know it?”

The monk chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t think so.” He looked up with a hopeful expression. “But you can check the library.”

Pleased for the lead, Fernando pressed, “And where can I find that?”

The young monk told him and without so much as a thank you Fernando turned around and headed back the way he had come.

The creek of hinges exploded into the deserted hall as Fernando pulled the ancient wooden door open. He hoped that this was the place having found the maze of corridors confusing. A rush of cooler moist air pulled at his clothing, encouraging him to enter the extremely large room. Not one to ignore an invitation, Fernando stepped into the dark and closed the door with a boom that resonated off the ceiling high bookcases filled with tomes and scrolls.

Gazing around, he let out a whistle. Never before had he seen such wealth. He could see why Notus stayed here for a year. Manoeuvring around the desks set up for scribing and others for study, he came to stand before one of the bookcases and gazed up to its heights before bringing his eyes back down to rest on the ancient leather covered tomes before him. Gold flakes of remnant lettering were the only clues to what was held between the covers. Laying his hand on the cool leather, Fernando began to walk the length of the Library, his fingers bouncing from one book to the next and huffed in annoyance. It would take years to find the answer to where
Le Jardin
could be found.

Turning at the sound of the door opening, Fernando stood silently in the darkness as at first the flickering yellow flames of a trifurcated candelabrum entered followed by the elderly monk who had first met them. Fernando smiled as he felt his luck increasing and he took a step towards Brother Bartholomew.

“Wha –? Who’s there?” The monk squinted his rheumy eyes in an attempt to see past the pool of candlelight.

“Just one of your newly arrived guests, Brother.” Fernando graciously smiled, stepping into the light.

The elderly monk’s eyes widened in surprise and then squinted in suspicion. “Couldn’t sleep, eh?” He moved past Fernando and set the candelabra on the closest desk and placed an old worn book beside it.

“I’m not one for sleeping at night,” offered the Noble, coming to stand next to his quarry. He leaned against the desk almost sitting on it, causing it to creak as his weight shifted it minutely along the floor.

Brother Bartholomew harrumphed and studied the monastery’s guest. “And I take it that you found yourself wandering our peaceful halls, finally ending up alone in the dark in the Scriptorium?”

“Actually, I was hoping to get in some research before bed.” Fernando casually turned and ran a finger down the front cover of the book, enjoying the texture. The topic matter did not interest him, but rather the monetary value of such a text. “I have to admit that I was surprised to find another so disinclined to sleep.”

“I’m old, but not a fool.” Brother Bartholomew picked up the book as if the Noble’s touch was befouling its sacredness, and hugged it to his chest. “I also find that my needs for sleep have diminished greatly in my advanced years. The solitude of quiet study, alone with God, at night is something I have come to appreciate.”

Fernando inclined his head and picked up the candelabra. Following the monk to the other side of the Library, Brother Bartholomew expertly placed the book into the toothless gap awaiting it amongst its brethren.

“Now what is it that you are researching?” The monk turned around to face the Noble. “Bear in mind that I do find it quite odd that you were without light.”

Smiling at his good fortune, Fernando pretended to study the book spines. “I was looking for a candle or a lamp,” he lied.

“Ah well,” accepted Brother Bartholomew. “And your research?”

“I’m looking for an estate in these parts named
Le Jardin
.” He turned to study the old monk. “Have you heard of it?”

The monk stuck out his lower lip in thought as he ran his mottled pale hand through the remnants of his white hair. “I don’t believe I do.”

A frown pulled down Fernando’s face and he sighed, his luck running out.

“Just because I haven’t heard of the place doesn’t mean we can’t find it?” offered the monk with a smile. “Come with me.”

Fernando followed the brother towards the far back wall where a wide simple oak cabinet ran almost its length and ran almost a yard deep.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of a good archive search, especially of the secular books.”

With a groan and the creaking of bone against bone, Brother Bartholomew crouched down, slid the cabinet door wide and began to shuffle through the large books laying flat one on top of the other. “Bring the light down here, my son, my eyes are not what they used to be.”

Kneeling down on one leg, Fernando held the light for the monk who muttered and groaned as he shifted books that were at least a yard in height. The Noble ignored the hot candle drippings falling on his wrist and intently watched as the man who was well past his prime slide out a book that was half as wide as it was tall. Its thickness bespoke of many pages.

“You’re a young man – take this and place it on the table behind you.”

Fernando did as he was bid, finding the weight to be unremarkable for his strength. The book slid home on the table with a thunk that rang through the room and he placed the candelabra beside it. He heard the door to the cabinet slide shut and Brother Bartholomew recommence his groans as he regained a more vertical stance.

Glancing at the title, Fernando wished he had bothered to learn how to read French. “What is it?”

“It’s a topographical survey of France,” huffed the elderly monk as he came to stand beside the Noble. “Collected within the last century, I believe. If your estate is at least fifty years old, it will be in here.”

Elated at the prospects of finding
Le Jardin
, Fernando hoisted the cover exposing large sheets of paper covered in very tiny writing and many, many wiggly lines.

“How is it that a monastery would have such a find? One would think it would be at some governmental establishment.”

Brother Bartholomew passed a page to be flipped to the young man, enjoying the mystery and the company it brought. “I believe it was stored in Calais’ ministry office and once a newer survey was published, this one, as well as the others, came here. One should never throw away a book, no matter how old or irrelevant it may seem. Someone will always come along proving its applicability.”

Fernando matched the monk’s sparkling smile. He had no doubt that he was going to find the next step in his journey all with the help of this amiable elderly man. Yet it seemed strange that Brother Bartholomew had been so displeased at seeing the Angel again. It begged the opportunity to find out more about his elusive partner.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he ventured, helping to flip another of the large pages filled with statistics. “You didn’t seem all that surprised to see the Angel.”