Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (82 page)

She could feel the horse’s reluctance and Jeanie pulled harder, swearing under her breath as she willed the damned beasts to push the cart back towards the door. A defiant whinny and toss of a head forced Jeanie to yank even harder, forcing them backwards until she felt the wood of the cart hit the stone of the wall. She let the horses relax, which allowed the wagon to roll a little forward. Holding the horses, she found the break with her foot and pushed as hard as she could until the satisfying clunk told her that unless the horses bolted, they would not be going anywhere.

Releasing the reigns, Jeanie jumped down, holding the sword tight to her chest. The mud squished around her ankles as she sloshed towards the door. She could hear Fernando rustling inside the wagon as she banged her cold, white fist against the wood.

Nothing.

Rising panic forced her to hit the door harder. She could almost imagine the sound reverberating down the corridors. When no response came she raised her hand yet again and halted, almost hitting the young monk who had yanked open the door.

“Oh, thank God,” she sighed at the same time the monk said, “I’m sorry miss; Sext will be starting in just a moment.”

Ignoring the monk, Jeanie pushed past and let the sodden blanket slip to the floor. “Where’s Father Theodore?”

The monk’s eyes widened at the sight of the soaked girl embracing a large sword. His mouth opened and closed, fish-like.

It was clear Jeanie was not going to get any answers from the stunned monk and she turned towards the church where she could hear people settling in for service. The sense of urgency she felt upon the road crescendoed and broke. She needed help.

Leaving a stomping trail of mud, Jeanie entered the cathedral with the monk following behind. Had it been another occasion, she would have stared in wonder at the magnificence of God’s house, as it was her eyes darted back and forth until she found the one she was looking for. Wet skirts clinging to her legs, she bolted forward, down the isle before the monk behind her could stop her.

“Father Theodore!” she cried as she halted before the elaborate wooden chancel.

A hundred or more pairs of eyes turned to stare down at her and she inwardly cringed but she could not let them intimidate her. Straightening, she found the eyes of the man she was looking for. Father Theodore stood before the Altar, prepared to start services, his face stern yet curious as to why anyone would interrupt their proceedings.

The silence in the cathedral was palpable. Shaking, the words exploded from her. “The Angel, he’s hurt.”

It was enough to shatter the Abbot’s composure. “What?” He took several steps towards her, ignoring the murmurs in the choir.

Finding courage in his attentiveness, Jeanie hugged the sword tighter. “The Angel - he’s hurt bad.”

The words sunk into the Abbot as his eyes momentarily widened before he spun around to the monks awaiting his direction. “Brother Bartholomew will take over services for Sext. Brother Absolon, come with me.”

Opening a gate that Jeanie had not noticed, Father Theodore stepped away from his flock and joined her at the crossing. Brother Absolon rose with a groan from his seat in the choir and made his way down to meet them.

“Brother Yannick, come with us,” ordered the Abbot.

The monk behind Jeanie bowed his head.

Not waiting for Jeanie to lead the way, Father Theodore strode down the aisle, the two monks in tow. “What happened?”

“He - he was,” Jeanie gulped, unable to say the word.

The Abbot shook his head, his lips pursed. “Where is he?”

“In the wagon.” Jeanie halted by the open door, forcing the other two to stop and turn to watch Fernando jump out and into the safety of the church.

Releasing a growl of annoyance, Fernando shook his head. “It took you bloody well long enough.”

“Mr. de Sagres, if you please, where is the Angel?” The Abbot’s sharp tone brought the Noble’s head around. The wrong person had taken offence.

“He’s in the wagon.” Fernando thumbed towards the open door. “And I’m done for today. Tonight, whether he lives or dies, we’re going to have a talk, li’l miss.” His brown eyes bore into Jeanie and she took a step back, bumping into Brother Absolon. With a huff, Fernando turned and fled down the hall, his steps echoing off the stone walls.

When silence reigned, Father Theodore turned towards the wagon, and with an effort belying his age, jumped up to the wagon bed. “Brother Yannick, please fetch me a light.”

The younger monk turned his head and found none that would be safe to carry into the confines of the wagon.

Seeing the monk’s confusion, the Abbot rolled his eyes. “Go to the chapel and get a votive.”

“But my lord Abbot –”

“But nothing. Light it with a quick prayer for the Angel and then bring it here,” ordered Father Theodore.

Lifting the front of his robes, Brother Yannick ran down the corridor to where beautiful choral music floated. A moment of silence except for the sweet sound of prayer mingled with the staccato rain beat and then Brother Yannick came racing down the hall carefully holding the flickering flame. Taking the proffered candle, Father Theodore muttered his thanks and turned into the dark of the wagon.

The sound of rustling was followed by a sharp intake of breath. Father Theodore came to the doorway, still standing in the wagon, his face pale and filled with worry. “Brother Absolon, in here, now!”

The perpetual scowl on the healer’s face twisted into concern at his Abbot’s reaction. With Father Theodore’s and Brother Yannick’s help he ungracefully managed to join the Abbot in the wagon.

Seconds passed like hours as Jeanie watched, powerless to help, wondering what these two men would do. She jumped when Father Theodore leapt out of the wagon, leaving the candle and Brother Absolon behind.

Without taking any notice of her, Father Theodore rounded on Brother Yannick. “Go get a stretcher from the hospital,” barked the Abbot.

“But - but, my lord Abbot,” stammered the man. “I can’t carry it by myself.”

Not to be dissuaded, Father Theodore expanded on his commands. Brother Yannick was to go and disrupt Sext services and get Brother Jean Marc - Brother Absolon’s apprentice, and return with the stretcher. Brother Amadieu was also to be called from prayer to go to the Angel’s room and set the pallet with room to work, while the novice who cleans the hospital was to bring to the Angel’s room Brother Absolon’s surgery.

Once the orders were issued, Brother Yannick turned and fled back down the hall to set into motion the Abbot’s commands.

Jeanie watched the proceedings in silence, hopeful that something could be done, and did not notice Father Theodore’s attention fall onto her.

“Walk with me,” he ordered, slipping his arm around her damp shoulders.

Jeanie craned her neck to see monks running this way and that and tried to break away to stay by the wagon, anything to stay close to the Angel, until, at the Abbot’s firm insistence, she walked away.

“You don’t have anything to worry about.” The Abbot’s tones softened. “Your arrival to St. Martin’s elicited a similar response, so they should be well drilled by now.” He turned down a hall towards the locutorium. With most of the monks and novices at Sext the corridors were empty except for a couple of young novices scrubbing the floors.

It was a nice chamber. Benches lined the walls encircling a moderate sized dark oak table that had seen better days. Its surface indented and marked with years, if not decades, of use. The chairs were of padded blue and yellow velvet, faded and worn thin in spots, a testament that they too were as ancient as the table. On the far wall a cold fireplace sat bare.

Father Theodore motioned Jeanie to sit and she did so, only relinquishing her embrace on the sword once she sat down. Reverently, she placed it on the table before her. The steel rings clattered against the wood.

It was a long time before either of them spoke. Each stared at the ancient sword.

“I will have someone come and bring you some food, dry clothing and to light a fire,” sighed the Abbot, breaking the silence. “Another room will be set up for you –”

“No.” Jeanie kept her eyes on the sword, her hand absentmindedly caressing the worn black leather grip of the hilt.

“It would be better if –”

“No,” she interrupted the Abbot yet again, this time meeting his eyes. “I’m the best one to care for him. I’ll stay with him.”

Father Theodore’s eyes widened and then softened. “My dear,” he came around the table and sat down beside her, “I know what the Angel is. He’s in good hands. I will make sure that he has what he needs to recover.”

Jeanie shook her head. Whether or not Father Theodore truly knew was a moot issue, the point was she needed to be there to care for him.

“Do you wish to tell me about it?” offered the Abbot, his voice tender.

Jeanie shook her head. How could she convey to this man of God the horrific act that had occurred to the man she loved, all because she let her stubbornness rule her. She felt, rather than witnessed, the Abbot lean back against his chair.

“Alright. I’ll come again when I have news about the Angel.” The chair scraped the floor as Father Theodore stood. The sound of his soft footsteps stopped at the door. “One thing. I was under the impression that the Chosen can heal immediately from their wounds. The Angel is Chosen, is he not?”

The question snapped Jeanie’s head up, terror written across her features. Her mouth suddenly dried up and she found she could not reply.

Father Theodore broke eye contact and glanced at the floor before him in contemplation. With a resolute sigh, he turned and walked out.

Jeanie could not leave it like that and raced over to the door before it could close, surprising the Abbot.

“Father,” she shouted and then lowered her voice to a whisper. “He is Chosen, but…”

“What is it, my dear?” The Abbot took her elbow and guided her back into the privacy of the locutorium.

Not knowing how else to say it, the words rushed out in a jumble. She explained that iron burns the Angel and why she thought it was so and what that could mean if word got out. Father Theodore’s brows rose in response to her rising anxiety until he had to guide her back to the chair, forcing her to take deep calming breaths.

“Your secret is safe with me, my dear,” he said as he prepared to leave again. “Lately, I have become quite adept at keeping secrets.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Jeanie to the solitude of the room. Sword before her, she let out a sob. What she had told the Abbot was only a dry run of what Fernando expected from her come nightfall. Clutching the sword into an embrace, she shuddered to think how the secret was soon to become a death sentence.

True to his word, food, clothing and a roaring fire accompanied Jeanie’s solitude. When the novices came in, under the supervision of a Brother, Jeanie’s attention refused to waver from the black clad sword before her. Respecting her desire for quiet contemplation, the residents of St. Martin’s left as quickly as they could. It was the sound of her stomach rumbling loudly to the scent of warm bread and cheeses that finally drew her attention away from the sword. Mechanically, she ate, and then changed out of her wet clothing. She could not remember the last time she had slept and despite the warmth of the room and the fullness of her belly she refused to give in. Clutching the Angel’s sword, Jeanie left the room.

The corridors were filled with flowing robes as monks briskly walked from one place to the next. Many moved in clusters, making it difficult to discretely pass them by. It did not take Jeanie long to realize she was lost. A friendly monk, recognizing her plight was happy to assist her in the right direction, and before she knew it she stood at the door to the room she shared with the Angel.