Voice Of The Demon (Book 2) (53 page)

And behind him stood the Angel of Darkness.

Finnlay’s breath was coming in gasps now, but every moment he fought bought that much more time for Fiona and Hilderic. If she did as she was told, they would be on their way towards Dunlorn now, far beyond the reach of this monster.

Steel clashed against steel as Finnlay struggled with the last of his strength to hold off the attacker. He was pushed back further and further, towards the horse. He could feel it stamping with fear. If he were not careful, the animal would finish the job these Guildesmen had begun. He danced out of the horse’s path and felt his enemy’s blade slice across his right shoulder. The agony was intense. He was finished. He had only one chance left.

Gathering all his fading strength, he took one mighty swing with his sword, making all his injuries scream out together. The soldier stumbled and fell and Finnlay swung again, cutting his throat. Without pausing, Finnlay turned to the horse and leaped on to its back. He kicked hard and the animal reared, springing forward into the street. It reared again – right in the face of Carlan.

The Angel bellowed and raised his hands to fend off the horse. One hoof clipped him as it came down, and then Finnlay was off riding through the town.

*

‘Are you sure about this?’ DeMassey demanded as Nash swept by him. ‘I can’t believe he’d be fool enough to come out of hiding to rescue a mere priest.’

Nash didn’t wait to explain. He pulled his bloody shirt from his back and grabbed a fresh one from Lisson. His head hurt like hell and he was in no mood to be argued with. If it hadn’t been for his Bonding Selar that night, he would have blasted Finnlay Douglas into tiny little pieces even his own mother wouldn’t recognize.

‘Look, I don’t have time for this. I have to get after him. Go and recall the patrols. Keep the King’s guard out of it. Tell them it’s Guilde business only. I don’t want them getting in the way. Most of my men here are Malachi anyway. Have them saddle up and be ready to move out by dawn. The Enemy will have only a few hours’ start on us. In the meantime, I have to get some food into me so I can risk Seeking him, now, before he can get too far. Once I know in which direction he’s heading, I’ll be able to find him anywhere.’

Nash stopped in the middle of the tent, a fresh jacket in his hand. ‘Well, don’t just stand there. Go. Get them moving. You stay behind with the King. Follow him to Marsay and don’t even dream of doing anything until I return.’

*

Finnlay rode blindly into the night. The horse, fired by fear and the smell of blood, galloped without his help. The pain was enormous, overwhelming. He could do nothing to stop the blood flowing from his wounds. His left eye was completely shut now and his right was filmed. Dazed and drifting more as each moment went by, Finnlay put all his concentration into steering the horse in one direction. If he could just get to some shelter, he would be fine.

And yet, all he could think of was that moment when the horse had reared at Carlan. Finnlay had finally seen the face of his tormentor. In one brief second, that face had been
dusted in light, turned in fury towards him. It was a face he would never forget: one he knew better than his own.

Robert’s face. Just like the nightmares that had plagued him for weeks after his escape from Carlan.

He rode on, kicking the horse with the last of his strength when it would have stopped to rest, across fields and streams, until he came to a wood spread down the slope of a hill. It was familiar enough to give him hope, and hope gave him the energy he needed to go the last distance. Then he saw the lake and the castle beyond.

Blindly now, Finnlay urged the horse onwards, hardly able to stay on its back. He clutched at the mane, falling forward with every step.

Jenn? Jenn, by the gods, you must hear me!

Finnlay? Where are you?

And then he was there, by the garden wall. He brought his leg over the back of the panting horse and slid to the ground. How long he lay there he couldn’t guess, but after a while, there were faces over him. One of them was Micah.

Nobody asked him questions. They merely lifted him and carried him inside. For a few minutes he drifted in and out of a blackness so deep he wanted to drown in it. Then he could see some light through his remaining good eye. A shape above him, that looked like the roof of Elita’s hall. Then Jenn’s face close to his.

‘In the name of the gods, Finnlay, what happened?’

‘Finnlay? What’s this?’ another voice called across the hall. A voice older and rasping. ‘By all that’s holy, Daughter, what’s going on here?’

‘Father . . .’

It was Jacob, and he didn’t give Jenn a moment to explain. ‘So it was all a lie, was it? He wasn’t dead and you knew all along? All those stories about sorcery were true – don’t try and deny it! Your life here has been one long lie and I’ve had enough.’ Jacob paused only to draw breath, his voice dead of any warmth. ‘Stay here until your child is born. Then you will leave. From this day forward you are no longer my daughter.’

‘Father. . .’

But Jacob was gone and Jenn, her eyes full of tears, bent over Finnlay again. ‘Finn, you must tell me what happened.’

Struggling with the last of his strength, Finnlay managed a whisper. ‘It’s the Angel of Darkness, Jenn. I’m sorry. You need to . . .’

But even as he tried to tell her, to warn her, darkness folded in around him and he sank into its depths.

Had the world always been this big?

How much of it had he travelled since they’d come for him? How long ago was it – four days, a week? Sleeping in snatches both day and night and riding at a gallop in between had robbed him of all sense of time. No – two years in prison had done that already. That and much more. It was dark now, but how late? Midnight? Near dawn?

His two companions rode beside him in silence. Now and then they would glance in his direction to make sure he was awake. Their faces were grim and determined, unknown to him. They were only his couriers. But he had known the men who’d rescued him. They’d not passed the job to someone else. Payne and McGlashen, heroes both – and the young priest who’d helped them. Even now he could conjure up the memory of terror as they had brought him out of his cell, the silence, the footsteps, the breathless escape – a seemingly impossible task, and yet, they’d survived. A miracle, surely – and every day since he’d prayed they’d not been discovered for their crime.

‘Not far now, Bishop.’ The man to his left raised his hand and pointed at the mountainside.

They were travelling along a cart track, steep in places and treacherous with ice. They were surrounded on all sides by bleak shadows, mountains glowing with layers of late spring snow, unyielding to the seasons.

‘Where are we?’

‘The north-eastern tip of the Goleth range. Ahead is the Abbey of Saint Germanus. Do you know it?’

‘No. I mean, yes, but I’ve never been here before.’

The man nodded. ‘Good. That’s what my lord was hoping. We’ll leave you there, in good hands, I’m told.’

As they reached the top of a rise, welcoming lights appeared in the darkness. His friends stopped before the open gate and waited until he’d dismounted. Then, with a wave of farewell, they turned, taking the horse with them. They didn’t even wait for him to say thank you. Nevertheless, he sent a brief prayer after them.

‘Bishop McCauly?’

He turned with a start. Before him stood a man his own age holding a single lamp. The man was alone. ‘I’m Father Chester, Abbot of this house. Welcome. Please come inside where it’s warm. There are no soldiers here; we were searched yesterday. I promise you, Your Grace, it is quite safe.’

For a moment, Aiden couldn’t move. So many days on the run had dulled his senses. Was this monk true? Was this safety?

Chester reached out gently and, with a smile, took Aiden’s arm. ‘Please, come inside. You have friends here.’

‘Father Abbot I . . .’ Aiden took a breath and clasped his frozen hands together. ‘Thank you. But I beg you, do not call me by my title.’

Chester smiled again. ‘Of course, Father. Come.’

*

Brother Damien shifted his bundle from one arm to the other and resumed the path along the edge of the orchard. Only here was the hard ground to be seen, between the lanes of apple and peach. And only here was there any sign that spring had even arrived. On the slopes above the abbey, snow still lay on the ground between the rows of grape vines. If this frost didn’t end soon, the harvest would be painfully small this year.

He waved a greeting to Hob, who tended the orchard, then proceeded to the edge of the kitchen garden. Lifting his cassock, he stepped over the low wall and nimbly trod his
way between rows of crisp soil, recently turned in preparation for the spring planting. He should have walked around the perimeter to get to the cloister, but he preferred to feel the earth beneath his sandals rather than the hard stone of the path.

‘Good morning, Martin,’ he called cheerily, waving a hand even though he knew the man wouldn’t look up.

‘Good morning, Brother Damien.’

Martin wore no shirt as he dug the turf at his feet, even though it was still blisteringly cold. His exertions kept him warm.

Damien gained the cloister and kicked the mud from his sandals before turning to his left. He went to the end of the square and climbed the staircase in front of him. Abbot Chester’s room was at the top of the stairs. The door was open. ‘You sent for me, Father Abbot?’

‘Come in.’

Damien set his bundle to rest on the Abbot’s desk. ‘I found those books you wanted. They were way down the back of the storage room, hidden under a pile of old tally sheets. I don’t know what they were doing there.’

‘And good morning to you, Brother,’ the Abbot replied gently. He stood with his back to the window and favoured Damien with a benign smile.

Damien came up short and smacked a hand over his mouth. ‘Forgive me, Father Abbot. I did not mean to be discourteous.’

‘Of course not.’ Chester turned back to the window. ‘I saw you cut through the garden, Brother. Did young Martin tell you off?’

Damien almost laughed at the thought. Martin wouldn’t even tell the snails off for eating his cabbage leaves. ‘No, Father.’

The Abbot was silent for a moment, then he glanced around. ‘Brother Ormond believes Martin is simple. What do you say? You seem to be the only one among our brethren who can manage to get a word out of him.’

‘Martin says very little to me beyond a greeting.’

‘Which is more than anyone else gets – even me. Brother
Ormond was speculating as to whether Martin might be a spy for the Guilde.’

Damien’s jaw dropped. ‘Way out here? You’ve often said you think the whole world has forgotten about us. Why would the Guilde bother to send a spy here?’

Chester laughed softly. ‘I didn’t say I believed it myself.’ The Abbot left the window again and came around the table. ‘Brother Damien, I am about to ask you for your oath of silence. I have a delicate and sensitive job for one of your talents.’

‘Of course, Father,’ Damien swallowed. ‘What can I do?’

‘Come with me.’

The Abbot led him through the cloister to the oldest section of the monastery. There he turned down a narrow dark corridor and up a single flight of stairs. He knocked at the door and opened it to reveal a small room with one window covered by a thick curtain.

The Abbot addressed a man sitting on the bed in the corner. His face and everything else about him was in shadow. ‘This is Brother Damien. He’ll look after you until you’re settled.’ The Abbot turned with a smile to Damien. ‘When he’s ready, show him our monastery, anything he cares to see.’

‘Yes, Father.’

*

It was four days before Damien could get his charge outdoors. By then, most of the snow had melted into slush and walking around the grounds was extremely difficult. The strange priest was mostly quiet and contemplative, but still managed to ask a lot of questions, not just about their work at Saint Germanus, but about his fellow brothers, the lay workers and the few folk from the town in the valley who bothered to climb the mountain to visit.

After that first time, Damien took him out every day. His companion seemed to revel in the open air and frequently stopped to look up at the sky, no matter the weather. Every time they went back to the cloister, however, the stranger would stop by the vegetable garden and watch the work
being performed. It seemed he was just as entranced by the process of growing food from tiny seeds as Damien was.

Two weeks after he’d arrived, the stranger stepped over the garden wall to watch Martin digging another row of hard turf. The gardener ignored him, as he ignored everyone.

Martin stopped to take a drink from the flask he always left at the end of his row, but before he could reach it, the priest was there before him. He pulled off the stopper and held the flask out to Martin. The gardener glanced down at the flask and moved his hand to take it. Then the stranger spoke.

‘My name is Aiden McCauly.’

Damien’s heart leaped into his throat and beat like the wings of a hummingbird. Martin said nothing; he just took the flask, drank from it and tossed it back on the ground. Then, still without a word, he turned and resumed his work.

The stranger stood there a while longer, watching Martin with a calm face, then stepped back over the wall to join Damien. He patted Damien’s shoulder and steered him towards the cloister. ‘So now you too know who I am. Don’t worry, I’m sure your Abbot gave me into your care because he knew he could trust you.’

Damien didn’t dare speak until they were back in the priest’s room. The fugitive Bishop immediately busied himself writing out a list of books which he handed to Damien.

McCauly was not exceptionally tall. He wore no monastical tonsure, but instead, his hair grew to his shoulders, light brown and flecked with a little grey. His build was sparse – no surprise considering how long the man had spent in prison – but his face was gentle and smiled well. Deep grey eyes picked out much detail in what he saw, while his fine hands were generally kept clasped together.