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~ 3 ~
Edward looked up at the stars.
“What am I to do, God?” he whispered.
“My brother is not a man I can trust.”
He smiled wistfully. No answer ever came to him audibly, and most
did not come instantly. But they would
come. God had never once failed to hear
his cry, and always made His will known in time. He lay there in the grass, wondering where
such a path would lead him. He did not
remember drifting off to sleep, but slowly his thoughts led him away, away,
until he was no longer in the conscious world and the thoughts that possessed
his mind did not spring from him.
A young woman in a bloody mantle—where are you
going? She was running, running, her
feet flying. Then she was before him,
standing, crying. She held out her
hands, but he could not touch them. Her
eyes were dark, pleading, calling. Who
are you? A star in the heavens came down
and kissed him on the brow—he felt the burning touch of the hand of God. Called—but where? There she stood again, dying. He could not see her wounds, but they were
there…real and terrible…and they were killing her. No!
Don’t die! Who are you? Please don’t die!
“Edward,” Malcolm
smiled, shaking his friend gently.
“Edward, get up. You should come
inside and sleep. There is a storm
brewing in the distance.”
Edward’s eyes snapped open,
and he leapt to his feet. “A storm?” he glanced up, breathing deeply of the
rising wind. “From the south-east. Hmm.”
“Yes,” Malcolm said. “It came up from Northumbria this evening.
Come on, let’s go in.”
“Yes,” Edward said,
following his friend. “Of course. From Northumbria.”
~ ~ ~
It was dark by the time
Hannah found the prison, and already she was becoming aware of the dangers that
lurked on the streets at night. It had
taken some pleading with the guard to admit her to visit her uncle, but at last
he took pity on her and let her in.
“The ones that were taken
from the riots are below,” he said gruffly.
“You can look for him there.”
“Thank you,” she replied,
holding Samuel close to her. The stone
stairway leading down to the lower sections was dark and slick with
moisture. The area below was lighted
with a single flickering torch, and she could not see much at all. She could feel, however, dozens of pairs of
eyes looking her over, boring into her.
She shuddered and stepped toward the chambers, trying to peer through
the gloom. The stench of sweat and
excrement permeated the dungeons.
“Uncle Eleazer?” she called. “Are you in here?”
No reply came. She called the name again, but the result was
the same. Sighing deeply, she wiped a
tear away from the corner of her eye and began to head back toward the
steps. Just then a voice called out to
her.
“He’s here,” a gravelly tone
echoed in the dark chambers. “He was
asleep.”
Her breath catching in her
throat, she rushed over to the voice, trying to see her uncle. It was a moment before she could discern his
form stumbling up to her, his silver beard visible in the torchlight. “Hannah, thank God,” he rasped, coughing
painfully.
“Uncle!” she gasped, trying
to embrace him through the bars, but unable to do so because of Samuel. “What are we to do?” She began to cry.
“Don’t weep, Hannah,” he
said, holding her shoulders. “This will
be a time for courage. How much money do
you have with you?”
“Only a few zecchins,” she
replied, wiping a tear off of her cheek.
Eleazer nodded sadly. “The new king has a great need of money, it
seems. His officials have set the price
for my release at two hundred zecchins by December first, or else I will be
executed.”
“Two hundred!” she gasped. “But why?”
He sighed. “I struck a captain of the knights and broke
his jaw.”
“Oh, there must be some way
I can get the money. How much did my father have in the caves at home?”
“Not enough. There is one
way to do it, but…it may be too dangerous. I hesitate to ask it of you,
especially now that you must care for Samuel alone.”
“I will do it,” she said
stubbornly. “Tell me what it is, Uncle.”
He shook his head, his voice
firm. “No, no. I shouldn’t have even
mentioned it. I can’t let you give up your life, and Samuel’s too. You must go home and—and get a husband. Go home, raise a family, and live out your
life, Hannah. Don’t worry about me.”
She frowned and shifted
Samuel from one arm to another. “No,”
she replied in the most commanding tone she could find. “I won’t do it, Uncle. Samuel and I need help soon. We can’t wait for a husband. You must tell me your idea. For our sake, Uncle. You’re our last hope now.”
He shook his head. “You are so much like your father—so
foolishly stubborn! Forget that I said
anything.”
“I’ll stay right here in
this dungeon and die of hunger if you don’t tell me,” she began to cry, her
tone rising angrily. “I don’t care how I
do it! I’ll get you out. Maybe I can sell my body on the streets,
Uncle!”
“Stop it, Hannah!” he
shouted, then sighed and ran a hand across his weary eyes. “All right, I’ll tell you. But if it becomes too dangerous, you must
promise me you will forget about it.
Promise me, Hannah.” He reached
between the cold, rusted bars to place a hand on her shoulder.
“Very well. I promise.”
“All right,” he said,
stooping in to whisper in her ear. “Do
you remember the old garment that the Norman knight gave you just after your
mother died?”
She nodded.
“You must go back to Newcastle and get
it. Your father had been making discreet
arrangements to sell it. You should be able to find some letters that tell who was
planning to buy it from us. His name is
David, and he is an official in Northampton.
You must take the relic to him and collect the payment that was agreed
on in the letters. If he does not pay
you enough, see if you can find the knight who brought it to us in the first
place: Justin of York. He might be able
to help you, if he’s still alive. The
sale of the garment should be more than enough to pay for my release.”
She nodded. “I can do that, Uncle. But why would it be
dangerous?”
He glanced around
nervously. “If anyone was to discover
what that garment was, they would not think twice about killing you and Samuel
to get it.”
She raised a curious
eyebrow. “What is it, then?”
“Better that you don’t know.
In any case,” he dropped his voice to a whisper and cast a glance at his
cellmates, “I couldn’t tell you here.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll
find the old cloak, sell it, and then come back here and free you. You’ll see
me again, Uncle, hopefully well before December.”
“Take care on the roads,
Hannah. From what I’ve heard, it seems
that the new king, Richard, didn’t really order the massacre of the Jews. But rumors like that are hard to stop, and people
may still be on the lookout for us and our people. Be very cautious, and do not
sleep out in the open, Hannah.”
Samuel woke from his
slumbers and began to cry.
“He’s hungry,” said Hannah. “What will I feed him with? We lost his food yesterday.”
“I don’t know. But you’re
brave and resourceful, Hannah. You can find food for him along the way.”
“All right. I’ll leave tonight, Uncle.”
He nodded slowly, tears
welling up in his eyes. “God bless you,
Hannah,” he said, kissing her hand through the bars. “My prayers go with you.”
“I will come back for you,”
she said, her eyes flashing a deep resolution.
“I know you will,” he
smiled, watching her go back up the stairs and disappear onto the ground level
of the prison.
~ ~ ~
The Sheriff of
Newcastle sat idly behind his desk, staring into the dancing flames of the
small fire burning in a brazier beside him.
He stretched with a groan and rose to glance out the small arrow-loop
that served as a window for the stuffy chamber.
Outside, the storm continued to unleash its fury on the land, sending
torrents of rain down on the castle.
Through the steady downpour he could make out the dim outline of the
town of Newcastle,
dwarfed by the towering bastion above it.
He had been waiting since
the earliest light of morning afforded a dim gray light, but still his guest
had not arrived.
Which is fine with me, he thought, shuddering as he
turned away from the window. He was
about to take his seat again when he heard the telltale sound—the soft, careful
scuff of footsteps in the corridor, approaching his chamber. He hurriedly sat down in his chair and pulled
out several parchments to pretend he had been working the morning away.
He tried to grasp his
quill-pen to write, but his fingers were shaking so much that it made it impossible.
Just then, a knock sounded
on the door. Once, twice, three
times—the same gentle knock he’d heard many times before, as well-cloaked in
secrecy as the man who stood behind the door.
“Yes, enter,” he called,
trying as hard as he could to sound composed.
The door creaked open
slowly, laboriously, to reveal a thin man standing in the corridor, a black
cloak pulled around his shoulders. He
was garbed in worn-out leather pants and a thin white shirt, barely visible
beneath the dark mantle. But it was the
man’s face, not his clothing, that caught the Sheriff’s attention. It was angular, with dark, aquiline features
that accentuated the dark eyebrows and beard.
His eyes were a soft brown that appeared almost gentle and
unassuming. But the Sheriff knew
better. Many were the times he had
cursed the day that first brought that face into his chamber.
He stepped inside the
chamber with his measured tread and silently closed the door behind him before
turning to face the Sheriff.
“Well?” he asked, his voice
quiet.
The Sheriff fidgeted, his
mind racing. “Would you like to sit
down?”
“No,” the man replied
evenly, crossing his arms over his chest.
His cloak was sodden with rain, but he didn’t venture to remove it. His dark eyes kept their gaze straight on the
official, pinning him with their hypnotic power.
“Ah, Master Michael, I’m
afraid—”
“I don’t want any of your
excuses!” his voice became firm, interrupting the Sheriff, who sat dumbfounded,
his mouth working silently. “Have you
been searching?”
The Sheriff spread his arms
helplessly. “Everywhere,” he managed to
choke out of his constricted throat.
Michael’s eyes narrowed,
trying to weigh the answer. “And what
have you found?”
The Sheriff glanced back at
the window, wishing it were wide enough to jump through. His stomach was churning with the same
inexplicable dread that plagued him whenever he met with the man.
“Master Michael, no one
knows anything about this matter. I’ve
asked everywhere.”
“Or at least they pretend
not to know,” he replied, tapping a pensive finger against his lips. “Anyone who knew about it would want to
conceal it. You must be able to read
past the masks that people put up.”
“I’ve—I’ve been trying, believe me. But it’s been so long…nearly two years now—no
one would remember anyway.”
“Nothing?” Michael leaned
forward, leaning against the desk and staring straight at him.
“I’m afraid so. No one
remembers any knight by the name of Justin coming through, nor any of your
Templar friends. They simply weren’t
here.”
“So you doubt my word?” Michael
whispered the question, his eyes sparkling with an inner fire. Before the fear-stricken Sheriff could
respond, he continued, abruptly standing straight again. “They were here. We know it.
I don’t care if any of your addled herd remember them, because they were
here. And it was not far beyond here
that they turned back empty-handed. They
had lost their prey, and when he returned where he belonged, he no longer held
the prize. Which means he left it
somewhere up here—probably right in your little town.”
“I’m sorry,” the Sheriff
managed to say, but he couldn’t hold his gaze with Michael’s eyes anymore. “Maybe it was destroyed….”
“We are not to be toyed
with, Sheriff. We’ve given you ample time to do your task, and still you dare
to face us with empty hands. This will
not be pleasant for you.”
The Sheriff gave an
involuntary shudder. “Please. Give me
one more chance. I’ll find it. Maybe it is here, after all.”
Michael clenched his jaws,
frowning at the official. “All
right. One more chance. I’ll be back in a few days. Be ready for me.”
With that, he turned and
marched out of the chamber, his black cloak billowing out behind him.
~ ~ ~
Edward sighed, gazing around
the stout lodge-house. It had been
raining since the night before, and it showed no signs of letting up any time
in the immediate future. He smiled over
to his friend from Lindisfarne monastery, the old monk James, who was sitting
up and testing his arm gently.
“How does it feel?” he
called.
“All right,” the monk
smiled. “Not the best it’s ever felt,
but I think it will be better soon.”
“Yes,” Malcolm added from
where he sat at the board. “You’ve
healed very quickly, it seems.”
“The Lord is good to us,”
Edward smiled.
“And what about you,
Edward?” James asked. “Have you decided
what to do about that letter?”
He nodded, looking at the
door. “I will go. I prayed about it last night, and I feel
fairly confident that that is where I should be.” He glanced over at the others. “I may have deciphered some of it, too. What seems most likely to me is that Alfred
has found what he thinks is a holy relic.
I suppose he thinks I will be able to tell whether it is genuine or
not.”
Malcolm nodded. “That makes sense. How long will it take?”
Edward shrugged. “Traveling to Newcastle...a few days, I would
think. I would say that I should be back
here within two weeks or so. If it turns
out that I am absent longer, start praying for me, because something has gone
wrong.”
James shook his head
slowly. “You really don’t trust your
brother, do you? What happened between
you two?”
“It’s still painful,” said
Edward. “He had something to do with my father’s death.”
The other two men nodded and
said nothing more on the subject.
“So when will you set out?”
Malcolm asked.
“As soon as this storm ends. It should be clear weather for a while once
this has passed.”
“Well,” the young Scot
glanced at James, “the roads are more dangerous these days, with brigands and
such. I’m sure I could get a few men
from the warband together who are willing to ride out for your protection,
Edward.”
“No. Alfred wouldn’t like having others there,
especially not if he thinks he’s found something valuable.”
“At least to the border,
then,” Malcolm persisted. “We can walk
down as a company, and you should be able to make it from there to Newcastle on
your own.”
Edward sighed. “Very well.
If you think it is best.”
The Scot nodded, satisfied
as the lodge once again descended into silence, save for the pounding of the
rain and the crackling of the peat fire at the hearth. Edward stared hard at the door, the face of
the girl from his dream coming back to him.
He was not a dreamer of prophetic dreams; in fact, he rarely could
remember anything from his slumbers when he awoke. But something inside told him that this dream
was different, that it was somehow relevant.
Who was she…?
~ ~ ~
They had not set out the
night before, because Hannah had thought it safer to avoid traveling at night. Instead, they made their way back down to the
riverbank and slept one more night there, beneath the overhang. The morning dawned bright and clear. As she rode away from the city, she looked
back over her shoulder, remembering how she had seen it as she walked in two
days before. How much had changed since
then? Her world had been turned upside down.
Much as she tried, she could
not get the image of her dead father out of her head. Bending slightly, she kissed Samuel as she
rode. “You are all I have left,
brother.”
He stirred and awakened,
gazing up at her. She had fed him with
some berries before they left, so she hoped he would not be hungry for at least
a few hours. She smiled, rubbing his
back tenderly. “We must work together,
Samuel. Perhaps, despite it all, you may
have the chance to grow up in a world of peace.
That is what we must work for.”
He gurgled happily and
laughed, grabbing at the reins as they rode northwards, back towards
Northumberland.