Chapter 10

W hen Izzy returned to consciousness, her first thought was that she was floating through a vast ocean of inky darkness. Her second thought was that the surface below her was much too hard to be water.

Slowly, with an effort that felt like hauling up sunken treasure, Izzy pried open her eyes. She found herself on a narrow bed in a sparse chamber. She studied her surroundings warily, afraid to find another gruesome sight awaiting her. But there was only calmness here, amongst the minimalist furniture of two chairs and a rickety desk cluttered with parchment scrolls, quills stained with ink, and neatly stacked books with cracked spines.

Where was she?

Her body felt light, as though she had been hallowed out from the inside, and her head was filled with a numbing heaviness. How long had she been out? She squinted against the dim light that drifted in from the single tall window across the room. It looked like early morning.

Izzy swung her legs over the edge of the bed, wincing at a sudden wave of dizziness. She clung to the edge of the cot until it passed, then gingerly stood up.

She moved towards the window, trailing her hand along the uneven stone wall to steady herself. She gingerly opened the shutter and peered through. Outside, lay a kitchen garden divided into neat squares filled with winter vegetables. Men in long gray robes silently worked the space with hoes, spades and rakes. The bucolic scene was such a stark contrast to what she’d seen in Hodwell’s abattoir district that for a timeless instant, she just stared, trying to figure out exactly what was going on.

Behind her, the door rattled and she spun, heart leaping into her throat. Snaffles came bounding in, closely followed by a thin elderly man in a gray robe.

“Ah! Ye are awake!” the man said in a cheerful voice.

Izzy said nothing. Snaffles ran over to her, yelping excitedly and back end waggling madly. Izzy sank into a crouch and threw her arms around his neck, breathing in his reassuring hound smell.

“Thought I’d better let him in before he broke the door down,” the elderly man said, putting a tray down on the cluttered desk. “It was all we could do to keep him out last night but ye needed yer rest and Magnus thought it was best.”

Magnus? She looked at the door expectantly, but he didn’t enter. “Come, my dear,” said the elderly man, waving at a chair. “Come eat. Ye need to get yer strength back.” He lowered himself into a chair, folding his robe over his knees.

Carefully, Izzy made her way across the room, Snaffles at her side, and sat in the chair opposite the old man. He watched her with a wide, warm smile. He looked to be in his seventies at least and was skinny to the point of emaciation but this did nothing to detract from the intelligence in his deep brown eyes or the warmth of his smile. The robe he wore was threadbare and nondescript, and his feet were covered by a pair of leather sandals. He had a shaved round spot amidst the wispy white hair on the top of his head.

“You’re a monk!” Izzy exclaimed .

“Am I?” the old man blinked, running his hand over his tonsure. “Well so I am! Nobody tells me anything these days!” He chuckled heartily. “What did ye expect to find in Saint Bartholomew’s Monastery?”

Monastery? She was in a Monastery? She looked around, gazing at the sparse room that was clearly a study of some kind, through the window at the other monks working in the kitchen garden, at the elderly man seated opposite her. There had been a monastery outside Hodwell. Was that where Magnus had brought her?

“I...I...I...” she stammered.

The old man smiled. “It’s normal to feel a little disorientated, my dear. I’m Abbot Oswin. Magnus brought ye to us last night. Ye’ve been asleep since then. Now, eat, my dear. Ye look like ye could do with it.”

He gestured to the tray. On it, Izzy saw a bowl of pottage, a thick wedge of cheese, and several round flat breads. Her stomach growled.

“I...um...thank you.”

Reaching across the table, Izzy picked up a piece of flatbread. It was studded with grains and seeds, which had been baked to a golden brown and it had a rich, yeasty aroma. She tore off a chunk, stuffing it into her mouth. Snaffles nudged against her leg, whining. She tore off a big piece and handed it to him, stroking his sable fur as he gobbled it down eagerly. She might be in a world entirely different to everything she knew, but some things didn’t change.

Abbot Oswin watched her with a faint smile as she ate. He seemed in no rush to fill the silence and sat with his hands resting on his knobby knees, seeming content .

“Aren’t you having any?” she asked around a mouthful of bread.

“I ate after Prime, my dear.” He leaned forward. “How are ye feeling now? Ye were a little faint and overwrought when Magnus brought ye to us.”

Faint and overwrought? That was very diplomatic. Izzy snorted. “A more honest way of putting it might be to say I totally lost my shit.”

Images of yesterday filled her head. Getting lost amongst the abattoirs. The blood. The stench. The flies. The carrion crows. And then... and then the image of Magnus beating that blacksmith. The power in him as he’d committed such savage violence...

“I’m fine now,” she lied. “Just fine.”

Abbot Oswin peered at her as if not believing a word. “It is hard being bereft from yer home and kin as ye are, my dear. There is no shame in ‘losing yer shit’ from time to time.”

The words sounded so strange coming from a monk that she couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. She also wondered what Magnus had told them about where she came from. “Well, I’m grateful for your help.”

“And we are honored to give it,” he replied. “And pleased to see our lost novice again.”

Lost novice? Her brain took a moment to put this together.

“Wait. You mean this is the monastery where Magnus used to live? He was a monk here?”

Abbot Oswin laughed warmly. “Aye. Magnus once resided at Saint Bartholomew’s with us. Although he was never a monk. Nor even really a novice. He was a stray that found his way to us and although we hoped he would find his way to the cloth, the Lord had other plans for him.”

No matter how she tried, Izzy just couldn’t picture a young Magnus running around this place. Had he dressed like Abbot Oswin? Had he attended Prime and Matins and Vespers and all those other strangely named services?

“What was Magnus like when he was younger?” she asked.

Abbot Oswin’s eyes sparkled and he leaned back, his fingers steepled as he began to paint the portrait of a young Magnus. “Oh, my dear. He was an imp, I tell ye. A walking contradiction—a boy with a heart as wide as the ocean and a temper as fierce as a summer storm.”

Contradictions? Izzy thought. That sounded about right. She couldn’t square the man who had stood and taken a beating from an irate villager, making no effort to defend himself, with the man who’d shown such savaged violence to that blacksmith. She shuddered. Who was Magnus Kerr really? The gentle man or the violent one?

Abbot Oswin watched the other monks working diligently in the garden, his hands resting on his knees. They were gnarled and weathered from years of hard work, yet held a gentle grace about them much like the man himself. He seemed lost in memories, allowing them to sweep him up.

“Saint Bartholomew’s has always been a haven for lost souls,” Abbot Oswin continued slowly. His gaze remained distant, as though his thoughts were with the young Magnus he remembered. “And Magnus was as lost as any when he arrived on our doorstep. He’d lost everything, and I could see it in him—the sorrow that lived deep within his eyes.”

Izzy’s food lay forgotten as she listened to the monk. What must it have been like for Magnus back then? To have lost his family like that...She couldn’t even begin to imagine.

“He was a firebrand, even then,” Oswin said. “His spirit was unquenchable—a beacon in our quiet sanctuary. But he never took to the solitude well. His heart yearned for more than we could offer him here. And then someone came who could give him what we couldnae.”

“Eamon?” Izzy asked.

The monk’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “He’s told ye about Eamon?”

“Not really,” Izzy replied with a shrug. “Just that he left the monastery to go live with him.”

“Aye,” Oswin replied. His expression grew troubled. “And we let him go, fools that we were. If we hadnae, if we’d fought harder to keep him here, perhaps things wouldnae have turned out the way they did.”

What did that mean?

“I don’t understand, Abbot Oswin. What happened?”

Oswin sighed, his hands clasped tightly together. “A story for another day, my dear,” he said. “Let us suffice it to say that the paths we choose are not always the easiest, nor the most righteous.”

A sudden clang of the monastery bells cut through their conversation. Izzy jumped, startled at the loud noise breaking through the quiet of the room and Snaffles let out a mournful howl. Abbot Oswin rose from his chair and walked toward a small wooden stand where he picked up a worn-out book with a leather-bound cover.

“Time for Terce,” he said. “Would ye care to join us in prayer?”

Izzy gave a sheepish smile. “Um...religion, prayer, that’s never really been my kind of thing.”

“No need to worry, my dear,” Oswin chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “One doesnae have to be a believer to join in unity of spirit.”

Izzy was never particularly religious back home, and the monastery was about as far out of her realm of experience as it was possible to get, but the kindness of Abbot Oswin and the tranquility of this place drew her in.

And besides, Magnus might be there.

“Alright,” she agreed, rising from the chair and following Abbot Oswin to the door. “Snaffles, stay.”

For a wonder, the dog did as he was told, obediently settling down onto the cold stone floor. The fact that there were left-overs on the breakfast tray that Abbot Oswin didn’t seem inclined to remove, probably had something to do with that.

They left the room, and stepped through a wide door into the kitchen garden Izzy had seen from the window. Dew glistened on the manicured hedges and gravel crunched beneath their feet as they made their way towards the chapel.

It was a humble building nestled within a secluded corner of the monastery grounds, with worn stone walls and a wooden roof. Already she could hear the low sound of singing coming from within .

Entering the chapel, Izzy was struck by its austere simplicity. The high stone walls were adorned only with a few small crosses and a relief depicting Saint Bartholomew. Yet despite its starkness, or maybe because of it, there was a serenity that blanketed the chapel—in contrast to the busy brashness of Hodwell itself.

The rest of the monks—around twenty of them—had already gathered in a circle down at the far end of the chapel. A few benches had been set aside at the near end for parishioners who wished to join the ceremony and so, as Abbot Oswin went to join his brother monks, Izzy slid onto one of the benches beside a middle-aged couple wearing rough, homespun clothing, and looked around, hoping to spot Magnus.

She tried not to feel out of place but that was easier said than done. Despite the dress that Morwenna had lent her, she must stick out like a sore thumb. Surely anyone who took a good look at her would know instantly that she didn’t belong here?

Worry gnawed at her insides, and she looked around, trying to see if anyone was paying any attention to her. They weren’t. The monks were chanting in Latin and the parishioners had all bowed their heads and closed their eyes.

Where was Magnus? She couldn’t see him anywhere. Disappointment washed through her. She had hoped to see that wry, almost shy smile.

So where was he?

MAGNUS WATCHED FROM the shadows at the back of the chapel. Isabelle had taken a seat with the rest of the congregation and when she’d entered the chapel with Oswin, it had been all he could do not to go to her at once. But he’d held himself back. He wasn’t sure what welcome he’d receive and the thought of seeing that expression on her face again—that horror—was enough to make him keep his distance.

At the far side of the chapel, by the altar, the monks were beginning Terce, Abbot Oswin reading from his book of psalms in that warm voice Magnus remembered so well.

It was strange being back here. Strange and unsettling and soothing all in one. When Able had told him that the nearest blacksmith could be found in Hodwell, he’d dreaded returning here. He’d told himself that he and Isabelle would be in and out and on their way to Dun Saith without ever having to come near Saint Bartholomew’s, but things had not turned out that way. When Isabelle had taken a bad turn and keeled over, he’d been terrified. The only people he knew, and the only people he’d trust with her care, were Abbott Oswin and the monks. And so he’d brought her here, to his childhood refuge.

In the outside world, years had passed and Magnus’s life had changed beyond all recognition, but here, inside the walls of this hallowed place, time seemed to have moved hardly at all. Oh, Abbot Oswin and the others he’d known looked older, of course, and the monastery had grown in the time he’d been away, but the feel of the place hadn’t changed. It had been his sanctuary when he needed it the most, and part of him wished he’d been able to find peace here .

He pulled his cloak tighter around him, retreating further into the shadows. He had chosen his path, for better or worse. There was no going back. As much as the calm and tranquility of the monastery called to him, he knew he could never find the same solace here again. He had seen too much, done too much.

His gaze traced back to Isabelle. She was watching the monks with wide-eyed curiosity, her head tilted slightly to one side as she tried to make sense of the Latin prayers. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Even in her confusion, there was a quiet determination about her.

Terce ended, and the chapel fell into a hush, broken only by the soft rustling of robes as the monks stood to leave. Isabelle too rose from her seat, looking around uncertainly. The villagers began to filter out of the chapel, whispering their thanks to the brothers, but Isabelle stood still, her gaze wandering around.

She was looking for him, he realized.

The thought sent a strange warmth spreading through him, chasing away some of the cold that seemed to have settled into his bones. He ached to go to her. He could still feel the weight of her in his arms as he’d carried her from where he’d found her, panicked and trembling in the slaughter district of Hodwell. He could still feel the beat of her heart against his chest as he’d carried her to the monastery. He could still smell the herbal scent of her hair as the top of her head had brushed his chin.

And when he closed his eyes, he could still see the horror on her face as she’d watched him beat the blacksmith.

So he didn’t move. He stayed in his corner even after everyone, including Isabelle, had left.

Slowly, he moved across the empty room, footsteps echoing against the aged stones. Approaching the altar, he ran a tentative finger over the surface, tracing around an imperfection in the wood, a knot that had always reminded him of an eye.

How many hours had he spent kneeling here in his youth, lost in prayer, desperately trying to find a peace that eluded him? A peace that still eluded him. He stared up at the simple cross hanging above the altar.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

“The Lord forgave ye long ago,” a voice answered. “Now He’s just waiting for ye to forgive yerself.”

Magnus spun to find that not all the brothers had left after all.

“Damn it, Oswin,” he growled. “Ye can still move as silently as a cat, I see.”

Oswin chuckled softly and walked over. “What can I say, my boy? Old habits die hard and I wasnae always a monk ye know?”

Magnus snorted. Aye, he knew it. The signs of Oswin’s former profession were there for all to see in the scar that ran down his neck from a sword-blow that should have taken his life. It was this narrow escape that had turned him towards the spiritual path and Oswin had never touched a weapon once he’d taken his vow. Rumor said he’d once been a fearsome warrior and, perhaps, a king’s spy.

Oswin came to stand in front of him. He was shorter than Magnus—almost everyone was—but he still held that air of calm authority that Magnus remembered. “I didnae expect to see ye in here, my lad,” he said softly. “As I recall, ye used to avoid the liturgy whenever possible. And like I said, the Lord forgave ye a long time ago.”

Magnus looked down at his hands. They were large and rough, covered in callouses from years of handling swords and axes. Hands that were made for fighting—for killing—not for prayer. “Did He? I’m not sure He listens to me anymore.”

Oswin watched him for a few moments before continuing. “Is that why ye are here? To seek forgiveness? Ye think by stopping the outlaws that ravage the lands around Hodwell that ye might find what ye seek?”

Magnus frowned. He thought he’d been careful not to reveal his intentions, but clearly, he was still as transparent to his old tutor as he’d been in his youth.

“I heard what happened to that village out east,” Oswin continued as if sensing Magnus’s thoughts. “And of the man who came to that village’s aid. I guessed it was ye. There are not many who fit yer description.” Oswin’s sigh echoed through the chapel, mixing with the scent of incense and old parchment. “Ach, my boy. There is more bothering ye, is there not? I was yer confessor once. Will ye not trust me as ye once did?”

Magnus didn’t answer, gazing at the door from where Isabelle had exited. “She’s afraid of me now,” he said. The admission tasted sour in his mouth.

Oswin was silent for a long moment. “Ye care for her, dinna ye? ”

Magnus clenched his jaw. He wanted to deny it. After all, they’d only known each other such a short time that it was ridiculous to feel the way he was beginning to feel. But he couldn’t help it.

“Aye,” he admitted finally, his voice rough. “I do.”

“Have ye considered speaking to her about it?” Oswin suggested gently.

Magnus laughed bitterly. “And say what? That I’m sorry she saw me as I really am?” He turned away, staring up at the cross above the altar. “How is she today, anyway?”

“Why dinna ye ask her that yerself?” Oswin replied. “Instead of standing here talking to me?”

Magnus opened his mouth and closed it again. He wanted to talk to Isabelle more than anything. But he dreaded it too. Suddenly, the chapel felt suffocating.

“I need some air,” he muttered and strode away before Oswin could reply.

He stepped out into the cold morning and hesitated. Straight ahead, lay the path to the abbot’s study where Isabelle would be. It was only a few paces but felt much, much further.

Cursing himself for a coward, he turned and strode in the opposite direction.