“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 FROMthe 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 watchedhim 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 thatstilleluded 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 thatair 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.”
