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.
Chapter 11
Izzy walked along the gravel path, lost in thought, heading back towards the abbot’s study. But as she turned the corner and came in sight of her destination, she stopped dead. The door hung wide open, creaking gently in the breeze.
Her stomach sank. Oh, no. Hurrying inside, her worst fears were soon confirmed. There was no sign of Snaffles, but Izzy’s breakfast dishes were scattered across the floor, all licked clean. She groaned. This was all she needed.
She had barely finished the thought when she heard shouts of alarm in the distance, accompanied by terrified squawking—and very excited barking.
Spinning on her heel, Izzy sprinted in the direction of the rumpus. She sped through the kitchen garden, apologizing to the monks whose morning work she trampled, and through a gate at the far end that led into the area where the brothers kept their hens.
She arrived just in time to see startled chickens scattering in all directions, whilst an excited Snaffles—realizing he’d failed miserably to catch any chickens—picked up a stick and dropped it expectantly at the feet of the terrified novice who he’d backed up against the henhouse.
