Come Back to Me by Jody Hedlund
~ 25 ~
MARIANRAISEDTHECANDLE toward the capital of column F. At the top, the stone face of the bearded man stared back at her with beady eyes. It was as formidable in the past as the present, just less worn with time.
She touched the protruding tongue but then stopped. Was she doing the right thing?
During the galloping ride with Sir John, she’d prayed with each beat of hooves that the ampullae would still be in the crypt. She was still puzzled by the overlap of the past and present and didn’t know how the transmission of ampullae worked.
The one thing she did understand was that if she took one out, she had no guarantee of finding more holy water to leave for Ellen and Harrison. In that event, she might be stuck in the past, maybe forever.
Was this the life she really wanted?
Her fingers trembled against the rough carving. Did she want to stay in the 1300s without all the modern conveniences she relied upon and loved? Could she give up her career, the one she’d worked so hard to obtain? What about never being able to see Ellen again?
Yet how could she leave Will behind? Her entire body tightened with protest at the thought of not being with him.
Even though her heart warred within her over her future, she knew without a doubt she couldn’t let Will die, not when she had a means to possibly save him. When she’d asked to ride to the cathedral, Sir John had clearly humored her out of respect for Will. And he’d also honored her request to instruct the surgeon to wait for the cauterizing until they returned.
She glanced through the dank cavern over to the narrow steps at the far end that led to the nave. The underground crypt was smaller and darker than the modern structure with only one entrance—the one she’d fled up when she’d escaped from Lionel’s thugs.
Sir John waited for her at the top, giving her the privacy she’d requested. His title and prestige as well as his bribe had persuaded the monks to allow them in at this early hour of the morning, though they’d been preparing for Lauds and hadn’t wanted to be disturbed.
The kindly knight had understood her urgency and had likely felt it too. They’d had to wait for the groomsman to saddle fresh horses and then had ridden the distance into town, galloping through the quiet moonlit countryside on a circuitous route to avoid any angry peasants who might be fleeing from London.
During the ride, Sir John filled her in on all the events that transpired after she left Blackheath with the boys. He informed her that upon seeing Wat Tyler attacked, the peasants lifted weapons to fight against the king’s men.
However, in a valiant effort to avoid further bloodshed, the king encouraged the peasants to disperse. With their leader stabbed to death and fearing the worst, many ran off. Those coerced into joining the rebels, like Sir John, made their true allegiance known. Walworth, the mayor of London, cut off Wat Tyler’s head, displayed it on a pole, and returned to London with the king’s troops to restore order on the streets.
No doubt Sir John was in a hurry to return to his own family and assure himself of their safety and protection. But out of gratitude to Will for his bravery in the recent battle as well as out of respect for the king’s request to assist Will, the neighboring knight was doing all he could to ensure Will’s survival.
With precious seconds of Will’s life ticking away, Marian set aside her reservations. She placed the candle on the floor and tugged at the tongue of the carving with both hands. To her relief it scraped forward—even if only a fraction. She wiggled and hefted until it came out. Will’s loosening from earlier in the week had likely saved her much hardship in taking it out today.
The candlelight was smoky and dim, providing little illumination of the cavern. Nevertheless, she could see the small black hole in the column. She rose on her tiptoes and probed within the hiding place.
She grazed the engraved patterns of the ampullae and brushed against the parchment note she’d left for her father. Everything was still there.
She closed her fingers around one of the flasks and removed it. Then before she lost courage, she unsheathed the small dagger she’d taken from among Will’s weapons. With the sharp tip, she carved the letters E and C into the ampulla. This flask was for Ellen. She absolutely wouldn’t allow Ellen to use it on her. Ellen had to drink it and cure herself.
With a final cut on the ampulla, she blew the dust away, fingered Ellen’s initials one last time, then returned the container to the hiding place. She pulled out the other one, slipped it through the folds of her gown into the pouch tied underneath.
Her fingers connected with a piece of clay she’d broken off a bowl. She’d already carved onto it a crude replica of St. George’s Tower and the clock sticking out the side. She hoped Harrison would understand her message—that perhaps the tower stood as a protection over the old life-giving spring that had once been in St. Sepulchre.
She was certain with his wealth and family’s powerful connections, he’d be able to gain access to the tower and find a way to drill deep underneath the ground. If he ever managed to find the location of the original spring—if it still existed somewhere down there—then perhaps he could carry on Dad’s work.
She placed the clay piece into the hiding spot and then shoved the carving of the head back. She wedged it in as tightly as she could and held up the candle to make sure it was secure.
She had no idea what was keeping Ellen and Harrison from the crypt, but their delay had now changed the course of her life.
For better or worse, she would remain in the past.
* * *
By the time Marian returned to Chesterfield Park, the sky was a tangle of pink and orange. The stars were gone and morning birdsong rose in the balmy air. The chirps and twitters would have been a sweet sound had she not been driven with anxiety to know whether Will had lasted the hours she’d been on her mission.
After dismounting, she rushed ahead of Sir John, speeding through the corridors until she barged into Will’s chamber. The surgeon had fallen asleep in the chair next to the bed. At her appearance, he startled awake.
“Is he still alive?” she asked breathlessly, crossing to the bed.
Sir John entered a moment later, and the surgeon rose hastily, attempting to appear dignified as he bent to assess Will.
Marian didn’t wait for his prognosis. Instead, she reached for Will’s hand. It was limp and lifeless and dropped back to the bed. She pressed two fingers against his wrist, feeling for a pulse. A sluggish throb met her touch.
She bit back a sob of relief. He was hanging on.
Her fingers fumbled in her skirt in her haste to free the ampulla. When she pulled it out, the surgeon stepped back. “St. Thomas water?” His voice contained a reverence she hadn’t expected.
She nodded and pried at the cork gingerly, unwilling to lose a single drop of the liquid inside.
The surgeon’s eyes rounded with wonder as he studied the front engraving, the one of Becket and the angels flying over him. She had no wish to see the other side where Becket was being stabbed to death.
“Where did you find it?” the surgeon asked.
She didn’t want to give away the hiding place in the crypt or spread news about Chesterfield Park’s vault. So she chose her words with care. “Sir William’s family had it among their treasures.”
The answer seemed to satisfy the gentleman. He stood back and waited as she finished unplugging the ampulla. Like Sir John, the surgeon accepted the possibility of miracles and the supernatural so much more readily than she ever had. She supposed the age of modern science and medicine had eroded the need for miracles.
She leaned in toward Will. His features were chiseled with pain even in his slumber. She slipped a hand behind his head but then glanced at Sir John and the surgeon. “Would you help me hold up Sir William?”
As they raised Will into a sitting position, his head lolled back. Beneath the dark layer of unshaven scruff, his skin was the same gray as the ashes on the hearth. His lips were pale too, and his breathing shallow and ragged.
Her stomach knotted with love for this man, for his courage, his determination, and his willingness to sacrifice himself for his king and family. He inspired her to want to live with more courage and passion.
She lifted the spout to his lips. “Hold his head steady. He must drink it all.”
Sir John and the surgeon followed her instructions carefully. As she tilted the flask into Will’s mouth, she dribbled the holy water in tiny increments, making sure he swallowed each minuscule amount before she tipped in more.
Like the ampullae her dad had discovered, this one contained only about a tablespoon. Once it was gone, she rinsed inside with water and then poured the additional water into his mouth too. She repeated the process several times, hoping to get every molecule of the holy water into Will’s system.
When she was sure not even the slightest drop remained, Sir John and the surgeon lowered Will back to the bed. Then the three of them stood by his side, waiting for a miracle.
Marian wasn’t sure what would happen. But she couldn’t keep from thinking of the stained glass windows at Canterbury Cathedral bearing testimony to the fact that miracles could happen. Whether as a result of the residue from the Tree of Life or whether through God’s intervention, she had to believe it truly was possible for God to heal when he chose to.
They watched wordlessly, but Will’s face remained pale and lifeless. He didn’t move except to struggle to breathe.
Marian’s legs felt suddenly weak. What if the holy water didn’t work to revive him? What if he was already too close to death? Worse yet, what if the liquid inside the flasks wasn’t the authentic holy water? Not only would Will die, but Ellen would too.
Sir John’s arm steadied her. “I beg you to sit and rest, lady. This has been a trying night, and you have done all you can for now.”
She nodded and allowed him to help her into the chair beside the bed. She couldn’t take her sights from Will’s face, watching for signs of returning color, anything to signal he was reviving. With no more mention of the cauterizing, Sir John and the surgeon eventually took their leave with the promise to return soon.
As she sat next to Will, she reached for his limp hand. Deep sorrow weighed her down. She’d never expected to fall in love with the man of her dreams in 1381. But now that she had, she wanted no one else. He was her one and only. And without him, she didn’t know where she belonged.
* * *
A strange calm sifted through Will, the kind that settled over him whenever he was lying on the cold, hard ground on his back next to a fire, staring up at the stars.
Was he in heaven? Would he be reunited with Thomas and be able to tell him how sorry he was he’d left him sick and defenseless that day outside Bergerac?
Will attempted to open his eyes and sit up, but he couldn’t move. He tried to make his mouth work to call out for his brother, but he couldn’t speak.
At the soft shudder of a breath nigh his cheek, his pulse quickened.
Marian.
Was she entering heaven with him? As much as he wanted her to live and have a happy life on earth, he wouldn’t complain if they entered paradise together.
His mind spun back to the battle with Wat Tyler and the initial thrust he’d made. In attacking Wat first, he’d taken the brunt of the wrath of Wat’s accomplices. They’d come after him with a vengeance. Nevertheless, they’d been no match for the well-trained knights and king’s men who had rallied to Will’s aid and cut them down.
He rejoiced the rebel leader was slain and the revolt squelched. But in striking first, he’d made himself a target and had also put his kin in danger. All the whilst he’d ridden away from London, he’d worried Wat’s men would go after his wife and children, that they would find his family and torture them in reprisal.
Even though Thad had given his word that he’d aid his family’s escape from London to Amsterdam, his steward was no warrior. He wouldn’t be able to fend off a mob of bondmen bent on destruction and revenge.
Thus, even though his companions had warned him against such hard travel in his wounded condition, he’d pushed onward through the pain. When he’d ridden up to Chesterfield Park and was greeted by dark windows and calm silence, he’d allowed himself a measure of relief. Until he walked in and saw Marian . . .
Her soft breath brushed his cheek again and stirred anger in him. She ought to have gone into hiding as he’d instructed. She wouldn’t be safe anywhere near him. Even if the rebels hadn’t sought reprisals yet, they very well could regroup and come looking for him. And when they came, they’d have no qualms about ripping him apart limb by limb and displaying his severed parts all throughout the countryside. He shuddered to think what they might do to her.
He needed Thad to take her far away until the tempest of unrest subsided. But even as his anger roiled about his gut, he breathed her in and lifted a prayer of gratefulness God had spared her.
He prayed for himself too, that God might spare him, though he didn’t deserve it. He could no longer deny he longed to live, desperately so, because he couldn’t bear the thought of being torn asunder from Marian forever.
He wanted a lifetime with her, a lifetime of getting to know the fascinating and beautiful woman who’d arrived into his life so unexpectedly but so powerfully. He wanted the chance to deepen their relationship. He’d tasted of what that might look like, especially the night on Blackheath when he’d opened up to her about Thomas’s death. The sharing hadn’t been easy, but when it was done, he’d felt a bond with Marian that went beyond any he’d known before.
“Marian,” he whispered and was surprised when his voice worked.
She drew in a quick breath. Her fingers pressed his wrist and then his neck. They were warm but trembling.
Again, as before, he tried to open his eyes. This time his lashes rose, and he found himself peering up at her face. She was sitting in the chair next to his bed. The room was bright with daylight highlighting the dried streaks that ran down her cheeks, the paths of her tears. Tears for him?
He lifted his arm and realized he could do so easily. It stung with the pain of one of his wounds—although not nearly as excruciating as he’d expected it to be. He mentally touched each of his injuries. None of them hurt the way they had during the ride home. How was that possible? He’d suspected one of his wounds, the one he’d taken to his side, had been a fatal blow. The dagger had pierced deep into his innards. But even that particular injury felt warm and tight.
Marian was watching his face expectantly, her long hair hanging over her shoulders and resting upon his bare and bandaged chest.
He lifted his fingers to her cheek and caressed it with his thumb. “You disobeyed me.” His voice was raspy and harsher than he intended.
Tears swelled to the brims of her eyes, and she smiled tremulously. “Go ahead and be mad at me. But I couldn’t leave you.”
He wouldn’t tell her, but he was glad she was there, even if she was still in danger from anyone who came seeking revenge. His arm grew weak, and he had to drop it to his side. “The others?”
“Thad returned at midday. They made it to Dover and began the crossing without any incidents.”
Relief rolled through him with the power of a spring storm on the open sea, and he had to close his eyes even though all he wanted to do was stare at Marian’s face.
She pressed her hand against his forehead. “How are you feeling?”
“Weary.” He touched his side. Linen covered the wound, but the burning torture was no longer present.
Her fingers slid into his hair, and the touch was cool and soothing. “I didn’t think the holy water was working, but your color is better and pulse stronger.”
His eyes flew open and collided with her big brown ones. “What holy water?”
“Sir John took me to the crypt, and I retrieved one of the ampullae you put there.”
Will hadn’t believed the holy water could work miracles, had assumed the water was a token of faith, something to comfort the dying. But at the absence of the pain that had racked his body for the past long hours, was it possible he’d been mistaken?
Was it truly miracle water after all? If so, then it was a rare gift—a gift Marian had bestowed upon him at the expense of saving her sister. “What of your sister’s life?”
“The other ampulla is still there for her.”
“Then she has no need of two?”
Marian shook her head and didn’t meet his gaze. “She’ll live if she drinks just one.”
She was withholding something from him. His relief fled, leaving a churning path of worry in its wake. “Who was the other ampulla for?”
For several slow breaths, she hesitated in answering. Finally, she dropped her sights to his. “For me.” The resignation and sadness in her eyes brought a fresh wave of pain—this time to his heart.
“Are you ill?”
“In a way. But it’s nothing to worry about now.”
He couldn’t make sense of what she was saying. But one thing was certain. She’d sacrificed herself for him. “You must avail yourself of the ampulla in the crypt, and we shall seek another for your sister.”
She shook her head. Her eyes contained a determination that told him her answer. She would not abandon her sister even if it meant she must die in the process. He understood how she felt. How could he begrudge her this desire when he’d once felt likewise about Thomas? If he’d been able to exchange his life for Thomas’s, he would have done so faster than a hare could slip into its hole.
“Then we shall begin the search for another ampulla. There must be more.”
“Perhaps.” Marian’s fingers combed through his hair, once again soothing him.
Something was amiss. He could sense it. But another wave of weariness crashed over him, and his eyes drooped closed.
She cupped his cheek. “All that matters is you’re alive.”
He wanted to protest that she mattered too, and that he couldn’t imagine living without her. But drowsiness descended upon him as thick as a heavy coverlet, and he could do naught but yield to a deep and healing sleep.