Come Back to Me by Jody Hedlund

~ 29 ~

WILLSTOODATTHECENTER of the vault, panting from his exertion. He’d torn asunder every corner, every chink in the wall, every cavern. He’d left nothing in the treasure room untouched. Nothing.

It was his third time searching the underground chamber, this time more frantically than the last. Yet he was as empty-handed now as he’d been before.

With a groan that echoed off the stone walls, he dropped to his knees and buried his face into his hands. “Saint’s blood.”

Marian was weakening with every passing day. When he’d sat by her this morning, the paleness of her skin was almost the same bluish white as goat’s milk. Her breathing was shallow and her body more listless—the signs of death. He’d seen them oft enough in his fallen comrades on the battlefield. He’d sensed she had only hours left, if that.

Although he’d commanded his servants to work throughout the night to spoon herbal remedies into her mouth, it wasn’t enough. He’d had a local physician bleed her once. But that had only seemed to weaken her more.

“God in heaven, have mercy.” His whispered plea was hoarse. He’d spent hours on his knees in the chapel begging God to spare Marian. Why would God spare him and not the ones he loved?

If only he could find another ampulla somewhere. But his searching had been in vain. He’d even returned to the crypt underneath Canterbury Cathedral for the second ampulla. Though Marian had meant it for her sister, he hadn’t been able to let her sacrifice herself, had told himself they’d find another to replace it.

But it had been gone. Someone had gotten to it before him, likely someone retrieving it on behalf of her sister.

He’d pleaded with the monks to help him locate another original St. Thomas ampulla. But they could find naught beyond what they currently sold.

Of course, Will had purchased one, hoping and praying Marian had been wrong, that the blessed water would heal her just the same. But it hadn’t worked any more than the bloodletting.

He groaned again.

“Sire.” Thad’s voice from the top of the steps penetrated his misery.

“Go away.”

“A messenger is here.”

“I have no wish to see anyone.”

Thad hesitated the length of a dying breath. “Sister Christina sent the messenger. She received word of your wife’s illness this morn and sends you hope.”

“There is no hope!” Will’s voice echoed off the walls and throughout the empty chambers within his soul. “It is too late.” He did not want to break down and weep in front of Thad, but he had the feeling he would if Thad didn’t leave erelong.

“Sire.” Thad’s voice drew nearer. “Sister Christina has valuable information regarding a spring of holy water at St. Sepulchre she said might help Lady Marian.”

A spring of holy water? Marian had spoken of it. She’d called it a spring that had true curative properties and claimed it was once used to fill the original St. Thomas ampullae.

Will’s head snapped up, and he met Thad’s steady gaze. The young steward’s eyes beckoned him not to forfeit Marian’s life yet, to take hold of the proffer of hope even if it was a thin thread that could unravel and snap.

“The spring is likely buried deep in the ground. But Sister Christina said she will take you to the location.”

Will pushed himself to his feet and stalked to the stairs. “Assemble shovels and hoes and choose another trustworthy servant to aid us. We shall be off at once.”

* * *

“Dig deeper.” Will plunged his pick into the dirt, shoulder deep in the trench. “We are surely getting close.”

The branches of the ash above provided shade to their labor. The small leaves flitted in the summer breeze, capturing the air and sweeping it away before it had a chance to soothe Will’s overheated face.

Through the canopy, he gauged that the sun had moved directly overhead, signaling the passing of two hours.

Two hours of digging.

Next to him, Thad’s face was red and perspiring, his hair matted to his forehead, but he jabbed his hoe into the hard earth.

Will grunted and hefted another bucketful of dirt up to Johnny, the stable boy who had accompanied them. The boy’s breathing was ragged and his face perspiring from the heavy lifting of the soil and rocks, but he worked tirelessly.

Will appreciated that Thad and Johnny were willing to continue to do his bidding even though by now they must believe he was addled for this mission. If they didn’t discover a spring within the next passing of an hour, he would send them home.

Whilst Will hadn’t supported the recent revolt, he’d learned much through it, especially the need to show more consideration to those who lived on his land and served him.

Will had heard news that John Ball, the priest who’d performed his wedding ceremony, had finally been captured. The king had hanged, drawn, and quartered Ball at St. Albans. His head was on display on London Bridge. The quarters of his body had been taken to different towns throughout the countryside to serve as a lesson to anyone contemplating further rebellion.

Without leaders, the rebels had dissipated. However, Will suspected anger, resentment, and unrest still festered like gaping wounds that needed mending. They would not easily heal, and yet the king appeared to have no intention of acting as the great physician—not now that the threat had been squelched.

Will would have to be wary for days to come and would not rush to bring his sons home. Even so, as more rebels were captured, he feared less for his life and estate.

A courier had brought a summons from the king only yesterday. Will had received the message with no great joy. His bravery in helping save the king would only garner him a more prestigious place on the next battlefield. Away from his kin. Away from his wife—if she lived. Whilst he would never dream of shirking duty to king and country, he would not relish leaving when the time came.

His wife.

Like a shooting star, Marian had shown up in the darkness of his life shining so brightly, helping him see the beauty around him he’d been missing, simple things like laughter and conversation and being together. She’d made him want to be a better man, a better husband, and even a better father. But it seemed that now, he was only glimpsing the faint streak of light she’d left behind, and even that was rapidly fading.

He kept pushing away the thought that Marian was likely dead by now. Ere riding away, he’d gone to her bedside and kissed her cheek. Her faint breath nigh his forehead had been lighter than the brush of a dried dandelion petal. He’d known then he didn’t have long to find a way to save her. But he’d instructed the servants to do everything they could to keep her alive.

He paused and wiped a sleeve across his forehead and surveyed the pit with nothing but roots and dirt to show for their work.

What if Christina had been wrong about the location of the wellspring? When he’d arrived, she’d led him to the depression where she and Marian had lain that day the rebels had entered Canterbury and wreaked destruction upon the priory and many other buildings. The very same day he’d wedded Marian.

The ancient ash that stood above him was another sign that marked the spot—although he knew not how. All he could do was pray the tree was right, that it was a sacred site, the site of the water that could heal Marian and bring her back to him.

At the fresh burst of panic winding through his gut, he jabbed his hoe harder and deeper. Will doubted he’d ever be able to stop. Perhaps he’d keep digging until he reached the bowels of hell, which was surely where he belonged for having failed not only Thomas, but now Marian.