Page 8 of The Forsaken
She lay still and tried to calm her racing heart. She’d had the dream again. She was locked in the Talbot vault, and Brett Besson was taunting her through the locked door, condemning her and her baby to death. She knew her fear was irrational, but the darkness of the night contributed to the feeling of being buried alive. The beam of moonlight reminded her of the flashlight she’d used to illuminate the tomb and shine a light on Madeline’s remains.
Quinn slid out of bed and padded to the door, careful not to wake Gabe. A small smile tugged at his lips, and his dark lashes rested against his lean cheeks as he slumbered on, worn out by hours of digging.
She belted her dressing gown and made her way downstairs. The ground floor was much darker than the bedroom, since the corridor had no windows, and the doors to the various rooms were firmly shut. Quinn felt her way along the passage until she found the door she was looking for—Graeme’s study. In centuries past, the study had been the heart of the estate, the room where all important decisions were taken and every farthing of estate funds flowed through. During Graeme’s time, it had been a room in which to smoke a cigar while sorting through outstanding invoices or read a fishing magazine. Graeme Russell hadn’t been much of a fisherman, but he’d subscribed to several fishing magazines, particularly ones dealing with fly-fishing in Scotland, and pored over them endlessly, probably more to get away from his bossy wife than because he was planning a fishing expedition.
Quinn crossed the room and sat down in the old studded leather chair. It was a man’s chair: hard-backed, solid, anduncomfortably firm. The two items from the grave rested on the desk. She’d promised Gabe she wouldn’t touch them until they could do it together, but she was sleepless and frightened by her dream. And the artefacts beckoned to her. She had realized something when she’d discovered Madeline’s remains in New Orleans. As much as she hated her psychic gift, she wouldn’t give it up if she got the chance. Her ability took her on an emotional journey, and often left her heartbroken and trembling with rage at the injustice of the victim’s fate, but it also gave her an opportunity to speak for the forgotten and the forsaken, and to give them a voice and a name once again.
Quinn studied the sword and the rosary, and opted to start with the sword. The rosary was small and delicate, and easily transported and stored, but she wouldn’t dare leave the sword lying around, not with a curious little monkey like Emma in the house. It would be too dangerous, unless they purchased a lockable container long enough to accommodate the sword. The weapon weighed about four pounds, as Gabe had surmised earlier and later confirmed by weighing it on Phoebe’s bathroom scale, and was approximately three feet long. It was a longsword with a cruciform hilt made for double-handed use. The steel blade, surprisingly uncorroded by time, glinted in the moonlight, reminding Quinn that it had probably claimed its share of lives and limbs. There had probably been an intricately patterned and possibly bejeweled scabbard that came with the sword, but there was no sign of it in the grave. The sword had been unsheathed, as it would have been when ready for battle. Whoever the young man had been, he’d been a warrior, and had been buried like one, even if his grave had been kept secret by those who interred him.
Quinn gingerly ran her fingers along the crossbar of the sword. The pattern was worn, but she felt the etching and the shape of the cool multi-faceted gem that adorned the center. The stone, the size of a pound coin, was a deep smoky blue, most likely a sapphire. This was not the sword of a foot soldier. It must have belonged to someone of consequence, someone who held a place in history, even if his name had been long forgotten. Quinn felt atremor as the steel began to divulge its memories, taking her to a bloody battlefield.
SIX
MARCH 1461
Towton, Yorkshire
Guy’s sense of smell was the first to reassert itself, which was unfortunate since the stink of blood, shit, sweat, and death was overwhelming despite the cold. The storm had raged all through the battle, from morning until well into the night. The snow and sleet had come down in sheets, blinding the soldiers and at times immobilizing them for what had seemed like hours, when in fact it had only been minutes.
The carnage was unprecedented. Guy had seen his share of battles, but he’d never seen anything that came close to what he’d witnessed this day. The dead and dying were piled so high the knights couldn’t get around them, or lift their armor-clad legs enough to step over the fallen. The men were exhausted, not only from fighting but from battling the elements. Countless men had drowned as they tried to flee the battlefield, driven into the river by the pursuing enemy. The water had run red for hours, the scene reminiscent of a Biblical plague. It should have been an easy victory. How had it all gone so wrong?
With the army of the House of York vastly outnumbered by the Lancastrians, the outcome of the battle had been almost certain, until God had made His will known this Palm Sunday. Harnessing the power of the wind, the Yorkists had shot their arrows further and faster than the Lancastrians, whose own arrows were blown off course and fell at the feet of the Yorkist archers. The whoresons had actually used Lancastrian arrows against them, picking them up as they fell and turning them on the men who’d loosed them. And then the Yorkist reinforcements had arrived, with the Duke of Norfolk leading the charge. The Lancastrian army had been routed, leaving absolutely no doubt as to who won the day.
For a moment, Guy thought he must have died, since he could no longer hear the clash of steel or the screams of dying men and horses, but there was an almighty roar. The battle was over, so the roar had to be in his head. It throbbed and ached so badly he couldn’t even open his eyes, which were nearly frozen shut from the sleet that had penetrated his visor. No, if he were dead, he wouldn’t be this cold, or feel such searing pain. He was still among the living, if only just.
Guy tried to move his legs. They appeared to be pinned down by something heavy, likely a corpse, but were both still functional. His left arm felt numb, but his right arm was as heavy as a fallen log, and the pain that gripped his upper arm when he tried to move it was so severe he nearly passed out again. He must have blacked out when he was wounded, but if he allowed himself to lose consciousness now, he’d be mistaken for one of the dead and left untended. It would take him hours, possibly even days, to finally die of his injuries or the brutal cold that turned his armor into an icy metal shell. Guy’s mind ordered him to throw the dead weight of the corpse off his legs and rise, but his body wouldn’t comply. He couldn’t seem to find the strength to do anything but lie there like carrion, waiting to be pecked at by crows until he really was blind.
Opening his eyes took some doing since he couldn’t use his hands to thaw the ice that had formed on his lids. Guy’s vision was blurred and a wave of nausea threatened to turn his guts inside out. He turned his head just in time to retch into the blood-stained snow. There wasn’t much in his stomach; he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning. He’d had some broth and bread to break his fast, but his body had burned through the meager meal by the time he was clad in his armor and in the saddle, ready for battle. And it had to be morning now, since the sky was just beginning to lighten, and the fury of the storm had abated, leaving behind an eerie calm broken only by the moans of the dying and the cawing of crows gleefully enjoying their gruesome breakfast.
Guy accidentally moved his arm and agonizing pain shot through his entire right side, making him cry out.
“Guy, thank Jesu,” a voice from somewhere above him exclaimed. It pronounced Guy asGhee, the way his French mother had. Few people called him that, so even though Guy couldn’t quite make out Hugh’s face, he knew it was his older brother bending over him. “Are you badly hurt?”
Guy had every intention of denying his injury, but when he tried to speak, agony laced his voice and he exhaled painfully. “Yes.”
“Stay here. I’m going for help.”
That nearly made Guy laugh. As if he could just get up and walk away. He was fairly certain his armor was frozen to the ground, and even if it weren’t for his injury, to so much as roll onto his side, he’d struggle like a turtle that’d been flipped on its back.
“Is it over?” he mumbled.
“It is,” Hugh replied.
His brother’s grim expression told Guy everything he needed to know. He hadn’t missed a last-minute miracle while he was unconscious. The Lancastrians had been trounced, and many of their comrades were either severely wounded, lying dead on this Godforsaken field, or rested on the riverbed, weighed down by their armor as the rushing water flowed over them as if they were nothing more than boulders. The grim thought made Guy sick again. He unwittingly leaned on his wounded arm to retch and the pain rendered him senseless, which at that moment was a blessing.
When he opened his eyes again, it was very bright. A hazy winter sun glowed through the bare branches of a tree, its limbs black against the colorless sky. Beside him, Walter sat with his back against the massive trunk. The boy was fast asleep, his dirty cheek pressed against the leather of his doublet. Guy carefully reached out and pulled on Walter’s sleeve. The boy came awake with a start and scrambled to his feet, as though ashamed at having nodded off.
“I’m thirsty, Walter,” Guy whispered.
“Of course, sir. Right away, sir,” Walter mumbled as he fetched a skin of wine and held it to Guy’s lips.
Guy took a few sips and pushed it aside with his good hand. “Where’s Hugh?” he croaked.
“He went to look for your brother, sir,” Walter replied, a mournful expression on his face. He was only fifteen and hadn’t yet learned the art of hiding his feelings.
“Did William fall in battle?” Guy asked.
Walter nodded miserably. “He never came back. I’m sorry, sir. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”
