Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (4 page)

I bet ‘tis what Mary felt like.
Jeanie looked around.
‘Tis too bad that there be no manger ‘round here.

Cold, wet and tired, Jeanie lugged herself into a crowded pub. The heat from the bodies and the fire in the corner hearth melted away the cold as she trudged up to the bar, dropping her heavy bag with relief. Carefully, she uncurled her stiff and frozen fingers until they were straight enough to rub together and was rewarded with a tingling rush. When the substantial barkeep loomed over her from the other side she meekly ordered a hot tea. She was famished, having eaten nothing since that morning, but she could only afford the beverage, the rest was for a bed.

The plunk of the white and blue chipped teacup brought her mind back to the situation. Wrapping cold hands around the porcelain, she watched the lazy steam drift roof ward, and luxuriated in its warmth. The sounds of the other patrons dwindled into the background at the hot taste. Her whole reality focused on the steaming brown liquid, even to the exclusion of the smiling man who sat down beside her.

“Tea’s nice to warm up with, but I’ve got somethin’ that will take the edge off.”

Placing the teacup onto its equally chipped saucer, Jeanie turned to face the man with the Cockney accent. He was plainly dressed and appeared quite average, even to his unwashed brown hair and missing bottom tooth. She figured that he might have been good looking once had it not been for the bad setting of a broken nose from long ago.

“And what migh’ that be?” she replied. The tea was hot, but it was not warming her as she had hoped.

The man grinned and turned to the bartender. “Oy, Jack, ‘ow ‘bout a bottle of your best whiskey.”

Jack wiped his meaty hands on his apron, adding to the continuation of discolouration, and leaned over the bar. “You know, Joe, I can’t do that. You haven’t paid up last month’s tab.”

Joe frowned and noticed Jeanie avidly watching the exchange. “Awright. ‘Ow ‘bout if I pay for the bottle and not put it on the tab?”

Jack smiled and nodded. “That I can do.” He took Joe’s money and disappeared into the back only to return a moment later with a bottle of golden brown liquid and two shot glasses. He plunked down the glassware on the counter and walked away to serve another customer at the other end of the bar.

“So wot ye doin’ in London, luv?” asked Joe. The cork came out with his expert administrations and he poured her the first glass. “Ye don’t sound like you’re from ‘round ‘ere.”

Taking the glass, Jeanie sipped at the pungent familiar liquid, before downing the whole shot. “Thank ye,” she wheezed, enjoying the radiating warmth the alcohol produced. Whiskey was her father’s preferred drink, so the smell was of home and made her feel more relaxed. “I’ve come t’ find work.”

“Do you ‘ave a place t’ stay?” Smiling, he poured another shot.

Jeanie shook her head, red curls floating everywhere. “I dinna ken where there’s a place. The one’s I’ve checked are all full. Do ye ken where I can find a bed?” She downed a second and then a third, luxuriating in the whisky’s fire as it obliterated her hunger.

The man smiled and poured yet another round. “I do. If you finish up, I’ll take y’ there.”

“Oh thank ye.” Did she slur? She was not sure but was beginning to regret drinking on an empty stomach. Downing her fifth – or was that sixth – shot, she stood wobbling back and forth on unsteady feet. She laughed at her own clumsiness as she took an uneasy step and grabbed Joe’s proffered arm.

He rose and took her bag, threading her arm through his and guided her into the cold night.

It was so nice to find someone to help her, she thought as she watched in fascination as clouds of breath floated in front of their faces. She was feeling better about the whole idea of London. She grew up with the stories of what the English did to her people, but this man was kind and willing to help her.

Together, arm in arm; they walked down the now quiet streets, laughing at each slip. After a while she asked where he was taking her and laughed when he said to his place.

Jeanie’s mirth was cut short by his angry expression.

“You think I’m funny, eh?” He grabbed her by the shoulders, giving her a furious shake that made her cry out. “You think that after the liquor I gave you, you don’t owe me somethin’?” He pushed her into a straw strewn short alley, obviously inflamed by her growing fear. “You owe me and you’re gonna pay. No one laughs at Joe Rumble.” He grabbed her around the neck and kissed her hard, bruising her lips.

Terror cleared away the last vestiges of the whiskey’s effects and she kneed him hard in the groin. Doubling over, he caught her as she tried to run. Falling to the cold ground, Jeanie let out a cry. She tried to kick, scratch, and bite her way free to no avail. He was quickly on top of her, his weight pinning her to the cold wet ground.

“So y’ like it rough, eh?” he grinned, maliciously. “I like rough.” He kissed her again, this time forcing her mouth open and thrust in his tongue.

At the hideous feeling, she flailed her legs, her scream cut short by the fist across her face.

Reality faded out momentarily and she fought to remain conscious despite the black flickering dots in her eyes. It was enough time for the man to yank down his trousers and quickly lift her heavy skirts.

She felt his hard member press against her and she tried to squirm away, screaming for someone to rescue her. Forcing her legs apart with his knee, he cut off her scream with another kiss while his free hand painfully pinched her nipple through the fabric of her ripped dress.

Lifting his scratched face from hers, he purred, “You know, my dear, pain is so close to pleasure.”

She screamed as he impaled her, violently breaking past her barrier. She could not believe this was happening to her. Tears rolled down the sides of her face, her screaming urged him on as he painfully entered her over and over. Groaning his pleasure, his fetid breath came faster, and then quite suddenly, miraculously, he was no longer on top of her.

The last image she saw before she allowed the darkness to overwhelm her was another man embracing her rapist.

She awoke some time later in the warm comfort of a large soft bed; more comfortable than any she had ever been in. Lit candles on the bedside tables and dresser softly illuminated the richly decorated room filled with expensive mahogany furniture. Her eyes widened at the broadsword mounted on the wall to the right of the bed.

The sound of the door clicking open snapped her attention to the realization that she did not know where she was. Achingly, she sat up wearing nothing but a man’s large white shirt, the sleeves neatly rolled up. Frightened and curious she watched the short dark haired man in a brown monk’s robe shuffle in with a tray of hot food.

“Ah, my child,” he smiled warmly, placing the tray on the bedside table and moved the candlestick to its mate on the dresser. “I am so pleased to see you awake.”

“Wh- where am I?” she asked, hesitantly.

“Why, my dear, you are in the safety of my home.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hazel eyes absorbing her. “I think you should eat before your dinner grows cold.”

She gazed down at the steaming plate and gasped at the food. On fine china lay a perfect Christmas dinner of goose, pudding, potatoes and even cranberries. Where he could have even found fresh greens astounded her. With his help, the tray was set firmly on her lap and she picked up the sterling silver fork. Ripping off a chunk of the white flesh, she melted at the delicious taste.

Remembering her manners, she offered a piece to the monk.

“Oh, no thank you, my dear. I have already eaten.” He grinned.

She gobbled down the best tasting food until all there was left to do was to lick her fingers. Allowing the monk to place the empty tray on the dresser after downing the glass of cool water, she muttered her thanks.

“You are most welcome, my dear. And now that you have put some food into your belly, please allow me to introduce myself.” He sat down at the end of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “I am Father Paul Notus, and, as I said, you are a guest in my home.”

“I’m Jeanie Stuart,” she replied, starting to like this unusual monk. “How did I get here?”

Father Notus sighed. “I was walking home from services when I heard your cries and relieved you of your distressing situation. I carried you home after you fell unconscious. Would you like to tell me about it?”

Memories of the night’s earlier events crashed into her, forcing a sob from her throat. She nodded, not knowing what it was that made her feel so safe and secure to bestow upon this kind man the horror of what happened. The words spilled out of her until all that was left was to cry out her frustration and guilt as he held and gently rocked her.

When she regained control, Father Paul lifted her head, forcing her to gaze into his gentle hazel eyes. “It’s not your fault,” he stated. “You trusted and that man took advantage of that trust. In the Lords sight you are blameless and no harm has come to you. You are washed of the sins forced upon you. Do you understand?”

His words flowed over her, relaxing her, reverberating in her mind until all that was left was a refreshing sense of peace.

“Good,” he smiled, standing up and went to blow out the candles. “Now get some sleep, for tomorrow you start work.”

Surprised, she exclaimed, “What?”

He held open the door, allowing yellow light to streak the room. “I have need of a housekeeper. You have need of a job. I think this will work out well for both of us, do you not agree?” He opened the door further, his smile reflecting her shocked expression. “Do you think two pounds a day is reasonable?”

He closed the door behind him, leaving her in total darkness and staring slack jawed at the door.

Two pounds a day!
She never imagined such wealth and it was visions of what she would do with all that money that guided her to her dreams.

Sometime later, the sound of the doorknob turning roused her from sleep. Groggily, she watched as a very tall slim figure slipped into the dark room illuminated by one guttering candle. The long hair confused her into thinking it was a woman, but she quickly dismissed the notion. She blinked the sleep from her eyes at the sound of shoes being kicked off and buttons being undone. It was then that she realized that this man was undressing. Fear gripped her and she let out an earth shattering scream. She did not need to see in the dark to realize she had frightened the man.

The door banged open to allow Father Paul to enter, lit candle in hand, asking what was wrong. The single candle illuminated the room and when she saw the surprised man by the dresser her jaw dropped. Never before had she seen anyone with his colouring. His long white hair and shocking red eyes filled her with trembling awe, and strangely enough she found him to be the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes upon.

“Gwyn, go out. I will deal with this,” declared Father Paul.

His name sounded exotic to her ears and she watched in fascination as he turned to the priest.

“What is going on? Who is she and why is she in my bed?” His voice was tight with anger, yet soft in its obvious Welsh accent.

“I will tell you later,” replied the Father. “Now if you will, please leave.”

With the grace of a cat, he left after giving her another glance.

Once he was gone, Father Notus came over to her bedside. “I am so sorry, my dear. I did not know he had come home.”

“Who is he?” she asked timidly.

“He is called by many The Angel. He is my ward and my warder. You have nothing to fear from him.”

Father Notus glanced back at the door, and then leaning over to her, he whispered with a wicked grin, “Frankly, my dear, I believe you frightened him more than he did you.” He gave a little laugh. “Now, try and get some sleep. You have had a very trying night.”