Unending Love (34 page)

Finding some shelter for his horse behind the
inn in a rather crowded stable, he paid the boy tending the horses a pence to
see to his stallion and proceeded to make his way towards the rear of the inn.  He
sloshed through the mud, knowing he was going to have to pay someone to clean
the rust off
his
[J65]
 
mail that night.  The stuff would seize up if he
didn’t have it cleaned off and he wouldn’t be able to wear it. 

Opening up the inn door, he was hit in the face
with heat and the stench of smoke and too many dirty bodies.  The place was
absolutely packed and he took a couple of steps in, scoping out the landscape,
before realizing there was no use in going any further.  Every single corner
was jammed with people.  Frustrated, he quit the inn and left the back door
hanging open as he made his way back to the stables. 

He was half way across the swampy yard when it
occurred to him that there was a church across the road.  At least it would be
dry shelter and perhaps he could impose upon a priest to direct him to a family
willing to provide him with a meal for a few coins.  Wiping the water out of
his eyes, he shifted direction and headed in the direction of the church.

The weather was worse now, if such a thing was
possible. He’d never seen such rain. Making his way quickly across the square,
he headed for the enormous church that was now looming ahead through the gray. 
He had his satchel and broadsword under his left arm, trying to keep both of
them dry as he made his way through a rock-filled lake that was really the
walkway leading up to the church.  At this point, all he could think of was
getting dry until the sounds of screams filled the air.

At first, he didn’t pay much attention.  He
wasn’t about to involve himself in someone else’s affairs but he did keep an
eye out just so he wouldn’t inadvertently get caught up in something.  There
was always someone looking to challenge a well-armed knight, wanting to make a
name for himself, so his plan was to stay clear of whatever was going on and
stick to the shadows.  Then he’d find that priest who would direct him to a
family in need of coin in exchange for a dry spot and hot food.

At least, that was his hope until he spied the
commotion that was causing the screaming.  He could see it, clear as day, as he
entered the church.  There was a pair over near a small alcove, a man and a
woman in mortal combat.  It took him a moment to process what he was seeing and
when realization finally dawned, his satchel hit the floor as did the heavy
leather sheath for his broadsword.  The weapon was unleashed and so was Daniel.

Before he could draw two true and steady
breaths, Daniel charged across the sanctuary floor with his broadsword held
high and murder in his heart.

He was out for blood.

Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it's age-old pain,
It's ancient tale of being apart or together.

CHAPTER
TWENTY

The storm was legendary.  In fact, Adalind had
never seen such rain.  It was as if God himself was angry, casting down big
lightning bolts with his eyes and creating thunder with his loud booming
voice.  She tried not to think that the weather was the result of God being
angry with her, personally, for all of the sins she had committed over the past
five days.  She hoped he was an understanding God.  If he wasn’t, then she
hoped one of those lightning bolts wasn’t aimed at her head.

It all started after her escape from Arundel. 
Adalind never knew she had a mind like a criminal but she evidently did because
the first thing she did was steal some clothes that had been hung out to dry. 
As she had crossed through the town, a mad-like dash to get away from the
castle, she ran through a cluster of poorly constructed homes where washed
clothing had been hung out to dry on a sapling tree.  

As she ran, she almost passed it by but the
thought that Brighton, or anyone else for that matter, would be able to spot
her in her fine clothing had her stealing what she could off the tree and
dashing into the woods with it.

A quick inventory in the undergrowth showed that
she had stolen a coarse linen shift, a type of surcoat, dyed red, that was more
of a girdle with a skirt attached, another large red tunic that was more like a
cloak than an actual tunic, and a pair of hose that were surprisingly soft. 
Very quickly, she had pulled off her fine clothing, all except her shift and
corset, and pulled on the girdled skirt, hose, and cloak-like tunic.  The
material was rough, and the dye job was uneven, but the clothes were
surprisingly clean and comfortable.  They also blended in and made her look
like a peasant.  Please with her acquisition, she buried her fine clothing
under a pile of moldering leaves and continued her flight.

As the evening fell on the first evening, she
was afraid to travel in the dark so she sought shelter in a barn with a pair of
cows for company.  The barn was part of a small farm, for she could see the
farmhouse in the distance, and she hid in the loft that was filled with dry and
crunchy grass. 

As the sun set completely, the farmer brought
his big shaggy horse into the barn and fed and watered all of the animals as
Adalind hid in the loft and prayed he would not find her.  He left, eventually,
and went to the house, leaving Adalind with the animals and building up a
powerful hunger.

So she had crept out of the loft and scooted
over to the house, staying to the shadows as the man and woman came outside and
moved in and out of a cellar of sorts that was made out of stone.  The old man
would roll the stone door away and the woman would gather food items and take
them back into the house. 

It gave Adalind an idea and before the night was
over, she had managed to steal quite a bit of food from the stone cellar and
the farmer’s shaggy horse.  She left in the middle of the night, fearful she
would be caught if she tried to leave before dawn because farmers were always
up before the sun.  Therefore, by the light of the half-moon, Adalind and her
stolen horse traveled north.

On the run, she began to think like the hunted.
It was easier than she thought. She knew Brighton would have discovered her
absence and she was positive he was trailing her so she had to be smarter than
he was.   She had to find a convent, a church, anywhere that would provide her
sanctuary.  It was her only hope because she had to assume she could not outrun
Brighton over the long run.   He would catch her and marry her and she would
live in hell for the rest of her life.  She couldn’t allow that to happen.

Therefore, thinking like an outlaw became
easier.  She stole food when she could, hid in the shadows, and traveled in the
trees that paralleled the road so she could stay away from those that traveled
in the open. 

On the eve of the third day, she came across a
small encampment and watched from the bushes, like a thief waiting to pounce,
only to discover that the man she thought was sleeping by the fire was actually
dead, so she stole his horse and most of his possessions.  Coinage, food,
weapons… it all became hers, and she rode off on a fine Belgian warmblood,
feeling bad she had stolen everything but concerned only with her survival.

With the money and her stolen wardrobe, she was
able to pay for food for the next couple of nights and she even slept on a bed
on the fourth evening.  Being paranoid that Brighton would happen upon her at any
moment, she stayed in a small inn with terrible food and a horrible stench. 
Surely Brighton would never stay in such a place and surely he would never look
for her in such a place.  It was the best night’s sleep she’d had in almost a
month, safe in the arms of that smelly hostel.

The fifth day had dawned stormy and windy, and
she had traveled a short way before deciding to seek shelter from the
elements.  She entered into a larger village with a town center and a big well,
riding comfortably because she was covered up with the dead man’s enormous
cloak.  

Almost immediately, she spied the bell tower of
a church and she made her way towards it.  As she drew closer, she could see
that it was a fairly large church with a cloister attached and she began to pray
she found a safe haven that would protect her from Brighton.  She could only
imagine where the man was, nearby, on her tail, at any moment ready to capture
her, so she was thrilled to have finally found safety.  She was sure of it.

There was a livery behind a small
inn
[J66]
 
across the street from the church and she paid
the boy handsomely to feed and water the fat Belgian warmblood that had thusfar
been a smooth and steady ride.  He was a good horse.  She left the stable as
the boy was drying the horse off, lugging the big satchel with all of the
possessions she had stolen.  Other than the saddle, she wasn’t going to leave
anything behind in the stable where it could be filched.   Covering her head
with the hood of the enormous cloak, she made her way through the mud and rain
to the church across the square.

It was fairly crowded inside and the soot given
off by the tallow candles gave the air a greasy smell.  It was stuffy, but it
was dry and relatively warm, and Adalind peeled off the hood of the cloak as she
wandered into the cavernous sanctuary.   She was looking for a priest, someone
she could speak with about her quest for sanctuary and eventual commitment to a
nunnery.   There were plenty of peasants and travelers in the church, huddling
in quiet groups, but it took her several minutes before she came across an
acolyte who directed her to an alcove near the door where the priest was.

Retracing her steps towards the front of the
church where an arched doorway evidently led into the priestly alcove, she was
about to enter the room when she heard a familiar voice.  Not a friendly or
comforting voice, but one from her nightmares. It took her a moment to digest
what she had heard and come to a confused stop.  Confusion turned to fear.  Startled,
she threw herself against the wall next to the door and, with a deep breath for
courage, peered around the corner.

Brighton was standing with the priest several
feet away.  He was in conversation with the man in stained brown robes, his
back partially to the entry, but it was all Adalind needed to see.  Panic
filled her as she scampered away, trying not to make too much noise, struggling
to camouflage herself in the groups of people that were huddled in the
sanctuary seeking shelter from the elements. It was a harried flight, one that
attracted some attention, as she made it to the other side of the church where
shadows concealed the corners. 

Dear God, he is here!
She thought
frantically, throwing herself behind a big stone pillar that was part of the
roof support.  Her breathing was coming so fast and furiously that she ended up
breaking down into terrified tears, covering her mouth so she wouldn’t make any
sounds. Still, the shock was too great and she allowed herself a few seconds of
hot, frightened tears.  She knew he would come after her and was unhappy to
realize she’d been correct.   Of all the towns between Canterbury and Arundel,
they both happened to stop in the same one.  The irony was unfathomable.

So she struggled for calm, wiping her tears,
staying behind the pillar because she thought it would be better to stay where
she was and not try to leave. He might see her and she was fairly certain she
couldn’t out run him on the fat Belgian stallion.  Therefore, the most logical
thing was to wait him out until he left and not try to run. 

… please, Brighton, go!

As she sat behind the pillar, shielded, she
began to calm.  There were quite a few people in the sanctuary, enough to
distract the knight, and she quickly pulled the hood up over her head to shield
her features.  In fact, she drew up her legs and buried her face in the top of
her knees, praying furiously for both control and protection. Surely God would
listen to her pleas.

Please, God, send Brighton far away so I shall
never see him again.  And please… if Maddoc is with you, perhaps you can send
him to protect me.  I need a guardian angel, God… please send him to me.

Adalind must have prayed the same prayer a dozen
times.  Over and over, she asked for Brighton to be sent away and for a
guardian angel to protect her.  Outside, the storm raged and time passed, and
Adalind remained pressed up against the stone pillar, listening to the weather
howl and wondering where Brighton was. She didn’t dare move, peering around the
pillar and risk being spotted.  She couldn’t hear any voices, not from anyone,
because the rain and thunder were so loud.  On into the afternoon, she sat… and
she waited.

It was a long and apprehensive wait.  Adalind
kept her face down and her hood over her head, listening to the rain, praying for
protection and desertion – protection from God, Brighton’s desertion.  She also
found her thoughts wandering to Maddoc, wondering what it would have been like
had Brighton de Royans never made an appearance and she had married Maddoc as
she had always planned.   

They would have remained living at Canterbury, a
newlywed couple just starting out in life. She thought on the children they
might have had, all sons she was sure, who would have all looked just like
Maddoc with his blue eyes and black hair.  Perhaps they would have even had his
smile, with the big dimples in each cheek, and his chin with the defined cleft
in it.  There was so much about him that was distinctive and wonderful, now
dead and buried.  It was a struggle to remember the wonderful things about him
and not the last time she saw him.  Maddoc, her beautiful angel, now gone
forever.