Roman (7 page)

“Lock it, if you would,” Roman said. “And keep watch over her if you can. She is . . . distraught.”

The albino's eyes met Roman's, and for the first time, Roman recognized the shrewdness, the deep compassion in Brother Wynn's oddly colored gaze. “As anyone would be, I'd wager. She's an exquisite specimen. Holding up remarkably well in spite of her mistreatment.”

“That she is,” Roman muttered and then headed toward the wide steps that led to the abbey above. To a world of quiet orderliness; of prayerful meditation and clear answers to questions of right and wrong; of confession and penance and redemption. None of which would help him or Isra Tak'Ahn now.

What Roman needed were lessons on deception. Tutorials on disguise and perhaps thievery. Insight into dealing with a fragile woman of questionable background.

Fortunately for Roman, Fallen Angels Abbey was home to the one man in all the world who could educate him thusly.

A
t least one week passed. Isra was not quite certain the exact length of time; days and nights seemed to melt together in the dismal dungeon of the abbey, and she herself felt much like one of the albino's charges while her body continued to heal but her mind grew more frenzied.

In those long, lonely hours, broken only by her forays into the gallery chaperoned by Brother Wynn and the visits by the brusque, red-haired Maisie Lindsey, Isra wondered whether she would ever see Roman Berg again. He might believe her, but she doubted he trusted her. Perhaps one of the other three men would put an end to her. Or the redhead would slip a poison into the rich red wine she brought every night that seemed to make it easier for Isra to sleep. Maybe it was already poisoned, and one day she would simply not wake up.

But then why let her linger?

On what she thought might be the seventh morning since Roman last left her, it was not Maisie Lindsey who came through Isra's cell door bearing the morning tray but a chestnut-haired woman with a delicate brow and a kind face.

“Good day,” the woman said with an inquiring smile as she balanced the tray on her shoulder with one hand and pushed the door closed with the other. A well-worn satchel, round with its hidden contents, hung from her crooked elbow. “I do apologize for not calling on you sooner. It was not my wish to delay our acquaintance.”

Isra backed into the darkest corner of the cell as the woman slid the tray onto the small table and then swung the satchel onto the rumpled pallet. Despite telling herself that she had accepted whatever fate was hers, Isra suddenly had more than a little fear at what the next hour held for her.

“Hello?” the woman called, cocking her head and leaning to the side, as if she was attempting to peek behind the shadow that hid Isra like a curtain. “I'm Lady Mary Beckham. I've brought you something to eat, if you'd care to . . .” She gestured to the table and then stepped back, folding her hands before her waist and waiting.

“Why have you come instead of the other woman?”

Mary's eyebrows rose. “Oh, I—” She held out her open palms. “Didn't Roman tell you that he would send someone to help prepare you? Maisie is quite the wonderful guardian, but I have a bit more”—she wobbled her hands up and down, as if they were scales, gave a shrug of her shoulder—“
understanding
of what you will soon be enduring. Roman and my husband thought it would be best if I readied you. I've brought some suitable clothes and—”

“Readied me for what?” Isra interrupted, her heart pounding. The woman seemed very sure of herself. As if there were nothing at all wrong with the situation in which she now found herself. But then again, she was an actual English
lady
. Isra had never seen a female member of the English nobility before, let alone been locked in a chamber with one.

Especially one who might be preparing her for execution. Isra had heard that titled people enjoyed very strange diversions.

Mary Beckham dropped her hands to her sides and looked nonplussed for a moment. “And I thought no one told
me
anything. Your journey. You and Roman are leaving the abbey today. I thought he inform—”

But Isra didn't give the woman time to finish her sentence as she came from the corner and threw her arms around Mary Beckham's slight shoulders. She quickly remembered herself, though, and drew away, her hands clenched before her chest, her eyes on the floor, but she couldn't suppress the smile on her lips.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Isra said, bowing. “I should not have touched you so. My joy has made me reckless.”

To Isra's surprise, Mary Beckham laughed and then reached out to take Isra's hands in her own. “Good heavens, dear; there is naught to forgive. I would be overjoyed myself were I about to depart this smelly prison. And I have been reckless myself a time or two.”

She led Isra to the pallet and guided her to a seat. “In fact, I must admit that I am rather envious of you.”

Isra took the cup Mary Beckham pressed into her hands while her eyes were trained on the woman's pale, serene face. “Envious of
me
?”

Mary sighed and seemed to stare into nothingness, a slight smile curving her lips. “What grand adventure must await you!” She came back to the present with another longing sigh and bent to the tray, stuffing a knife's blade of fig paste into a hunk of bread. “Completely dangerous of course. It shall be a miracle if neither of you are killed. Arrested, at the very least.” The woman turned and pressed the sweetbread into Isra's other hand and then straightened, her hands on her hips. “Do you suffer seasickness, by chance?”

This Englishwoman was clearly of the eccentric sort.

Isra shook her head.

“Very good.” Mary sat down on the edge of the pallet next to Isra and dragged the satchel onto her lap. “They've not given us much time, so while you break your fast, I will ready your costume.”

“Costume?”

Mary paused and looked to Isra, her mouth open as if about to say something. But then she closed her mouth and smiled while she reached out and patted Isra's knee.

“Welcome to Fallen Angels Abbey, Isra Tak'Ahn,” she said, her brown eyes dancing, “where your old life disappears and you can become whoever you wish.” Mary squinted sideways before looking at her again. “Eventually. But first . . .”

The Englishwoman stood and pulled a long length of what appeared to be soiled, yellowing bed linen from the satchel, unfurling it with a sharp snap. It looked to Isra to be a corpse shroud, stained terrible browns and blacks and ochers.

When Isra looked up at Mary Beckham, the seemingly unflappable Englishwoman's face was beaming and there was a somewhat devilish sparkle in her eyes.

“
Vamanos
, dear.”

* * *

Roman walked around the short, two-wheeled cart a final time in the dark bailey, crouching to check the axle, shaking the long poles and harness attached to the sleeping gray donkey. His breath billowed out of him in great clouds of steam as his sandals crunched over the frosted gravel. Out of one of the black archways came Constantine and Valentine, their arms laden with parcels. Adrian and Father Victor came next, followed by Maisie Lindsey, who bounced and shushed a mewling baby Valentina in her arms.

Stan waited at the rear of the cart while Valentine slid a hidden latch beneath the bed. A moment later, the Spaniard lifted the boards of the platform as one unit and Stan stepped forward, sliding the parcels he carried into their hiding spot. Valentine lowered the cart bed and then tossed a rough sack into a corner near the driver's seat before turning and taking his infant from Maisie. He turned Valentina face-down and tucked her under his arm with his palm spread beneath her narrow chest like one would carry a piglet, and the child quieted.

Adrian followed Father Victor to the front of the cart, where the abbot hung a censer to a staff affixed to the driver's seat. The two men walked around the sleeping donkey and then Victor turned and carefully took a wrapped object from Adrian. The thing was soon hung in a similar fashion as the censer but tethered to the seat by a cord. Victor whisked the covering away and the metal dome glinted in the dim light of the single torch. Adrian returned to the censer while Victor faced Roman.

“Keep it lashed until you are well south of the village. Let it ring freely after that, even should the sun not yet have risen and the road appear deserted.”

Valentine came to stand at his side. “Thieves often wait in the wood along the road for a mark to pass before making themselves seen. If they hear the bell well in advance, they will no bother giving chase. And if they do give chase . . .” Valentine reached into his deep cowl and withdrew a long, leather-sheathed dagger, which he handed to Roman.

Roman took the blade and reached inside his robe to attach it to the leather belt around the tunic he wore beneath. The smell of incense wafted on the thin, cold air, and Adrian joined the group a moment later, pausing to take Roman's still weakened right hand in his own and pressing a small but weighty bag into his palm.

“That should be enough to last you until Venice.”

Victor came forward again as Adrian stepped away to join his wife. The abbot held forth a sealed document. “In case you have any trouble. A declaration in my own hand, avowing to your permission to transport our afflicted brother to his final rest in the holy city of Rome.”

“Burn it once you reach Venice,” Constantine said. “And then follow the plan as we have created it. Any problems—”

“I know,” Roman interjected. He placed the bag of resinous incense on the driver's seat with a sigh. He sounded curt and sought to soften his tone. “My thanks, Stan.”

When Roman turned back around, everyone in the group was facing the back of the cart. Mary Beckham approached, leading what appeared to be a phantasm from beyond. The group parted and in a moment, Roman and Isra faced each other.

“Good morrow,” he said to her. “Are you prepared?”

“Lady Mary has tutored me well,” Isra said with a slight bow, although her eyes darted to the sides at the people staring at her. “I shall bring no shame upon you. Lou?”

“It is safer for him here,” Roman said, uncomfortable with the woman's obeisance, while at the same time reminded of his guilt for leaving the falcon behind.

He was saved in that moment by Adrian, who nudged Victor with his elbow. “Shall we get on with it?”

Victor nodded, pulling a small booklet from his robe while Adrian removed the censer from its staff.

“What are they doing?” Roman asked Valentine quietly, and when the Spaniard just frowned and shook his head, looking straight ahead at the old abbot, Roman asked more loudly, “What are you doing?” His head swiveled as Adrian began to circle the group, sending waves of incense floating through the air.

Victor began to recite the prayers, and Roman listened carefully to the Latin, his eyes slowly going wide.

“Are you giving us last rites?” he demanded.

“Shh,” Valentine said. “You do no wish to go to heaven?”

Victor took the censer from Adrian and stepped up to Roman, swinging the receptacle toward him and then walking around Roman in a circle. He then went to Isra, who seemed hesitant to come fully into the group of people gathered in the frigid bailey. The abbot whispered something to the woman, who shook her bowed head. She looked up into Victor's face and replied in such a low voice that Roman could not hear.

Then she sank to her knees in her macabre costume, and Victor laid a hand on her head while he prayed a prayer Roman was unfamiliar with before clouding her kneeling form in the fragrant incense. He helped her to her feet and led her to the back of the cart while Isra wiped at her eyes with a ragged hem of linen. Victor left the woman there while he handed the censer back to Adrian, and the two of them walked about the cart again.

Val handed the baby to his wife and turned to Roman then, distracting him from the forlorn sight of the woman. “I can no bear to watch you go,” he said candidly, even though the same rakish smile was across his face. “So I will be the first to bid you farewell.” He reached out his right hand and grasped Roman's, placing his left hand on the top of his shoulder at the crook of his neck and squeezing. “Farewell, my friend.”

Roman felt a catch in his chest. This was happening far more quickly—and with more intensity—than he had imagined. The thought of never seeing Valentine—of never seeing any of his friends again—shook him so suddenly he felt the tremor of it to the soles of his feet.

He pulled Valentine into a gruff embrace. “Thank you.”

Valentine clapped Roman's back twice and then pulled away. “Remember what I have taught you, Roman Berg. Adios.” Then the Spaniard took Valentina from his wife and strode toward the darkened arch of the abbey. He did not look back.

Lady Mary stepped to him with a sweet smile. “Do you remember what you told Valentine the morning he and I left Melk?”

Roman didn't trust himself to speak so he just shook his head as Mary took both his hands into hers. It was like holding a kitten's paws.

“You said, ‘Come back to us, Val.'” Mary's smile faltered, and so she swallowed and then renewed the attempt. “I know my husband could not bear to speak it aloud for doing so would allude to the idea that anything else was possible. And so I shall say it for him: Come back to us, Roman.”

He nodded. “I will do my best, my lady.”

Mary wrapped her arms around Roman's middle and spoke into his chest. “I know you will. You always do.”

After a final squeeze, she slid her arms from him and turned to Isra, who dropped her eyes and gave a shallow bow.

“I am in your debt,” Isra said.

But Mary pulled the woman aright and embraced her as well, waiting until Isra had hesitantly laid her hands along her back in return before speaking.

“Have a wonderful adventure, Isra Tak'Ahn. Godspeed. You are in the very best of hands.” She pulled away and looked into the woman's eyes.

“This I know, my lady,” Isra said solemnly, and then glanced over Mary's shoulder at Roman.

The look was a bolster to his shaky emotions. He was leaving his friends, leaving the haven he had found at Melk, but it was for a purpose he would not shirk. He was protecting this woman, protecting his friends, Baldwin, all of the brethren still asleep in yonder darkened cells. It was a heavy burden.

But Roman had always been strong.

Then Mary was gone, having disappeared the way her husband had escaped. And before him stood Victor.