Читать книгу Before Winter - Nancy Wallace K. - Страница 14

As Marcus turned it, the key rasped in the lock, metal scraping metal. Devin heard something rattle and shift, sending a chill up his spine, and the door cracked open. A dry draft of air billowed outward as though it had been trapped there for centuries, and both of them seemed frozen in time for an instant: Marcus, so strong and confident, gripping the key in one hand and the knob in the other, and Devin, tense with a strange suspicion of what they would find inside. He stooped quickly as the door fell open, cradling the skeleton in his arms, lest it crumble on the stone floor.

“God!” Marcus whispered. “The priest! Did you know he was in here?”

“I had a feeling,” Devin answered, afraid to move for fear part of this man of God might shatter in his arms.

“You might have warned me,” Marcus grumbled, bending over. “Let me help you.”

Only scraps of his clerical robes held the bones in place. The priest’s skull seemed to drop naturally into the crook of Devin’s shoulder. Devin doubted if he lived to be a hundred that he would ever forget the feeling.

Marcus seemed to be at a loss. “Where shall we put him?”

Devin nodded toward the open door. “Back inside? He died there. It seems we have disturbed his tomb. Perhaps we should restore things to the way they were.”

“He must have died leaning on the door,” Marcus observed. “Let’s prop him against the wall instead.”

He slid a hand carefully under the skeleton’s lower half while Devin supported the top, feeling bones loosen and shift as fabric and leathery strips of skin fell away. They moved him into the dark interior of the tunnel, arranging the remains as reverently as possible against the far wall.

Devin stood up, tried to restrain a violent shudder and failed.

Marcus retrieved the spruce branch. “My flint?” he asked, holding out his hand.

Devin tried to pull it out of his pocket but was unsuccessful; his hands were shaking so badly. Marcus reclaimed it himself and struck a spark to their spruce branch, the torch throwing its flickering light into the darkness.

The “tunnel” consisted of one austere room: a shelf held empty bottles of communion wine. The floor held only the tatters of a decayed blanket, a Bible and a small leather-bound book. Devin bent to pick the book up, disturbing a quill that rolled off across the floor. An empty ink well rocked back and forth on its side.

Devin opened the cover, his eyes squinting to keep the words from blurring: Father Sébastian Chastain, 12 Avril 1406. “God,” he breathed. “Can you believe this? It’s a journal, Marcus!”

“And this is nothing more than a safe house, Devin,” Marcus replied, gesturing with the torch. “You were right. It doesn’t connect to the other tunnels but it must have served as a secure place to hide someone who might have been running for his life.”

Devin barely listened; he turned the pages reverently, tracing the writing that grew more spidery and shaky toward the end. Not only did the writing itself change but so did the ink. Devin swallowed, hardly wanting to put his observations into words. He’d seen two other manuscripts like this once before in the Archives. He cleared his throat but it didn’t stop his voice from shaking. “He finished this by writing with his own blood, Marcus. Imagine having something so important to say that you …” He couldn’t finish.

“I think we need to leave,” Marcus said firmly. “Take the journal with you. Hide it in the lining of your jacket with Tirolien’s Chronicle. If Father Sébastian died recording all of this, then it needs to be preserved and remembered.”

“He voluntarily starved to death to preserve this account of what happened, Marcus,” Devin whispered. “He died for Albion and its people and we would never have known if Lavender hadn’t led us here.”

“We need to leave now!” Marcus instructed as Devin still stood mesmerized, fingering the journal in his hands.

Devin slipped it through the ripped seam in the lining under his left arm, feeling its weight drop toward the hem below. What did he carry with him from this place and what providence led them to find it?

Marcus shoved Devin outside, taking one final moment to place the Bible gently in Father Sébastian’s lap before closing the door. He gave the key a turn in the lock and slipped it into his pocket. “When we reach La Paix,” he said, “I will drop this key from the top of the waterfall. Father Sébastian deserves to rest in peace now that he has passed on his legacy.”

“Sébastian.” Devin repeated the name suddenly. “That’s what Lavender told us. She said Sébastian had told her we needed the key. Maybe it wasn’t her brother she was talking about.”

Devin turned away from Marcus, anxious to test his theory. He took off up the winding steps, each step firm and secure, as he dodged fallen branches, trees, and rocks.

“Devin, stop!” Marcus called behind him. “You’ll break your neck!”

But Devin climbed higher and higher into the sudden brilliant gold of that late-August afternoon, the reassuring weight of Father Sébastian’s journal in his pocket.

He stopped at the top, blinking in the strong shafts of sunlight that enshrouded the church. Lavender was gone. He knew she would be. He circled the empty crater where the church once stood but there was no sign of her dirty gown or brown, wrinkled face. In the valley below nothing moved but the water of the stream flowing endlessly to the south. A gentle wind tossed the branches above his head and he realized that up here the air was much warmer. He was glad Marcus had packed their things this morning, because he didn’t want to go back down to spend another night among the valley’s shifting mist and ghostly whispers.

Marcus reached the top of the steps. “Damn it, Devin!” he gasped, bending over to catch his breath. “What’s the hurry?”

“Lavender’s gone,” Devin said, reaching to retrieve the freshly carved head she had left for Marcus on the rock where she had been sitting. He held it out to him.

Marcus made no move to take it. “What are you trying to say?” he asked.

Devin shook his head and gently placed the wooden image of Marcus into his bodyguard’s hand. “I’m not trying to say anything, Marcus. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”