Sanctuary (Dominion) Read online

  Even the suggestion made my legs weak and my hands tingle, and it took more willpower than I would have thought to keep from falling to my knees. I knew about miracles. I’d read about more than I could count, and heard about twice that many from other priests, but to actually live through one was another matter entirely. Was I part of an actual, God-sent miracle, seen in my own lifetime? I could find no other answer while standing next to this man, this savior. Right now, it all seemed so wonderfully true. All my doubts disappeared; everything I’d questioned stood before me in knowing reproach. God himself carried me, and I wanted this moment to last forever.

  But that was not to be.

  Chapter 3

  The church in Rogwallow faced south, which was unusual. It was a meager, rectangular stone building that sat at the north end of the village, the front door opening to both the distant southern shoreline and the cluster of buildings in between that made up the village center. Typically, the church would have faced west, with the altar at the east end of the structure, but for reasons that had long since decayed into legend, this church had been built by men who didn’t follow that particular custom. I don’t know why I thought of this now, except to be glad that because the church faced the wrong direction, I could see with my own eyes the retreating raiders as they fled to their boats.

  "There may be survivors," Arkael said, not taking his eyes off Ranulf and his men. "Bring them here."

  It took a moment for his words to yank me from my reverie. I understood their meaning. I even agreed with them. But then I realized that to find these others, I would have to abandon the protective confines of this building. I would have to go where Arkael wasn't, and that sent a jolt of terror through my body. Outside was danger and chaos, or perhaps the miserably certain death I thought I’d already escaped. Raiders were still leaving some of the buildings and I didn't want to surprise one on his way out and catch a knife in my belly.

  "Of course,” I said, as enthusiastic as a rabbit venturing from its hole while wolves brayed nearby. “I'll bring them back here. Where they'll be safe." He nodded curtly, but other than that he paid me no more attention than he would a fly on his boot. Surprisingly, his lack of concern soothed my worry, and my sense of duty kicked in. I stepped out of the doorway, and onto the muddy dirt path that led from the church directly to the main hall about sixty paces away. I moved hesitantly at first, buffeted by the cold wind from the shore, and I imagined myself pushing against my fear as I did the wind. It was an apt analogy, although I still wished I wasn’t going by myself.

  When I reached the village center I found a place of death. The center was an oval common area surrounded by a stable, a smith, a pen for the sheep, the potter's house, and the hall. The hall was the home of the village's chief, a man named Affa, who'd inherited his role from his father, who'd in turn inherited it from his grandfather, Rog, who'd named the village after himself, according to Affa. Affa's nephew, Efrim, was the young man who was to marry Aedre, but I had no doubt that Efrim, his uncle, and all of Affa's men were dead now, their bodies lying somewhere on the beach. Sadly, they were only the first to die this morning. Bran, the village smith, lay motionless on the ground just in front of his shop, a hammer in one hand while the other clutched the bloody gash in his chest. Three dogs growled and jockeyed for position next to the large stack of firewood outside Affa’s hall, licking the blood from the back and arm of another man I couldn’t recognize from where I stood. He lay face down on the ground next to the south wall, half-covered in hay and drenched in blood. I considered walking over to shoo them away, but then I heard a cry from a voice I recognized and my heart leapt.

  Just past the stable, on the far side facing the shore, an old woman stood outside the door to her home, shouting at Ranulf’s men. One side of her head was bloody, from a cut on her temple, and she held a dull knife in her hand, shaking it threateningly at the men clambering onto the decks of their boats off to the south.

  "Elba!" I called to her as I approached, relieved to find her alive. "Elba! Come to the church!"

  She continued to shout at the raiders, adding a few colorful obscenities I hadn't realized she knew.

  "Elba." I grabbed her knife arm, making sure it was pointed away from me, and checked the wound on her head. It wasn't as bad as I feared. Just a small cut across her right temple, but the blood ran down the side of her face, matting her grey hair, which hung straight today. "You have to go to the church. It's safe there."

  "They killed him!" she wailed, clutching my hand. "My Osric is dead!"

  "I'm so sorry, Elba." I pulled her close, trying to comfort her, but she pushed me away and took several determined steps toward the coastline, screaming at the top of her lungs at the savages who’d killed her only son. I left her to vent her rage and pushed open the door to her home to find everything turned over or broken. Osric lay dead on the floor, right next to the hearth, bleeding from a wide gash just above his hip and from a blow to his head that had caved in the left side of his skull. I turned away in horror. I'd never seen a person look so misshapen. I knew the man, but in his current state he didn't look like the same Osric who told somber tales of his time as a soldier, defending Wessex from Danes at the battle of Aclea, or whose wife mended my torn robes and whose mother cooked for me on Sundays. His wife, Einilda, was nowhere to be found, and I cursed the raiders for the wretched fate she would suffer at their hands. A better man would have prayed for her, but I couldn’t summon the decency while standing in her ravaged home.

  Elba fell to her knees, sobbing, and I rested my hand on her shoulder.

  “He is in God’s hands, now.” Elba shuddered, and bowed her head. “Go to the church. Please. You will be safe there. I promise you.” She stared ahead silently for a long moment, then nodded and I helped her to her feet. She wiped her face with her sleeve and then looked back inside her house. Her gaze lingered on her son, and I watched, heartbroken, as her entire body seemed to sag in despair. “The church, Elba.”

  “I will,” she said, so softly I could barely hear her. “Just leave me to… to…” I understood what she needed. So I left her to grieve for her son, suddenly unsure whether miracles worked like this.

  I moved to the next house, a short, narrow, oak-timbered hut that needed quite a few repairs to the thatch and the south-facing wall. This was the home I shared with Humbert, the priest I’d been assisting since arriving here in the spring. He was old and sickly, and many days he couldn’t even get out of bed. This morning had been one of them. The hope amongst the villagers was that I could one day replace him, and he could spend his few remaining days without worry. Unfortunately, I wasn’t yet ordained, which made that unlikely.

  “Humbert!” I shouted in alarm as I entered. He was lying on the floor, his eyes open and distant, but otherwise unhurt. His body was thin and haggard, but it had been that way all year, which made it a useless indication of his health. Our two beds - nothing more than straw pallets with blankets - were overturned, and some robes and blankets scattered about the floor, along with Humbert’s collection of wooden cups, but nothing seemed damaged beyond repair. I crouched down next to him. “Are you hurt?”

  “Daniel,” he whispered. I helped him to the bench that lined the back wall. His movements were slow and halting, signs of his failing health, but he managed to pull himself off the floor and sat on the bench with a heavy sigh. I patted down his wispy white hair, which flared out in every direction, and he looked up at me with sullen red eyes. “My journal!” He gripped my hands tightly. “Daniel, they took my journal. My life is in that book.”

  “I know, Humbert," I said, glancing over at the open chest that held not only his journal, but also my own limited transcriptions and scripture writings. "It was important to you. Just be glad you’re alive, though.” I looked for signs of injury. “Did they hurt you?”

  Humbert shook his head, barely listening to my words. “What have they done?" he pleaded. "Have they killed everyone?”

  I held his t
hin, weathered hand in mine. “Some still live. But,” I couldn’t finish the sentence. The village was ruined, and I didn’t want to know how many were dead. He could see the pain on my face, and he looked away with a blank stare.

  “These are dark days.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, mouthing the word more than saying it. “Humbert, something happened. Something... unexpected. I know that’s hard to understand right now, but I must get you to the church. A man came and saved Aedre and myself, and he drove the raiders away, and he did it all by himself. You have to come to the church and see him.”

  A thoughtful look crossed his face. “Who is he?”

  “He calls himself Arkael. He saved our lives. I think it might be a miracle, but you have to come with me so I can show you. Can you walk?”

  Life returned to his eyes, and he waved me off anxiously. “Aye. I don’t need help from your Angle arse. I’ll be there in a moment. Go help the others.” He looked around the room, searching for something. “I’ll be right there.”

  He'd always been colorful for a priest, one of the reasons I liked him. It also meant his mood was better than I thought. "Are you sure you can make it?"

  "I'm not so feeble that I can't walk. Go." He leaned over and picked up his walking cane, a stout waist-high branch wrapped in cloth at the top and carved into a narrow point at the bottom. I helped him stand before he finally waved me away. "Go!"

  I left the house, heartened to see a few more people standing about the village, nervously watching the retreating raiders and surveying the damage they’d left in their wake. A man appeared from around the corner of the house just then, and he nearly bowled me over before he saw me standing at the doorway.

  “Oh!” he said in surprise, catching my arm to keep both of us from falling.

  “Pepin, are you all right?”

  “I am fine,” he said in a noticeable Frankish accent. Pepin was a short, lean man, even smaller than I, with a head full of thick brown hair. He had a wry, youthful face, but when worried it became lined with wrinkles that belied his true age, which I guessed was somewhere around forty years old. “I came to see if the Pere was all right.”

  “He’s not hurt. Just a bit out of sorts. Can you get him to the church?”

  “Of course.” Pepin looked me over. “And you? You are not hurt, either?”

  “No, I’m fine. I was… spared.”

  “The grace of God, no?” He flashed a disarming smile.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Pepin nodded and darted inside while I let his question roll about in my head, wondering what the real truth might be. Perhaps I should find out.

  I stepped around to the side of the house and glanced back at the church, but I didn’t see Arkael standing at the door, as he’d been when I left. I looked to the coastline, but he wasn’t there, either. Suddenly, I felt alone and unguarded, like a lost child looking for his mother. I walked back to the church, convincing myself that I was worried over nothing, but when I threw open the door I saw only Elba and Aedre, huddled together on a bench, consoling each other. Elba looked up.

  “Where’s Arkael?” I asked.

  She shook her head and turned back to Aedre.

  I adjusted my robes, trying to appear calm, wondering nervously whether I'd imagined the whole affair. I stepped outside, looking anxiously at the nearby houses for any sign of his reassuring visage. He might be out in the village, helping round up more survivors. That’s what he’d told me to do, so it was certainly on his mind. He must be in one of the houses.

  I took a wide route back to the village, to get a better look between the buildings, but I found no sign of him. In frustration, I turned back to the church, expecting him to be miraculously standing right where I left him. He wasn't, but I caught a glimpse of a solitary figure walking on the narrow dirt path nestled between the gently sloping hills north of the village. He had a small pack slung over his shoulder and his sword hung in its scabbard. Arkael. Relief washed over me, but only until I realized his intent.

  He was leaving us. Leaving me.

  "Wait!" I yelled, waving my hand, but he didn't appear to hear me. I ran after him, nearly slipping in the wet grass alongside the church. "Wait!"

  I caught up to him, quite out of breath, my face flush from running in the cool air.

  "Sire! You can't leave yet. You have to help us. The raiders-"

  "Tend to your flock, priest," he said, barely looking at me. "They need you more than they need me."

  "What?” I asked, sure I’d misheard him. “No. We need your help, sire. You can protect us."

  "From who? They've left."

  A glance at the shore showed boats rowing slowly back out to sea, just as he said. They weren't moving fast enough for me, though, and I suspected my nights would be sleepless, worrying about another attack for many, many weeks.

  "What if they come back?” I asked, desperately. “What if someone else comes back? We're defenseless. Most of the village is dead." Arkael said nothing. “You heard their leader. Ranulf. He said he would come back for you.” Still he said nothing. He didn’t even turn his head. I grabbed his arm. "Sire-"

  His hand flew to mine, and twisted it off before I knew what happened. He wheeled around to face me and my breath caught in my throat at the suddenness of his movement.

  "I did not come here to protect you or your people," he said, his eyes boring into me so harshly that I couldn't return his gaze. "I came here to kill the priest. He's dead, and I am free to move on."

  He turned and continued on his way while I stood slack-jawed on the path behind him. I felt like that lost child again, abandoned to the wilds, knowing what dangers they held and woefully unprepared to deal with them.

  "Move on where?" I asked feebly.

  "North," he said. He didn't look back.

  Chapter 4

  It is hard to describe what it feels like to stand at the brink of death, certain that your next moments will be your last. You beg, you plead, you regret and you bargain all at once, desperate to hold on to a life that is both miserable and precious. While kneeling on the ground with a knife at my throat, I'd seen all of my faults in fantastic detail, and even though Caenwyld and his men were vague about what my fate would be, I couldn’t escape the notion that I would die horribly at their hands. And worse, I would die a weak, unworthy man.

  I’d spent my life looking for purpose, and I thought I’d found it in the church. Even though there were times when I felt that church life had been pushed onto me rather than accepting it and embracing it of my own accord, I still found value in the core messages of the faith. I was created to care for others, to help them, to give of myself in ways that made others better, and to help them find value in themselves. But what I saw today challenged even my most fervent beliefs. I’d watched helplessly while most of the village was either slaughtered without mercy or carried off to slavery, and I’d sat meekly by as Aedre was dragged off to be ruined by a lecherous priest. Had Arkael not shown up when he did, the guilt of the tragedy that occurred today probably would have crippled me, so in a sense he’d saved me from having to bear all of that on my shoulders. I owed him for that, and I had much to atone for. But first I needed to understand what I’d witnessed today. I needed to know what brought Caenwyld to us, and Arkael to him.

  I hurried back to the village to see Humbert shuffling across the wet grass toward the church, assisted by Wilfrid, a farmer from the east edge of the village and his wife, Hilda. They stood on either side, each holding an arm while Humbert took one labored step after another. Wilfrid and Hilda looked as if they'd been spared any ill-treatment in the attack. They lived just far enough from the village center to make getting to their home a bit of a chore, and luckily for them, the raiders must have thought the same. A quick survey of the eastern horizon told me the others who lived on the outskirts were just as fortunate, because I could see a few of them approaching the village now that the battle was done.

  "Get everyone to the church," I
said as I passed by. "Check the other houses."

  Wilfrid nodded and let his wife help Humbert along while he hurried back to the village to look for more survivors. I went straight for my own home.

  Once inside I closed the door so I wouldn't be disturbed. I threw on my frayed, woolen cloak and then grabbed my extra robe and rolled it up, stuffing it into a flat, leather satchel. I had little in the way of food and belongings here, but I managed to scavenge some dried meat and cheese that I stuffed into the corners of the bag. Humbert rarely ate either any more so I didn't feel sorry for taking them. I had enough guilt in me to leave the flagon of wine, though. I’d received it from a winemaker in Lombardy, and I'd given it to Humbert in thanks after welcoming me to his home. He drank it heartily those first few nights, and ever since he'd filled it with ale by finagling passing merchants into donating some in return for a blessing on his journey. A dubious practice, but it kept the flagon full, and Humbert happy. So the wine stayed. I took the cup lying on the floor next to the wall, though. Humbert had six of them, simple wooden cups, each of them etched with some crude designs from either their makers or previous owners. The only markings on this one were seventeen small hash marks scratched into one side in a line. I asked Humbert what the markings were for, but he didn’t know, which is why he liked it. Like me, he enjoyed a good mystery. But he regularly gave me this cup when we drank, and I’d become accustomed to using it now. So I stashed it in the satchel, because I wanted something to remember the old priest by.

  Sitting in the corner of the room, between the two beds that lined the walls, was the small wooden chest that had held Humbert's journal only moments ago. The chest was as wide as my forearm, and decorated with intricate carvings of old Roman gods all about the sides. Inside lay two leather-bound books, one a Bible I'd transcribed myself, written in Latin during my studies, the other a journal of blank pages I'd intended to use to write it again in English. I'd decided on my way here that those blank pages would have a different purpose now, perhaps a better one. I grabbed them both, and stuffed them in the satchel.