“Too rocky to tell much, but, as Albert says, the attackers did not come this way. We will proceed inside.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and strode through the gates, his sharp-eyed gaze going from the posts to the hinges to the walls, to the grounds. The others followed more slowly, reluctant to enter.
“It’s like walking through the gates of Hell,” Albert said, his voice muffled by the handkerchief he was holding over his nose and mouth.
Father Jacob turned back to regard them with impatience. “You’re dawdling. Albert, please go tell Brother Paul we are here and ask him when would be a good time to interview his patient. Sir Ander, Brother Barnaby, I need you both with me.”
The great cathedral with its twin spires, each topped by an ornate cupola, towered above them. The spires were known for their red-orange stained glass windows. When lit from behind, the windows glowed with flame that could be seen even through the thick mists of the Breath. The stained glass windows were gone, the leaded glass panes smashed. Father Jacob stared at the destruction for a long time, then turned away, his expression thoughtful, somber.
The towers framed a central bell tower, smaller than the other two, topped by a dome. The church bell might have summoned help if there had been any ships passing in the night, but, according to Albert, the bell had been silent. Death had come upon the nuns too swiftly for them to call for help.
The bell tower also featured an enormous clock, said to be the largest in the world. The clock chimed the hour and the half hour; its distinctive music, known as the Chimes of Saint Castigan, was mimicked by other clocks throughout the world. According to Albert, the clock had been silent since that night.
Albert hurried off to find Brother Paul, heading for the infirmary, which was about a half mile from the cathedral, close to the dortoir where the nuns had lived.
Father Jacob and his companions crossed a paved courtyard that surrounded the cathedral. Beyond the courtyard lay ornamental gardens that once must have been beautiful; with marble fountains, statues of saints, clipped hedges, shade trees, and broad swards of green grass. These gardens had been a marvel, astonishing all who saw them, completely out of place with the abbey’s wild surroundings.
The monks of Saint Castigan had discovered early in their occupation of this rugged land that little would grow in the rocky soil. What did grow was stunted by the wind. The monks shipped in immense quantities of rich, black dirt, hauling it to the abbey by the barge load. They worked for years developing and designing their gardens. The high walls had protected the roses and flowering trees and grass from the wind, and the plants had flourished. Father Jacob did not go immediately to the cathedral. He turned his steps toward the gardens.
Brother Barnaby cast Sir Ander an interrogative glance. Sir Ander shook his head in reply. Who knew why Father Jacob did anything? Sir Ander began to think he should have accepted that handkerchief. He had smelled the stench of death on the fields of battle, but this was far worse. Brother Barnaby held his handkerchief over his face. Father Jacob had forgotten his entirely. Brother Barnaby later found it lying on the ground.
The practical nuns had taken over the gardens, digging up the rosebushes and planting vegetables and herbs. Much of the vast gardens had been left unattended and were now overgrown by grass and weeds.
The gardens had been destroyed, the dirt churned up, new plants and seedlings trampled. Large divots of sod had been gouged out of the ground. All of the statues had been pulled down, smashed, and lay in ruins.
“Senseless, wanton destruction,” said Sir Ander.
“On the contrary, the destruction was far from wanton,” said Father Jacob. He was down on his hands and knees on the ground, studying what looked and smelled like a pile of manure. He rose to his feet, dusting his hands, and glanced around. “This was deliberate savagery.”
“Please take a sample, Brother Barnaby.” Father Jacob added, indicating the manure. “I want to study it further. Be careful not to touch it.”
Brother Barnaby had been gazing around in grief-stricken awe. He looked startled at the request, but he hastened to obey. Placing the writing desk on the ground, he opened it, removed one of several small glass vials and, using a wooden spatula, gingerly scooped a small portion of the manure into the vial and stopped it up with cork, then put it back into the writing desk.
Father Jacob’s next request was for a measuring tape such as tailors used. Brother Barnaby supplied the tape, retrieving it from the desk. The priest measured the pile of manure, taking care to keep from soiling his hands. Sir Ander watched with rising impatience until he could contain himself no longer.
“A hundred women are dead! Why are you wasting time on a pile of sheep droppings!” he said angrily.
“No sheep dropped that,” said Father Jacob. “Unless I am much mistaken, it is bat guano.”
Sir Ander stared. His jaw sagged. “Bat guano! You’re not serious!”
“I am, I assure you, my friend,” said Father Jacob. “Deadly serious. Look around. You will see more of these piles. And where are the sheep? Here, I’ll show you.”
Father Jacob walked off a short distance and picked up a hunk of wool stained with blood. The skin and flesh were still attached. “The sheep were torn apart, probably devoured.”
“But how is that possible?” Sir Ander demanded. “To carry off a fullgrown sheep, a bat would have to be the size of a horse…” His voice trailed away.
“‘Demons with glowing eyes of fire riding gigantic bats,’” said Father Jacob, repeating what he had read in Brother Paul’s report. “This proves the young nun is not crazy. She reported exactly what she saw.”
“‘And the Gates of Hell will open and Aertheum the Fallen will send forth his evil legions,’” Brother Barnaby quoted.
“Evil legions…” Father Jacob shook his head. “I need to interview that young woman. What can be keeping Albert? Well, we have learned all we can here. Let us move on to the cathedral and the grounds.”
They left the gardens and walked across the courtyard. Sir Ander had a great many questions, but he dared not ask them. He had been with Father Jacob so long he knew the signs. When the priest walked slowly, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind him, he was a fox hound running round and round, trying to find the scent. When, as now, he walked briskly, his head up, his cassock flapping about his ankles, his eyes glinting, he had picked up the scent and was on the trail.
As they approached the cathedral, Sir Ander looked curiously at the paved area immediately in front of the entrance. He wondered why the paving stones here were black, when the rest of the courtyard was white. And then he realized, the hair prickling on the back of his neck, that the stones were not black in color. They were stained black. Black with blood. And as he drew nearer, he saw lumps lying scattered about.
Not much left to bury, Albert had said.
Lumps of flesh, parts of bodies.
Sir Ander was shocked to feel himself grow queasy. He sought the shelter of the shaded portico and leaned against a column until he felt better. He had seen the grass of battlefields red with blood, seen men disemboweled, heads severed. This was worse. Men went to war for a reason. Maybe not a good reason, but still a reason. This was butchery-horrible, senseless.
If he had been so affected, he wondered suddenly what Brother Barnaby must be feeling. Sir Ander went in search of the young monk and found him seated on one of the stairs leading into the cathedral, the writing desk on his lap, his pen in his hand, hard at work. He’d managed to sit on a portion of the stairs that was not stained with blood. Father Jacob was off on his own, walking slowly around the north side of the cathedral, his gaze fixed intently on the ground.