“When it would be filled with masons and crafters and priests and others working to repair it,” said Sir Ander grimly. “They would all be killed.”
“I fear so,” said Father Jacob and he added in an undertone, “Demonically clever.”
Sir Ander grunted. “So turning the cathedral into a death trap was the reason they didn’t destroy it during the attack.”
“No, I believe that was an afterthought,” said Father Jacob. “Another crime of opportunity. They left the cathedral standing because of the library.”
Sir Ander blinked. “The library?”
“Well, of course,” said Father Jacob. “That was the real reason they came. The library is inside the cathedral. The attackers could not destroy the cathedral because they needed to search the library.”
“Demons came for the library? But why?”
“Ah, that is the question. I need to ask Albert-” Father Jacob looked around impatiently. “Where is Albert? He has been gone far too long. You better go search for him. I will investigate the library-”
They were both stopped by the sight of Brother Barnaby entering the sanctuary. The monk carried a large wooden bucket filled with water and a bundle of rags.
“Are you finished with your work here, Father?” Brother Barnaby asked.
“Yes, Brother,” said Father Jacob. “I am finished. What are you doing?”
“The sanctuary has been defiled, Father. With your permission, I will clean it.”
He set the bucket on the floor, kilted up his robes, and knelt down on his hands and knees and began to mop up the blood. Father Jacob watched a moment, then he walked over to where the young monk was scrubbing the blood off the floor and wringing the soiled cloth in the bucket. The water was already stained red.
“You are my conscience, Brother Barnaby,” Father Jacob said, rolling up the sleeves of his cassock. “I think that is why the blessed Saint Castigan sent you to me.”
Brother Barnaby looked astonished at the thought that he could be anyone’s conscience, much less Father Jacob’s. He gave a self-deprecating smile and shook his head as he continued his sorrowful task.
“Sir Ander, return to the Retribution and fetch my sacred vestments,” Father Jacob continued. “When we have finished the cleansing, I will say a mass for the dead.”
He hiked up his cassock, got down on his hands and knees, and began scrubbing.
Sir Ander stood watching the priest and the monk working together to cleanse God’s House, and he reflected on the fact that there were times-many times-when Father Jacob could be arrogant and insufferable, insensitive and demanding, stubborn and infuriating and so on and so forth. More than once, far from protecting Father Jacob, Sir Ander could have cheerfully throttled him.
And then there were times like this when Sir Ander saw the Father Jacob he had come to revere and admire, the brilliant, gifted Freyan crafter who had been offered fame and fortune if he would only renounce his faith; the priest who had risked his life and fled the land of his birth to remain true to his beliefs.
As Sir Ander left to fetch the vestments and see if he could find Albert, he again affirmed the vow he had taken when he had become the priest’s Knight Protector.
“ ‘If Death reaches out for Father Jacob,’ “ said Sir Ander, “ ‘I will step in between.’”
He added quietly, “And the same holds true for Brother Barnaby!”
Chapter Seventeen
There are many paths to Heaven. The Martyr walks a dark path holding her faith like a candle that lights her way but also attracts those that hunt in the darkness. Some on that path would hide their candles until the evil has walked by, but the Martyr holds her faith dear, her candle bright, no matter the outcome.
– The writings of Saint Marie who was martyred three years later
“WHAT DO WE DO WITH THE WATER we used for cleaning, Father?” asked Brother Barnaby somberly, wringing a bloody cloth into a bucket. “We cannot simply dump it in the yard, as if it were waste.”
“You are right, Brother. This water contains the blood of martyrs,” said Father Jacob and he sat back on his heels to give the matter serious thought.
They had worked for over two hours, and the sanctuary was finally almost clean. Brother Barnaby had found additional buckets in the stable. He had placed the buckets filled with water red-tinged with the blood of the murdered nuns before the altar. Another bucket, this one covered with a white cloth, contained the gruesome remains recovered from the ground outside the cathedral. Father Jacob had attended to this heartbreaking task. As for the blood on the ground, the tears of the angels and the saints falling from Heaven would eventually wash it away.
“The first abbess is buried in the cathedral, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob. “Her tomb is in the catacombs beneath the cathedral. We will pour the water around the tomb. We will bury the remains in the abbey cemetery.”
Brother Barnaby was content and went back to washing away the last vestige of blood. Father Jacob spent a few moments quietly observing the young monk. His expression was solemn, sorrowful, troubled.
“You must have questions for God, Brother,” said Father Jacob abruptly. “Perhaps you find yourself doubting in His love and mercy?”
Brother Barnaby looked up from his task. “I do have questions, Father. With God’s help, you and Sir Ander will find the answers.”
“And with your help, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob. “Our triangle is equilateral.”
Brother Barnaby smiled. “All I do is drive the wyverns, Father.”
“There, you see? That’s more than I can do,” said Father Jacob. He rose to his feet, grimacing at the pain in his knees and back. He reflected that he had not scrubbed floors since he was a novice, some twenty years ago.
He remembered that time. He remembered that person-the man he had been. A young man with a dazzling gift for magic, Jacob had been proud and arrogant-a real bastard, he could now admit. He had always felt God’s calling, but he had tried to ignore it. He had harangued and questioned, fought and bullied, tested God’s patience every step of the way. He had turned his back on God, run to the edge of the precipice, stared into the blackness and had been ready to leap when he had felt God’s hand gently drawing him back. He had been guided by the touch of God’s hand ever since.
Father Jacob glanced about the sanctuary. “I will hold the service when Sir Ander returns. See if you can find some candles, Brother, though I have no idea where we will place them.”
The beautiful golden-and-silver candlesticks that had graced the altar had been hit by the same ruinous green fire that had melted the stone. Father Jacob recalled what he had said to Sir Ander about the hatred that had driven these attackers to destroy what they could have stolen for gain. The candlesticks alone were easily worth fifty gold rosuns. Whoever attacked the abbey did not raid it out of greed. They came for something far more important than gold.
“I am going to the library,” said Father Jacob. “Let me know if anyone finds Master Albert-Ah, speak of the man and here he is! Albert, where have you been? You have been gone for hours. I was growing worried. Now that you are here, when will I be able to speak to this nun who survived? I have a great many questions. It is more important now than ever that I talk to her…”
Albert stood in the door that led into the sanctuary. His face was flushed and he was breathing hard, so hard he had to wait a moment to catch his breath before he could respond.
“As to that, Father, I fear you will never be able to talk to her this side of Heaven. The woman is dead.”
The echoes of his voice reverberated off the walls, sounding hollow in the empty chamber.
“Dead?” said Father Jacob, regarding Albert intently. “You said her injuries were not severe.”