Sir John’s news brought tears to Marian’s eyes again, and this time they escaped and ran down her cheeks. “I can’t lose him. I love him too much to let him die.” How was it possible to love someone so deeply? She’d never imagined she’d love a man as thoroughly and completely, never thought she’d need someone as much as she needed him. But she did in a way that almost frightened her.
“And he loved you. Even though the king offered to have his best physicians and surgeons tend Sir William, your husband asked permission to return to his home so he could check on your safety. He would not rest or stop until he knew for himself you were alive and unharmed.”
She wiped away more tears. How had he ridden any length much less the journey from London with such wounds? How had he been able to stay conscious? She could only imagine the pain he’d suffered over the course of the past hours. “He’s stubborn.”
“He spoke likewise of you.” Faint mirth tinged Sir John’s words.
The surgeon lifted the iron out of the fire. It glowed orange-red.
Marian couldn’t let Will die, couldn’t bear to think about life without him. They’d had so little time together, and she was suddenly greedy for more, so much more.
She had to find a way to save him. Her mind raced with all the possibilities and landed on only one. There was only one thing left to do.
“Sir John, will you take me to Canterbury Cathedral?”
~ 25 ~
MARIAN RAISED THE CANDLE toward the capital of column F. At the top, the stone face of the bearded man stared back at her with beady eyes. It was as formidable in the past as the present, just less worn with time.
She touched the protruding tongue but then stopped. Was she doing the right thing?
During the galloping ride with Sir John, she’d prayed with each beat of hooves that the ampullae would still be in the crypt. She was still puzzled by the overlap of the past and present and didn’t know how the transmission of ampullae worked.
The one thing she did understand was that if she took one out, she had no guarantee of finding more holy water to leave for Ellen and Harrison. In that event, she might be stuck in the past, maybe forever.
Was this the life she really wanted?
Her fingers trembled against the rough carving. Did she want to stay in the 1300s without all the modern conveniences she relied upon and loved? Could she give up her career, the one she’d worked so hard to obtain? What about never being able to see Ellen again?
Yet how could she leave Will behind? Her entire body tightened with protest at the thought of not being with him.
Even though her heart warred within her over her future, she knew without a doubt she couldn’t let Will die, not when she had a means to possibly save him. When she’d asked to ride to the cathedral, Sir John had clearly humored her out of respect for Will. And he’d also honored her request to instruct the surgeon to wait for the cauterizing until they returned.
She glanced through the dank cavern over to the narrow steps at the far end that led to the nave. The underground crypt was smaller and darker than the modern structure with only one entrance—the one she’d fled up when she’d escaped from Lionel’s thugs.
Sir John waited for her at the top, giving her the privacy she’d requested. His title and prestige as well as his bribe had persuaded the monks to allow them in at this early hour of the morning, though they’d been preparing for Lauds and hadn’t wanted to be disturbed.
The kindly knight had understood her urgency and had likely felt it too. They’d had to wait for the groomsman to saddle fresh horses and then had ridden the distance into town, galloping through the quiet moonlit countryside on a circuitous route to avoid any angry peasants who might be fleeing from London.
During the ride, Sir John filled her in on all the events that transpired after she left Blackheath with the boys. He informed her that upon seeing Wat Tyler attacked, the peasants lifted weapons to fight against the king’s men.
However, in a valiant effort to avoid further bloodshed, the king encouraged the peasants to disperse. With their leader stabbed to death and fearing the worst, many ran off. Those coerced into joining the rebels, like Sir John, made their true allegiance known. Walworth, the mayor of London, cut off Wat Tyler’s head, displayed it on a pole, and returned to London with the king’s troops to restore order on the streets.
No doubt Sir John was in a hurry to return to his own family and assure himself of their safety and protection. But out of gratitude to Will for his bravery in the recent battle as well as out of respect for the king’s request to assist Will, the neighboring knight was doing all he could to ensure Will’s survival.
With precious seconds of Will’s life ticking away, Marian set aside her reservations. She placed the candle on the floor and tugged at the tongue of the carving with both hands. To her relief it scraped forward—even if only a fraction. She wiggled and hefted until it came out. Will’s loosening from earlier in the week had likely saved her much hardship in taking it out today.
The candlelight was smoky and dim, providing little illumination of the cavern. Nevertheless, she could see the small black hole in the column. She rose on her tiptoes and probed within the hiding place.
She grazed the engraved patterns of the ampullae and brushed against the parchment note she’d left for her father. Everything was still there.
She closed her fingers around one of the flasks and removed it. Then before she lost courage, she unsheathed the small dagger she’d taken from among Will’s weapons. With the sharp tip, she carved the letters E and C into the ampulla. This flask was for Ellen. She absolutely wouldn’t allow Ellen to use it on her. Ellen had to drink it and cure herself.
With a final cut on the ampulla, she blew the dust away, fingered Ellen’s initials one last time, then returned the container to the hiding place. She pulled out the other one, slipped it through the folds of her gown into the pouch tied underneath.
Her fingers connected with a piece of clay she’d broken off a bowl. She’d already carved onto it a crude replica of St. George’s Tower and the clock sticking out the side. She hoped Harrison would understand her message—that perhaps the tower stood as a protection over the old life-giving spring that had once been in St. Sepulchre.
She was certain with his wealth and family’s powerful connections, he’d be able to gain access to the tower and find a way to drill deep underneath the ground. If he ever managed to find the location of the original spring—if it still existed somewhere down there—then perhaps he could carry on Dad’s work.
She placed the clay piece into the hiding spot and then shoved the carving of the head back. She wedged it in as tightly as she could and held up the candle to make sure it was secure.
She had no idea what was keeping Ellen and Harrison from the crypt, but their delay had now changed the course of her life.
For better or worse, she would remain in the past.
* * *
By the time Marian returned to Chesterfield Park, the sky was a tangle of pink and orange. The stars were gone and morning birdsong rose in the balmy air. The chirps and twitters would have been a sweet sound had she not been driven with anxiety to know whether Will had lasted the hours she’d been on her mission.
After dismounting, she rushed ahead of Sir John, speeding through the corridors until she barged into Will’s chamber. The surgeon had fallen asleep in the chair next to the bed. At her appearance, he startled awake.