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  Godfrey continued, “I simply do not have enough men to defend areas outside my estate in these cursed days. If the abbey would return Penwood to my estate, I could then devote resources to protect it. Otherwise, I fear for the safety of your abbey and our dear Penwood Manor.”

  The monk folded his hands. “As the abbot says: ‘We have God to protect us.’”

  Lord Godfrey suddenly became tense. “As you know, my dear brother, I have a deep interest in Penwood.” His voice grew cold. “If anything were to happen to it. . . . Nay, I pray only that your good abbot would agree that Penwood sits on land I inherited from my uncle.”

  Brother Andrew kept a pleasant tone. “Come, lord, let us not raise this ancient land dispute. You are always in our prayers, as one of our abbey’s most generous benefactors, but on this matter the abbot is unyielding. He will never allow Penwood to join a secular estate like yours.”

  For a long moment, a cloud lingered over their conversation. If Lord Godfrey got angry, he might not help them find Xan’s family. Then this long journey might have been for naught, all because of some disagreement over one of the abbey’s manors that had nothing to do with Xan.

  The monk’s voice grew softer and he pointed at Xan again. “Let me tell you what has brought me out of seclusion this day, my lord. This boy, Alexander, is in need of help.”

  The brow on the nobleman’s vast forehead wrinkled in concern. He put a hand to his graying beard. “How so?” His voice sounded gentler.

  Brother Andrew explained Xan’s situation.

  Godfrey stood, his sea-blue eyes shining. “Alas, poor child! How can I help?”

  “Please, sire,” Xan said. “Can you find my family? Might they have come here?”

  The nobleman nodded. “Some poor villagers fled here from Hardonbury over a week ago.”

  “Are they still here?” Xan said. His heart thumped so heavily in his ears now that he might not even hear Lord Godfrey’s answer. With one wrong word, the nobleman could crush him.

  Yet Godfrey said no word. He rang a golden bell that had been on the arm of his chair.

  Almost instantly, a mustached man appeared in the doorway, dressed in a thick red shirt of wool, with pants as white as a sheep’s coat. His slick brown hair curled at its edges, and his eyes were narrow, as though he were perpetually squinting.

  “Aye, my lord?” the man said, bowing. His voice was full and booming.

  “This is my bailiff, Sire Roger—one of my finest knights,” Godfrey said to the monk.

  “Blessings on you,” Brother Andrew said with a bow.

  “And to you,” Sire Roger said. He eyed Xan without saying a word to him.

  Godfrey quickly explained why his visitors had come. “I need you to escort the monk and this poor boy to the villagers of Hardonbury. Give them whatever assistance they require.”

  “It shall be done, my lord,” Roger said. He twirled his oily mustache and bowed.

  This was it, then. Lord Godfrey would help. Just moments from now, Xan might be in the warm embrace of his mother, explaining to his father where he’d been all these days. Maybe they would know why the scarred man with the bent nose had attacked him in the woodland.

  Brother Andrew and the nobleman were already exchanging farewells.

  “And send my regards and well-wishes to your good abbot,” Godfrey said.

  Then he stepped over to Xan. He was so tall, he nearly needed to bow just to place a hand on Xan’s shoulder. “Do not worry, boy. You are in good hands with Sire Roger. He practically runs this estate for me. If your parents are here, he will find them for you.”

  He tousled Xan’s hair and smiled.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Xan said, bowing low. “I shall be forever thankful to you.”

  “Now, follow me,” Sire Roger said, his narrow eyes widening to further reveal their gray coloring. “Let us go find your family.”

  10

  Identity

  Sire Roger led Xan and Brother Andrew down a winding staircase and through the Great Hall, as the bailiff called it. The huge room was decorated with glimmering golden plates and silver shields.

  On the farthest wall hung the largest tapestry Xan had seen yet. It had the same symbols as those carved in the massive manor doors: two swords coming together over a serpent and a cross. But what did the symbols stand for?

  The bailiff noticed his curiosity. “That is the Godfrey seal. Magnificent, is it not?”

  “Aye, but what does it mean?” Xan asked.

  Sire Roger’s eyes grew round. “My father and Lord Godfrey’s father heeded the call of Saint Bernard and took up the cross in the last Crusade, liberating Spain from the Moors.”

  Brother Andrew immediately took an interest. “They sacrificed much for that war. But I hear tell ’tis only a matter of time ere Jerusalem falls again. A new Crusade may come soon.”

  This might explain why the abbey had that painting of a man with a sword and a cross in his belt, joyfully going off to war. He might have been one of those crusaders.

  “But what does this have to do with these symbols?” Xan said.

  Sire Roger pointed to the tapestry. “Lord Godfrey’s father commissioned this design upon his return from Spain. The serpent is the symbol of the devil, and the cross is the sign of goodness.”

  In the picture, the evil serpent’s fiery red skull seemed to be cracking under the power of the cross. Both swords were aimed squarely at the serpent’s head.

  “The Godfrey way is to crush the forces of evil with might in the name of God,” the bailiff said. “You will find these symbols on the door of our manor and even on my lord’s wax seal.”

  Perhaps Lord Godfrey would let Xan bring his family back to this place to see all these amazing items. His parents had probably lived in a beat-up cottage their entire lives.

  “Come now,” Sire Roger said, taking them from the room.

  They exited the back gate of the manor house and onto a cobbled path that led to the center of the village. While they walked, the bailiff spoke of the estate and all its happenings.

  Peasants along the way stopped to greet Sire Roger out of respect. Brother Andrew had said that the larger a nobleman’s estate grew, the more important (and wealthy) its bailiff would become. Judging from all the bows and greetings, Sire Roger must be an important man.

  They walked through the village, past the horse stables, and out another gate. They arrived at a broad yellow meadow filled with shabby brown tents thrown together in haste. Dozens of ragged men, women, and children filled the meadow, cleaning or talking or simply sitting together.

  Sire Roger waved his hand at the tents. “Here we are: the sanctuary area. These poor people are here only a short while. They will return home when the damage is cleared. We can be grateful that Hardonbury’s fields survived the attack unscathed and will bring in a rich harvest for us.”

  “’Tis very Christian of Lord Godfrey to help them,” Brother Andrew said.

  “Aye. He has a trusting heart.”

  Xan just stared. He might be looking at his parents right now and not even know it. Would they be angry that he’d been gone all this time, or would they scoop him up in their arms in relief? Yet no one in the meadow was turned toward him. If one of them would just look, they might recognize him and lead him to his family.

  “I do not know any of these peasants,” Sire Roger said. “But let us start with that one.”

  He pointed to a woman standing near a tent. Her long, clinging tunic was filthy and torn. As they approached, her odor grew so foul that Xan had to pinch his nose.

  “Be charitable, my son,” Brother Andrew said, frowning at Xan’s reaction.

  Xan dropped his hand back to his side. Yet the bailiff kept his own hand near his mouth.

  Unlike the peasants of Chadwick, these villagers had not gone out of their way to greet Sire Roger as they passed. Still, when they reached the woman, she gave a slight curtsy to them.

  Sire Roger nodded but kept his hand
over his mouth and nose.

  “The Lord be with you, good woman,” Brother Andrew said with a smile.

  “And with you,” she said. The lines of sorrow on her brow smoothed a bit at his blessing.

  “I am Lord Godfrey’s bailiff,” Sire Roger said. “We require your assistance.”

  “Oh, really? My help?” As she spoke, she glimpsed Xan. Her eyes lit up in recognition.

  “I am Brother Andrew of Harwood Abbey,” the monk said. “Do you know this child?”

  She nodded. “I seen him in Hardonbury—” she glanced at the rows of tents all around her—“ere we come to all this.”

  It was all true then. He really was a boy from Hardonbury, just as the monks had said. He was closer than ever to finding his family now.

  “Do you know my parents?” Xan blurted, stepping closer to the woman. “My real name?”

  She cast her gaze downward. “These days, I can barely keep my own kin’s names in this old mind. But I know you used to run the East Meadow with the other lads.”

  Xan clenched and squeezed at his hands. “And my family?”

  The woman paused.

  “Answer us, woman,” Sire Roger said. “Do you know his family or not?”

  She shrugged. “He had a mother and father, but where they are, I couldn’t say. The village was all ablaze when I legged it outta there.”

  “Please,” Xan said. “Can’t you tell me anything about who I am?”

  A tear streamed from her eye. She gestured toward a man standing near another worn tent. “Ask Old Tom. He knows everyone’s business.”

  In a charred brown tunic, Old Tom seemed even filthier than the old woman. It must have been more than Sire Roger could bear.

  “I begin to feel ill,” the bailiff said. The foul grimace on his face and spittle on his mustache left no doubt about the revulsion he felt. “I pray I must take my leave of you. But if there is anything you require—anything at all—ask the guards on the perimeter there to fetch me.”

  “Thank you, sire.” The monk gave the customary bow. “May God reward your kindness.”

  As the bailiff jogged off, Brother Andrew led Xan to Old Tom. The monk offered a blessing and explained their situation to the man, who ran his fingers through his coarse, jagged beard.

  A few of the other villagers a distance away were pointing toward Xan—two boys and a woman. Could that be his mother and brothers? Surely they’d be running to him.

  Old Tom’s bushy eyebrows came together as he peered at Xan. “’Course I remember the lad,” he said. “That be Helen and Nicholas’s boy.”

  “Then you know who I am?” Xan exclaimed. “You know my family?”

  Old Tom nodded but directed his gaze to the monk. “The lad got no brothers or sisters.”

  “And his name?” the brother pressed.

  “Name?” Old Tom said. “’Tis Stephen, of course. I wondered what happened to you, Stephen. Just disappeared, you did.”

  “Stephen,” Xan said in a whisper. Nothing. No memory. No familiarity.

  If Tom knew this much about him, why wasn’t he pointing out his parents? Did they not flee to Hardonbury with the others? They should be shouting “Stephen!” from across the meadow.

  “And what about my mother and father?” he pressed.

  Old Tom scratched at his beard but said nothing.

  “Do you know the fate of the boy’s parents?” Brother Andrew asked, more gently.

  Old Tom’s face dropped. “Well now . . .” He stumbled over some muttered words.

  “Please. What happened to my parents?”

  Old Tom’s hesitation could mean only one thing, yet Xan’s heart couldn’t possibly give up yet. Not now. Not here.

  Tom finally said, “Must I speak it, Brother? How do you tell a lad his mother and father aren’t comin’ home no more? We’re all cursed, I say. Those bandits . . .” A tear rolled down the man’s wrinkled cheek as his words faded into silence.

  In the rows of crosses on the hill at Hardonbury Manor, had Brother Andrew read out the names Nicholas and Helen? Had he stood near the graves of his parents while the monk prayed?

  The wound on his head from the scarred man pulsed. He felt dizzy. The honey-sweet wafer he’d eaten rushed its way to the top of his throat, out his mouth, and onto the grass.

  Brother Andrew looped an arm around his waist to provide support.

  “Easy, my son. Come and sit down.”

  He fell into the grass and let his head rest upon the cool green blades while Old Tom spoke with the monk in a hush. Whatever else the man would say couldn’t possibly matter.

  All this time, there’d been no one looking for him. They were all gone. He was even worse off than those novice boys whose parents had dropped them off at the abbey. At least their families could visit once a year. They could go home if they wanted. Where could he go now?

  He had a name—Stephen—but no family, no memories to go with that name.

  He was alone in the world.

  They journeyed in silence for most of the way back to the abbey. He walked a step behind Brother Andrew, palming the cross he’d taken from the leather pouch on his waist. The monk held beads in his hand and murmured prayers that he said would bring peace to the souls of the dead.

  Brother Andrew’s words brought little comfort. No prayers would change the fact he would never have parents to embrace him, never have a joyful reunion with brothers and sisters.

  When they were close to the abbey, they rested at a crossing of trails that stretched out in four directions—one trail led­ to Harwood Abbey, while the others led to Penwood Manor, Oakwood Manor, and Lord Godfrey’s estate. Brother Andrew leaned against a marking stone.

  “What happens next, Brother?” With no family to claim him, he was no different than any other orphan at the abbey now. “Must I stay in that dorm forever?”

  Bullying from John; protecting the young boys; worrying about the Shadow—was this to be his life now? Not to mention paddles and yelling from Brother Leo.

  “Where else would you go, my son?” the monk asked.

  After today, there wasn’t anywhere else to go. “Nowhere.”

  “As far as what happens next,” the monk said, “that depends on the Lord. The Living God is not a character in a story book, Xan. If you are open to hearing His voice, He just might speak to you—in your prayers, in your conversations, even in your dreams.”

  In my dreams.

  Last night he’d dreamt of the woman who’d let the angel of death freely into her cottage. Could that have been God trying to warn him that his mother had already died?

  “I did have a strange dream last night,” he said.

  He described it for the monk, who seemed to take his story seriously.

  “Do you think God was speaking to me?”

  Brother Andrew nodded. “It might be so. Ere Jesus was born, Saint Joseph received God’s Word in his dreams. The three kings from the East also received a message from the Lord in their dreams after they visited the child Jesus, as did many saints and apostles. Yet we must be careful to discern the meaning of our dreams by seeking wise counsel. And through prayer.”

  They continued on and finally walked upon the abbey’s granges.

  Head bowed low, he repeated the name Stephen to himself in a whisper three times. Had his parents chosen that name the same way Brother Andrew had picked “Alexander”?

  “Stephen is an honorable name,” the monk said, watching him closely.

  He looked up in a daze. “My name?”

  “Aye. Stephen was a great man; a courageous Christian; a beloved saint—the first to give his life for the faith. The early Christians were persecuted, but Saint Stephen did not fear. In the end, an angry mob stoned him to death, and his soul rose up to Heaven. Our first martyr.”

  Maybe that was his true identity—a martyr. Yet, without his memory, his real name sounded even more foreign than the one the monk had made up for him.

  The boys’ dormitory came in
to sight, but he stopped abruptly. “Brother—?”

  “Aye, my son.”

  “May I . . . may I be called Xan a while longer?”

  The monk put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and gave a warm smile. “I understand. Of course you may. And tomorrow we will spend some time discussing what to do about your future—Xan.”

  11

  Suffering

  The next morning came too quickly. He’d arrived back after all the boys were sleeping and now woke to the light of dawn peeking through a slit in the dorm window—his first day as a true orphan.

  How strange to realize he had no family to search for today, no reason to jump off the straw mattress in anticipation of all the day might bring. He already knew what to expect: chores and bullying and playing games he’d forgotten.

  Perhaps it was better to have no memory. That way he couldn’t remember all he’d lost.

  Brother Leo opened the door to the upper room and rang an obnoxious bell to wake them. There would be morning prayers and then chore assignments and then breakfast in the refectory and then work and then play time. This was to be his life now.

  Morning prayers passed—had he even heard the words?—and then they gathered in front of the dorm to receive their daily work. Brother Leo made the assignments, giving Xan the job to scrub the stones on the fountain in the circle. Some of the boys groaned at the long list of chores.

  “Today is the final day of my week with you,” Brother Leo announced.

  That was the only bit of good news Xan had received in this new life of his.

  “Brother Oscar will be here at days’ end to start his week of supervision,” the monk said. “As you can see, I have assigned you extra work to keep you busy in my absence today.”

  “Where are you going?” Joshua asked.

  “I must tend to my duties as a cellarer.”

  Being a cellarer was an important job. Brother Andrew had explained the other day that cellarers made sure the abbey had all the food and other items it needed to function.