THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN
Chapter 4
June 20th, 1520 – Raven's Grove
It was bizarre, seeing a man who had haunted his dreams for so many months now stand before him. Alan Moore thought he would waste away for the rest of his life in a dungeon cell of Adelton Hall. But Carlisle Chaeld got him out. One cold morning in spring the rusty hinges screamed in protest as the cell opened. And he said his goodbyes to the dungeon. Carlisle left him in the care of Emmett Saxton as if he were some sort of child. Emmett, or Robin as he liked to be called, knew exactly who Alan Moore was. The whole group excluded him as a spy and traitor. Alan thought it strange that a group of bandits and thieves had a sense of "honor".
The days fleeted by in a lazy instant and merged into a hazy dream it seemed. He woke up each morning, ate, worked hard until it was time to sleep. But the essence of Alan Moore had long since left him. The man was merely a shell ever since the war. He had done many things he was ashamed of, many things he would regret. And seeing Edward's face was one of them.
The coup of Wessport took place and, soon, the forest he had gotten so used to, transformed into a military camp. Alan was not allowed to leave, for Saxton did not trust him. And when Fawkes realized who he was, stricter measures were taken against him. Fawkes was now thinking of taking even more measures against the man who had betrayed his fellow countrymen. Alan feared that he was breathing on borrowed time.
But then one man arrived who treated him better than the others. Friar Nicholas was kind, kinder than most. He came one foggy morning with his worn-down wagon, carrying with him some bees and heaps of mead. They all welcomed him and listened to his news of Wessport. Many seemed let down upon hearing that Edward Cullen had sworn allegiance to Queen Victoria.
It was soon that Alan became Nicholas' helper. He helped set up the kitchen tent. He helped set up the beehives so that the bees the friar had brought might have a place to make honey. He started running errands for Nicholas and soon felt that he had gained a place among the rebels of Raven's Grove. Alan grew to feel a strange sense of purpose. He imagined that his actions aided somewhat and contributed positively to the rest of camp. Alan was helping out, putting aside his greed and wants for once. Nicholas had made him an honest man and Alan started coming to terms with his past mistakes.
The old priest noticed how Alan always came every morning with dark circles under his eyes—his nightmares would not allow him peace in his rest. Alan had vowed to himself to never tell of the secret he had witnessed. He would never open his mouth about what he had seen that day when Edward Cullen had discovered him and tortured him on the road to Cadherra. Alas, the moment of Edward's unmasking would replay on repeat in his head each and every night. It was as crystal clear as the water that ran down the stream from the Durun mountains. He would see the face that all Angloans knew—the haunting image of someone dead long ago—the eerie likeness of a ghost: the face of Philip Fell. His mind could not understand it, and Alan feared what he did not understand. He never told Nicholas exactly what he had seen, but he did tell of a revelation made to him, something not of this world and how he feared it. Some strange part of Alan felt the need to retain Edward's secret and the face that he hid. He only told of a devil who had revealed the face of a ghost long dead. Alan suspected Nicholas thought he was hallucinating, but the friar asked no questions and helped him through his roughest time: the day word reached him that Edward Cullen had arrived in camp.
He had broken down then, frightened that the ghost who—he hoped had forgotten him—was now back to haunt him. He figured that Nicholas quickly put the puzzle pieces together and realized it had been Edward he had spoken of all along. And when Nicholas had made Alan see that Edward was merely a man of flesh and blood, Alan Moore came only to one conclusion: the only reason Edward Cullen looked like a young Philip Fell must be for the fact that the blood of the late king ran through his veins. Maybe it was a distant cousin, maybe a nephew, maybe a spawn of an illicit encounter. Whatever it was, whoever Edward Cullen truly was, he was much more than he let on.
And it was, therefore, upon seeing the masked man for the first time in months, Alan Moore dropped to his knees in defeat. He stammered, trembled and looked at the ground. "My lord," he whispered as sweat started pearling on his temples. The look he then directed at Edward was enough to reveal what he had seen.
The hairs on Isabella's neck stood up as she watched the man stumble to the ground, his legs too weak to carry him. Her heart raced as she saw his eyes widen.
He knew. Alan knew.
She watched Edward, standing as frozen in place as she. The man before them still held her apron clutched in his hand, not able to stand. The women by the stream, thank God, had not seen the bizarre interaction.
"Stand up!" Isabella hissed nervously," Right now, stand up!" She went over to him and forced him to stand, her hands shaking in the process. Edward's mouth was set in a thin line. He had completely forgotten about Alan Moore—about the spy who had sold his country for a few coins. And although he seemed to regret his choice, Edward should never have committed such a foolish action. His hands turned into fists as he silently reprimanded himself—he should never have unmasked before the traitor. Alas, the damage was already done.
Alan stood up, his face turning a shade whiter for every ticking second. "Please, I will not breathe a word," he squealed.
"Silence!" Edward snapped. Alan cowered away from him. "We need to bring him to my tent, now," he turned and spoke with Isabella. Her lips were in a thin line as well, her face paler than before. They rushed through the camp, hoping they had not caught too much attention. Alan froze, practically being led by Isabella and pushed forward by Edward without too much resistance. They entered the tent and he was forced down in a chair.
"Who is this?" Isabella asked in confusion as her brows knitted together.
Edward leaned down to her, taking care that Alan would not hear what he whispered into her ear. "Remember the spy I spoke of? The one that was sent from Wessport to keep track of me the first time I journeyed down to Cadherra?" Her eyes widened as she turned to stare at Alan Moore. How could that funny little man have been the one to betray his country?
"Is he the same who reported to the English during the war?" she whispered back. He nodded, and her heart sank lower and lower in her chest. "And how come he knows? Don't tell me you showed him your face?" The tight-lipped sigh she received was answer enough. "Why on earth would you do such a thing, Edward?" she whispered in despair. What would this mean? Their situation had just turned. Edward's life was now on the line, his fate about to switch on the whim of a traitor. Fortunately, Alan Moore had not yet realized the power he could hold over Edward. That is: if the masked man let him leave.
"Carlisle and I needed questions—he wasn't talking. Unmasking was the final solution. I know the effect my face has on people."
"You tortured this man?" she asked. But then she caught herself, of course, he had, it was only wanting. They must have needed urgent information, information that only Alan Moore had. There were many things that surprised her about Edward, many things she did not know about him. The young woman looked away, such news bearing down on her. She knew Edward was as honest and true as they came. But the fact that he had tortured someone gave way to some slight disappointment within her.
"What do we do now?" The question was more directed to herself than to him. She glanced at Alan who had not dared open his mouth.
"A scout arrived about an hour ago reporting movement in the south, I have to leave with Carlisle and Jacob," Edward said as he snuck a glance at Alan. He knew what should be done. Alan Moore could not be left alive, no matter how much he repented for what he had done. But there was something that stopped Edward from killing him. Perhaps it was guilt—he had kept the man a prisoner for months. Just ending his life in such a manner was harsh.
Isabella read the expression in his eyes. They faced a dilemma, indeed. They could not kill the man, but they could never trust him. After the fiasco with Victoria, Edward found that his trust in many had run out. Alan Moore was definitely someone he did not wish to put the full weight of his future with.
"I have done nothing since coming here. I have only tried to help, I have given what little information I had. Please do not tell me now that—because I saw something I shouldn't have—I will pay with my life," Alan pleaded. It seemed he understood the dire situation he now found himself in.
The remorse in his voice rang true. But, still, neither Isabella or Edward could find it in themselves to trust him.
"I will speak with Fawkes," Edward whispered to Isabella. "I will have him locked away in isolation until my return. Make sure it is kept that way and that he speaks with no one," he continued.
"Perhaps we should speak with Sofia about this?" she asked.
"We do not need to drag her into this mess," Edward answered brusquely. He had no mind for Sofia to meddle even further in his life. And he knew exactly what the old woman would do to Alan. She would do what she had done to others who had seen his face. He caught a glance of the cowering man. He would not have him killed at the hands of the gypsy. "Promise me you will not involve her in this, Isabella," he said with forceful words.
"I promise," Isabella frowned. Apart from Carlisle, Jacob and Isabella, Sofia was the only one who knew his secret. For her, it was obvious to go to the gypsy. But if Edward had a reason not to, she would not go against him.
"I would not tell anyone, General Cullen," he pleaded. "Please, I have found solace here and asked forgiveness for my sins. Ask Friar Nicholas, he will tell you!"
Isabella did not know what to say to such words. She did not really know the man well enough to trust him. And if his record was true, then should he not be untrustworthy? They could not chance this situation. If Alan opened his mouth and revealed what Edward looked like, it might well make the domino blocks tumble—one larger than the previous one. It might end in a disaster for the masked man. He was not sure if his sister Rosalie might receive the word of his existence well in such an abrupt manner.
"It will only be temporarily, Mr. Moore. I will speak with Friar Nicholas myself," she offered, trying to calm him down. The mask of kindness now graced her features as a forced smile appeared.
Once Alan had calmed down, they took him to Fawkes. No explanation was offered other than that Edward played the offended part that a spy such as Alan should walk around with no one to guard him. He wanted the man in isolation until his return. Fawkes thought the whole situation stemmed out of the blue. But he did not argue, considering Alan had indeed been the cause for many lives lost during the war with England. Fawkes had no qualms about imprisoning the frightened man—in fact, he rather welcomed the opportunity. Isabella swore to Edward that she would make sure no one spoke with him. She wanted the secret kept just as badly as he did.
That Isabella should stay behind and care for his mess was madness. But if he left his duties, they might well stand unprepared if the patrol on the southern border of the forest proved to be scouts sent by Victoria.
He informed Fawkes of where he, Jacob and Carlisle were headed. And it was within barely an hour that he and his two friends had set out. The goodbyes between him and his fiancée were swifter than he would have liked.
June 22nd, 1520 – Southwestern border of Raven's Grove
It was the three of them again—like old times. Edward, Carlisle, and Jacob had seen adventures to last them a lifetime. And now they would live one yet again. Had the scout who reported the news not followed them, Edward would have discarded the mask and enjoyed the dense forest air that filtrated through the rooftop crowns. Alas, he was as restrained as ever.
They rode as fast as they could, still not wanting to fully overexert their horses. The scout was in the front and they would only stop for quick naps or for a quick visit to the bushes. They ate on horseback. A ride that would normally take three days took them no more than two. They arrived at the post fatigued and exhausted. The other scouts met them as soon as they reached their post—a wooden structure hidden within the crowns of the trees. The thick foliage made it nearly impossible to spot.
"They've been camped by the edge for a full day now, sir," one of the scouts said—a lean man in his late forties. He pushed the deep green hood back and brushed away some small twigs from his beard. His gaze lowered slightly when meeting Edward's. The man cowered at the presence of the general.
"Have they gone into the forest?" he asked in a strong voice, the way it broke through the peace of the woods made some among the scouts jump startled in place.
"No, sir. But it is strange, it is as if they are waiting for something. I think they are aware of being watched," he said in staccato notes—the very thought unnerving him.
Edward turned to meet Carlisle and Jacob's faces. It could well be a trap to lure them out of the protective forest. "We should speak with them," he said after a while.
"What if it is a trap?" one of the scouts asked. It was a young man, not yet past his teen years. His face had been kissed by the rays of the sun and dark circles under his eyes told of little sleep for the past days.
Edward nodded to himself. "That is why only a few of us shall go. If we get captured, one of you must ride back to camp and alert them. Do not try to come to our rescue, do not try to distract them or interfere in any other way. Our main priority is that they do not get all of us."
"Jacob and I shall go with you, Edward," Carlisle said, not allowing the masked man to protest. "We stand the best chance of fighting back in case they prove to be loyal to Victoria." Edward knew he spoke the truth, for the scouts before them did not have any extensive knowledge of fighting.
And, so, they agreed. Jacob, Edward, and Carlisle readied themselves to meet the group. It would be the three of them against at least fifteen men—the odds were not in their favor. The scouts watched as the trio walked out of the forest. "They're walking toward massacre," one of them whispered as his shoulders slumped.
"Cullen should have stayed back," another one muttered. "Always doing heroics."
"He's just provin' himself, Rob," another one answered gravely in a Cadherran accent. They all remained silent after that remark, watching from the trees, thinking their hearts would break through their chests.
The small group of soldiers had been waiting some days by the edge of the forest. It had been a pleasant wait, they always enjoyed being on the road. Their lord had provided them with enough supplies for weeks and they hoped the rebels of the forest would take long in coming.
They did not have their guard up, instead, they lounged in a circle on the soft emerald grass. Some of them were laying on their backs, watching the clouds high up above them sail through the blue sky. Suddenly, one of them exclaimed—the one sentinel they had placed as watch. All of them sprung to their feet, alert and ready for whatever might emerge from the woods.
Out of the eerie and dark woods that was Raven's Grove walked three men in a nonchalant manner. They bore dark clothing and moved toward them with ease, not dragged down by unnecessary armor. The one in the middle claimed all their attention—they knew who he was from a distance. The black mask gave him away.
Edward Cullen.
The named General of Rosalie Fell's armies did not seem nervous the closer he got. There was an air of arrogant nonchalance, he was not bothered by the fact that they were outnumbered five to one. The masked man and his friends stopped a few paces from them.
"What brings you here?" he asked. There was no time for pleasantries. He jumped right to the point. His dark and low voice cut through the pleasant summer midday, mirroring the dark tendrils stretching out from the forest. Edward seemed to have brought its unnerving aura with him. Some soldiers stepped back. They knew the stories of Cullen and few were willing to engage in battle with him.
But one of them, the man whose very purpose was to be there, stepped forth. "General Cullen, I am sent by your princess, Her Royal Highness. These fourteen soldiers have come with me for my own protection," he assured. But the words did not seem to lower Edward's guard.
"And why did she not send her own confidant? Lord Athar or Lord Glovendale?" he asked.
"Because she did not wish to be parted from them," the man answered.
"And where is the princess now?" Carlisle Chaeld demanded, just as brusquely as his friend.
"Heading south yet again with her advisors."
"What news were you told to bring us?" Edward asked the messenger.
"News of success, my friends. She has managed to recruit several noblemen to her cause. My own master, Lord Wilson, promised Her Royal Highness he would send me and some soldiers to reassure you. Her Royal Highness and her advisors felt it unwise to break off their journey only to alert you to the news."
But the messenger's words did not seem to take effect. "How do I know you speak the truth?" the man in the black mask demanded.
"I have a letter, written in her own hand," he stated. "The seal unbroken." He whisked out a white slip of paper from the folds of his coat and started walking toward them. Edward and he met up in the middle. Now that he stood face to face with the famous general, the messenger, Frederic, gulped at the sight of the man. A gloved hand stretched out and grabbed the slip of paper.
Generals Fawkes and Cullen,
The Lords of the lands are restless. I now understand their reluctance to join Lord Athar in the past. My sister, Victoria, has been pressuring them for months on end to stay true to her cause. She seemingly has spies everywhere. I myself was approached by one of her men but a day ago, urging me to come to my senses and leave this campaign.
When I write to tell that it has been difficult to make more lords join our cause, I mean it. Lords Athar and Glovendale have reasoned that we should continue south for the coming weeks and see who else would join us. We already have some houses at our disposal. Lords Wilson, Murrn and Tyris of Thenn have agreed to join us. They may have smaller armies, but they are loyal. There have also been some lords north of Raven's Grove, from New London, eager to contribute to our cause in secret. I shall not write their names here, in case the letter is intercepted.
We hope these new additions will have doubled our army. Before the end of the month, new recruits should be lining up at the edge of Raven's Grove. If God willing, we shall be prepared for when my sister comes.
And, for Edward Cullen to understand that this letter is written by my own hand and not a forgery, I write him these words:
A king is not born
He is made
Rosalie Fell
Edward's mouth settled in a grim line at the last words. He knew then that the letter was real. He recognized her handwriting. Sure, Rosalie could have written it under duress or have been forced to do so. However, the words she had offered him—the last words of Jasper Fell—held such a big impact on both of them that he instantly knew it was her and that she spoke the truth.
Frederic watched nervously as the masked man folded the letter meticulously. He waited for him to speak, looking nervously at the sword and dagger that hung on his hip. "I take it these men are to come with us then," she stated after some time had passed. The growling voice boomed across the field and Frederic jumped, his hat falling off his slicked-back hair. A dark lock fell into his eyes as he pulled at the high collar. For the first time, the summer heat got to him. The masked man before him, standing dressed in black pants, a dark-green jerkin, and a dark shirt, did not seem bothered by the pressing heat.
"Indeed, my lord." The wrong title bestowed on Edward made him sigh. It seemed he would forever be branded as a lord, despite having had the title taken from him. He did not bother with correcting the messenger this time.
"And you?"
"I am to return back to my lord Wilson, if you do not object, of course."
"And what of Lord Wilson? I see he has given us fourteen men. But I suspect he has more," Edward answered brusquely.
"I do not understand," the messenger gulped.
"It is I who does not understand. The princess has written to me that between the lords she has met, an army of five hundred soldiers was promised us. All I see are fourteen men here. And no lords, for that matter. Have they chosen to stay back in their comfortable castles?"
"It is a complicated situati—"
"I am sure it is," Edward growled. He rose his head, looking down on the man in a proud gesture. "I will take those soldiers your master has so kindly bestowed upon us. But you shall go back to him with my message. He has chosen a side now and no castle in the world can protect him from Victoria when she comes. There is only the one or the other, nothing in between. Tell him that and have him tell his fellow lords as well," Edward said. Frederic glanced up, swiftly looking away from the fiery green eyes.
"I shall, my lord."
"Sir, I am not a lord," Edward finally corrected. He looked past Frederic. "Well, will you be standing there all day or are you coming?" he asked the soldiers.
They looked amongst themselves. The soldiers did not have great expectations when their lord had ordered them to escort Frederic north to Raven's Grove. But that they were sent to join forces with Edward Cullen was a completely different thing. Many were eager to go and swiftly gathered their things. They walked past Frederic who was left alone with his horse.
He watched as those who had escorted him up disappeared with the three men into the dark woods, as if swallowed by night itself. Frederic did not entirely comprehend what had transpired, but he sure did remember the message he was to deliver back to Lord Wilson.
June 23rd, 1520 – Raven's Grove
"We have wanted this for a longer time than you might imagine, my lady," Fawkes said. He sat opposite Isabella, undressed from his fine armor, the dark-blue gambeson hanging haplessly from a nearby stool, a cup of mead in his hand.
"Wait until Edward returns, at least," she begged.
Fawkes frowned. "Then why bring him into isolation now? Why not before?"
She did not know what to answer. In fact, she could not answer the question. Alan Moore's lockup was due to their fear of Edward being discovered. "I took offense at the man when I discovered who he was," she lied through her teeth.
Fawkes nodded. "We all did, but you acted. Friar Nicholas has been too mild with him. What Alan Moore has done cannot be ignored. Yet he has walked around camp a free man."
"But is it not too harsh executing him, my lord?" she asked.
Fawkes fixed his eyes on her as a smirk creased their edges. "Don't tell me you have not been thinking the same. I can well see it in your countenance. We all have. It would be a good riddance."
Yes. Isabella had thought of that possibility—of having Alan executed. It would be easy, swiftly done and one less worry for Edward when he returned. She wanted to protect him, but she could not bring herself to say the words.
"I understand," Fawkes nodded after a while. "The reality of this is setting in and you hesitate. But, my lady, let me worry about this."
She remained silent, watching her folded hands. Isabella did not speak up against what Fawkes had said, she let it slide. The young woman suspected many of the other lords and officers would be of the same mind. Few would take Alan Moore's side. She feared at her ease of letting the man's life simply be determined like that.
Indeed, it was a great thing, to be part of the forces fighting evil. At least, that was how she saw it. Alice dumped the dirty rags into the bucket of water, rinsing them once more. She stared over the camp, at the laughter of the women, their braids shining in the rays of the sun, the children running fervently—playing. Her frown deepening. They all thought as she did, they all had hopes and expectations for the future: a better future.
And Victoria Fell was not part of that future.
But was a war justifiable? Was it right to sacrifice the lives of their men for someone else to inherit the crown? She could not say. It appeared many could not say. She drifted back, lying to herself, thinking that such questions were not for her to answer. She was but a servant and always would be—how could she ever presume to involve herself in such insightful discussions?
And, yet, the conversation grew. Isabella involved her more and more in it until Alice formed her own opinion. And it was an opinion she had the strength to express. And Isabella welcomed it.
She did not wish for a conflict.
She did not want war.
But she understood why it was imminent. Yes, she understood well. Alice had heard of the horrors Victoria had done in Wessport. The city whose walls would forever bear the stench of death and decay. Wessport would forever bear the mark of tyranny and sorrow now. Her heart went out to the families of those who had been executed. People who had been killed in the name of the very same crown those around her fought for. The matter was a complicated one. But one thing Alice knew, the world was not as black and white as she had supposed. She understood as much when a man of the very church she so respected had broken the holiest sanctity—that of confession. It did not matter to her what reasons Cardinal Thorpe had had for bringing her word out to light, she understood he did it more for his own benefit than for the good of others.
A corrupt and disgraceful man he was, that Cardinal Thorpe. Her nose wrinkled as she thought back to him. There were many in Wessport like him, she started realizing. Perhaps, she thought, without being too naïve, this might be the time for a true change—for men like Thorpe to be permanently removed from power. Alice preferred men like Cullen. And it was not only because of his many feats and achievements. There was something imminently more important to it.
Cullen was one of them.
He was not a nobleman's son, he had no outstanding line to back him up. He came from nothing and built himself up. And, it was indeed strange that such an imposing man would come to be so respected amongst them. It was almost as if they looked past the mere man. Alice was sure that those who had not met him must have pictured someone very different than the Edward she knew. Indeed, they would think him frightening, capable of incurring respect in all who met him. She supposed he had turned into an individual now idealized. But he did not seem phased by it—the humility in his person was the reason she still respected him. And the fact that he had gone to such lengths to save Isabella. She was not alone in this. The relationship between Isabella and Edward was well known in Angloa. It was a relationship that symbolized their own dream for the country: strong, loving and everlasting.
Alice went back to her duties as her mind kept wandering.
The day continued, and Isabella Swan shifted as she turned from watching Alice work, not letting the young woman see the frown gracing her features.
Isabella walked back into the emptied corner of the hospital. She had had the urge to speak with Alice but had refrained from doing so. It was best not to drag her friend into more intrigue.
Her feet took her to the solace of the forest, away from camp. Alan was still locked up in isolation. A full day had gone by before the cook and holy man—Friar Nicholas—had come to his aid. Isabella had not been there for that confrontation.
She had sat down with Fawkes a few times more after their initial discussion. Isabella was faced with a difficult decision. She would not reveal the extent of the threat Alan posed, only that he posed a great threat to them. The alarm in her eyes unnerved Fawkes and he pushed for Alan to be taken care of at their earliest convenience—as he should have been after the war. And indeed, the general pushed for the extremes. He took this chance to rid the camp of the traitor once and for all.
The young woman could still not form the words. Fawkes had offered her an easy way out. He would take care of it all.
But it felt wrong.
Was she so cold and broken down by the death of Braun that she would readily consent to have a man killed? Isabella shivered despite the summer warmth. If they waited for Edward's return Alan might talk. She would make Edward's life easier if she let Alan's death happen. Or perhaps he would despise her for it?
It was there that Friar Nicholas found her, in complete misery at the decision now facing her. He walked in between the trees as faint beams of light illuminated the stuffy forest. She basked in one of them, her skin growing almost translucent. The young woman looked like an apparition.
"Raven's Grove reflects your sorrows, my child," Nicholas said.
Isabella looked away. She had not yet actually spoken directly with the old friar. He seemed a decent enough fellow. She knew why he was there. He would plead for Alan's life. He had tried to do so with Fawkes. The stern and proud old general must have sent him away.
"I am not sad, friar," she answered.
"No, but your conscience weighs you down."
Nicholas sat down on a trunk not too far away from her. He let her wallow in silence for a while. She was still too ashamed to look at him.
"Every man needs a second chance," Nicholas said distantly. "I believe Mr. Moore is no different in that aspect.
She wished intensely she could explain it all to him. Perhaps Nicholas would understand then. The young woman was torn. He would think her a heartless monster, unable to give him a reason as to why she planned on letting Fawkes have Alan executed. Isabella knew it was wrong. But what other option was there?
"He is a traitor."
"Indeed, he was, and it is my vocation to forgive him, just as our Lord forgave us," Nicholas started.
Isabella continued looking at the ground.
"I spoke with General Fawkes, but he is a military man. I came to you, the last hope Mr. Moore has of living," Nicholas pleaded. But he never did so without losing dignity nor face.
"I have little power here. And matters like these are complicated."
"When a man's life is on the line, nothing is too complicated," he stated. His tone was never that of condescension, only of patience and compassion.
She turned to face him. By doing so her mouth dropped a little in sudden recognition.
She had met this man before.
"You?" Isabella asked in disbelief as she rose from whence she sat. Her face dropped further, her brow furrowed in confusion. How was it that people from her past so readily returned to her life? Nicholas did not answer her sudden outburst but let her process his presence.
Isabella did not think to ask why he was there, or how he had come to be there. She recalled her days in Wessport with Edward. They had returned by request of King Jasper. She had escaped one day with Alice to a small church in the middle circle to confess. Because confession seemed like a good idea back then.
"Last time I saw you, you were quite burdened as well," he whispered. Nicholas had recognized her the moment she'd walked into camp. He could never forget the sorrowful and burdened young woman who had wandered into his church. And yet, he had kept his distance. She seemed distressed enough without having another surprise thrown her way.
Isabella thought back to their confession. Her time in Wessport had not weighed as heavily as the decisions she was now faced with.
"I have not gone to confession since I last saw you," she admitted with a sad smile.
Nicholas sighed as he got up and sat by her side. He took her hands in his, they enclosed hers and a warmth spread from the tips of her fingers. A scent of honey broke through the forest canopy. "Well, I seem to have caught you at a good time, then," he answered.
Isabella looked at the ground. "I cannot." She pushed away from him, her mind even more in disorder than before.
"You are not the same young woman that walked into my church that day," he said sadly. "Because I believe that woman would never once hesitate in a similar situation. She would know what was wrong and right," he continued.
"You paint the world as black and white when it is all a disastrous and disgusting gray mess. I would love to go back to naively believing it was so. But I cannot. Alan Moore poses a threat in more ways than you can possibly believe."
Nicholas pressed his lips together. "You might well hold the life of a man in your hands. I want to help you push aside your doubts—make you see that you will commit an act that will haunt you for the rest of your life." He never once lost the friendly tone, nor the patience. He reasoned with her casually, never raising his voice.
Isabella looked away in shame. She thought it was better if it was done before Edward returned so that he might not be faced with the same decision. "The mere fact that you cower before such a statement shows me that you know it is wrong."
"It is Fawkes who is set on this outcome," she whispered. "He ordered this, not I."
"But you are going along with it," Nicholas replied. She hesitated, sitting silently for a while.
"It is wrong, father, I admit," she fought hard not to break down before him.
"It is in the face of decisions like these that determine the type of people we are," Nicholas reasoned.
Isabella remained silent for a long time. She let Raven's Grove calm her with the soft summer winds gently blowing her loose hair. Her shoulders had dropped to the ground, as if gravity was stronger than usual. But it was never the gravity, only the severity that weighed her own soul down.
"I wish to confess," she said after a long while. Maybe revealing her sins to him might clear her jumbled mind and make her see another way out. Nicholas nodded calmly, his presence as reassuring as the sun on an early spring morning.
"I have tried to come to terms with my actions for the last few months," she whispered. Catharsis settled in as the friar listened, unbiased. Her eyes met his, afraid he would judge her after her next words. "I have killed a man."
She expected him to turn away in disgust, to frown and look down on her. But there was only sadness in Nicholas' eyes.
"I have tried to brush off the occurrence. But I do not regret my decision, which is what most frightens me. I fear what it might be doing to me," she confessed. For the first time, he heard the note of fear in her voice.
"Who was this man?"
"Lord Oscar Braun," Isabella whispered. "And I killed him because I learned he had been involved in the death of my father. I killed him out of pure hatred and revenge."
She found it strange to be revealing such intimate secrets to a man she did not know. Isabella had not even voiced her fears to Edward, her mother or Alice. But here she sat, by a strange twist of fate, confessing to a priest she had known for a total of half an hour.
"Revenge clouds our judgment, it stems from pain afflicted on us. Many have gone down your path and come out without a drop of remorse. But I believe you feel it, even if you will not admit it. And now that you are faced with a similar situation, it emerges, and you find a battle within yourself."
She found it bizarre to hear his words, like he held some personal experience in the matter. Isabella rose her eyes to meet his gentle ones. She looked into them, wondering what she might find. An echo of pain resided within his brown depths. "There is a reason I became a man of the cloth," Nicholas admitted after a while. "We all have to atone for our sins in the end."
"You have known this pain too?"
He nodded. "And it has taught me that the quickest way out is never the easiest. Executing Alan Moore now might seem like a quick and obvious decision. But you will regret it in the long run."
"But it is Fawkes who is set on having him executed," she started. "There are many factors in this that I cannot tell you. If Mr. Moore is not taken care of he might destroy the life of someone I care for."
"Alan has seen or heard something he shouldn't have, if I am not mistaken," Nicholas guessed.
"How would you know?"
"Because whatever he saw has plagued him ever since. His sleep is forever invaded by nightmares, he cannot find peace in his rest. And he cannot find peace awake either. He is judged by everyone here just as he is tormented in his sleep. Alan is facing the consequences of his sins."
"I would wish to believe that Mr. Moore would not run around revealing what he has seen. But if this world has shown me anything, it is that there is more anger and hatred than I could ever imagine. There are few in whom I can trust, even less in a known traitor to keep such a heavy secret."
"What is done cannot be undone," Nicholas repeated. "Perhaps you should speak with the man who is to be executed before making your final decision. Avoiding him will not give you the answers you seek. We all think to judge those who have committed mistakes. Men like Alan are usually the ones who end up surprising us," Nicholas offered, the final piece of advice before leaving her alone yet again with her thoughts.
A/N: As you might have noticed, I did not post a chapter last week. As I mentioned in the disclaimer of the first chapter; I will not always have time to post weekly. Remember that I work a job full-time, study and try to have a social life on the side hehe. So the passive-aggressive PM's are not that necessary. I understand if you are looking forward to new chapters, but there is no need to be rude (you know who you are).
As for the rest who have patiently waited, thank you! I hope you liked this chapter! I will try to post the next chapter as soon as possible, I'd like for the fic to be over before the summer is gone!
Cheers!
Isabelle
