1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Santelli

Name: Rebecca C K Santelli
Genre: YA Historical Mystery
Title: A Serpent in the Garden

A Serpent in the Garden, Prologue

The abbey bells rang and the young woman lifted her head. The sound reverberated deep in her bones, threatening to shake her to pieces. She had traveled 50 miles in 4 days, on foot and unaided, driven by desperation like a horse before the whip. If only the labor had not been so hard, if only the midwife had been more skilled, if only she could have rested, the journey would have been easy. She had once been lithe and lively. She could ride a horse swifter than the flight of an arrow, race across the fields like the fallow deer, and dance like the sparks in a bonfire.

She had met him at a dance. She still remembered the dark thrill she felt when he followed her into the courtyard and, with burning eyes, demanded a kiss. She gave him his kiss and more, stretched out on his feather-soft cloak, the night curled around them like a raven's wing. But his love had long since burned out, collapsed into ashes, as her brother warned her it would. She had hoped the flame would be reborn when he saw his son, but now she knew this hope had been foolish, as had all her hopes.

The baby was begging to be fed again. She sat at the side of the road and offered him her breast. He nuzzled against her chest and she felt the milk come down, warm and comforting, for her as well as him. His tiny fingers, delicate as butterflies, patted her arm and she felt the weight of her love for him, a love as strong as death. When he finished, she rose, wrapped him in her cloak, and struggled on.

Not long afterward she felt her enemy approaching, as one feels a storm coming down from the mountains. She knew in an instant that he would show her no mercy, that he would not be satisfied with letting them run away. And so she hid her sleeping baby in the bushes far back from the road. She did it gently, concealing her own fear so her son would not wake and cry out. She looked at his face one last time. She prayed that St. Nicholas would protect him.

Then she walked back to the road to meet her fate.

A Serpent in the Garden, Chapter 1

A nightmare, shapeless and half-remembered, shook me from my sleep. Had I dreamt of my mother again? Of chasing her ghost through darkened labyrinths or seeking her corpse in ruined crypts? I have grown up in the shadow of such dreams, though my mother died long before I can remember. No-one ever speaks of her—or of my father. It is forbidden.

Unable to settle myself, I dressed and went down to the courtyard. A damp breeze pressed upon me and I shivered despite my woolen gown and velvet mantle. No-one else was stirring. The air was dark, sapphire blue. It felt as if the entire castle had sunk to the bottom of the sea. I half-expected to see schools of gleaming fish swimming between the battlements, as if between the teeth of a massive shark. I imagined it was a judgment on my great-grandfather, Gotboldis, who built the Hirschburg. He was a man renowned for his battle-prowess—and his cruelty. When the castle was new, he captured so many men for ransom they overflowed the great tower and filled the oubliette. Without an inkling of conscience, he constructed an additional building to hold more captives. How many hopeless men starved to death in those cells when their family could pay no more?

I shuddered, but reminded myself that Gotboldis was long-gone, to the cleansing fires of purgatory or, more likely, to his eternal punishment. There would be no desperate men locked in these lonely chambers today. But wait! As if in direct challenge to my silent thoughts a voice cried out. “Judge thou, O Lord, them that wrong me. Overthrow them that fight against me. Take hold of arms and shield, and rise up to help me.”

Had the ghost of a long-dead prisoner returned to take vengeance? I crossed myself quickly. There was a pause, and the owner of the ghostly voice coughed. “Ghosts cannot catch chill.” I scolded myself for being so childish. Clearly a flesh and blood human being was crying out to God for help, but I had heard nothing about any prisoner.

Luckily the larder was nearby. I found an empty barrel and dragged it to the cell from which the voice had cried. I clambered on top. Standing on tiptoe, I peered through the tiny, barred window.

A reassuringly mortal form huddled in the corner. He wore a dark robe, and on the top of his head a bare patch of skin shone slightly in the darkness. Why, it was a tonsure—and the robe that of a monk! I was aghast. Surely, this was the work of my uncle Arnulf. Arnulf has inherited all Gotboldis' avarice, but none of his intellect. He constantly accuses the monks at the nearby abbey of plotting to overthrow the Barons von Hirschburg, but my tutor, Father Gregory, told me the truth; it is Arnulf whose lustful eyes are on the abbey lands.

“Good Brother,” I called, “good Brother—”

The monk rushed to the window. He looked up, but my shadow obscured his face. “Mistress, God’s peace be with you,” he cried.

“How came you to this place, Brother?”

“I hardly know myself. It happened so quickly. Brother Rudolfus and I were in the forest collecting firewood for the abbey of St. Nicholas, and we somehow became separated. I heard a noise in the foliage and, thinking it was Rudolfus, I called out. Then four men burst through the trees with swords drawn. They bound me and gagged me and dragged me away!”

“Was there a man among them with a great gray beard, bald as a vulture, with half his teeth black as cherry pits?”

“So there was. A huge, hulking bear of a man with his stomach hanging halfway to his knees.”

“Arnulf! I knew it could be no other.”

“If I did anything wrong, I would be glad to make amends.”

I paused. That Arnulf had taken a man of God captive was appalling enough, but in so doing he had put the entire household in danger. It was highly unlikely the monks would resort to violence, but they had powerful allies, including the Duke of Gefährlichwald, who started feuds at the slightest provocation. Should I run directly to Baron Baldric, my other uncle and, thank the saints, my formal guardian? Baldric does not share his brother’s extensive prejudices or his reckless temper. I was certain he had not approved the kidnapping of the monk. On the other hand, Baldric was unlikely to jeopardize his tenuous alliance with Arnulf with open dissent. Perhaps it would be best if the monk simply escaped, vanished like the morning mists that wreathed Stag Rock.

“I will get you out, Brother.”

“But—”

“Trust me.”