Chapter 10 Jude #2
Jude slid the cover off a basket on the counter, a small smile tugging at his lips at the sight of the potatoes he’d harvested a few days prior nestled alongside a neat pile of foraged mushrooms. ‘I have a few things to sell.’
The weekly market in Oakmoor was a sordid affair Jude usually left up to Elden.
He had a knack for fetching the best prices on their produce and tea blends – probably down to his glowing personality or ability to hold a conversation without wanting to run away.
At any rate, he seemed to enjoy the gaggles of grandmothers picking at his business more than Jude.
Jude sifted through the mushrooms, all too aware of the eyes tracking his every movement. If he bruised a single wood blewit, Celia would have his head. He selected the largest and presented it to the elderly woman. She peered at it through milky grey eyes. ‘Hm. Small this year, no?’
‘Small? It’s bigger than my hand.’ Jude lifted the mushroom higher to examine it. Small.
Celia raised a sparse brow. ‘As I said.’
He laid another mushroom beside the offending one. ‘Two for one, then.’
Celia had them tucked away and was shuffling over to Elden before Jude could even blink. He sighed, picking up the coins and watching her laugh at something the other man said.
Another customer approached the stall. Jude’s gaze immediately alighted on the Abbey sigil swinging from the man’s neck as he pointed to a mushroom in Jude’s basket.
Sweat slicked his hands, trembling as he wrapped the mushrooms carefully in parchment paper and handed the man his change. Ruddy hair fell across his brow, a deep crease between his eyes.
A villager, Jude told himself. A pious stranger. Nothing more.
‘The frost looks early this year, eh?’ the man said. His smile faded when Jude didn’t reply. ‘Well then. All the best.’
Geoff. His name was Geoff. Jude had seen him before at the pub. He played the fiddle.
He watched Geoff walk away as disgust rolled in his belly. Why did he have to be so fucking skittish all the time? It was off-putting. He turned his face to the sky. Rain misted his skin in a clarifying baptism. What a mess he was.
He blew out a rough breath. He knew exactly who to blame for his heightened nerves.
She was ruining him. Finding the paranoia he thought long buried and unearthing it, one agonizing inch at a time. She’d already consumed his thoughts; soon, his mind would go, his tenuous grip on self and purpose. Nothing was sacred. Nothing was his own.
It was only her.
The iconographer, the woman sent to torment him.
A sudden clamour across the square pulled his attention from his rolling thoughts.
A man had pushed himself up on the lip of the long-dormant fountain, his hands waving in the air as he shouted.
‘Pilgrimage ampulla! Pilgrimage ampulla sold here,’ he cried.
Jude stiffened as he reached into his bag and held out a scuffed metal object cupped in his palm – a tin vessel containing a small measure of holy water, marked with the Abbey’s sigil.
‘The winter intercession is mere weeks away. Get your name on the attendance list today. Do not delay!’
Jude spun, putting his back to the Abbey man before he had to see the crowds rushing forward. Even still, he heard their rising voices, the sound of money exchanging hands.
A squeal of pain had him glancing over his shoulder.
A fair-haired woman had pushed the Abbey man against the wall and was begging him – fervently, desperately – for something.
She no doubt thought the Abbey member could answer prayers.
She dug her nails into the man’s neck, drawing a ruby flash of blood.
He finally succeeded in throwing her off him and onto the muddied ground.
She cried out as someone’s foot landed hard on her arm.
Jude winced, returning his focus to the wall behind his stall and tried to focus on his scorn and not the insidious press of fear. Her fanatical beliefs would only bring her more pain. He couldn’t help her, couldn’t help any of them, even if he wanted to.
Still – her squeal of pain echoed in his ears.
He never should’ve come to the market. It wasn’t safe; nowhere was. If the villagers reacted with near-violent interest to a mere Abbey layman, how would they treat Jude? Would he find himself slammed against the wall, pummelled until he answered their prayers? Something even worse?
He’d never seen a pilgrimage guide in Oakmoor.
He knew what they were, of course – Abbey members who travelled from town to town gathering people who wished to make the trek to the Abbey for the seasonal intercessions – but try as he might, he couldn’t remember what happened at the intercessions.
Based on the zealous reaction from the crowd, it must have been something important.
Jude closed his eyes as the voices grew louder. He hadn’t realized so much of Oakmoor’s feeble population was devout. His fragile sense of safety cracked even further.
A hand touched his shoulder.
Jude shuddered, ducking out of it to see Elden watching him, his hand hovering in the air.
He cocked his head. ‘Ready? We should leave before things get more…’ he frowned at the tightly packed crowd.
‘Aggressive.’ When Jude didn’t reply, he lifted a jar of fogged amber honey.
‘Your favourite. Celia gave it to me for you.’
Jude looped his basket over his arm. ‘Why not just give it to me directly?’
‘Maybe the endless glowering put her off,’ Elden replied, softening his words with a smile.
The rain had slowed to a ponderous drizzle as they made their way back, the noise of the crowd slowly fading behind them.
Jude was stewing. He couldn’t help it. Despite the atmosphere he’d just left, no part of him wanted to return to the house.
He knew he should pick at Maeve a little more, see what he could find out from her iconography knowledge, but the thought of spending time with her made his skin crawl.
He didn’t like the perceptiveness in her dark eyes.
Didn’t like it one bit.
Elden snagged the sleeve of Jude’s coat as they came across the low stone bridge that marked the final leg of the walk back to ánhaga, pulling him to a stop. Jude raised a brow, carefully extracting himself from Elden’s touch. ‘Yes?’
‘Maeve,’ Elden began, voice as slow and steady as ever. ‘The iconographer.’
‘I know her name.’
Elden’s expression pinched. ‘You know she’s been… exploring. The house, that is.’
Jude crossed his arms as tension skittered down his spine. He clenched his jaw. He wouldn’t dignify Elden with a response.
Elden seemed to be of the same mind. He studied Jude, brow raised expectantly. His oilskin coat was misbuttoned, longer on the right side than the left. Jude’s chest cinched tighter the longer he looked at the man he’d tentatively begun to view as an irritating older brother.
The silence stretched. Jude shifted, uncomfortable.
Finally, Elden sighed. ‘Every room you didn’t lock, she’s been inside.’
Jude turned his gaze to the hills. Geoff was right. The frost would come early this year.
‘Jude?’ Elden prodded.
‘I know she has,’ he replied.
‘Does it not bother you?’
Jude huffed out a laugh. ‘Of course it does.’
‘I think…’ Elden paused for a long moment. ‘I think her being here is a good thing. Maybe.’
‘How?’ Jude asked incredulously.
‘You’ve been away from the Abbey a very long time,’ Elden replied. ‘You’ve been here a long time.’
‘So have you.’
Elden nodded. The line between his brows deepened as he stared down at his feet. Worry suffused Jude’s chest. The Abbey already had their claws in Jude, and he would be damned if they dug them any deeper into Elden. He couldn’t allow Maeve’s questioning to continue.
‘So have I,’ Elden echoed. ‘But that’s not what I mean.’
Honestly. Jude started walking. Mud splashed up his legs with every step.
‘She’s fragile,’ Elden called. ‘More than you think. It reminds me of you when I first arrived.’
Jude stopped walking. Closed his eyes. Without quite thinking about it, he placed his hand over his right hip and squeezed. The symbol marked there – BELONGING – was one of the first he tattooed.
Elden laid a hand on his shoulder, the kind of casual touch Jude usually only allowed after careful consideration. Now, it just made him grit his teeth.
‘She’s searching for a safe place to land. Whatever happened at the Abbey to make her leave, whatever she’s searching for here, I don’t think it’s just information on you. I don’t think it’s just to paint an icon, despite what she might say.’
‘You think she’s searching for something?’ Jude retorted, turning to face Elden. The other man’s hand dropped off his shoulder.
‘Of course she is,’ Elden replied. ‘Whatever she’s putting in those letters—’
‘Letters?’
Before Elden could elaborate, Jude spun on his heel and made for the postbox nailed into the gatepost. It would be collected tomorrow morning if he had his dates correctly.
If Maeve had left a letter there for the Abbey, it would still be inside.
Vaguely, he heard Elden call his name as he wrenched open the metal door to the little cubby.
A single white envelope lay inside.
Jude shoved it in his pocket.
Elden arrived, breath puffing in a cloud in front of him as he stared down at where Jude’s hand disappeared into his coat. ‘Show it to me,’ he said, nothing in his voice a question.
For an agonizing second, Jude debated ignoring his demand and leaving, but the last thing he wanted was for Elden to be on the spying iconographer’s side and not his.
Sighing, Jude pulled out the letter and flipped it over to read the address.
‘Maeve’s letter to the Abbey. It’s addressed to a man called Ezra. Probably her mentor.’
Elden didn’t reply. His gaze was fixed doggedly on the envelope.
Jude scowled. Leave it to Elden to disapprove when he was the one who had given him the idea in the first place. He turned back towards the waiting house. ‘I’ll let you know if I find anything interesting,’ he called.
Elden’s reply was lost to the wind.