Chapter 5: The Monastery of Shadows

The Abbey rose from the mist like a memory stone walls half lost to ivy, bell tower leaning slightly from age and neglect. The road that led to it was nothing more than mud and broken cobbles, bordered by the bare skeletons of trees.

Amelia Fairbourne dismounted, her legs trembling with exhaustion. Her horse snorted softly, as if relieved to stop. The scent of wet earth and woodsmoke hung in the air.

A friar approached from the gate, lantern in hand. His brown robes were frayed at the hem; his beard was silvered with age.

“Peace be with you, child,” he said in French. “You are far from any safe road. What brings you to Saint-Léon?”

“I was told you offer sanctuary,” Amelia replied, her voice hoarse. “Please… I’ve come a long way.”

The friar studied her for a moment, then nodded. “All who seek refuge will find it here. Come.”

He led her through the courtyard, past cloisters where vines curled around the columns, into a small guest chamber. The walls were cold, but clean; a simple cross hung above the narrow bed.

“You may rest,” the friar said gently. “The Lord provides for the weary.”

Tears pricked at her eyes. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head and left her in silence.

Amelia sank onto the bed, too tired to remove her boots. The events of the past days blurred together the fire, the chase, the river. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Ryan’s face across the water, pale and bloodied, mouthing one word: Go.

She had obeyed him, but her heart had stayed behind.

Sleep came in broken waves. In her dreams, she saw him standing beneath the apple trees of Kent, smiling. Then the smile turned to blood.

She woke gasping, the dawn light thin and gray through the narrow window. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was. Then she saw the crucifix on the wall and the faint chant of morning prayers drifted through the hall.

She rose, washed, and went in search of the friar.

In the refectory, a small group of brothers sat over bowls of soup and bread. The old friar looked up as she entered. “You rested, child?”

“Yes, Father,” she said softly. “You’ve shown me more kindness than I deserve.”

He smiled faintly. “Kindness costs nothing. We have little enough else to give.”

As she sat, he leaned closer. “You are English, are you not?”

Her pulse quickened. “Yes.”

“There have been few travelers from your country of late,” he said thoughtfully. “France is no longer gentle to strangers. I would advise caution.”

“I’ve already learned that lesson,” she murmured.

The friar regarded her for a long moment, then said, “If you wish to remain until you are strong, we will not turn you away. There is peace here for those who seek it.”

Peace. The word sounded like a prayer and a lie at once.

That night, she could not sleep. The rain beat against the window, and the candle on her desk guttered low. She pulled her satchel toward her, sorting through what little she had left.

At the bottom lay a small parcel she did not remember packing wrapped in cloth, sealed with wax.

Her heart stilled when she saw the crest imprinted in the seal: Ashford.

With trembling hands, she broke it open. Inside was a folded letter, edges singed as if rescued from fire.

> Amelia,

If you are reading this, then I have failed to find you in time. The soldiers came sooner than I expected. I write this knowing it may be my last act of defiance.

They think I hold the King’s warrant but what I truly hold is proof that it was forged. Someone wanted you accused, Amelia. Someone powerful. The orders did not come from Paris.

If you reach Saint-Léon, ask for Brother Mathieu. He will know what to do.

Forgive me for what I’ve done and what I could not do.

— R.A.

Amelia’s breath hitched. Her hands trembled as she traced the initials.

Forged?

Then all of it — the arrest, the chase, her flight had been built on a lie.

She barely noticed the tears that slipped down her cheeks. “Oh, Ryan,” she whispered, voice breaking. “What have they done to you?”

Far to the south, beneath the ruins of the burned tavern, Ryan Ashford opened his eyes to darkness.

Pain flared through his left arm. His wrists were bound with rope, his head heavy from the blow that had felled him. He tried to sit, but chains clinked faintly.

A soldier’s voice came from the shadows. “He wakes.”

Ryan blinked, adjusting to the dim torchlight. Two officers stood before him one French, one English. The latter wore a familiar crest.

Ashford’s blood ran cold.

“Lord Pembroke,” he said hoarsely.

The older man smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “Ryan. You always had a talent for surviving where others would perish.”

Ryan strained against the ropes. “You forged that warrant.”

Pembroke’s smile widened. “You always were clever. But too sentimental.”

“Why?” Ryan demanded. “Why her?”

“Because Miss Fairbourne’s father meddled in affairs beyond his reach,” Pembroke said lightly. “He owed debts. She inherited them and his enemies. Removing her removes the last thread connecting Kent’s rebellion to ours.”

Ryan’s chest tightened. “She knew nothing of her father’s dealings.”

“Perhaps not. But her death will tidy the matter.”

Ryan surged forward, fury darkening his vision. “You’ll never touch her.”

Pembroke raised an eyebrow. “You forget your position. You are accused of treason yourself, my dear boy. And your factories those pretty steel mills you built now serve our interests.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “You could still make yourself useful. Tell us where she’s gone.”

Ryan spat blood onto the floor. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

Pembroke sighed. “Such a waste of promise.” He straightened and nodded to the guard. “Keep him alive. For now.”

As they left, Ryan sagged against the wall, breath ragged. He could feel his pulse thundering beneath the bruises.

He closed his eyes. Amelia, run.

Back at the abbey, Amelia folded the letter again and pressed it to her chest. The rain had ceased, replaced by a faint, ghostly mist.

She rose and made her way to the chapel, the corridors lit only by a few flickering candles. The silence was heavy, broken only by the echo of her steps.

At the altar knelt a solitary figure. When he turned, she caught her breath.

The friar who had welcomed her but in the dim light, his hood was drawn low, and his eyes gleamed with something she hadn’t noticed before.

“Father?” she whispered. “Are you Brother Mathieu?”

He inclined his head slowly. “I am.”

She stepped closer, clutching the letter. “Ryan Ashford told me to find you. He said you could help.”

Mathieu regarded her with a strange, unreadable calm. “Then he lives?”

“I… I don’t know,” she admitted. “He was captured.”

The friar’s expression flickered, just for an instant, with something like pity. “Then you must listen carefully, child. There are things you do not yet understand. Your father was part of a circle that sought to end this war of kings and crowns. If Lord Pembroke has found him or you — it means the old order is desperate to survive.”

Amelia’s pulse quickened. “My father? But he died years ago—”

“Did he?”

She froze. “What are you saying?”

Mathieu stepped closer, lowering his voice. “The letter you carry is not the only secret Ryan Ashford kept. There are documents hidden in his estate in Rouen. Letters between your father and the English envoy. They prove everything.”

Amelia’s head spun. “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” Mathieu said. “But you must leave again before dawn. If they find you here, the abbey will burn.”

Her throat tightened. “I can’t keep running. Not without him.”

Mathieu’s gaze softened. “Then pray he endures long enough for you to return.”

He handed her a small bundle wrapped in cloth food, a rosary, and a folded map. “Ride north. There is a safehouse by the sea. From there, a ship can take you to England. If you find the letters before Pembroke does, perhaps there will still be hope.”

“Hope for what?”

“For the truth,” he said quietly. “And for the man you once refused.”

Amelia’s eyes filled with tears. “I won’t leave him to die.”

“Then you must be very careful, my child.”

He turned toward the altar, murmuring a prayer. The candlelight flickered, casting strange shadows across his face.

When Amelia left the chapel, the air felt colder. The mist clung thick and heavy around the abbey walls. Somewhere far off, a bell tolled once — low, mournful, and final.

She turned down the corridor toward her chamber and froze.

Her door stood open.

A single candle burned on the table inside. And there, resting beside it, was a torn scrap of velvet — deep blue, embroidered with the Ashford crest.

Her heart stopped.

Someone had been there.

And if the soldiers had already reached Saint-Léon…

She backed away, pulse hammering.

From the shadows at the far end of the corridor, a man’s voice spoke soft, accented, chillingly familiar.

“Running again, Miss Fairbourne?”

Amelia turned — and gasped.

Lord Pembroke stood before her, flanked by soldiers.