The Last Bloodline

By Janice Barlow

Beatrix Conoway, a little girl living in the fourteenth century, has her fate sealed by the blood flowing within her veins. Little does she know that her blood will also determine the fate of the entire world many centuries later when an event occurs that is even more horrific than the one she lives through.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664202382

Janice Barlow

Janice M. Barlow is a retired financial advisor who has always enjoyed writing. She has authored two true crime books and a short fiction work about her beloved greyhound, Daisy. Janice also writes and performs Christian music at her church. She lives in North Carolina with her husband, Bob and their two greyhounds. They have two grown sons and two grandchildren.

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Copyright © 2020 Janice M. Barlow.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-0239-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-0240-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-0238-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020915696

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/14/2020

CONTENTS

Medieval Glossary

Preface

Part I

Chapter 1 The Year Of Our Lord, 1326

Chapter 2 The Year of Our Lord, 1333, January

Chapter 3 The Year of Our Lord, 1333, February

Chapter 4 The Year of Our Lord, 1333, February

Part II

Chapter 5 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—A Tuesday Afternoon

Chapter 6 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—A Saturday Morning

Part III

Chapter 7 The Year of Our Lord, 1333, February—A Monday, Late Morning

Chapter 8 The Year of Our Lord, 1333, February—A Monday Afternoon

Part IV

Chapter 9 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—A Saturday Night

Chapter 10 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—A Sunday

Part V

Chapter 11 The Year of Our Lord, 1333, February—A Tuesday Afternoon

Chapter 12 The Year of Our Lord, 1333, February—Wednesday Morning

Chapter 13 The Year of Our Lord, 1333, February—Thursday Morning

Part VI

Chapter 14 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—Monday Morning

Chapter 15 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—Monday Afternoon

Chapter 16 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—Tuesday Morning

Chapter 17 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—Tuesday, Noon

Chapter 18 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—Tuesday Evening

Chapter 19 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—Thursday

Chapter 20 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—Thursday Evening

Chapter 21 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—Friday Morning

Chapter 22 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—Friday Afternoon

Chapter 23 The Year of Our Lord, 2027, November—Friday and Onward

Epilogue

About the Author

For Kimberly Ledbetter,

my dear friend who advised

me from the beginning and who was not afraid to

tell me when I needed to change the ending.

That ye may be the children of your Father

which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to

rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth

rain on the just and on the unjust.

—Matthew 5:45

MEDIEVAL GLOSSARY

battle-ax: A large, broad-bladed ax used in medieval warfare.

gaol: Jail or dungeon.

gauntlet: The part of a leathered or armor glove that covers the wrist.

grippe: The flu.

halberd: A combined spear and battle-ax.

jerkin: A man’s close-fitting vest, usually made of leather.

mace: A heavy club, usually with a metal head with spikes in it.

malaria: this term originated in medieval times, mal meaning, bad as it does in Spanish today.

parapet: A protective wall around the outer side of a wall walk.

pike: A long pole with a spear on the end, used for thrusting into an enemy.

scohs: Shoes.

transept: In a cross-shaped church, the two parts forming the arms of the cross.

wall walk: The area along the top of castle walls from which soldiers could defend a castle.

PREFACE

My prior two books were so much easier to write. True crime tells itself. The facts are in front of the author, who just needs to piece them together into a book, often going way back in time to tell the reader what led up to the point of the crimes. But fiction? There is no groundwork laid in advance. It all must come from the writer’s imagination.

This book had been churning around in my brain for some time. I do not believe there are modern-day prophets or predictors, nor do I put faith in self-fulfilling prophecy. I place faith in only my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

So it was quite disturbing that, after having given a name for the agent that changes the world in this work of fiction, COVID-19 reared its ugly head around the globe a couple of months later. I won’t say anything further, lest I reveal too much, but I hope you will find that this story is different from what you’d expect.

Redemption can be found in these pages, but you will have to look very hard to discover it. In the meantime, I hope you are captivated by a plotline that was a couple years in the making before I actually sat down with my laptop in early October 2019 to finally begin to bring it to life.

Thank you, reader, because I can’t even begin to describe what you are in for!

PART I

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CHAPTER 1

THE YEAR OF OUR

LORD, 1326

Isabelle felt the child stirring inside her. She didn’t know whether she was pleased or not. She had just given birth to her third son barely a year ago. Her body felt much older than its thirty-one years. Most of the women in the village had long finished bearing children by her age. And now she would have much more work to do, in addition to her endless chores of keeping up their home.

Isabelle struggled with guilt. She knew she should be thankful for her arranged marriage with Deghen Conoway, whom everyone called Dag. She had been so fortunate to quickly find the compatibility with her husband that many women longed for.

The marriage allowed her not only the security of living within the walls of the massive Carlisle Castle fortress but the additional status of the wife of one of the busiest blacksmiths. He just was no longer the man she fell in love with. Not at all.

She was his second wife. Dag’s first wife had died in childbirth along with the baby, their first child. Dag had remained single for years, marrying Isabelle when he was forty-four. He was an important and respected man but a gruff and brutal one as well.

Dag forged weaponry for the townsmen and king’s guard—not just spears but halberds, pikes, and war hammers. Dag had some access to bronze when it was available. And he was often asked to forge goblets and candleholders for the king’s table when His Majesty came to visit and inspect this area of his huge kingdom of England. Early on, it had been King Edward II, then later his son, King Edward III, who reigned for an impressive fifty years.

The current in-house head of the Carlisle Castle was the sheriff of Cumberland, Anthony Lord Lucy, a nasty little fellow who ran the keep with an iron fist. However, this monarchy worked out in Dag’s best interest, for he was looked upon with favor by the sheriff. Dag was often asked to hold court with the sheriff while he offered his latest goblets and other treasures, made with bronze, which were supposed to be reserved for the king. He was always rewarded handsomely with a turkey or fat sow.

Isabelle and Dag had been fortunate to discover that they were attracted to each other after the marriage. Dag was amazed that he had gotten himself hitched to a small but beautiful young woman. Her large blue eyes melted the heart—and body—of any man who gazed upon her. Her long golden hair, often braided into a thick French rope, shone with the health of the good stock from which she came. And what a cook! Dag’s bulging waistline was the envy of many townsmen who wished their wives could only learn to pluck, boil, and season a chicken properly!

At first, Isabelle had liked Dag’s wild streak, his bulky strength, and quiet, brooding disposition. She admired his bushy, bearded face with thick, often knitted, black brows. She at first mistook his appearance for a man of distinction and honor. But it wasn’t a year before the real side of Deghen Conoway showed up.

Dag was a drunkard. When he finished working each evening and it was too dark to see even by candlelight, he took to the cobbled street outside his shop to a nearby tavern where many of the smiths, coopers, and other tradesman washed down their aches and complaints with not just a little bitter ale. After his vision blurred and his words slurred, Dag would ramble home.

Isabelle, who knew this routine like she knew the sound of church bells, would usually feign sleep. Sometimes it would work. More often, it did not. Dag would loudly crash through the door, which hung loosely by a hinge that he refused to repair, and stumble into their sleeping quarters.

Iz! Getcha self up! I need ya now!

And then Isabelle would be at her husband’s mercy, while she prayed that her boys didn’t awaken, for this would anger Dag even more. She would pray and pray to the Lord for Dag to finally fall asleep. It usually didn’t take long. He would fall sound asleep next to her, snoring loudly, a sickly vomitous odor emitting from his mouth.

Invariably, the next morning, Dag would be up early, singing loudly and cheerfully, waking the children and complaining that there was nothing to eat except apples and stale bread. There was fresh bread, but Isabelle hid it for the boys. They needed their nourishment, and she would give it to them to dunk in their goat’s milk after Dag had safely left to walk the half-mile trek to his shop.

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Isabelle walked outside into the warm August sunlight. It was midafternoon. Dag would be hungry. She sent Rolfe, her eldest, down to the shop with a lunch for his da. It consisted of a large turkey leg, an apple, and another piece of the old bread. She rationalized that it was only four days old, and there were no green spots on it. It was just a little on the chewy side.

Dag, who often complained about toothaches, would have to bite on it in order to swallow it properly. This thought gave her inner satisfaction. Isabelle had grown weary of her husband over the years. His incessant drinking was not what she had envisioned when they wed.

She walked over to the horse trough, seated herself heavily upon the edge, and sighed. She wiped her forehead with her frayed apron. She noted that the trough was dry. It was a hot day. But if she filled the trough, other people would water their steeds, and then she would have to go to the well to get more water for their own pony and goat. The Conoways didn’t own a horse for two reasons. One was because they had no need for a horse. Everything was within walking distance.

Two, if a war or skirmish broke out, Dag would not likely fight because he would be needed to forge weapons. Many weapons were broken or lost in battles. His work during those times became more important than ever. Isabelle thought about how depressing it was to make more money when people died in wars. She wondered if the world would always be that way.

Absentmindedly, while she watched her boys play in a patch of soft grass near the road, Isabelle began counting back once again to see if she could figure out when she had gotten pregnant. She hoped the baby was a girl. At least then she would have a child whose hair she could brush. She could start a hope chest, as her mother had for her, and have someone to whisper secrets to when she got older. She had always wanted a daughter.

Isabelle loved her sons, but after all, they were boys. Rolfe, at eight years old, already wanted to spend his days at the shop with his da, but Dag told him he had to be ten years old before he could start working toward becoming an apprentice. Karl and William were too young, at five and one years old. William had just finished suckling at the breast, and Karl had been slow to learn to use the latrine. He found it more appealing to just run behind the house and relieve himself against the corner post, much to the ire of his mother.

Dag laughed this off, saying, Many a man still does this now. There is no shame in using the ground.

Dag’s rudeness was such an affront to Isabelle. She often worried that God would strike her dead for the times that she wished that Dag would fall down flat and stop breathing forever. In her heart, she really didn’t mean it. But then she knew few married couples who really loved each other after the first few years. And some never did.

She was also concerned that if anything ever happened to Dag, what would happen to her and the children? Dag spent almost all of their money at the tavern and on buying supplies for the shop. He allowed only a pittance to her for food supplies. And soon there would be another mouth to feed. Thank God for the goat and egg-laying hens!

She could sell the shop, but it was just a structure and some tools. It wouldn’t be worth much. She just hoped and prayed that Rolfe would be old enough to learn the trade before Dag actually keeled over. At the rate Dag was drinking and stuffing himself with food, he surely would not live until sixty. Rolfe would take care of his mother and siblings. He was already responsible for a boy of eight. Rolfe wanted to prove he was going to be a worthy man. He would just need to stay away from the tavern when he became old enough to drink ale.

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On a chilly but unusually sunny December morning, Beatrix Anne Conoway arrived screaming into the world. The midwife grinned broadly and wiped down the squalling baby, handing her off to Isabelle, who was amazed at how easily the delivery had gone. Dag was off at the shop. He had no interest in being around when another child showed up. It was just another mouth to feed. Isabelle knew he would especially not be interested in a daughter.

But what a daughter she turned out to be! She became the apple of her father’s eye. She sported his dark, flashing eyes and black curls. As she grew older, he doted on her daily, and she followed him around like a doe-eyed puppy, clutching tightly to his calloused hand. He did not mind it a bit. She sat on his lap during meals, and he fed her tiny bits from his plate and reveled in her appetite.

Isabelle was amazed at the change in her husband. After Beatrix began to walk, Dag stopped going to the tavern. He wanted to be home to see his daughter’s smile and hear her infectious laugh. Because he was not spending money on ale, food became more plentiful, meals were especially delicious, and Isabelle was able to save to buy some finer fabrics and make new clothes for her family.

Dag became more pleasant to be around, and Isabelle felt that she truly did love him. It had been the drinking that made him such a mean man. Now that he had stopped, even if it had been for the sake of his daughter, he was not as gruff or argumentative. Even though he still refused to do much to care for the upkeep of the house structure, Isabelle would take what she could get, and she was content once again.

After a couple of peaceful years, Rolfe turned ten and began going with his da to apprentice at the shop. Eventually, the other two boys began taking school lessons from a young woman down the road in exchange for a warm meal each night. That left Isabelle to be free with her daughter every day. But things did not go the way she had planned in her dreams.

Beatrix whined and grumbled most of the time. She wanted to be with her father. She and her mother grew more and more at odds with each other, the older Beatrix got. Isabelle began to feel miserable again. She almost missed the days when her husband was a drunken brute. At least he had paid attention to her. Now she was ignored most of the time. But she consoled herself by remembering those horrible nights when Dag made her feel so miserable. Aye, it was better to be left alone.

Isabelle retrieved a small looking glass from a cupboard. It was dark and spotted, but she could still make out her features in its reflection. Her face had become slightly sallow and saggy. She was thirty-seven years old. Small wrinkles lined her eyes and surrounded her mouth. Her golden hair had lost some of its shine and had become streaked with gray at her temples. She knew this happened as women aged, but she didn’t want it to happen yet.

What if Dag had found a younger woman? Maybe she was of no use to him other than as a house servant. Was that such a bad thing though? She had the security of a home, food for her children, and a husband who earned a good living. Something still gnawed at her, and she didn’t quite know what it was. Was she jealous? Of whom?

Isabelle wanted to cry, but she wasn’t the crying kind. She was always strong and reserved. She put the looking glass away and got out a basket of socks that needed mending. The odor from the wool was so bad that she knew she had better wash them first. She went out to the well to get some water to heat slightly, and that was when the church bells started to ring.

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CHAPTER 2

THE YEAR OF OUR

LORD, 1333, JANUARY

It wasn’t Sunday, so it was not a call to attend the church service. This was not the clanging of funeral bells either.

This was an emergency.

Something had happened.

Was there a fire? Isabelle spun around in all directions and sniffed the cold air for smoke. No, there was none but the usual firewood smoke smell from chimneys. Maybe there had been an accident somewhere, and people were hurt.

Suddenly, men were appearing in the street, some holding spears and wearing gloves with gauntlets, others half-dressed in armor. It was a battle cry! The fortress was being attacked! By whom?

There had been peace for so long. Was this a big confrontation from an enemy or an uprising of the peasants against the land barons?

Isabelle cried out to the people running by, Who are we fighting? What is happening?

Someone answered, It is the French! The French sent soldiers on horseback!

Isabelle could not know that this was the prequel to a war that would become full-blown five years later and last for about a hundred more. This was just a dustup. But as far as her life was concerned, it was far more.

Dag, who had never been involved in a battle but had fantasized about attacking enemies and saving the kingdom, had caught wind of things early on. He heard the bells and saw his old tavern buddies determinedly outfitting their horses and preparing to go afield. He remembered that Harold Brickener had taken ill last spring and was not among the group. Dag quickly closed his shop after selling a few weapons.

He set out running for Harold’s house. When he arrived, Harold was sitting dejectedly at his stump table.

Oooh, Dag, he moaned. How I wish I could go take a stand with the men! But I kin barely stand meself up!

Dag told him, That is why I be here, my good friend. I wish to ask you if I may borrow yer steed. I will go into the battle and fight fairly for thee!

But what of yer family? And yer shop? We do need yer skills here! Harold replied, still almost in tears.

This is no battle, Dag said comfortingly. It be but a small skirmish. I will be back afore supper, and I will bring thee thy steed and a warm meal from Isabelle!

Do take him then! And Godspeed.

And with that, Dag, headed around the back of Harold’s house to the attached stable and prepared the large black horse for whatever was to come.

Back at home, Rolfe, not wanting to be deserted by his father, and in strict disobedience, grabbed an old saddle from the small stall lean-to attached to their home where the pony, goat, and chickens were housed. He saddled up the poor old pony, reached for his small, iron spear, and led the pony around the back of the house, where his preoccupied mother would not notice. He needn’t have worried. Isabelle had already headed down the street to retrieve Karl and William, with Beatrix protesting loudly on her hip. At six years old, she was such a strong and solid child. Her mother dared not set her down, for she would have taken off running for her father’s shop.

Chaos and fear coursed through the veins of the people. Most of them had never faced any major attack in their lifetimes. There had been protests by those who refused to pay the exorbitant taxes, but they didn’t know how to fight properly, and those skirmishes had always ended with some protestors simply tossed in the gaol overnight. Some of the townsmen now looked far too old and out of shape to head into battle. No one seemed to know what was beyond the walls.

Isabelle wondered why anyone would even venture out there. Could they not see the enemy from the parapets and wall walks without risking their lives? But the men seemed eager to go beyond the safety of the fortress and battle on horseback. It was as if the need was in their blood, to maim and kill their own kind.

She didn’t know that Dag was among them. He had already reached the fortress entrance where the massive oak doors were temporarily swung open. Horses raced out to the field beyond, carrying men who cried out, God save the king! and Attack the Angevins! They shoved their spears into the air and hurled their spiked maces in manic enmity, not caring in the least about their own lives. As soon as the last horse crossed over, the doors were quickly pulled shut and bolted so that the enemy could not enter. In all the commotion, no one noticed that the last horse to cross was actually just a pony, carrying a thirteen-year-old lad.