Flight of Angels

By Marilyn Gardiner

Who is she? Whose child is she carrying? From the moment Beth Kincaid rubs the brass of long dead Olivia Avenlyng while she and her husband tour England, two worlds collide. Olivia freely inhabits Beth's body, and Beth is pulled back in time to relive the terror of Olivia's life, torn between love and duty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590880203

Book preview

What They Are Saying About Flight Of Angels

T his is wonderful for a first one! I enjoyed the unique premise of this tale. FLIGHT OF ANGELS is nicely presented, with characters that are realistic in dealing with the phenomenon of cross-century communication. Time travel is never an easy topic and has been presented with various means of movement between eras, but in this story it was nicely done, using a unique transport method. Well written, with an appealing plot, FLIGHT OF ANGELS will warm your December nights.

Jani Brooks

Romance Review Today

FLIGHT OF ANGELS is an involving and well-structured read that I found difficult to put down. The narrative pulls the reader from chapter to chapter as the life of Elizabeth unfolds, intertwining with Beth’s modern-day experience. It’s a thoroughly entertaining effort from a talented author, and I’m looking forward to her next release.

Katriena Knights

THE HAUNTING OF RORY CAMPBELL

December 2001, from ImaJinn Books

Flight Of Angels

Marilyn A. Gardiner

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Paranormal Romance Novel

Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

Copy Edited by: Pat Casey

Senior Editor: Pat Casey

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: Pam Ripling

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Copyright © 2001 by Marilyn A. Gardiner

ISBN: 978-1-59088-020-3

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

For my husband, Jim,

my earthly angel,

who has always been there

and never taken flight nor given up the faith.

Acknowledgement

My grateful appreciation to

St. Peters Church in Hever, Kent

and to the Church of England

for allowing me to use the picture of the actual brass

which was the inspiration for the book.

One

Y ou’ve done brass rubbings of angels all over southern England, Beth. Enough is enough.

But this is 15th century. She’s exquisite!

Kevin frowned. Look, I’m sick of cooling my heels in the nearest pub while you crawl around on your hands and knees, with a heel ball of wax, rubbing the images of brass effigies. Let’s go.

Kevin, I want this brass. I have a feeling about it. If the truth were told, it was more than a feeling. She couldn’t even put into words the odd yearning that seemed to leap from the black and bronze figure on the floor. An inexplicable beckoning from soul to soul. The ancient church where they stood, rotting draperies, cobwebs, corbells and all, gave her an odd back-of-the-neck itch, true. But the effigy on the floor had her stomach in a knot.

Beth shook her head and knelt over the figure of a young woman. She couldn’t explain the compulsion she felt and Kevin would never understand. Yes, she had plenty of brasses, but it wasn’t just any brass they were talking about. Once having seen Olivia, for some reason, she had to have this particular one. The hair on the back of her neck tingled. Olivia Avenlyng. Dead for six hundred years, yet somehow reaching out long fingers into the twenty-first century. Beth’s insistence made no sense, but there it was. She could not leave without rubbing this brass. Olivia wouldn’t let her go.

You have an entire folio of brass rubbings to carry back to the U.S. Why another one? Kevin’s voice rose.

I want this one! Sinking back onto her heels, she rubbed her hands on her thighs. This was important. If he couldn’t understand, he’d have to accept. Just this once. She reached out a finger and traced down the graceful drape of the long gown. You’re the history teacher. I’d think you’d cut me some slack.

"The history I’m interested in is not one more effigy on the dusty floor of some ancient Norman church. He was almost shouting. Are you coming or not?"

She looked up, meeting Kevin’s thunderous glare with her own. "Not until I rub this brass."

Their eyes were riveted, unblinking, on each other until Kevin turned, slamming his hand against the high back of a pew. Damn but you’re stubborn!

In the end they’d compromised. Kevin gave in to just one more brass and Beth agreed to do Winston Churchill’s home, Chartwell, with him the next day and no mention of rubbing another brass for any reason. An uneasy truce was called. He went away to the pub and to send a few postcards.

THREE HOURS LATER BETH Neill Kincaid sank back on her knees and considered the sheet of black paper which she’d taped to the floor and covered the brass engraving. She had completed the rubbing except for the head of the woman, the pillow upon which it rested, and the two angels holding the pillow.

Instead of satisfaction, however, a rush of shimmering anxiety shot through her, a queer niggling portent of impending—something. She looked around. She was alone. She and the brass and the dozen others lining the walls and floor of the church. Must be the antiquity, she thought, and with a pang of honesty, anticipation of Kevin’s displeasure. He seemed to be displeased a lot, lately. But, whatever the feeling, it was unpleasant.

The angels were daintily perfect with long, tapered and feathered wings, with the suggestion of a halo around each head. There couldn’t possibly be anything about these delicate creatures to give her this heavy feeling of doom.

Spending hours alone, rubbing brasses, might not be the smartest way to spend a vacation when your husband was in Kevin’s frame of mind. And she supposed he had a point. In the last month she had rubbed dozens of brass effigies from Hever westward through the Cotswolds and on to Hereford near the Welsh border. She had a plethora of rubbings. And of course he’d had to wait, not necessarily patiently, while she did it. So it wasn’t a question of having as many brasses as she wanted. She wasn’t just collecting another rubbing. It was more that this brass was, for some reason, special. Her hands seemed to be doing the work on their own, seemingly disconnected from the rest of her.

A sudden shiver rippled up her back and she glanced around at the deserted room. For all their shabby-if-elegant dignity, these old English stone churches were invariably dank and cold and smelled of mildew. At this time of day, even in July, the light was beginning to fade and shadows settled heavily into the corners and between the austere straight-backed pews. In the Lady’s Chapel where she worked, the silence was profound. An illusive sense of unease hovered in the air.

Nonsense. For heaven’s sake girl, focus, and get this done. From her kneeling position, she considered the lines of the figure and flowing gown developing in gold wax on the black paper. The effigy thrilled her and at the same time filled her inexplicably with a deep sadness. The angels on either side of Olivia’s head were so realistic their wing tips almost seemed to quiver. She told herself she was being silly, fanciful in the extreme. But then, strangely, she imagined them caressing the lovely head and crooning gentle lullabies. Weird! What was it that made this slab of metal important?

She knew her dogged insistence to rub this particular brass puzzled Kevin. It puzzled her. Once she found the effigy, she had barely been able to make herself leave long enough to collect her rubbing gear from the car.

Beth leaned forward over the black paper and began to rub again, concentrating carefully to maintain the exact pressure on the heel ball of wax to get all the details of draped headpiece, mouth, nose and eyes.

As she made the first strokes outlining the angel nearest her, a flood of great sadness seemed to surge through her. The brass ridges of the wings were no longer firm; instead, they wavered and fluttered as if about to take flight. Beth stared at the incomplete rubbing and blinked, trying to clear her vision. Although the paper didn’t move, and certainly the six-hundred year-old brass plate was stationary, she had the uncomfortable sensation that the angels’ wings expressed agitation. Finishing the second angel, she chided herself that maybe Kevin was right and this was, indeed, one too many brasses.

Without warning an unpleasantly warm tingling sensation surged up her arm and jolted her backwards as if she’d had a mild electrical shock. She dropped the heelball, flexed her fingers and admitted that maybe she really should have listened to Kevin.

But too many brasses or not, Kevin’s impatience angered her. It was his idea originally to vacation in Great Britain. His idea that she pursue her hobby while there. She massaged her hand. She was hurt as well as surprised by the vehemence of his argument. Lately he always seemed to be critical. The easy availability of brass rubbing was only one of their prime reasons for choosing this destination. The other was Kevin’s desire to research Winston Churchill. A history professor awaiting tenure at the local college back in the States, Kevin was scheduled to teach a fall class on England’s famous prime minister. Yet now that they were here, he was obviously unhappy.

The tingling faded slowly and was gone. A quick glance showed the shadows creeping closer and she bent over her task again, feeling an urgent need to be finished.

The gentle drape of a shoulder-length head shawl and then the mouth and nose were completed. However, as Beth began on the eyes she felt the same warm tingling flowing up her arms. Frowning, she drew away. There was something odd about the eyes. Almond-shaped and almost glowing as they emerged from beneath the wax ball, the eyes were no longer flat and lifeless, but now seemed to burn with an inner intensity.

Breathing was suddenly a burden. There didn’t seem to be enough air in the church. Her heartbeat thickened. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the mesmerizing gaze of Olivia Avenlyng. Her arm throbbed, a mad pulse pounding away. Impossibly, the brass eyes seemed to be boring into her own. She wanted to stand up, to distance herself from those eyes, but couldn’t move.

Swirling tentacles of gray smoke furled around her, tugging as she knelt, drawing and sucking like an unrelenting tide. Her head swam as if she was very sleepy, but her eyes were wide open. She saw the fading petals of flowers in a vase on the altar, heard the scratching of the gardener’s rake outside. But she was lethargic, her eyelids heavy. Too heavy.

JUST INSIDE THE CHANCEL doorway, Elizabeth paced, her long skirts swaying with each stride. Vigorously she rubbed her arms to warm them against the constant chill of the church, and then winced as her hands passed over the bruises William had left. Outside she could see the late July afternoon, a golden sun falling across delicate white and yellow daisies dotting the green grass. She did not dare step outside onto the small portico where she would be warm for fear she might be seen by some passing parishioner frequenting the pub across the country road. Would Charles come? Could he find a way not to be missed in his own household?

She’d sent the message with a trusted servant, as Charles did when he was able to get away. They had been meeting this way, at odd hours and in stolen moments for months, their feelings deepening and despair growing. It couldn’t go on, they both knew this, but their love for each other was so great the risk seemed small in comparison.

Elizabeth grimly swallowed back nauseating waves of fear and whispered into the gloom of the church. No matter what William does, I must be strong. I will be strong. God cannot possibly mean for life to be lived in falsehood and deceit. Determinedly, she unclenched her hands and pressed them across the beginning swell of her pregnancy. Oh Father, enlighten me as to the path I must take. Give me the strength to somehow right this terrible wrong. Help me.

And then she saw Charles, leading his horse along the narrow, overgrown path behind the priory. Elizabeth watched his beloved hands tether the ornately draped animal to a high bush. He vaulted the stone wall, aswarm with climbing red roses, and hurried to the shadow of the portico where she awaited him. She went into his arms like a bird to the nest.

He kissed her, sweetness melting into tenderness and then he simply cradled her in the shelter of his body and rocked her back and forth. My love. My dear sweet love, were you able to talk to William? What did he say?

She tried to speak but her throat closed on the words and she could only shake her head.

He held her away to look into her face. Elizabeth. Tell me. What did he say?

He said that he is my husband, legally and in the eyes of the Church, and that he could do anything he wanted with me and that...that he would see me d...dead before he gave me my freedom. And then the tears came, spilling down her cheeks and dropping onto the soft lace of her collar. Oh, Charles, my love, I think I must stay with him.

Charles’s eyes hardened. No! Never! He is old enough to be your grandfather, despicable of mind and body, and admits he cares nothing for you. Does he understand that you ask for nothing in the way of the lands or wealth your dowry brought to the marriage?

She nodded. It is a matter of pride, I think. I am his wife.

Charles threw back his head. And may God punish forever all fathers who give their daughters to elderly men for the promise of uniting fortunes! He gripped her arms tightly, as if a physical hold could make her his, and then his eyes darkened as she gasped in pain and pulled away.

What? Has he harmed you yet again? And without waiting for an answer he yanked up her sleeve and revealed the ugly, dark bruises. By God’s name, this is the last time. I’ll take a horse whip to him.

No! You cannot go to him in anger! He will surely guess the reason and if he finds out about the child... Oh Charles, he will know it cannot possibly be his and he will kill us both.

His eyes were tender on hers, yet filled with determination. We must tell him soon. You cannot hide your condition much longer.

I know. But—

Then come away with me. I’ll make arrangements. You know what Charles’s response will be. He would never forgive you. Never! My love, either let me take you away, or let me speak to him. Allow me at least a small dram of honor in this matter.

No! Her hands clutched his tunic. There would be bloodshed and I would add but one more sin to... Both of their heads turned at the sound of sharp footfalls on the paving stones outside. Someone comes!

ARE YOU FINISHED? Kevin stood with his weight on one foot, the camera held in one hand as if he’d been taking pictures. His eyes, so dark they appeared almost navy blue in the fading light, were impatient. I’ve about worn out my welcome at the pub, and I’ve mailed your postcards, including the one to Cousin Kate. He paused to roll his eyes elaborately at the task. I’ve gone through the castle where this thing of beauty lived, he made an off-hand gesture toward the rubbing on the floor, and I’ve talked the gardener dry. It’s almost time for dinner anyway.

Beth blinked and the room swam back into focus. Shadows still hung in the corners. The chill hadn’t abated, but the rubbing beneath her fingers was finished. She looked around vaguely. Where had the girl, Elizabeth, gone? And the man? They should have been by the door, right behind Kevin on the portico. Had she dreamed them? Her head ached faintly, but the warm tingling sensation was gone from her hands and arms. She didn’t remember completing the rubbing. Yet still taped to the floor, there it was, beautiful with its flowing lines and submissively clasped hands. The angels seemed to hover protectively at Olivia’s head, their wings quiet now on the brass etching.

Well? Kevin asked.

Give me... Her thinking seemed sluggish and the words felt foreign on her lips. And she felt somehow displaced as if jerked from sleep into wakefulness too fast. Give me a minute.

Carefully she teased the tape loose from the floor, pulled the rubbing with the tape, held it gingerly at the edges and rolled as she went. She opened her mouth to tell Kevin what had happened and closed it again. What could she say? He would think she’d imagined the whole thing. And maybe she had. The last few minutes were surely some sort of vivid daydream. A flight of fantasy about life as it might have been six-hundred years ago. Surely that is exactly what it was. Her breathing steadied. A childlike fantasy about princesses and castles.

As the rubbing drew away from the last contact with the floor, she felt again the warm tingling dart up her arms and there was an abrupt flashing vision of the girl Elizabeth running past the rose-covered stone wall. The fleeing figure, eyes dark in her white face, turned to look back and hurried on. Then she was gone.

The air seemed to jam in her throat and for a moment Beth’s breath sawed, rasping, in the quiet church. Several long minutes ticked by, heavy with disbelief. She was numb. This couldn’t be. The girl had been Olivia Avenlyng, the figure on black paper rolled now in her hand. There could be no mistake; the headpiece and gown were identical. But, how strange. Charles had called her Elizabeth.

Are you all right? Kevin knelt down before her. Bethie? Honey? What’s wrong?

Her head cleared. She was still on the floor, the rubbing in her hand. Kevin peered anxiously into her face. No, she couldn’t tell him now. She’d have to think about it first. He hadn’t wanted her to do this rubbing from the beginning. And how could she expect him to understand when she didn’t know herself how such a thing could have happened? If it happened at all.

I’m just tired. Her voice sounded as if it came from a long way off. Filtered and echoing in her head. And she was inexpressibly weary, weary through to the bone. Do I have time for a nap before dinner?

KEVIN TOOK HER BACK to their hotel, tucked her under a downy duvet and sat down on the edge of the bed.

You look exhausted. He lifted a curl of gently waving hair with his finger, smoothed it behind her ear and kissed her eyelids one by one. Close those baby blues, love. I want you to sleep for at least an hour and then we’ll go find dinner. I scouted out an interesting pub while you were doing your thing on the floor of that church. They promise a mean grilled salmon served in the garden. You’ll love it.

Her eyes closing, Beth thought how nice it was to be cuddled and cosseted. She and Kevin had been so much in love, so—devoted was the word Cousin Kate had once used—yet all they seemed to do lately was fight. She couldn’t do or say anything to please him. His mind was frequently far away and he had to be reluctantly coaxed back into conversations. He, who had always been incredibly good-natured, was now always cross.

Although Kevin denied it, Beth knew they were drifting apart and wondered sadly if all married couples underwent this same distancing process after three years of marriage.

She snuggled contentedly nearer to Kevin. This moment of his undivided, loving attention was even more precious because there had been so few like it recently. Treasure the here and now, she thought drowsily. Appreciate the blessing of the moment and don’t anticipate tomorrow. She went to sleep with his body stretched out beside her and her hand firmly clasped in his.

WHEN BETH AWAKENED Kevin was sitting on the bed beside her. The delicate scent of blooming roses wafted through an open window and beyond the casing she could see the blending lavender and hyacinth blue of an English twilight.

Do you feel better? You certainly look better. Scared the pants off me back in the church. The old brass gal on the floor had more color than you did.

She smiled up at him. That ‘old gal’ was probably my age, and stopped short of telling him that Elizabeth’s problems were greater than any of theirs. No. Kevin had no imagination. He wouldn’t understand. Let me get a shower and I’ll be ready for dinner in fifteen minutes.

She found herself humming as water sheeted down her body. Surely the episode had been a bad dream. Over and done with, just a dream. Vivid, but none-the-less, not reality.

Reality was Kevin waiting in the other room and in a good mood. Reality was feeling the slightest bit hungry and ready for an evening out with her husband. Reality was her soapy hand skimming over the tiny mark at the top of her left breast. She paused and smiled. Lovingly she traced the two delicate rosebuds etched on a single stem. Her breath caught. Perfect. So perfect, she thought. I must never forget. But that was an old pain. This was here and now. Deliberately she put the memory from her mind and lifted her face to the stinging spray of the shower.

Kevin shouted through the door. You about ready, woman? I’m about to gnaw on the furniture.

In a minute, she called and vigorously towel-dried her hair before slipping into her underthings. Whatever it was, the weird thing that had happened inside the parish church was over and she was herself again. She didn’t want