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Prologue
Ireland, 1350
Rain pours down on the villagers filing into the church, each muttering greetings to me as they pass. I enjoy standing out front to welcome my flock, but today is particularly dreary. It is meant to be a somber day anyway. Maundy Thursday, the holy day in reverence of the last supper. It has been a long Lenten season, but here we are, on the brink of celebration. Resurrection is upon us.
After the last person enters the church, I enter too, waiting as the altar boys close the church doors behind me. We start the procession to the front, Mass begins, and as the morning hymns and readings take place, my gaze falls on a new face in the crowd.
A man, one I am quite certain I have never seen before, gazes back at me as though we are the only two in the room. His piercing blue-green eyes seem to glow, as if they were made of gemstones and fire. His face is perfection, every detail in perfect harmony to create features the angels themselves would envy. Jet-black hair and a sharp Roman nose round out his face.
His hungry gaze stirs a dormant part of me. A part I’ve gone to great lengths to bury, including by joining the clergy. Ah, how fitting to be faced with temptation on this holy day. My faith will get me through it. God be with me.
As I stand to deliver the homily, I find it difficult to ignore him. It’s as if there’s an ocean current beneath me, drawing me ever closer to the silent stranger.
Based on his clothing, he must be a traveler. Fine silks and luxurious fabrics lead me to believe he is important. Perhaps he is from Rome, come to check in on the lower class in Ireland.
“Father Cillian?”
The whisper draws my attention to the red-faced altar boy holding the tray of wine and bread for me. Apparently my thoughts had drifted.
I smile and nod, remaining calm as I continue the Mass, but it is not long before my thoughts return to the man watching my every move from the third row.
Lifting the bread from the tray, I hold it above my head and deliver the blessing. “Take and eat. This is My Body, which is broken for you for the remission of sins.” I lift the goblet of wine next. “Drink of it, all of you. This is My Blood of the New Testament, which is shed for you and for many, for the remission of sins.”
As the congregation files from their pews and lines up for the Eucharist, my attention remains on the handsome stranger. He joins the line, and when he is before me, my breath hitches. He opens his mouth, extending his tongue, his eyes searching mine.
I place the piece of bread on his tongue, saying, “Corpus Domini Nostri Iesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam.”
The man chews the small piece of bread. “Amen,” he says. His accented voice, definitely Roman, vibrates through me like lightning.
I lift the wine goblet, holding it to his full lips. “Sanguis Cristi.”
The man quirks an eyebrow at me before sipping the wine. He drags his tongue along his bottom lip, as if savoring the taste, before nodding and moving back to his seat. After clearing my throat, I continue with Mass, slightly off balance.
Temptation is strong, but I am stronger.
My heart lifts as Mass comes to an end. My desire for the enigmatic man to leave is strong. Once he is gone, I will pray for continued fortitude should he happen to return.
“Do not forget, children, I will be available to hear your confessions through this evening. Go forth in peace.”
The church empties out, but my work is far from done. Standing out front, I mingle with the congregation, smiling under the sun that has pushed its way through the clouds. After an hour, I return to my humble rectory, peeling out of my robe and replacing it with a cassock.
I busy myself cleaning up the church for a few hours before heading out into the village. Almost everyone attends Mass in our small community, but some are too sick or frail, so it is a pleasure for me to visit and deliver the sacrament to them at their bedside.
Several hours later, it is time to return to the church for the reconciliation sacrament—the most draining part of my duty. In the confessional, I listen intently to the sins of my flock, both small and large, delivering grace in the form of Our Fathers and Hail Marys.
The confessional door opens, and the air tangibly shifts. The latticed screen that separates me from my parishioner slides and my eyelids flutter in some strange response.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I will sin again before the sun rises.”
It is him. A shiver of lust mixed with foreboding runs down my spine. My heart speeds up, my mouth goes dry.
“Are you not going to ask me what I have done, Father? What I plan to do still?”
“I-I am listening, my child.”
“I will lead a faithful sheep to the slaughter,” he says. “I will defile one of god’s own.”
“What?”
