He intended to make certain he got the truth, no matter what it took to get it.
Cullen followed the Abbess into a small courtyard that ran parallel with stone arches framing the east side of the abbey’s main building. He realized soon enough it was a cemetery with a mixture of headstones and wooden crosses marking the gravesites. The woman kept to the trodden dirt pathways, walking to the rear right corner, where she stopped.
“Your son,” she said softly and stepped aside.
A small white, tilted wooden cross with the name Alexander carved into it marked the grave. Cullen stared at the name haphazardly sprawled across the wood as if the carver had no patience or want to do the deed. It was as if his son had been discarded without thought or care. His heart pounded in his chest, the thump so viciously strong that it resonated in his ears and stole his breath.
He wanted to scream out at the pain that ripped violently at his heart and cry for a son he had not been there to protect, or to hold and welcome into the world, and for the woman he loved who had to face this tragedy alone. His eyes, however, remained dry as he bowed his head and silently prayed for the tiny lad he’d never get to know.
Find him, Cullen. Promise me you’ll find our son.
Alaina’s dying words intruded on his grief and grew more forceful until they consumed him and he could hear nothing else but her insistent voice begging him to find their son.
He looked to the Abbess, who kept her head bent as if in prayer. But was she praying, or afraid to meet his eyes? Was there something she hadn’t told him? Hadn’t wanted him to know?
“You attended the burial?” he asked.
“I—I—I didn’t—”
“You didn’t actually see my son buried,” he finished bluntly.
“I assure you, he was given a Christian burial.”
“So you have said.” Cullen glanced again at the cross that carelessly bore his son’s name. “I want to see my son.”
The Abbess pointed to the wooden marker. “You are seeing your son.”
Cullen shook his head slowly. “No. I see a grave, not my son. Until I hold his body in my hands—”
“You cannot mean to sullen his final resting place?” the Abbess asked, shocked.
“I mean to hold my son in my arms,” Cullen said firmly.
The Abbess drew her shoulders back. “I will not permit it.”
He settled a cold hard stare on her. “How will you stop me?”
The Abbess sputtered and choked, unable to respond.
“I’ll need a shovel.”
The Abbess found her voice. “I will not aid you in defiling a grave.”
Cullen walked over to the woman whose head barely reached his shoulder, but then his height of six feet four inches usually thwarted and intimidated most women and men.
“I will use my bare hands to dig if need be. One way or another I will hold my son.”
The Abbess remained defiant. “I will not defile sacred ground.”
Cullen stared at her a moment, then cast his glance around the small plot of land, his eyes connecting with what he needed.
The Abbess followed his glance and hurried past him in a rush to beat him to the hoe that lay against the lone tree in the cemetery.
Cullen let her take the lead, but she no sooner grasped hold of the hoe than he swiped it out of her hands. Then he turned and headed back to his son’s grave.
“You cannot do this,” she implored, rushing after him. “You will disturb his soul.”
A blustery winter wind rushed across the land when Cullen struck the grave with the hoe. “It will disturb my soul even more if I do not make certain that my son lies buried here.”
The Abbess gasped. “You think I lie to you?”
The hoe struck the ground again. “We will soon find out.”
Several nuns had gathered at the edge of the cemetery beneath the stone arches of the abbey, grasping hold of the rosary beads that hung at their waists and praying feverishly.
The Abbess grabbed the cross at her chest. “I will pray for you both.”
Cullen swallowed his response and dug until the hoe unearthed more than dirt. He threw the tool aside, hunched down over the grave and stared at the small bundle huddled in the earth. He reached out slowly, fearful of what he would find yet fearful not to find out. Gently, he brushed the dirt off the blue blanket and choked back his pain.
The bundle was so tiny and his hands trembled when he reached down and lifted it gently. He stilled. Something didn’t feel right. With anxious hands he ripped the blanket off to uncover a sack.
He turned to the Abbess. She looked stunned, and he quickly opened the sack to look inside, his eyes shutting tight for a moment, uncertain at what he’d find. Then they sprang wide open and he turned the sack upside down, sand spilling out.