“Send your arrows over the wall as a token of our intent.”
A stream of bolts rained over the wall. Christian pictured them jutting like quills all over the courtyard, though they could, of course, take out an eye or damage the skull of anyone who happened to be hit.
He waited for the abbot to respond. To his satisfaction, the show of hostility brought someone hurrying to the gate. The peephole snapped open and the Abbot of Rievaulx, himself, glared through it.
“Christian de la Croix,” he spat. “How dare you assault the house of God? You will pay dearly for your display of aggression.”
Christian sent him a dispassionate stare. “Release Ethelred to me now and you can expect no more hostilities. Send me away without him and I will return with an army. I give you my word on that. We will scale your walls and kill anyone who stands in our way.”
“You would say such things, son of the Wolf, Slayer of innocents.”
Christian flinched inwardly at the epithet. A part of him acknowledged that he had gone too far to threaten the lives of the monks who lived in peaceful seclusion there. “Release Ethelred and you will hear from me no more,” he insisted.
“I cannot contribute to the spread of pestilence. Be gone, Satan’s minion,” the abbot ordered, slamming the peephole shut.
Shaking with frustration, Christian listened to him walk away.
Perhaps he was Satan’s minion, for he knew of no other way to wrest Ethelred from Rievaulx save by force and by killing. Appealing to the archbishop could take days. By then the good abbot might be dead. Nay, he had no choice but to return to Helmsley and ready his men. Tomorrow, he would attack the abbey with a force that ensured victory.
Clarisse worked the notched laces of the boy’s braies as tightly as they would go. However, at sixteen, Callum was already a good bit larger than she, making the trousers hang loosely about her hips.
“Why must ye travel at night, m’lady?” Nell complained, handing her a shirt also owned by her brother. “’Tisn’t safe what with ruffians and wild animals about.”
Together, they had come up with a plan to pass Clarisse off as Callum, who left Helmsley every night after dark to seek out his ladylove in Abingdon. As he worked in the brewery by day, he had made prior arrangements with the guards to let him pass nightly, in exchange for a barrel of ale each month.
At dawn, he returned to resume his work in the brewery, with no one the wiser. His lover would wonder what had happened to him this night, however, for Callum had agreed to Nell’s appeal on Clarisse’s behalf.
Clarisse nosed through the oversized tunic. “Do I look like your brother?” she asked, popping her head and arms through the proper openings and standing squarely in the candlelight.
Nell eyed her doubtfully. “Nay, m’lady.”
“That is why I must travel at night,” Clarisse replied. “Please, remember what I said. You last saw me when I went to sleep earlier this evening. When you’re asked tomorrow, you don’t know where I am, or how I ventured through the gates. You must lie to protect yourself. Is that clear enough?”
Nell mumbled an unhappy answer.
Clarisse turned away to peer around. “Where are those awful boots I have to wear?”
She had gone through the day feeling like a bug stuck in a web with little hope of escaping. All the contentment she’d experienced while dwelling at Helmsley had been ripped out from under her by the Slayer himself. He had turned on her without warning, and now she would have to venture into the countryside alone and at night, fleeing on foot to Rievaulx—which, she knew, offered no asylum.
The odds that she could find the little cave Ethelred had described to her were poor at best. Even if she did find it and managed to make her way inside the abbey, what then? She would have to face the horrifying illness and the possibility of being held there against her will by Gilbert, whether lunatic or merely a tyrant.
Her fears rose, threatening to consume her. I will face each difficulty as it comes, she assured herself. Nothing could be worse than the prospect of being returned to Ferguson. That man would take one look at her and order her hanged, along with her mother and sisters, for she was more a liability to him alive than dead.
As though attuned to her fretful thoughts, Simon thrashed suddenly in his cradle, which stood presently in her chamber. At the sound of his whimper, Clarisse’s breasts tingled, making milk for him immediately. Her heart grew as heavy as her suddenly full breasts.
“Feed him with the skin,” she instructed Nell, who’d had minimal success earlier that day under Clarisse’s tutelage. “I must go soon.”
Spying the oversized boots, she went to put them on, leaving Nell to fetch Simon from his cradle. As the maidservant sat on the chest attempting to nurse the baby, Clarisse coiled the length of her hair on top of her head and stuck several pins in it to keep it secure. Then she jammed a floppy hat over the haphazard pile and turned to regard Nell with Simon. A lump the size of a boulder lodged firmly in her throat.
The sight of Simon struggling with the tip of the nursing skin incited a flood of frustration. Tears swam into her eyes. Damn the man who had forced her into this!
“’Tis time for me to leave,” she declared. Approaching Simon one last time, she could not prevent herself from bending to brush a kiss upon his petal-soft cheek.
He turned his head, shunning the nursing skin to eye her hopefully.
“Be well, my little love,” she breathed, fighting with all her might to keep her composure.
“My lady, must ye go?” Nell whispered pleadingly.
Straightening, Clarisse turned her back on the pair to brush an errant tear from her cheek. Then she glanced back.
“Hear me well—if you are not successful with the goat’s milk by the morrow, take him to Doris. Tell her to let him suck, and eventually, I am sure, her milk will flow for him.”
She sniffed sharply, looked around with the sense that she’d forgotten something, then headed to the door. There she paused to offer Nell one more word. “Avoid your overlord at all costs tomorrow. He will pressure you mightily for an answer when he finds me gone. He may well withdraw his offer of land to your brothers.”
“I will keep our secret, m’lady,” Nell said. “I swear it.”
Clarisse nodded, though unable to share the girl’s confidence that she could keep secrets from the Slayer. Lifting the latch, she let herself into the pitch-dark corridor.
Chapter Seventeen
Sweet night air filled Clarisse’s lungs but it failed to lift her spirits. She had slipped through the inner and outer gates without issue. Apparently, she’d looked enough like Callum for one of the guards to call out crude encouragement as she’d hastened across the drawbridge, all but running in her quest to escape the Slayer’s condemnation.
The rain that had bathed the land for the past two days had finally departed, leaving the star-studded sky as clear as a still lake. A crescent moon hung like a pointed pendant, shedding just enough light to gild the hilltops in milky gold and gleam upon the puddles of the muddy road.
A good omen, she thought to cheer herself. Yet her heart seemed to hang from her neck like a weighted chain. Would she never hold Simon again? Panic welled inside of her so that she had to battle the impulse to run back to him.
Listening to the squish of her boots, her short-term worries faded as a wolf howled in the distance. She couldn’t help but consider that she was right where she’d been a month ago. Yet so much had happened since her first attempt to reach Alec! She had dwelled in the stronghold of a much-feared warrior. She had eaten at his table, cherished his son, and bantered with his thoughtful master-at-arms. She had even kissed the beast and melted with pleasure at his touch!
Nevertheless, the Abbot of Rievaulx had managed to poison the Slayer against her without powder or tincture or tonic. Nay, simply by giving him her letters to Alec. Why had he done so? How could he have known she was even living at Helmsley? What benefit was it to him to make the Slayer think
ill of her?
Thanks to Father Gilbert, she was now in more desperate straits than ever, with even less time to save the lives of her family.
Sidestepping puddles, she fought to keep the cries of the wolves from raising the hairs at the nape of her neck. In retrospect, she wondered if she shouldn’t have explained to the Slayer the true import of her letters. And how not one of them was a true reflection of her current feelings. It wasn’t Alec who had occupied her thoughts, waking and sleeping these past weeks, but Christian de la Croix and all his myriad complexities. If only he had understood how desperate she’d been when living under Ferguson’s odious control!
The road curved, bringing with it a clearer view of Rievaulx, high upon the next hill, a dark silhouette against the cobalt sky. A cold shaft of dread moved up her spine as she considered the sickness fouling the air there. She wished suddenly that she could turn back to Helmsley and trust Christian to come to his senses. However, he had shattered her trust in him by condemning her. And she had said she would have nothing to do with him, even if he crawled on his knees, begging her mercy—and she’d meant it.
Ignoring her reservations, she drew a deep breath and started uphill toward the abbey.
The bells at the abbey had just tolled the ninth hour when Clarisse finally came upon the cave. By then she was convinced she would never find it. She had been scurrying about the trellises that lined the hill, in utter dread of being seen, caught, and returned to the Slayer.
Was the tiny hollow that now revealed itself to her really the entrance Ethelred had described? The aperture within the rocky outcrop resembled an animal’s burrow it was so small. How could it possibly lead to a tunnel?
Dropping down on all fours, she crawled beneath the overhang. A final look over her shoulder showed the overgrown rose bushes under a fair sky, a steep slope, and the river stitching through the town below. In contrast, the hole before her funneled into dank darkness.
Gulping down her fears, she widened the opening with her hands, making it large enough to wedge her shoulders through. With every hair on her body cocked in anticipation of creeping insects, she felt her way blindly into the enclosure, pushing her way forward. The packed earth beneath her feet rose perceptibly. Her cheek brushed a root, and she flinched. The air grew heavy with the scent of minerals as she pushed forward into darkness so impenetrable she could not see her own outstretched hands.
Just as a sob of terror began to gurgle at the back of her throat, she touched a low stone wall. Had she come to a dead end? Nay, it couldn’t be, for a rush of cool air kissed her cheeks. Patting down the wall, she found it cut by man and not by nature. Realizing the earth was no longer right above her head, she slowly stood and spied a line of light overhead, so faint that she feared she was imagining it.
Putting her foot over the low wall, she encountered yet another. Why, these were stairs, not walls! Realizing she’d reached the end of the tunnel, she hastened up the steep rise only to find her way impeded by a small iron door. She laid her palms against its rusty surface. At first, it didn’t budge. Then, with a loud groan, the door swung open.
Clarisse froze. Peering into a brightly lit room, she awaited discovery. Thankfully, nothing moved. She squeezed into a chamber furnished with desks. Loose vellum littered their surfaces, along with jars of gold-leaf paint, horns of black ink, and many quills. This was where Ethelred had illuminated his manuscripts. But the ink had long dried. Dust motes now swirled in the rays of sunlight streaming through the many window slits.
The pestilence had put an end to the work here, she realized, and not for the first time, she longed for a sachet of herbs with which to cover her nose. Brushing the residual dirt from her borrowed clothing, she pricked her ears for the sound of voices. The abbey stood as quiet as the day she’d inquired at the gate. Closing the door through which she’d come, she left it ever so slightly ajar lest she had need of it to flee.
Gathering her thoughts, she pondered how best to proceed. To skulk around the abbey unnoticed, she would need a monk’s robe. Such apparel might be kept in the cells where the monks slept. And none would likely be sleeping presently—providing they were well enough to be about their prayers.
Leaving the chamber, she stepped into an open-air walkway surrounding an elaborate and lavish garden. Why, this could only be the famed infirmary cloister where the abbot grew his herbs. Awash with brightly colored plants, its flourishing beauty captivated her imagination. However, a dark-robed figure at the far end of the cloister straightened from bending over a particular plant, and she retreated with a stab of fear into the shadows.
Father Gilbert! Better for him to be outside than within, she assured herself. Now was the best time to perform her search. She drifted toward the nearest doorway to escape his sight.
Easing under an open archway, she found herself in a forebuilding with an enormous chamber lying just beyond the next set of doors. Hugging the wall, she peered into it, dismayed to see rows of cots lining the stone floor, each one occupied by a groaning invalid. The infirmary! Only a few men stood upright, moving among the rows to ease their companions’ suffering.
Her gaze fell upon the face of the invalid lying nearest to the door. His eyes closed, the monk failed to note her sympathetic abhorrence. Pustules, like the kind Horatio had displayed, pocked his otherwise flawless skin, most especially about the mouth. As she listened to the coughing and wheezing coming from all the sick, it occurred to her that the pustules also coated the victims’ tongues and throats, rendering them perfectly miserable.
Swallowing hard and holding her breath, she backed out and away from the infirmary. Caught between the illness and the abbot in his cloister, it dawned on her that she had been too impulsive in coming to Rievaulx. How would she find both Alec and Ethelred without being discovered or contracting the disease herself?
Slipping out the exit, she gasped as she ran straight into someone entering. Horatio’s disfigured face struck terror into her heart. Grabbing her arm in swift response, he startled a scream from her so shrill that it echoed in the infirmary behind her. However, Horatio stifled it, clapping a hand over her mouth and pinning her to his burly chest.
“What have we here?” he leered in a rusty voice. Running a gaze over her boy’s attire, he squinted more closely at her face and recognition flared in his deep-set eyes.
“Hah!” he crowed. “So, yer back, are ye, Lady Clarisse?” He lifted his hand so she could answer him.
“Unhand me,” she ordered. “I have come for Ethelred.”
“Hah.” Ignoring her, he dragged her, struggling against his hold all the way, into the cloister toward Father Gilbert.
Foiled so soon, Clarisse considered, dreading her confrontation with the abbot.
Within the infirmary, a monk stood listening. Had he not just heard a woman’s scream? Given the message he’d received from Ethelred of Revesby, Alec could not dismiss the sound as an illusion. That shrill cry had belonged to Clarisse, he was certain. But why would she have come to Rievaulx?
Setting down the bowl of mush he’d been feeding to a fellow monk, he pledged to return anon and hastened quickly toward the infirmary cloister to find her.
Clarisse measured the width of the windowless chamber, using the torchlight shining through the barred door to guide her steps. At nine paces, her toe hit the stone wall. It was ten paces wide, and barely tall enough to keep the dripping spider webs from brushing the cap she still wore.
Centering herself in the small space, she glanced at the chains dangling from the wall and looked away. She hugged herself, suppressing a shiver of dread. Why would an abbot need such a room, with shackles no less? Criminals were sometimes granted asylum in the holy houses but never imprisoned in their cellars.
Perhaps the chains were not for prisoners but to discipline the monks. Aye, that made more sense, given Gilbert’s grim hold at Rievaulx.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor had her searching in vain for somewhere to hide. Yet with only
a mat of hay in one corner and a waste hole in the other, there was none. A silhouette loomed before the barred door. Dread pegged her to the floor as she recognized Father Gilbert’s smooth countenance, lit by the candle he carried. Out in the cloister, he had taken one look at her in Horatio’s grasp and ordered the monk to lock her in the Cell of Castigation.
Now, he intended to question her in person, alone, with no one to witness the exchange.
As he edged into the room, her thoughts went to the letters he had given Sir Christian—private letters that meant for Alec alone. What had he thought to accomplish by letting the Slayer see them?
Aside from the candle, he carried a tray with a loaf of bread and a cup of drink upon it. The unblemished skin pulled taut across his unremarkable features made her wonder why the illness that had leveled so many of the others hadn’t struck him. The corona of the candle he also carried illuminated his thin-lipped smile.
“Clarisse du Boise,” he greeted her, kicking shut the door behind him. Her gaze darted to the loop of keys that jingled at his wrist. “How good of you to come.” His many rings glinted as he held the tray out for her to take.
Weighing her odds of reaching the door before he could stop her, she ignored it.
“Like a proper host I have brought you food. Sit,” he invited, nodding at the lice-ridden pallet. “Take nourishment. God knows how long you will feel well enough to eat. The illness is likely in your veins already.” Running a gaze over her attire, he held out the tray to her again.
She pretended to accept it, then knocked it from his grasp. The wooden cup struck the wall, spattering wine in a wide arc. The loaf fell to the filthy floor.
“Foolish woman,” the abbot raged. In the next instant, his open palm struck her check, knocking the cap from her head. Clarisse stumbled back. Her hair tumbled from the pins that held it and fell over her face in a tangled curtain.
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