“Did it do what it was supposed to do?” Her voice was soft, as was her expression.
“The crozier or the christening?”
He wanted to run. His whole body was twitchy, like he was prey. He hadn’t come to her for a personal conversation. He needed to be on his way, out into the forest, not standing here, so close to her that he could hear her heartbeat and, when she sighed, feel her breath. He could smell her, too—she smelled like flowers to him, and like strawberries.
“Either,” she said. She sounded like she was talking to a dangerous animal—no, not dangerous—wounded.
“No.” He shook his head. “But they were kind. Kinder than most I’d encountered. I considered staying there.” He couldn’t even look at her. He kept his gaze on the book in her hands.
“Why didn’t you?” she asked.
“What?” He lifted his eyes to look at her. Her gray eyes held curiosity, like she wanted to know the real reasons—which, of course, he wouldn’t say. The experiment at Kells had failed. Staying wouldn’t have done any good. “I had responsibilities here.”
“Of course.” She smiled kindly. “Your parties are quite important.”
“Yes.” He had to get away from this topic, back to safer ground. “What do you think happened when the crozier was stolen from Kells?”
“Me?” she asked, apparently startled by the question.
“Yes, you.” He peered around her. “Unless your ferret has an opinion. The bishop must have thought you’d have some insight.” Unless the good Josceline had sent her to spy on him, whether she knew it or not. He might have predicted that Bleiz would find a young nun tempting, might open up to her.
“I think it was my literacy that inspired him.” She left out the part about facing a demon. She stroked the ferret’s tail. “Asta doesn’t have an opinion.”
“Have you asked her?” The idea was absurd enough to ease some of his tension.
“Yes,” she said. “She cannot read, and she has never been to Ireland. Though she does have some very firm opinions on Irish cheese.”
He stared at her for a moment before he laughed. “I almost thought you were serious.”
She shrugged.
Moments ago, her eyes had been so full of concern for him. Now here she was, teasing him and making him laugh. He felt more like his old self than he had…since before the Crusade. She certainly would be fun, with her freckles and, yes, even her ferret. He’d never even imagined a nun—hell, a woman—like this one. But for whatever reason, the bishop trusted her, and so, after some fun perhaps, he’d send her back.
She drew a deep breath and settled the book in one arm while resting her other hand on her hip. “So, we know that whoever took it must have been very powerful, and likely evil. There’s no reason, you think, one of the monks might take it?”
“You mean steal it?” Bleiz said as he thought about the men he’d spent those weeks with. The men he’d prayed with, and who had prayed for him. “I cannot see any of them being the snake in the garden, so to speak.”
“That’s good to hear.” Marie began to stack up the books he had given her. “So, what next?”
“We need to go back up to my study,” he said. “I suppose you can bring your companion if you wish. She won’t chew on the books, will she?”
Marie pressed a hand to her heart. “Of course not!”
Bleiz held up his hands as he repressed a smile. Feisty thing. “I believe you. I certainly wouldn’t dare disobey you.”
The young nun snorted her disbelief and gathered her books. “Let’s go.”
He took the books from her, adding his own to the stack. “Yes,” he said. “After you.”
She looked about to make a fuss but seemed to think better of it. She gathered her own small book, quill, and bottle of ink, and finally grabbed the octavo off her bedside table and followed him out of the room.
When they arrived in his room, he set the books on his desk, and she set her materials down as well. Outside, the sun had climbed above the castle’s towers. He’d taken too long chatting already.
“So,” she said, “where do we begin? I can finish looking at that book I was reading yesterday.”
“I think you should begin there, but, alas, we are not going to be doing anything. I have business to attend to for the next three days. When I return, we will continue.”
“Three days?” She stood. “The crozier cannot wait.”
“How long since it was stolen?” he asked.
Marie counted the days. “About three weeks.”
“Right.” He nodded. “That is enough time for the crozier to be nearly anywhere from Ireland to Wales, and through most of Normandy, Brittany, and Aquitaine. I doubt we’ll find it by chasing whoever took it. Our best bet is solving the book and hoping it tells us something.”
Marie crossed her arms. “I suppose you’re right. But what am I to do while you are gone? Entertain your guests?” She regretted her tongue the second she saw his eyes light up.
“Would you like to entertain them?” He feigned surprise. “The few who have persisted in their debauchery and are still here, I’m sure could do with some Bible verses and a good scolding!” When she only frowned, he continued. “No. Those that have not gone already will be gone before nightfall.”
“A blessing,” she said. “Should I take the books to my room?”
“Why? You can read them here.” He gestured widely. “Go anywhere you like in the castle. No room is locked to you.”
“That’s very generous—”
“Except this one.” He pointed at a small door in the wall on the far side of a bed. “That room is my own private space. No one goes there but me.” He leaned down toward her. “Do you think you can resist such temptation?”
“Certainly!” she snapped a little too quickly.
He merely smiled. “Then I must be on my way. I will leave you here in the capable hands of Rachel. She will bring you meals and will likely scold you when she thinks it is time to go to bed.” He feigned a doleful resignation, but she could hear the affection for the woman. “And if you are so devoted to your studies that you cannot be parted from them, you may sleep here.”
“I’m sure my room is sufficient, but thank you for your generosity.” She curtsied lightly.
“Well,” he said, “regardless, on my journeys I will take comfort imagining you tucked safely away in here.” He walked to the bed and took a fine cloak that had been laid out. He swung it around his shoulders and fixed it with a wolf’s head cloak pin. He bowed once more and left Marie to the room.
Chapter Eight
Bleiz trotted down the spiral stairs, the scent of Marie heavy in his senses. A small smile played at his lips. Her heart sped up when he was around her. Less than he had hoped it would, sure. But she was moved nonetheless. And she was more than just literate—she was educated. And curious. It didn’t hurt that she also seemed to find him attractive, if her speechless pause in the bath was any indication. She was beautiful, too—from the glance he had gotten when he caught her, the freckles definitely spread beyond her face. Last, she made him laugh. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had done that.
Playing with her for a while would be fun. Then again, he wasn’t certain exactly what he was playing with. She was young, to be sure, but he wondered how long ago she had taken holy orders. For one, the dress she wore today, tangled as the strings were, was fashionable. It looked like something from her previous life but not so very long ago. The tear she shed, what was that about? For a moment, it had looked like her heart was breaking, but that could have been anything.
“Don’t be stupid,” he scolded himself. “You know what that look was.” The thought of giving a nun a night, or five, to remember, an experience to keep her warm on the cold nights in the abbey, delighted him. Playing with Marie’s affections after the ache he had seen on her face? That was a cruelty he couldn’t muster.
He shook the thoughts away. For now, he would forget about t
he problems. The fantasy of returning to find her curled in his bed reading any one of his books would carry him quite well for the next three days.
Bleiz hurried for the gardens. He’d spent too much time with Marie, and his senses were reeling—the transformation would come whether he wanted it or not, and whether he was in his safe place or not. Fear caught him, and he ran through the gardens all the way to the very back to his own small stone-walled garden, behind which was the edge of the dense forest. He touched a brick on the back wall and pushed through a small, secret door.
The stone door settled closed behind him, and he inhaled the air. The scents of the forest shot through him. Wet earth, trees, leaves, and the blooms of hundreds of flowers. The panic eased a bit—he was outside Sarum, away from people. He followed a path he had walked hundreds of times, though it would be hard for someone else to pick out if they did not know it was there, more a deer trail than anything. He wound his way deeper into the canopy until the light filtered in from the trees in small rays piercing a quiet darkness.
As the ripples of the change started to come over him, he ran, sprinting through the trees until he broke out into a clearing. The tiny church was more a mass of crumbling stone than a building. No one had used it for decades, and he doubted anyone remembered it existed. Which was just as well. He entered the church. The roof had fallen in, and from the pile of debris in a ring of sunlight, a tree had sprouted. It had grown about halfway to the broken ceiling. Taller than him, but not by much. Today, flowers blossomed on it, though it had never once born fruit.
Behind the tree, the original altar still stood—a square pillar of stone. Atop it were a selection of black candles re-purposed from his parties. His staff would have missed the normal tallow ones, but these would go uncounted. He didn’t bother to light them. The moon would be bright enough; the skies were clear, and he knew his way around by feel anyway.
Below the tree tangled in the roots and the crumbling stone and wood from the roof was a small niche—less than a foot in area, but large enough. It was hidden, too, so that like the church and the path, it was not obvious to anyone who didn’t know it was there. More pleasing to him was the rosebush that grew above it. Blooming in full, with deep red flowers, it poured its scent into the small space.
Bleiz stripped off his clothes as fast as he could without tearing them and bundled them, shoes and all, into his cloak. He drew the corners of it together and secured it with the cloak pin. He winced when rose thorns caught and tore his flesh as he pushed the bundle into the space beneath.
He stood and shook out his limbs, trying to loosen the tension. It wouldn’t go away until the transformation was complete.
He looked up to the sky and closed his eyes. He shuddered as the pain swept through him. He had enough experience to hold back any cries of pain as his bones broke and reknitted, his muscles tore and healed, and his skin stretched and moved over the new shape. His black hair fell down his back as sable fur bloomed from his flesh. He dropped to all fours, hands becoming paws, and his nose and mouth a muzzle. When the transformation was complete, the wolf sat, panting. His green, sparkling eyes were the only humanity that remained.
He darted from the church, the work of his muscles loosening the tension and the feel of the wind through his fur freeing him. He tore through the forest, down the paths that he had trod for years, releasing pent up energy into motion. He ran for as a long as he could, then pushed himself farther, sprinting until he collapsed at a small lake below a waterfall, his favorite place. After diving into the water to cool himself, he climbed out and shook from muzzle to tail. He climbed onto a rock in the sun and slept until the near-full moon rose high in the sky to wake him for his hunt.
For two more days he would follow the same pattern. He would hurl himself through the woods, chasing deer or rabbit or whatever would run from him. He would bathe in the lake and sleep in the sun. On the third evening, he would return to the church and wait for the change to his human form at dawn. Until then, the forest was his.
After Lord Clavret left, Marie walked across the room to the forbidden door. There was never a forbidden door that wasn’t a trap. She wavered from feeling satisfied with herself for knowing and being irritated that he thought her so easy to bait.
Still—she should check to see if he really was baiting her. If it were locked, then he wasn’t—he was serious. If it were open…
She gripped the handle and pulled down. It opened smoothly. Though there was a keyhole, the door was not locked. She quickly shoved the door forward, making sure it did not open. A test, then. One she passed.
With a satisfied nod, she turned back to the room and ignored the massive bed for the moment. She strolled over to the bookshelf. She knew that she should return to the volumes he had already selected for her, but such a font of knowledge was hard to resist. Perhaps she might find more romances, too. The bookshelf was tall, and she would need to stand on tiptoe to reach the top. There were, she scanned them, at least thirty volumes scattered on the shelves. The worth in this room would buy a decent parcel of land and more.
Unlike the previous day when she had been forced to be content to look with her eyes, this time she trailed her hand across the spines, listening to the feeling of each binding. Books were the only other place any of her mother’s magic had sprouted in her—touching one would give her information. As she ran her fingers along the spines, flashes of images hit her: a passage of text, an illumination, the occasional hand scribbling away. Always, too, were the emotions that washed over her. Sometimes, she had learned, they were about the content of the book, but much more often they were about the scribe or owner.
She stepped back and scanned them again. Some of them were interesting, certainly. They had the feel of age or distance. Two felt as interesting as those she already had, so she’d examine them.
She piled up her chosen tomes along with the ones from yesterday she had yet to finish. She tucked the octavo back in her pocket and secured the ink bottle and quill there, too, along with her own small book of notes. They were less heavy, in total, than the previous day, and she had an easier time making it back to her room, where she dutifully studied them until Rachel again brought supper.
Once more, she read romances until dawn.
When she once again roused herself around noon and found that Rachel had left fresh water for her as well as lunch, Marie ate and dressed.
She sat at her desk and flipped open the first book. She skimmed a bit and realized she hadn’t been paying attention. Her mind had wandered instead to Lord Clavret. What business could he have? What business did he do? He had traveled to Jerusalem and back on Crusade and to Kells, at least. What would keep him away for three days?
When Asta chittered at her from her spot on the desk, Marie nodded in agreement. “I don’t want to stay in here all day either,” she said. The book seemed no closer to revealing its secrets anyway. “He said we have run of the castle, so let’s go exploring.”
She pulled on her habit—more authoritative, she felt—and headed for the main part of the house. She had seen his room, but not much of it, given her hurry to get out, but, since the party and the breakfast the next morning, she had yet to venture into any of the other rooms in the house.
She started where her own introduction began, making her way to the front entry. From there, she followed the servant’s tour. The rooms, which had been filled with sound and scent, food and laughter, and other things, were stoically quiet. Some of the furniture remained, but not all of it. She wondered where they stored it. Now, the rooms looked like variations on a parlor, mostly unused.
The final room where the cross had been was the only one to show evidence of the festivities at all. The cross itself was gone, no surprise there, but the statues remained. Alone, she had a chance to really look at them. She flung back the curtains. The statues were, all told, quite beautiful even if they were obscene. Dark stone, almost black, cut in the smooth shape of entwined bodies. Looking
at them here in the light of day, they seemed more delicate and tender, less lustful. A few other statues in different colored stone depicted the human form, always naked, but, at least to Marie’s eyes, a closer estimation of Adam and Eve before the fall, with dignity and beauty, than the sordid people mock-worshiping them before.
As she continued her stroll through the house, she arrived at the parlor where she had met Lord Clavret. The slightly raised dais remained, as did a single ornate chair on it. Definitely evocative of a throne. She stepped up on the dais and, after looking around, settled into the chair. The view of the people to see her, had there been any, would have been direct. The person sitting here would be enough above the crowd to see most, if not all, of what was going on. A perfect perch from which to pass judgment. Though she couldn’t quite imagine Lord Clavret judging anyone else.
The whole party, the whole debauchery, now that she saw the spaces in the light, appeared more a farce—an elaborate joke on those who took it seriously—than deliberate blasphemy. She wondered how much Clavret participated in his soirees. He certainly hadn’t after she arrived. No. There was something about him, and his parties, that didn’t fit. It would needle her until she found it out. She headed for the second floor and his rooms.
Once again, she took her time, strolling through various rooms. All of them were bedroom suites of some kind, and all of them lonely, filled with beds no one slept in and tables at which no one ate. All in all, it made her forlorn, and for the first time since she had bolted out of the abbey on her beautiful horse, she missed the place. Not the hard benches and bland food, but the camaraderie. The other women there who had, in such a short time, become a kind of family. Those who listened to her tale of woe without scolding or reminding her how lucky she was. She wondered if Lord Clavret had such a family. She suspected not.
The Wolf in the Cloister Page 7
