by Marliss Moon
Smiles of delight lit up the servants’ faces and took the edge off his own humiliation. “The fact is that if she is not within these walls, then she is very much in danger. Tell me where she went,” he pressed, turning on the lady’s maid once more.
“Tell him, sister,” urged a youth, coming forward.
Christian looked into the sweaty countenance of a young man and saw at once his resemblance to the laundry maid. The youth looked him bravely in the eye, but he did so with respect. “Aiden or Callum?” he wanted to know.
“Callum, m’lord,” said the young man, tugging his forelock. “Spare me sister and I’ll tell ye where the lady be.”
“Nell will be spared,” Christian reassured him. He thought, with some disgust, that he was all bark and no bite these days.
“The lady haffe gone to the abbey,” said the boy succinctly. “She wears me best tunic and braies.” He cast an accusing look at Nell.
Christian’s gut tightened in response to the news. So, she had fled to be with the man she loved, he thought gloomily. Yet how would they meet, when the abbot had sealed the doors as tightly as a tomb?
Nell touched his sleeve. Her eyes were bright with hope. “She made mention of a secret entrance, m’lord. The good abbot Ethelred tolde her how to find it. But she ne woulde tell me where it was.”
A secret entrance! He felt like putting his fist through the wall. “God’s teeth and bones!” he hissed, pivoting toward the exit. Had she been meeting Alec after all?
Nay, everything inside him refused to believe it was true.
Alec had never read Clarise’s passionate letters, he was certain of it. If he had, then he would have rescinded his vows long ago. Her words could have convinced the pope himself to defend her.
If not for love of Alec, then, she had left Helmesly for one reason alone: he had driven her out. His own violent humors had betrayed him.
By God, it was up to him to get her back. If he did not, then he’d lost his only chance for redemption.
The bells at the abbey tolled the ninth hour of morning when Clarise stumbled on the cave. By then she was convinced she would never find it. Someone was bound to see her scurrying along the rows of barren trellises and send a person up—or down if they happened to spot her from the abbey—to question her.
There were hundreds of rocky overhangs. This alcove of rock was no different from the ninety-nine she’d already peered inside of. In fact, it was so shallow that she could hardly bring herself to bend over and peer inside. But when she spied a hole the size of an animal’s burrow at the rear of the cave, the sight gave her pause. Ethelred had said the hole was small.
She squatted down and shuffled under the overhang. From here she had a view of the bare vineyards, the steep slope, and the river stitching through the town below. The cave was cooler than the air outside. She was tempted to remain where she was and forget all about her foolhardy mission. But then she thought of the Slayer’s threat and the good abbot’s plight. She could not afford to be passive.
Using her hands, she widened the hole that had apparently grown over. Sunlight disappeared into the dark maw. She would have to crawl through a space no wider than her shoulders, no taller than a small child. She imagined briefly coming across an animal, dead or alive. She wished she’d thought to bring her flint and taper.
Well, she could sit here all morning dreading the task at hand, or she could put it behind her.
Like a swimmer plunging into unknown waters, Clarise took a deep breath of air and crawled into the tunnel hewn from earth. The scent of mineral stone and moisture assailed her nostrils. With every hair on her body cocked in anticipation of creeping insects, she nosed blindly forward.
Pebbles gouged her knees, yet she could feel that the land was sloping upward. Her cheek brushed a root that dangled from above. The air grew thicker, and she breathed through her mouth, gasping for air to feed her thudding heart. She knew a real and sudden fear that the ceiling would collapse and drown her in rock and dirt. Yet she was too deeply entrenched to reverse direction. The passage was too narrow for her to turn around.
Just when a cry began to gurgle at the back of her throat, her hands met with a low 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 floor and walls, she found them smooth, cut by man and not by nature. She realized the roof was no longer right above her head, and she cautiously stood.
It was then that she spied a line of light overhead, so faint that she feared she imagined it.
She put her foot over the low wall and discovered it was a step. She was standing at the bottom of a set of stairs! With relief and mounting excitement, she climbed it. The stairs were steep and slick. They seemed to rise forever.
At last, with her temples throbbing, she gained the last step. Light filtered around the edges of the door before her, yet the door was made of stone. She pushed. It didn’t budge.
Running her hands over the slimy surface, she discerned two iron pulls. Tugging them toward her, she was astonished when the door popped inward and rumbled to one side. It traveled in a stone trough, giving off a sound like thunder.
Her lungs swelled as she waited to be discovered. She realized she would give anything at that moment to have Christian with her, wielding his monstrous broadsword.
No voices called out. All was still in the sunlit chamber before her. It was a little workroom, cluttered with desks that were designed for the illumination of manuscripts. Hundreds of loose sheaves littered the tabletops. Jars of gold-leaf paint and horns of black ink lined the edges of the parchment. But the scent of ink had long run dry. Dust motes swirled in the rays of sunlight streaming through the window. The brilliance of the detailed paintings was dulled by time. Projects seemed to have been abandoned in midsentence.
The scourge, thought Clarise. She wished she had brought a sachet of herbs to cover her nose.
Stepping into the room, she dusted the dirt from her hands and knees and kept her ears pricked for sounds in the hallway. The abbey seemed as deserted as it had on the day she’d inquired at the gate. Finding grooves in the stone door, she hauled the door shut again. It closed with the finality of a crypt. She knew an urge to push it open and leave while she could.
She took a moment to consider how to execute her rescue. 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. No one would likely be there, she comforted herself, providing they were well enough to be about their prayers.
The stark hallway was devoid of human life. She raced down the lengthy passage to the window slit at the end and caught a glimpse of the abbey’s gardens. Beautiful! Who would have suspected such variety of color behind the austere walls?
She took the stairwell to the right. It spiraled upward to a higher level where she supposed the men slept. The sounds of many voices had her hesitating. Was the refectory above her? she wondered. She had imagined it on the first level, as it was in most holy buildings.
Hugging the wall, she crept upward, if only to orient herself. As her gaze rose over the topmost stair, she was astonished to see a large chamber filled with rows upon rows of cots. Each bed was occupied by a groaning invalid. Only a few men tended them, moving among the rows to ease their companions’ suffering.
An infirmary, Clarise decided, freezing in terror at the grotesque scene. The ill lay struggling for breath. The pustules that reddened their skin seemed most virulent about the mouth. As she listened to the coughing and wheezing, she wondered if the blisters coated the victims’ throats.
Swallowing hard, she backed down the stairs, desperate to escape the horror. She could not go through with this plan. God forgive her, but she was mad to leave the Slayer’s castle and to strike out on her own. She would rather face Ferguson than this!
She did not even see the shadowy figure slipping up the stairs behind her. He clapped a hand on her shoulder, and she screamed so loud that her voice
reverberated in the stairwell. The hideous countenance of Horatio swam into her view. As he grinned at her, his grip became an unbreakable hold.
“What have we here?” he leered in a rusty voice. His gaze was greedy as it absorbed the boyish garb. He wrenched off her hat, and her hair came tumbling down. “Hah!” proclaimed the monk in wonder. “So, yer back. The abbot will be pleased to see you.” He dragged her, kicking and cursing, down the stairs with him.
Above them, in the infirmary, a monk rose slowly from the side of a cot and listened. He’d thought he heard a woman screaming. The sound of it still rang in his ears, defying the logic that said he’d imagined it.
Two nights ago the Abbot of Revesby had halted him, while following Gilbert to his office chambers. He’d grasped his arm and quickly divulged two pieces of news that had him reeling with concern. Clarise DuBoise was looking for him, the abbot had said, and the Slayer wanted to give him back his lands.
Alec frowned as he stirred mush in the wooden bowl. It must have been the abbot’s words exciting his imagination. The woman who screamed had sounded just like Clarise, but that was impossible. She would not have been admitted to the abbey with the quarantine in place.
He shook his head in puzzlement. It was just one more mystery in the conundrum of riddles at Rievaulx. Why did the ailment afflict only some men at the abbey and not others? What were the animal cries that rent the nighttime quiet?
Something more than the scourge disturbed the peace of the tranquil monastery, and Alec dared discover the true nature of evil lurking in its halls.
Chapter Sixteen
Clarise measured the width of the windowless chamber, using the torchlight in the corridor to guide her steps. Seven . . . eight . . . at nine paces, her toe hit the stone wall. It was ten paces deep, and barely tall enough to keep the dripping spiderwebs from sticking to her hair.
She backed up to the middle of the room and wrapped her arms around her shivering frame. Her gaze was drawn to the chains dangling from the wall. This room was clearly used to detain prisoners.
What would an abbot need with manacles? she asked herself. 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 scurrying in vain for somewhere to hide. Yet there was no escape in a cell with only a crude table, a mat of hay in one corner, and a waste hole in the other. Clarise heard the jangling of keys. She saw the tonsured pate of a monk through the bars at the top of the door. When the abbot edged into the room, her worst nightmares seemed to be materializing.
She would rather have the grotesque Horatio keeping her company. The abbot had read her letters. She felt violated by him already.
He bore a tray in his hands, with a cup, a loaf of bread, and a candle on it. The flame sparked a mad light in his countenance, making him look oddly happy to see her. And yet the cruel twist to his mouth told her that his joy was a perverse one, whatever the reason for it.
“Clarise DuBoise,” he crooned, shutting the door behind him. Her gaze darted to the loop of keys he carried on a cord around his hips. “How good of you to come.” He laid the tray on the rickety table. The gems at his fingers caught the glow of the candlelight.
She backed cautiously away from him, saying nothing. The door was unlocked, she thought. Perhaps she could make a run for 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.” Baring his sharp teeth in a smile, he came forward and extended the cup to her.
Clarise knocked it from his grasp, casting a sheet of wine onto the wall beside her.
The abbot gaped with astonishment and then hissed in outrage. “Why, you perfidious bitch! Have you any idea how precious that wine was?” He flew at her, arms raised like bat wings. His palm made stinging contact with her cheek.
Clarise reeled back. One of his rings had bruised her cheekbone. With righteous anger giving her courage, she barreled past the abbot and raced toward the closed door, pulling on it. The door swung open with astonishing ease. She threw herself into the corridor and ran headlong into a human wall.
Horatio. He’d been standing guard.
He held her fast, and she screamed until her throat felt raw. Certainly someone at the abbey could hear her. The corridors seemed to magnify her shrill cries.
“Chain her,” said the abbot, coming up behind them. He straightened his silk stole and handed Horatio the keys. “Give her nothing to drink until she begs for it,” he added in disgust. “Then post yourself outside the door. If the Slayer comes to call again, I will send another in your stead,” he added to his henchman.
Horatio manhandled her back into the cell. She was made to face the wall and breathe its damp, musty odor. The manacles banded her wrists with cold implacability. Using the keys, he locked them tight.
“I am sore tempted,” grunted Horatio, “to treat you like a lady.” He allowed himself the liberty of squeezing her buttocks. Clarise yelled in outrage and struggled to kick him.
Horatio grunted as her booted heel slammed against his shin. He stepped back quickly and spat at her.
She closed her eyes, willing him to leave. At the sound of his retreating footsteps and the click of the outer lock, she wilted in despair. The chains, with their short leash, kept her from reaching either the loaf of bread or the candle that beamed upward in the stillness.
You’ve done it this time, Clarise, she railed at herself. She had always been too impulsive, too quick to act before thinking. Rather than plead with the warlord, she’d come to Rievaulx alone and defenseless. In doing so, she had spurned the only person mighty enough to dispatch Ferguson. No, that wasn’t right. He had spurned her.
Dear God, don’t let me die here, she prayed, dropping her forehead against the wall. It was hardly comforting to learn that her instincts were right. The Abbot of Rievaulx had some wicked plot afoot, though she could not imagine what it was.
She huddled for warmth against the hard wall, feeling homesick. Only it wasn’t Heathersgill she missed, but Helmesly. She was assailed by the memory of Christian’s scent, his disturbing kisses. He would have made her his mistress. So what? She could have accepted that much for the time being. Then eventually, she would have done something to secure her footing.
She could have taught the warlord to love her.
She could have convinced him to marry her, for Simon’s sake.
But now it was too late. He wouldn’t know where to look for her, so long as Nell kept quiet. And she would waste away in this bleak, damp hole under the abbey.
Hot tears filled her eyes, spilling over her lashes to track down her dusty cheeks. What would become of her mother and sisters if she died in this musty cell? They had less than a month to live before Ferguson would hang them.
“Oh, Father,” she choked, invoking the memory of Edward DuBoise, “I have tried to protect Mother, Merry, and Kyndra—I have. But everywhere I’ve turned for help, men have betrayed me. I’ve done all that I can do. Please forgive me.”
Over the sound of her weeping came a low humming that recalled her from her pain. Clarise caught back her sobs and listened. The sound seemed to be coming through the wall. She pressed an ear to the stone. Someone was chanting a canticle in the chamber next to her. “Who’s there?” she called, unwilling to alert Horatio, who was standing guard in the hallway.
The chanting stopped. She heard the eerie scrape of chain across stone. “ ’Tis I, Ethelred. Lady Clarise, is that you?” She barely recognized the good abbot’s voice. It sounded raspy, weak.
“It is I, Your Grace,” she answered with happiness and sorrow intermixed. She was so relieved not to be alone, yet so remorseful for not bringing help.
“Why did
you follow me? Is anyone else coming?”
She swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. The abbot sounded terrible. He must have caught the scourge, after all. Those lesions she’d seen on the monks’ mouths must be popping up on his throat and tongue.
“Lord Christian has come to the abbey twice now,” she sought to encourage him, “but they won’t admit him. He’s sent an urgent message to the archbishop. Oh, Your Grace, please forgive me,” she added, bursting into tears anew. “I ought to have told the others how to get inside the abbey, but I didn’t. I followed you on my own.”
“Why?” he asked. She thought she could hear him sinking onto the floor.
Why, indeed? What in heaven’s name had she hoped to accomplish, but to prove to Christian that she didn’t need his help—not that he had offered it. “Lord Christian and I had a falling out,” she admitted.
Ethelred said nothing for so long, she thought he’d fallen asleep. “Don’t drink the wine, my child.”
“What’s that?” She pricked her ears to his sudden warning.
“Don’t drink the wine,” he rasped. “You will . . . seem to show the symptoms of the plague.”
“Show the symptoms? I don’t understand. If the wine makes you sick, then it cannot be the plague.”
“ ’Tis a simulation.”
“Quiet in there!” Horatio shouted through the bars. “You two are not meant to talk.”
She obeyed the monk, too stunned by Ethelred’s news to think of anything to say. So, the disease was a fraud, no doubt made possible by the many plants growing in the abbey’s garden! What on earth was Gilbert hoping to accomplish by poisoning his monks?
When she whispered this question to Ethelred moments later, she got no reply. He had either fallen asleep or fainted. The chill of isolation struck her to the bone, and she sank to her knees. The chains weren’t long enough to let her sit. She was left in a posture of penitence that was supremely painful. How long could she stand it? she wondered, beset by panic.
