“You can plead all you want,” the Benedictine told the prisoner, “but the time for mercy is long past.”
The prisoner’s hair dangled before his dirt-stained face. “Why now?” he asked.
“Because you are no longer of use to us,” the Benedictine replied. “The Book of Maugis d’Aygremont is within our grasp. And so is Dónall mac Taidg.”
“You lie,” the prisoner growled.
“Am I lying about what shall happen next? That you shall be sacrificed for our cause?”
“You are not a killer,” the prisoner said.
“Au contraire. Murder has become less troubling after all these years.” The Benedictine raised his arms and gestured toward the far wall, dominated by a massive carving of a dragon’s head. “Look upon the face of the one your blood shall serve.”
The dragon’s stone jaws, bathed in the torchlight, opened in a silent roar framed by sharp teeth as long as a man’s arm. Its eyes glowed red from the candles set within the sockets.
The prisoner’s eyes narrowed, and his breathing quickened.
The monks’ chanting rose again in haunting strains. The gate within the dragon’s mouth ground open, and the stench of decay wafted forth, punctuated by a hissing growl.
As the chanting crescendoed, the Benedictine’s heart beat faster.
The prisoner’s eyes grew wide, and his jaw started to tremble.
From the dragon’s mouth slithered an abomination. A reptilian snout emerged first, followed by a head covered in feathery scales. The eyes, black and merciless, shifted hungrily beneath three pale tubercles that rose from the top of its head like a rooster’s crown. The leering head swayed back and forth on a serpentine neck attached to an avian torso the size of a mastiff’s, while two eagle’s legs with hooked claws clattered on the stone floor.
The prisoner flailed in his chains, trying to rip them from the wall.
A terrible hiss escaped the creature’s mouth as it whipped its snakelike tail.
“Behold the basilisk,” the Benedictine proclaimed. “It is rather more ferocious, I’m afraid, than Pliny described. It came to us as an egg from the Otherworld. You can see how much it has grown.”
The basilisk fixed its gaze on the prisoner and flicked out its forked tongue.
“Merciful God,” the prisoner stammered.
“It’s a common misconception,” the Benedictine continued, “that the basilisk’s gaze causes death. As you will soon see, that is untrue. Its real threat is not magical at all but purely chemical.”
A guttural sound issued from the creature’s throat. It reared back its head and spat a stream of viscous liquid that splattered against the prisoner’s naked chest, onto his face, and into his eyes.
The prisoner screamed and tried to claw at the spittle, but the chains held back his arms.
“The venom burns, I know,” the Benedictine observed. “Soon it will paralyze your muscles, though, alas, that does not dull the pain.”
The prisoner began to twitch, then made a heaving gasp as the basilisk eyed its prey, testing the air with its tongue.
“Fear not, Nicolas,” the Benedictine said. “With luck, the venom might kill you before you are eaten.”
The chanting became frenetic. Like a coiled serpent, the basilisk struck. Its teeth sank into the prisoner’s neck, and its clenched jaws shook him savagely. The prisoner let out a final, sickening moan.
The Benedictine turned his gaze, unable to watch any further. “My lord,” he said under his breath, “your will is done.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
OR THE KING’S MEN
December 13, 997, was as beautiful a day as Alais could remember. The sky was bright blue, touched by only a few wisps of fleecy white cloud. The air was warmer than normal for this time of year, and the village of Selles-sur-Cher was alive with sound.
Dogs barked, and chickens clucked in their coops. Overhead, a chevron of greylag geese honked as they glided over the village to the millpond at the edge of the river, where the waterwheel thumped and groaned. Near the road, a group of boys ran and wrestled and called challenges to one another. Alais smiled at two women as she passed, walking downhill from the manor house to the roadside, where Brother Thadeus waved to greet her.
“Brother Thadeus,” she said warmly. “What brings you away from the abbey?”
“Believe it or not, my dear, no one is sick today. It seems a miracle of sorts, so I thought I’d take a stroll on this fine, balmy day.”
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he replied, taking a deep breath of fresh air. “And I wanted to see how you’re doing, of course.”
“Better,” she said. She nearly choked up as the words left her mouth, but it was true, she did feel better. Her love for Geoffrey remained as strong as ever, but somewhere along the way, she had realized that she had a choice. She could either let her grief drag her into some dark abyss—one from which she might well never return—or just let her grief go. She chose the latter, difficult as it was. It was the courageous thing to do, and what Geoffrey would have wanted.
“I must say,” the old monk remarked, “you do look more at peace.”
“Perhaps it’s the time of the year. I always loved Christmastime.”
“There’s much to do to get ready, you know. And the people—they’ll look to you to make sure it happens.”
She laughed. “Geoffrey always left that for me anyway. I like preparing for the festivals—gives me something to do.”
“And I’m sure the village will be grateful for it.” Thadeus opened his mouth to speak again but stopped short of a word, his eyes fixed on the road.
A cloud of dust stirred above the hilltop nearest the village. And through the cloud came horses—and not just any horses, but big destrier chargers. Riding them were perhaps three or four dozen men.
A spark of hope welled within Alais.
“Your cousin?” Thadeus asked.
She clasped her hands to her chest. “Or the king’s men!”
Brimming with excitement, she squinted to see which banner the approaching riders carried: the crimson lion of Poitiers or the fleur-de-lis of the king of France. The horses thundered down the road. She spotted the lead rider, a large man clad in mail but holding no banner. She looked beyond him to the next rider, then the next. These men held something in their hands—batons, perhaps, but not banners—and their cloaks were dark, neither crimson nor blue.
“Alais . . .” Thadeus muttered, his voice now grave.
As the riders bore down on Selles, their batons seemed to glow and give off smoke.
“For the love of God,” Thadeus said, “run!”
Alais felt rooted to the ground. She watched with horror as one of the horsemen tossed a burning torch into a cottage at the edge of the village. The dry thatch caught flame at once. The village women began to scream. Several scooped up children; others ducked into their cottages. In the fields, the farmers scattered, scurrying toward their homes. A second cottage burst into flames. The column of riders charged into Selles, nearly trampling a small girl who scrambled to save her dog, which stood defiantly in the road, barking at the horsemen.
Alais’ heart pounded.
“Go!” cried Thadeus. “To the manor, and bar the door!”
Alais shook her head in disbelief. The air now reeked of burning thatch, and the line of cottages at Selles’ west end had become a wall of fire.
The thunder of hoofbeats and the crackle of flames mixed with the alarmed screams of the villagers.
Alais glanced back at the women she had passed on her way to the road. Their eyes were wide with terror. They needed to move, to hide. But like her, they knelt, all but frozen with the shock of the riders’ onslaught. Alais’ first attempt to call to them brought nothing but a fear-choked whisper. But her second try was a yell. “Hide!” Her voice grew stronger. “Grab your children and hide!”
The women moved now, as if they had been slapped awake. They dropped their
hand shovels and buckets and ran for their wee ones, who had already shown the good sense to run away from the road.
Thadeus was pushing her now. “You, too, Alais. Do as I say!”
She started up the hill, lifting her dress with both hands so as not to trip. She ran until she reached the garden outside the manor. The horses sounded now as if they were right behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she was dismayed to see that Thadeus had not followed her. Rather, the black-robed monk stood defiantly in the road, his hands raised above his head, his face burning with rage.
“In the name of Saint Eustace and Christ our Savior,” he cried, “I command thee to cease! Lest your souls burn in the lake of fire!”
But the lead rider, the large man in mail who held no torch, did not cease. For an instant, Alais saw his face: younger than Geoffrey’s, framed by a thick black beard and a mane of oily black hair, and filled with wanton cruelty.
“Thadeus!” she screamed.
Behind the black-bearded leader, who was just a few lengths away from Thadeus, half the riders followed. The other half dispersed among the cottages, more of which were now in flames.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I demand that you cease!” Thadeus shouted. “Your souls are at stake, man—your eternal souls!”
The lead rider lowered his head and kicked his spurs hard into his mount. The horse charged forward and never swerved.
Alais screamed. She had never experienced the horror of seeing a man run down. It happened horrifically fast. In one moment, her dear old Thadeus stood waving his arms, and in the next, he looked no more alive than a scarecrow that had been tossed to the ground.
The column of riders thundered down the road, heading for the abbey and leaving in their wake the lifeless form of Brother Thadeus, covered in dust and blood.
A new thunder of hoofbeats shocked Alais back into action. A small cohort of riders, five in all, had veered away from the column and started up the pathway to the manor.
Alais had just time to make it inside. Hearing the screams of women around her, she lunged toward the manor door. A terrible realization gripped her, for she knew what men like this did to women. After the pillaging would come the raping.
As soon as Alais was inside, she slammed the door shut. Outside, the galloping hoofbeats grew louder. She fumbled for the heavy wooden bar, but it slipped from her fingers and crashed onto her foot. A sharp pain shot up her foot and leg, and she began to panic, fearing she would not set the bar in time. She could hear the horses snorting and whinnying just beyond the door, and hooves stomping in her garden. Focus! she demanded of herself. Using all the strength her arms possessed, she raised the bar, struggling to set it in the iron brackets that would hold the door closed. Just a moment more . . .
Then the door exploded open.
The impact hurled her to the ground, and the bar flew from her hands, clattering over the stone-tiled floor.
A Frankish warrior loomed over her—a hard-looking man in a mail shirt and iron helm.
“No,” she pleaded, crawling away from the man.
His hand reached for the pommel of his sheathed broadsword. But then another, taller man pushed the Frank aside. He whisked off his dusty riding cloak to reveal a black cassock, and a silver crucifix at his throat. He tossed the riding cloak to the Frank.
“I said she was not to be harmed.”
The man addressed the Frank in a commanding tone befitting his presence, which seemed to fill the whole room. He looked at her with a piercing stare that unnerved her. Beneath those eyes was a strong, angular face framed by a narrow, close-cropped mustache and silver-flecked beard. She had seen this man before, she realized. His vestments sparked a memory—a bishop’s vestments. Geoffrey had introduced her to him once: Adémar, the bishop of Blois.
“Lord Bishop,” she stammered, “what is—?”
“What is, my child, is that you are in great danger.” Bishop Adémar extended a hand to help her from the floor, but she crawled backward and stood unassisted.
“This attack . . . how dare you!”
“It was not my doing,” he replied. “It is the count of Anjou who assaults your lands.”
“Fulk the Black!” The very name struck a chord of terror that made Alais shudder.
“I see that comprehension has begun to dawn.” As he spoke, Bishop Adémar stepped farther into the room, backing Alais up to the trestle table in the center of the narrow hall. Behind the bishop, two more Franks entered the room. “The question, my child,” he continued, “is whether he has just cause.”
“Just cause?” she gasped. “How? My husband was a loyal servant of the king. He never raised arms against the count of Anjou or his vassals.”
“Fulk of Anjou no longer recognizes the authority of an excommunicated king. He acts on the authority of the Holy Church itself.”
“The Church? My husband was lay abbot. We’ve done nothing to offend the Church.”
“Is heresy not an offense to the Church?”
Her response was barely a whisper. “Heresy?”
“We have a confessor who swore that the monks of Selles-sur-Cher keep a heretical tome, a book so antithetical to the teachings of the Church that harboring it is an affront to God himself.”
The scroll! Alais’ pulse quickened. The thought flashed in her brain that if she gave Bishop Adémar the scroll, he would leave Selles alone. But what of her promise to Geoffrey? Her hand went to where Geoffrey’s key hung between her breasts, beneath the collar of her shirt. “I know of no such thing.”
“Of course you don’t, my child. I did not expect you to.” His tone was sympathetic and reassuring. “But that puts you in no less danger.”
“But why?”
“You are a beautiful woman. Although I do not sanction their behavior, I can’t very well control the passions of four dozen men, especially when they have been whipped into a frenzy.”
“You would let them ravish the women of this village?”
“Men will be men. But they are the count of Anjou’s burden.”
“And the Church saw fit to trust its work to him? I’ve heard the stories of what he did to the priests at Chateauneuf.”
The cleric shrugged. “The count of Anjou may be a black-hearted devil, but even a devil has his uses when pointed in the right direction.”
“You men disgust me!” she hissed.
Adémar walked closer as he spoke, but Alais pushed him away.
“Your words wound me,” he said. “I insisted on joining this mission to make sure innocents such as yourself were not caught up in the violence. I am but a shepherd. And you, my child, born of noble blood, are a member of my flock. It is my duty to protect you.”
Alais found herself backing away. She was at the threshold to her bedchamber. Bishop Adémar sounded sincere. He smiled at her, baring perfect white teeth between his narrow lips.
He extended his hand. “If it is found that no heretical book exists, I’ll make sure that none of the monks are harmed and that the count makes reparations to your village. You have my word.”
Alais hesitated. They wouldn’t find the scroll in the abbey. She looked into Bishop Adémar’s eyes. His feral gaze from a moment ago was gone.
“You, of all people, have no reason to fear,” the bishop said kindly. “I know you had nothing to do with this. Why, you hail from the finest family in Aquitaine, a good Christian family. In fact, the piety of your cousin William is grown legendary. I could never let you be harmed.”
She let Bishop Adémar take her hand. His touch was gentle. “You promise?”
“Of course,” he said, drawing her into an embrace.
For a moment, she let herself be held. The terror that filled her began to ebb away, displaced by grief over Thadeus’s death. Alais started to sob. She could no longer hold back the tears.
“See, my child, all will be well,” Adémar said, stroking her hair. “This time of trial will pass.”
Then she felt th
e kiss of his lips on her cheek.
Her muscles tensed. She realized now that he had slowly backed her into the bedchamber.
With his foot, he shut the door behind them.
Panic seized her as one of his hands fell to the small of her back.
Alais let out a muffled scream. “No!” She pushed him away with unexpected force, and he slammed against the door. His eyes narrowed, and his lips broke into a feral grin.
His arm flashed toward her, and she felt the stinging slap against her face. The blow knocked her back onto the bed. The pain was so intense, she wondered if he had broken her jaw. She felt his warm breath on her ankles. This couldn’t be happening! Alais fought back, kicking her legs as violently as she could. The seam of her dress ripped all the way to her waist. Hands clamped down on her arms. His grip was like iron, stronger than anything she had ever felt. His body fell on top of hers. He was twice Geoffrey’s weight, and she cringed as he dragged his tongue up her neck and to the tip of her chin.
“No,” she whimpered, tears spilling into her mouth. “For God’s sake, you’re a priest!”
“And you’re a woman,” he said contemptuously. “The vessel through which sin entered the world, by which Paradise was lost—the reason for which Christ had to suffer and die on the cross!” He had worked himself between her legs. She struggled beneath his grip, but her arms did not move. She closed her eyes. Saint Radegonde! she screamed inside her mind. Take me from here! She cringed at his first violent thrust.
“Through woman came sin,” he grunted. “Through woman came temptation. Through woman came damnation!”
Alais felt numb, lifeless. Bishop Adémar relaxed his iron grip, though he continued thrusting and rutting on top of her. She realized that one of her arms was free. Her consciousness snapped violently back to reality. She opened her eyes and saw him huffing with lascivious pleasure. Hate filled her soul, and a single thought shot through her mind. Her hand fumbled under the pillow on the other side of the bed, and she felt the hilt of the dagger. She worked her fingers around the grip and raised it high.
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