She dropped back down to her feet and smiled up at him. “I’m not a man.” She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand that clutched the cross. He closed his eyes and tilted his face toward her gentle touch. Time to see if she could make the charm work. She flipped her hand over, pressing the cross to the demon’s face.
He did not scream. His eyes snapped open, and he stared down at her.
The demon’s glamour melted away. He wasn’t the handsome Briton, but nor was he the hideous beast she had seen before—the one looking to tear the bishop to bits. He beamed with shining golden light, his hair as bright as the sun, his eyes like sparkling emeralds. His skin glowed golden, bright enough to make Marie wince and squint to see him clearly. Marring his features were deep slashes, still open and raw, though not bleeding. He was naked, she realized, and let her gaze travel down his chest. More marks—sword wounds. Even with the injuries, the damage to his body, he was stunning.
A quiet rage filled his eyes. “I’ll rend you limb from limb.” But he did not move.
“You’re beautiful,” she said, looking back up at his face. “Even if you are fallen.”
He trembled. “Go, little nun,” he whispered, “before I—”
“No,” she said simply. “I will not go away, angel.” She smiled at him. “You are in my abbey, and you are not welcome here. I have no idea what business drew you here, but that business is concluded.”
He snorted a derisive laugh. “Is it now?”
“Go,” she said. The rose heated in her hand to a white-hot flame, but it did not hurt her. “Or I will burn this into your immortal flesh.” She had no idea if the threat was real, but at least to her own ears she sounded convincing.
He flinched back from the light. A low chuckle escaped his throat, like he knew some secret joke.
“Back to Hell with you,” she whispered. She leaned up on her toes again and pressed her lips to his cheek. It was warm, full of life, like a mortal man’s. He turned his face to her, catching his lips on hers, and she trembled for a moment, her body shuddering with the promise of an angel’s attentions.
“You will regret this, little nun,” the demon whispered in her ear.
Before he could speak again, Marie pressed the rose to his chest where his heart would be if he were human. There was an anguished cry, more exquisite suffering than rage. A slash opened in the air, roiling heat and freezing cold billowing out of it at the same time. A wind like a tornado built up and, contorting itself into fingers, snatched the demon away. Even as he stretched his arms out to her, it yanked him back, and the slash sealed.
Marie stumbled back and landed on her ass on the ground with a thump. She gave a small yelp as Asta slid down her back and clawed her way back up to her shoulder. The embers of the fire were quickly fading, having consumed most of the wood, including the Virgin Mary, who was crumbling to ash. She did not doubt that the scarred black ring left behind would prove near impossible to replant.
“Child?” The bishop crawled to her.
“Hello, Bishop.” She smiled softly at him.
He sat up. “That was…”
“Not what I expected of my first night at the abbey.” Asta nudged her nose out from Marie’s shift and pushed herself free to tuck her head under Marie’s chin. Marie scratched the ferret’s head. “There, there, girl. It’s all over now.” At that moment, the sun broke over the horizon and cast the first rays of morning on her face.
Chapter One
Two months had passed since Marie banished the demon in the garden. She had told no one, not even the abbess, about it, and the bishop had said nothing to her. Abbey life already bored her, though she liked working in the scriptorium, reading and copying manuscripts. But she could hardly imagine doing that for the rest of her life.
She was currently copying a handful of psalms in both Latin and French for a wealthy patron of the abbey. The abbess wasn’t fond of translations—Latin was the language of God, after all—but the abbey didn’t run on Latin, it ran on money. The patron wanted both the Latin and the French, which was a bit unusual, but Marie didn’t mind. It gave her a chance to critique the translation of the original author. Oh, she was trusted enough to copy the words, but certainly not to translate them herself. O how happy are they that scatter your little ones across the world! Marie quirked an eyebrow. Psalm 137 wasn’t usually so…soft. Smash your children against the rocks was closer. Money bought more than scripture—it bought interpretation, too.
“Well, I think that’s a good place to stop for the day, don’t you, Asta?” Marie set down her quill and stretched her arms above her head. Outside the sun was dipping, though with midsummer tomorrow, it was hours before dark. The bell for supper would ring soon. As she tilted her head from side to side, a series of small pops came from her neck, and a similar set followed when she twisted at the waist. Blessed be the ones who don’t think scribes have it easy.
The scriptorium door opened. “Sister Marie?”
Marie turned. “Yes, Abbess?” The woman had a grave expression, calculating, too. Marie could never tell if the bishop had shared the events of that night with the abbess, but she always seemed to regard Marie with concern, suspicion. Marie stood. She knew that the abbess likely though of her as most English did. Because Marie was Celtic, educated, and a woman, surely she was a witch. If that were the case, Marie was a good one, she felt sure, but since the night with the rose, nothing happened.
“The bishop of Salisbury is in my office. He would like to see you.” She gave a nod of the head, turned, and left.
“Come on, Asta,” Marie said and held out her arm. The ferret darted from the table and ran up Marie’s arm to curl around her neck, as always. “Good girl. Keep out of sight.” Asta wiggled herself under Marie’s collar, inside the wimple. The habit was loose enough that she could still curl around her neck comfortably.
She knocked softly on the abbess’s door, drawing a deep breath. She couldn’t help but feel a bit excited—perhaps there was some news of the demon?
“Come in!” He sounded cheerful.
Marie entered and curtsied, bowing her head respectfully.
“Take a seat, child.” He gestured at a chair in front of the desk.
She sat.
“I have a job for you,” he said and drew out a book. Small, three-by-eight thumbs or so, and bound in brown leather. A silver cross with a red marble at the center and looped filigree around the edges had been sewn to the cover in small, tight stitches of red twine.
Marie sighed, trying not to look disappointed. “Of course, Bishop.” She held out her hand for the book. Another copying job.
The bishop smiled. “You seem disappointed.” He set the book in front of him and opened it, leafing through the bound pages—they were all blank. At her puzzled expression he continued. “This book was found in Kells Abbey, the night the crozier was stolen.”
“The Kells crozier has been stolen?” Marie gasped. The power of it was legendary—the bones of Saint Patrick in the reliquary in the staff alone were said to perform healing miracles.
“It has. This is our one clue.” He held it out to her.
She took it, turning it over and over in her hands. The leather was soft, supple. It felt well worn. The pages seemed to be blank. But at the corners of her vision as she flipped a page, she thought she saw flashes of script, a flowing hand, small but not cramped. “It’s blank?” she asked.
He laughed. “Very good. No. It isn’t. It’s magic bound.”
Marie immediately set the book back on his desk. She hoped this wasn’t some sort of trap—that saying aloud that she had seen the writing proved she was a witch…
“After the events a few months ago,” he said. A pained expression crossed his face at the mere mention of that night. “I believe you have angelic gifts.” He nodded at her wrist, at the rosary. “The charms you have, they have the power to banish demons, to protect you. I thought perhaps you could open the book.”
“How?” She stil
l didn’t reach for it again.
“I’m not sure. Perhaps the rose will open it? Overcome any dark magic on it?”
Marie drew the rose out and took it off. She reached for the book, pausing to glance at the bishop. When he nodded his permission, she took it, pressing the rose to the cross. Nothing. Not even a whisper of magic. She shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She put the necklace back on.
He nodded. “I expected as much, but it was worth a try.” He folded his hands on his desk. “I know of a man who might be able to help. He has experience with dark magic. But I don’t want to simply hand something so valuable over to him. I want you to go—only a deeply godly person could have saved me that night—and I know you will keep this, our only clue to finding the cross, safe. I believe you are not in danger of temptation—though this man is reputed to be quite tempting.”
“You want me to take the book to this man, and then work with him in his home to open it, while keeping it safe, and then, bring it back to you?”
“Hopefully with the words visible, yes.”
A task outside the abbey? One that might take weeks, or even months? One not at another church. She swallowed and straightened, trying not to look as eager as she felt. “If that is what you believe I should do, of course I would be happy to.”
“Excellent. You shall leave tomorrow morning—the estate is a day’s ride. You’re going to Sarum Castle.”
Sarum—she’d heard of it before. She scanned her memory and then it hit her. “The Wolf’s Den?” she asked, startled.
“Don’t worry,” the bishop said, standing up. “I don’t doubt that you, little lamb, can more than handle a wolf.”
Chapter Two
Viscount Bleiz Clavret rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms out and up, arching his back. The summer sun had dropped in the sky, though it would be hours before it was fully gone. The manuscript he had been reading rested on the floor where he’d dropped it as he dozed. The book held many different Arabic texts, a gift he had been given on Crusade. He found the language mysterious and beautiful, and though he had studied it and could read it and understand it when he heard it, speaking it completely eluded him.
He strolled to the window, pulling his shirt off over his head so he was left only in his drawers. Far below his tower room, people streamed into the main courtyard of the castle. He was content for now to watch them. Even from such a distance, he could sense the excitement in the air. Normally, he reserved such parties for the cover of darkness, but Bleiz enjoyed the long summer days, and somehow the midsummer solstice seemed appropriate. He would make sure to have a companion party at winter solstice as well.
Most of those entering were draped with long traveling cloaks, regardless of the weather. Undoubtedly they held interesting things underneath.
He sniffed the air. Yes, there was definitely a charge. Under the normal scents of flesh and animal was desire. He grinned. The pious people he saw on the rare occasions he went to Salisbury Cathedral for Mass would have much to tell their confessors. Though he doubted they would.
The most exclusive and infamous of cliques in Henry II’s kingdom. The Impii Morituri. The Wicked.
A knock and the door opened.
“Lord Clavret?” Jean, his valet, slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. “Ah,” he said cheerfully, “I worried that I might be waking you.”
“No.” Bleiz turned from the window to face him. “Have most of the guests arrived?”
“Yes, sir.” Jean ducked his head. “They are waiting in the anteroom.” He smiled. “You will be fashionably late?”
He gave a small nod. “As expected.”
The valet gathered up the discarded clothing. “There is a hot bath waiting in your quarters downstairs.”
“Very good.” He watched the man leave. Few people in his life had known him so long. Jean had been with his family for years, a young man when he started looking after the earl’s bastard son. He had been there when Bleiz returned from Crusade too. Whatever secret horrors and unseen wounds Bleiz spoke of as he tossed and turned in his nightmares, Jean never spoke of them. Bleiz would take care of Jean for as long as the man lived.
By the time Bleiz made it to his guests, the crowd for his little soiree had gathered, masked and eager. Bleiz always wore the same mask, a black wolf’s face made of leather and fur—his own bitter private joke. It matched his black hair, always worn long and loose down his back. Like the masks of the other guests, it covered the top half of the face, leaving the mouth of the wearer unencumbered.
“Friends,” he said warmly, though truth be told there was only one in the crowd he would sincerely give that title. “Welcome to the Impii Morituri Midsummer Revelry. There are no rules here, save one, and it is inviolable: consent. Do whatever pleases you here in the Wolf’s Den, but always with permission.”
He lounged back in his chair on the raised dais at one end of the room. The theatricality of it pleased him, though he had no desire for any real kind of rule. He was not inclined to be responsible for the well-being of others. Especially when the corruption of others was so much more delightful. “Off you go now,” he said, waving a dismissive hand.
The crowd scattered before him to the various iniquities of their choice. Some craved delicacies to eat—recipes from all over, prepared by a small fleet of cooks he had collected in his travels. For others, it was conversation—a parlor where no idea was too taboo to be spoken. He sighed. For most, it was the sex. Not that he had anything against a good romp. He had partaken in several and enjoyed them. He had even found solace a few times. The fact that the rooms for that purpose were luxuriously decorated with foreign silks and dyed wools, elaborate carpets and pillows, and not a few amorous, and possibly blasphemous, statues, added to the forbidden lure of the place.
He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. Lazily he waved at a servant who brought him a glass of his favorite wine in a golden and jeweled goblet. Though a small part of him wished to retire back to his tower and his books, he needed to stay for a while, be seen strolling through the rooms, ever attentive. Not so much for the assurance of his guests’ pleasures, but to take careful note of who was there, and with whom. The masks, for those who managed to keep them on, hid nothing from him. He had good relationships with multiple powers in the kingdom and more than a few in the church, thanks to his temptations.
“You seem distant, my lord.” A wry voice caught his attention, and he jerked away from the path of his wandering mind.
He smiled. “Fitz. I had begun to think your obligations would keep you away.”
The man shook his head. “Not a chance, old friend.” The Norman was of middle height and stout, the opposite of Bleiz himself, with close-cropped red hair and warm brown eyes. Skin that had been roughened and reddened by travel was hidden under elaborately fashionable clothing and a fox mask.
“How’s your wife?” he asked, grinning.
“Happy and fertile.” He smirked. “I am sure Elanor would have quite the time here, were she not otherwise occupied.”
Bleiz shrugged. “Often those who most could use the revelry…” He trailed off. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Happy to oblige.” His rough accent always made Bleiz smile. He had been a friend to Bleiz before the Crusade, and though Fitz had never gone to the Holy Land himself, he certainly knew battle and the haunting traces it could leave on a man.
“Your Lordship?” A servant dressed like a monk for the titillation of the guests bowed before him. “Forgive the interruption.” He extended his hand with a letter in it. “This arrived just now.”
Bleiz took the folded paper and rolled his eyes at the seal. The bishop of Salisbury himself. Wonderful. He tore the wax seal open and read the letter. A frown crept across his face.
“Another call to repent and save your soul with a good, strong tithe?” Fitz asked.
“No. Something entirely different.” He dropped the letter on a table to his left. “T
he bishop has sent me a young penitent.” He stared off for a moment, considering his options. He would start by seeing exactly how devoted the young learner was. He glanced up at the servant. “Do lead the holy messenger to me. Make sure to take the long way. And don’t bother to change your costume.”
The servant nodded and scurried away.
“That’s a grin I haven’t seen in a while.” Fitz rested his hands on his hips. “You’re going to cause trouble again?”
“Just some entertainment for me at a poor monk’s expense.” He waved at another servant, this one costumed as a priest for the evening, a few yards away. “Bring my dear Fitz a chair.”
The servant complied, settling it on Bleiz’s right and bowing low before returning to his post.
Fitz settled himself in. “So what am I waiting to see?”
Bleiz waved at the letter. “The bishop believes that I might help the young monk with some kind of holy quest—he implies it might be good for my soul. I, on the other hand, have little care for my soul and less patience for a novice who might try to save it, but I am absolutely certain I have so very much to teach.”
“And you’re starting his education with a tour.”
“Exactly.” He eased back in his chair. He laced his fingers behind his head and sighed contentedly. “It looks like this evening isn’t going to be so boring after all.”
Marie dismounted her horse, landing easily next to the large black beast. He reared his head slightly, and she stroked his neck. “There, there, Gringolet,” she whispered to him. “You made a good ride.”
In the dusky light, she tugged the monk’s hood forward, letting it shroud her face. She stretched, her back sore from the ride. She had made the twenty-two-mile trek in one day, and her breakfast and brief lunch were long gone.
The ride had been worth it. She enjoyed the illusion of freedom it provided. While she was dressed as a monk, most folks left her alone, even if they looked slightly askance at the lovely mount. The bishop of Salisbury’s badge, along with the seal of the abbey, meant that even thieves wouldn’t touch her.
The Wolf in the Cloister (The Wolf and the Nun Book 1) Page 2
