The Wolf in the Cloister (The Wolf and the Nun Book 1)

  The Wolf in the Cloister

  The Wolf and the Nun - Book 1

  Emily Leverett

  Dedication

  For Marie, who 850 years ago wrote the stories that inspire me today.

  For Oliver, who always looks at me the right way.

  For Anne, who knew I was going to be a writer decades before I did. I'm glad I finally figured it out.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Emily Leverett

  Falstaff Books

  Friends of Falstaff

  Notes

  Prologue

  In her cell on her first night in Shaftesbury Abbey, Marie shifted, desperate for a comfortable spot on the pallet. The hay-stuffed mattress was ancient and gave little relief from the uneven stone floor. The whole thing, especially the narrow room with the small slit window, was a thousand miles from the life she left behind. Finally, after another bout of tossing and turning, Marie flung the rough wool blanket back and hauled herself off the floor.

  She didn’t bother about her appearance—no one would be out in the garden at this hour, and she could use a walk. It was early spring and still a bit cold, but that didn’t deter her.

  She left her long, reddish-brown hair free, and donned her new robes, the heavier ones for the chill air. Out of habit, she grabbed the gift from her mother—a Celtic cross on a beaded leather thong—and slipped it around her wrist. She absentmindedly patted her upper chest and felt her mother’s other gift—one she never removed—a circular brooch of gilt bronze with a red and gold enamel rose at the center, hanging on a fine gold chain. The rest of her worldly vanities had been swept away, either left with her family or donated to Shaftesbury Abbey as part of her dowry.

  She ignored her wimple, with its tedious number of pins. Besides, the breeze through her hair would feel exquisite. A flash of guilt hit her. Exquisite pleasure was not really the purview of holy orders. Still, she reasoned, nature was a gift from God. Was not the first job of mankind tending to a beautiful garden? She nodded, not probing her logic any deeper, and gently opened her door.

  Marie paused and glanced back, clicking her tongue. A small circle of white fluff stirred, and the two black eyes stared at her, the moonlight making them visible. “Walk in the garden? Come on, Asta.”

  The ferret uncurled its long white body and stretched. She never shed her winter coat in the spring for a normal brown, and that suited Marie fine. At least one of them wore white. Asta scurried down the length of the pallet and leapt, catching onto Marie’s habit at about waist level. She scrambled up to her shoulder, her sharp claws making Marie wince, and curled around the back of her neck, her pink nose under the nun’s left ear and her tail under the nun’s chin.

  “Good girl.” Marie stroked the ferret’s tail. Asta had been her companion for a short time, but now she couldn’t imagine living without her. Though the abbess had frowned when Marie made clear that the ferret stayed, or Marie—and her dowry—left, the abbess relented.

  A cool breeze kicked through the air, and she closed her eyes as she walked barefoot into the garden. The abbey had a large set of grounds, including some crops, but with the exception of a few medicinal herbs, the small garden attached was built with beauty in mind.

  It even contained a small labyrinth of English rosebushes. A single twisting, winding path, slowly spiraling inward, one entrance, passing through the center where the gazebo, containing the shrine to the Virgin, waited. The hedges stood over six feet tall, and though they were easily seen through in the winter, now the growth made them impenetrable. The heavy scent of roses surrounded her, and she ducked into the labyrinth for the first time.

  She rounded the last curve into the center and gasped.

  Only a pile of broken wood remained where the gazebo and the shrine should have been. A fire flickered in the middle, though it gave off no smoke. From under the pile, someone moaned.

  She darted forward and caught hold of a bit that was not yet ablaze. She dragged it free and knocked the flaming sticks off the person they covered. The bishop of Salisbury looked up at her, his face riddled with cuts and gashes.

  “You?” He frowned like he didn’t recognize her.

  “Father,” she said, kneeling next to him. “It’s me, Marie.”

  Understanding came into his eyes. “Run, child…” he rasped. “Quickly. Out of the abbey!”

  “No.” She took hold of him under his arms. Planting her feet, she hauled back, grateful for her unusual height and strong body, and dragged him free from the pyre. She knelt next to him. “You’re safe now.” She hauled her robes off over her head, ignoring how this left her only in a shift. She slammed the heavy garment on him, beating at the flames on his robe.

  The fire would soon spread. The roses, fresh with dew and full of water from a morning rain, could resist burning for a while, but the blaze was hot and hungry and would consume them. From there, the stone walls of the abbey might keep it at bay, but that would not save their crops.

  She flung her robes on the pyre, swatting and patting the flames, smothering them.

  “Marie—” the bishop called.

  “In a moment, Father,” she called back. She winced as a couple embers landed on her bare feet. Perhaps shoeless walks were a bad idea, no matter how much she enjoyed them. The flames dimmed, driven back into a small campfire. The roses were safe.

  “No!” the bishop shouted.

  At the same time, the rose pendant tucked under her shift flared to life. She yelped, thinking that somehow sparks had ignited her clothes. No, the rose glowed fiery red but did not consume the shift. She clutched it, waiting for it to burn her, but it didn’t—it radiated light, even through her hand.

  “What do we have here?” A voice, deep and terrifying, drew her attention. Asta scrambled from Marie’s neck and clung to her hair.

  Standing over the bishop was…not a man, though it seemed to be pretending to be one. An important one, to judge by the finery he wore. The man lifted his foot, a hoof-like thing, and pressed it into the bishop’s chest. “Did you bring me a newly vested virgin to feast on, Josceline? While I appreciate the gift, that doesn’t fulfill the bargain.”

  “Stay away from her,” the bishop gasped out. “Run, Marie.”

  “Yes,” the creature said. “Do run. It’s so much more fun to chase.” He stood between her and the small gap in the hedges that led from the center.

  Marie spun away from him, facing the fire. She snatched a piece of wood—the icon of Mary herself, her head haloed with flames, and spun back, brandishing it at him. “Get away from him!”

  The laughter frightened the young nun more than any sound she had heard before, and she felt sure any that she might ever hear again.

  “Spirited.” The man-mask on the creature was slipping away, like melting snow on a statue. Underneath was black, greasy fur and a muzzle like a massive wolf, with vicious teeth. The finery he wore tore as his body expanded, growing in height and girth. The foot pinning down the bishop sprouted sharp nails. His hands turned into wicked claws. Marie ran—straight at him.

  He snatched
the burning stick, easily wrenching it from her, and tossed it back on the fire. She stumbled.

  He lunged forward, grabbing her throat and drawing her toward him, his unbreakable grip strangely gentle. Though he could strangle her or snap her neck, he didn’t. Her feet were firmly on the ground, and she breathed easily. Asta kept hidden, sliding farther down her hair and digging her claws into Marie’s back. She winced.

  The demon seemed to think her expression had something to do with him. He stroked her cheek with the back of his other hand, but kept a tight grip on her throat nonetheless. “You look familiar, little one.” He leaned in. “Have we met? In your dark dreams, when you wished for a more satisfying life than the abbey?”

  Marie grabbed his wrist with both hands. “I haven’t been here long enough to have such dreams. Let me go.”

  He ignored her words and her hands and dropped his gaze from her face to her chest. She let go of his wrist and tried to block his view, suddenly self-conscious.

  He batted her hands away. “Lovely as it is, your body is not where my interest lies.” With a claw, he broke the drawstring at her throat, and her shift slipped off one shoulder. “Hmmm, is this…?” He reached for the rose.

  A flash of white light exploded, and the demon dropped her, stumbling backward, hands over his eyes. He fell into a crouch, clawing at his face and howling.

  Marie did not waste time wondering what happened. The rose around her neck still pulsed in small white bursts in time with her fluttering heart. She crouched down next to the bishop.

  “Come on,” she said, grabbing his arm and starting to haul him up.

  “You? You can’t—”

  “Sure I can. Have a little faith, Father,” she said and hauled even harder. “Use the legs God gave you.”

  He did as he was told, creaking to his feet.

  Marie slung his arm around her shoulder. “Lean on me.” She managed a few steps, making her way past the crouching creature and back toward the maze. The fire flickered, making their shadows dance on the circle of roses. Behind them, the snarls increased, and she knew that the monster had regained his feet. “What is that?” she whispered.

  “Who,” the man said. He was not terribly heavy, she found, more wraith than human, but he seemed to be growing stronger. He was in his forties, with salt and pepper hair and a larger share of wrinkles than she thought his age would bring. In his free hand he held a rosary and rolled the beads through rhythmically. He muttered snatches of a Latin prayer under his breath.

  “Fine,” she said, “who?”

  He stumbled a bit. “Name doesn’t matter. Can’t say it aloud anyway.”

  “Father Josceline de Bohon,” the nameless creature called. The man froze next to Marie.

  “Come on,” she urged. “One foot in front of the other.”

  He pulled his arm off her shoulder. “You go,” he said. He turned back to face the demon.

  “For fuck’s sake!” she snapped, causing even the monster’s eyes to widen. She’d known the word was bad; her stepmother had endlessly shushed her father when he’d used it. Her mother, though, had always laughed.

  The creature had put his human face back together. He was handsome this way, though he hadn’t managed to quench the green fire of his irises. In every other way, he looked a lord and gentleman. Tanned skin, with clothes that accentuated a strong body. And blond curls that reminded her of her father. A disconcerting thought.

  “Demon,” the bishop spoke, his voice stronger than she had heard it yet, “I banish you.” He was holding his rosary out toward the creature as it stalked forward. He trembled like his body would fail him. “I banish you,” he repeated. “I banish—”

  “Tedious.” The demon lashed out, knocking the bishop to the ground. “I will deal with you later.” He looked to the young woman. “What’s your name, little nun?”

  “Marie,” she said and regretted it. If he was a demon, wasn’t she supposed to guard her name? Then again, it seemed him knowing her name was the least of her problems. “Yours?”

  He chuckled. “You may call me Hardouin.” He took another step toward her, over the prone body of the bishop. He glanced down, and a wicked hatred filled his eyes. He blinked it away.

  “You’re a Norman?” she asked.

  “For now.” He crossed his arms and looked her up and down, making her wish for more clothes than just a shift. “I haven’t come across a nun like you in a long while. Though I admit, as of late, I have spent less time in abbeys. I feel as if I should have known about you. Who are your parents, child?”

  “The Lord God is my father, and the dear Mary my only mother,” she repeated dutifully, glad for the first time of the catechisms that she had stuffed into her brain on her travels to Shaftesbury.

  He arched an eyebrow. “I thought that He was done with that tart after one brat,” he said, his voice dropping to a sarcastic drawl. “He never mentioned a daughter.”

  She widened her eyes and blinked at him. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  Hardouin snorted. “If you can’t be clever, I’ll tire of you quickly.” He sounded bored. “And find other ways to amuse myself as I wait for the good father here to offer his last confession.”

  “What’s Hell like?” she blurted out.

  He drew back, if only slightly. “I don’t know that such a question is clever,” he said. “Do you need to be scared into obedience?” His smile turned wicked. “Or do you mourn for someone there? A lost lover, perhaps?” He wrinkled his nose. “No, I don’t think it is that. You’re much too young. No gentleman, or not so gentle man, has sung you sweet lullabies after an evening of lust, has he?”

  “Is that common for lovers?” she asked, shoving away her indignation at her assumed lack of suitors.

  He stared hard at her, and she struggled not to flinch and look away. He was talking. Maybe if she kept him talking, the dawn light that came so bright and early in the spring would flood the garden and dispel him like some nightmare. On the ground, the bishop coughed and sputtered, blood dribbling from his lips.

  “Oh, just get on with it and die,” the demon said to him.

  “Can’t you just kill him?” Marie asked and wished she hadn’t.

  “No,” he answered. “That is not how our agreement works.”

  “You have an agreement with the bishop?” She gasped and wondered if she should have let the old man burn.

  “No,” the bishop mumbled from the ground, before coughing again. “No agreement. I will banish you back—”

  “Yes, yes,” the demon said, languidly waving a hand at the bishop but staying focused on her. “Can you administer last rights? Or is the best you can do a lullaby? One last kind gesture before you follow him in death.”

  “You’re going to kill me?” she asked.

  “What else would I do with you, little nun? Would you rather we play a game?” He grinned and showed jagged fangs in his perfect mouth.

  “No,” she said. “I suppose I’d rather you got on with it.” Death did not frighten Marie. She indulged in a touch of melodrama, wallowing in the notion that her broken heart would kill her soon anyway. The abbey would make her a walking ghost, not much of a life, to be honest, except for Asta, that is.

  “How about a bargain?” he began.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I don’t make bargains with men. They are uninclined to keep them.”

  “I’m not a man.” He stepped toward her again, held out his hand. In the firelight it looked soft, gentle, and smooth, something she wouldn’t mind feeling on her skin.

  She shook her head. “Close enough to one, I think.” Marie’s mind wandered to her mother. Her mother had warned her about dangerous men but always with a laugh. The men who brandish their danger, especially when it comes to us women, are usually quite mistaken. Truly dangerous men will hide that as much as they can.

  She had asked her mother what to do if a dangerous man came to her. Her mother had glanced beyond her, over her head, and Marie
had turned to see her father standing in the doorway of the solarium, blond hair in waves around his face. Decide, my bonnie lass, if what he offers is worth the price. She had kissed her then and shooed her away. Go play with your siblings. She had taken her father’s hand, and he led her away. Later that night, as usual, she had returned to tuck Marie in and sing her a lullaby in her lovely Celtic. Words she had repeated one night years later when she gave Marie the gifts, and went away, as far as Marie knew, forever.

  Hush little baby, all will be well,

  Celtic crosses break a demon’s spell.

  Hush pretty lady, all will be well,

  Your lovely red rose sends the demon to hell.

  She clutched the cross on the leather cord around her wrist. Her other hand drifted to the rose around her neck. Marie had thought they were merely pretty, and the rose a trinket she might wear at parties. Had her mother known that she would come to this? She clutched the rose and dragged the gold chain over her head. Her mother had dabbled in magic—charms and illusions to amuse Marie and her siblings when they were children. What was she doing with a demon-dispelling charm? And, more important, how did it work? The flash of light had hurt the demon, but that had happened on its own, with nothing but her own panic behind it. Her heart slammed against her ribs. If panic provoked the rose, it must be wide awake now.

  Marie crossed the small space between her and the demon. “I want to see your face,” she whispered, stepping up on her tiptoes to reach his ear. “Your real one—God given.”

  He drew in a hissing breath. “Would you now?” he said, his voice shaky. “Step back, and I shall show you. Though the sight of it has driven men mad.”