The Wolf in the Cloister Page 4

  “You know, Fox,” he said, “you might be right. But I don’t need to ruin her to have a bit of fun. It is enough to know that I could.”

  “Why when you’ve got so many others to choose from?” He gestured at the door leading back to the party.

  “I’ve had all of that I need. I have a hunger for something new.”

  Fitz looked troubled. “It sounds like there is real danger. The crozier?”

  Bleiz drove a hand through his hair. “Yes, that is quite dire,” he admitted. “But I can do both—find the shepherd’s staff and tempt the lady. We are to be working closely together, are we not?”

  “I suppose.” Fitz looked thoughtful and about to speak again, but then he didn’t.

  “What is it, friend?” he asked.

  “There’s something about her. Something different.”

  “Innocence?” He smiled. “I agree. Why do you think I want her?”

  “Not innocence,” Fitz said, serious. “There is something else there. She had an aura about her. We are wise enough to know that there is much in the world we do not understand. The cross around her wrist, it’s a Celtic one. The freckles, too.”

  “You noticed those, eh? You sure you aren’t shooing me off for yourself?”

  Fitz shook his head. “I don’t want her. I’ll leave that to you. But I’m being serious. The bishop isn’t fond of you, you know. He’s quite the opposite.”

  “I know.” Bleiz scowled. True, the bishop wasn’t fond of him. He hadn’t been even before Bleiz went on Crusade. Bleiz’s childhood had been haunted by the man. Though in retrospect, he couldn’t fault him. There was a darkness in Bleiz, one that blossomed in the brutal violence of battle and flourished in the pleasure dens. Whatever had unlocked the wolf, the pain or the pleasure, it didn’t matter. It was loose on the world. The bishop suspected Bleiz of worse, but so far, he didn’t know about the curse. Bleiz wasn’t sure how long he could keep it a secret.

  “Maybe he’s sent her to tempt you. Ever think of that? Maybe she’s meant to destroy you, so he can be done with you.”

  “Reclaim this castle for the church,” he said, scowling. “You may well be right. Lord knows that your instincts have been good enough in the past.”

  “Celts are a dangerous lot, especially the women.”

  “She doesn’t look dangerous.”

  “They never do.” He slapped his hands on his knees and stood. He threw a longing glance at the door.

  “Go on,” Bleiz said. “Go have a good time.”

  “And leave you all alone?” He was cheerful, and Bleiz knew the Fox would stay with him all night if he asked, whether it was drinking and laughing, or watching the viscount sink into a maudlin depression.

  “Yes.” He forced a smile that he hoped looked genuine. “I am going to read up on some things for Marie’s first lesson tomorrow.”

  If Fitz saw through the smile, he didn’t say. “Very well, my friend. I’ve been meaning to introduce myself to a few of the ladies out there.” He swept his mask up off the floor and tied it on his face. “Until tomorrow.” He bowed and took his leave.

  Bleiz held his smile until his friend was out of the room. He sent for Jean and told him that he would be in his tower and not to disturb him unless the castle was burning. Fitz could handle any problems.

  He swept up the winding stairs and back to his tower. The large room held a fireplace with two chairs, and his manuscript waited where he had left it. Against another wall, a large desk lit by sconces was piled with more books. Shelves stacked with more papers and books towered next to the desk. On the other side of the large circle, between two of the windows, was his bed. Huge enough to fit his tall frame, it was where he usually slept. Soft linens, fluffy pillows, and heavy furs would keep him warm, along with the silk curtains that rounded it. His bed downstairs was a sinner’s masterpiece. More for show than comfort.

  The tower was his true home. The place he came to think. The place he came to sleep. The place he came, when the nightmares wouldn’t stop, and the memories flashed though his mind like light dancing on a rushing river, to pray.

  Chapter Four

  Marie made her way up the winding staircase behind the servant, who continually glanced back to make sure she was coming. Her first interaction with the viscount had gone, not well exactly, but it could have been worse. Though if he continued to call her “little nun,” she might lose her temper.

  “Good lord,” she said, heaving in a breath, “where has he put me?”

  “The south tower, my lady,” the servant said. “If you would like to pause…”

  “No, no.” She waved the suggestion away, though she wouldn’t have minded stopping.

  When the servant opened the door to the tower and she stepped in, she gasped. She had been expecting a cell fit for an anchorite. She got a room for a…a courtesan. Plush rugs lined most of the circular floor. There was a sitting section with two chairs in front of the fire and a desk against one wall, along with an empty bookshelf. On the other side of the room, a wardrobe and between two windows, a huge bed. Linens and furs had been piled on and turned back so she could see the layers. She strolled up to the bed and took the curtains, drawn open around the bed, between her fingers. Definitely silk. She ran a hand over the soft fur. Her things were already waiting for her on the bed. There was a shift for sleeping and a change of clothing for the morning. Everything else would arrive in the morning.

  “Is it to my lady’s liking?” the servant asked with only a hint of a smile in his voice.

  “It is too much,” she said. “Isn’t there a more,” she flailed at the space, “simple room?”

  “His lordship said you go in here.” The servant’s face softened. “This is a kindness to you,” he said. “Or would you rather be near the party? I’m sure he would approve—”

  “No!” She cleared her throat. “I mean, no, thank you.”

  A woman bustled in with a basin and an ewer of warm water, along with towels. “Here you are, Sister.”

  “Here, Sister.” An older servant stepped in carrying a tray laden with bread and cheese, and she smelled the aroma of a delightful broth.

  Marie’s mouth watered. The simple food of the abbey was enough to sustain her, but she nearly cried out loud when she saw the fresh cooked—not salt-cured—meat on the tray. The servant set it on the table between the chairs in front of the fire.

  The woman shooed out the other servants. When they were gone, she looked at Marie. “Don’t be too put off by Lord Clavret, Sister. He has a good heart.”

  Marie snorted. “In a jar in his room?”

  The servant’s eyes widened, but then she laughed. “I have known him since he was a youth, and let me warn you: comments like that will only spur his interest. A lovely young nun as yourself—begging your pardon—is already quite the temptation. If you don’t want more of his attention, don’t sass.”

  “Thank you,” Marie said.

  “Have a good evening, Sister. I shall see to your breakfast at prime?”

  “It has been a long journey,” she said. “Perhaps terce would be better.”

  The woman curtsied and moved toward the door. “The master occupies the north tower.” She pointed at one of the windows and left, closing the door behind her.

  Marie rushed to the door and waited until she could hear the steps fade away before turning the key in the lock. She considered dragging a chair over to barricade it, since she was certain Lord Clavret had a key. Surely, for all his debauchery, he would not attack a nun—a guest of his home—in the middle of the night.

  No, but he might just as well do it in the day.

  The bishop had been right that Clavret was tempting. The abbey didn’t hold any memories of her past life—she had to dredge them up herself. Here, though, with the servants, soft beds, excellent food... Who was she kidding? The man himself, with his dark hair and beautiful, sad eyes, he reminded her of her own loss, of what she had given up when she chose the abbey so her si
ster could be happy.

  Pushing the image of the handsome Lord Clavret out of her mind, she sat by the fire and drew Asta out of her hiding place. “Have some food.” She tore off a piece of bread and handed it over. The ferret gnawed at it, and when done, jumped from Marie to the table and began to help herself to fruit. Marie laughed and picked up an apple. She bit into it and nearly swooned with delight. The cheese was rich and flavorful, the meat cooked in spices, and the bread fresh baked. Even the broth was thick with herbs and flavor.

  When she and Asta were done eating, washed from the journey, and Marie had changed into her shift, she knew she should sleep. Instead, she set Asta on the pillow and went to the window. High in the clear summer sky, the stars sparkled dimly behind a waning gibbous moon. The courtyard was lit up below, though no one was in it. From the windows of the main area, voices drifted up toward her. Surely the lord of the manor was there enjoying his teeming crowds.

  She lifted her eyes again to the moon and the north tower framed by its light. Movement in the window caught her eye. In the daylight, she might have been able to see the person moving about, but now, she couldn’t quite tell. Surely it was a servant. Lying is a sin, even if it is only to yourself, she scolded. The lean frame in the window was most certainly her host. He seemed to be doing the same thing she was—staring out into the night.

  She turned from the window and snuffed out the candles around the room. The moon was bright enough. She tucked her mysterious book under her pillow and climbed into bed—it felt even better than it looked. She hadn’t bothered to close the curtains. The night was not cold, and the breeze drifting in carried the scent of summer. As she snuggled down in plush comfort, she shamed herself a bit—she hadn’t bothered to pray. She should pray for her soul, and for that of her host, but at the moment, she could only give thanks for her excellent meal and soft bed.

  Whatever lessons the viscount had for her, they certainly would be far more interesting than life at the abbey.

  Bleiz stared at the courtyard below, the tower’s shadow cast long by the moon behind it. He had stripped off all of his clothes, and the cool breeze danced along his naked skin. He tried to remember what he had been like before the Crusades. Had he loved the feeling of wind, of water, on his skin? Had he preferred to be naked then, too? Try as he might, he could not remember. That boy was a stranger. In love with his soul mate, he had gone on Crusade called by the desire to serve God and seek adventure.

  His beloved had married him when he returned, but the changes in him soon made her distant.

  As he stared out the window looking at nothing, he wondered where she was. Certainly she would never come to his home again. She had fled England for France with her new husband. The church had been quick to grant her an annulment. The bishop of Salisbury himself had written to the Pope with the request, despite her vague justifications. It was granted in record time, or so it had seemed to Bleiz. Last he had heard from Fitz, she had two baby girls, both, he had assured Bleiz, with snub noses like hers.

  Movement caught his eye. In the south tower, someone stirred. The little nun, it had to be, also staring out the window. The candlelight behind her left her in shadow, but her form was recognizable. He wished he could see her face. She seemed the type to not be able to hide her thoughts well, a skill she should probably develop if she had her sights on becoming an abbess. He added that to the list of things to teach her.

  “Marie,” he said softly, letting his voice catch on the wind. A normal enough name for a nun. Was it her given name? Or one she had adopted once she devoted herself to God? That raised another question—if she had adopted the name herself, which Mary was it? The beloved and virginal mother of Christ? Or the more wild and interesting Magdalene? What might this Marie have to teach him? Bleiz dearly hoped that Josceline did not think she might save his soul. If she turned out to be a quaint moralizer, he would be sorely disappointed.

  Still, the crozier at Kells being taken was no small thing. He had sworn to protect his land from evil when he had taken his oath on Crusade. He would not break his vow now. Even without the relics housed inside it, the staff was powerful.

  Marie moved away from the window, and the light dimmed until, he presumed, she had put out all the candles.

  He followed her example, snuffing out his candles. Even had there not been a bright moon, he would have been able to see quite well in the dark. He slipped into his bed, taking a moment to luxuriate in the softness of the sheets around his body. He mused briefly about what she might feel like next to him, her naked body pressed up against his own. He shook his head. That possibility was many, many steps away, and it would not do to be too eager. After all, the fun of hunting was in the chasing. And, if he did everything right, she would believe that she chased him.

  Chapter Five

  The bright morning sun streamed in through the window, waking Marie. She rose quickly—she should have been up already for morning prayers. She had already dipped her hands in the warm water before she recalled her circumstances. She was in a castle, not the abbey. The warm, delightfully clean water must have been brought by a servant who had let her sleep. She finished her morning rituals, finding that whoever had brought the water had also brought her newly arrived clothes. A trunk waited next to her desk.

  She pulled on a fresh shift and settled into her desk, drawing a small psalter from the trunk. She paused at the twenty-third Psalm: Dominus pascit me nihil mihi deerit. The French version was locked in her memory firmly, one of the first she’d learned as a small child. Her father had taught it to her when she woke in the middle of the night with nightmares. The child inside warmed at the kindness—it had helped her as she huddled in her bed, repeating it to keep the monsters at bay. The more cynical adult realized that it kept her from interrupting them at night, too.

  She flipped a few pages more to her own writings. Most of the writing was in Latin, but a bit was in her French, and an even smaller amount in English. She switched to English when she needed words with a bit more…flavor. No one swore like the English. Finally, she arrived at the notes she had made about various kinds of demons. In particular, succubus and incubus. Though nothing she had seen the night before seemed demonic, it might not hurt to refresh her memory.

  As if on cue, there was a knock at her door.

  “Come in.” She shut the book and slipped it back into her bag.

  The woman from last night curtsied. “M’lady.”

  “It’s Sister Marie, please.” Marie nodded in return. “What can I do for you?”

  The woman looked puzzled. “His lordship requests your presence at breakfast. He sent me to help you get ready.” She looked Marie up and down.

  “Only a moment,” Marie assured her with a smile. “And what might I call you?”

  She ducked again. “Begging your pardon,” she said. “I’m Rachel.”

  “Rachel.” She nodded. “Good morning.” She rummaged around in her trunk pulling out the most billowy and sack-like of her habits. Far at the bottom she had packed a couple of dresses, last vestiges of her life before. Those could wait for another day. She draped the habit over her head and settled it on before Rachel could hurry her stout English body across the room. “Can you braid my hair?”

  “Of course, m’lady—Sister.” Rachel shooed Marie into a seat and quickly wove her long hair into a thick braid. Without being asked, she helped Marie fit the wimple over her head, tucked her hair in, and secured it with pins.

  From the table next to her bed, Marie took her cross and wound the beaded string around her wrist. The rose around her neck never came off. She picked up the book they were meant to study. “Lead on,” she said, and gestured Rachel out of the room before she slipped her book into a pocket.

  Marie grabbed a small bundle on her desk and set it on her bed. She unfolded the corners of a napkin, revealing some fruit and cheese. “There’s water in the cup,” she whispered. Asta scurried out from under the covers. “Stay here,” she said. “I’ll b
e back later.” The ferret regarded her for a moment, grabbed a piece of cheese, and sat up.

  Marie gave her a gentle pat and caught up with Rachel, who waited in the hall.

  Rachel gestured for her to go down the stairs and locked her bedroom door behind her. She caught up with Marie and handed her the key.

  “Thank you,” she said and tucked it away. Locked doors were another rarity in the abbey. Communal living was a protection from sin, and privacy was a tool of the devil. Thankfully her studies afforded her a certain level of privacy, as she was left alone most days in the small library and scriptorium, reading and copying and helping others with a Latin prayer here and there. Being able to lock others out, or herself in, was a delight.

  They spiraled down from the tower and headed through a different door than she had passed through the night before. This led to an eastern-facing room, one with many stained-glass windows that filled the space with a soft light. Outside, she saw a garden. Lord Clavret rose from his seat at the head of the table when she entered.

  “Sister Marie.” He gave a short bow that seemed as mocking as cordial, but she returned the gesture with a nod. “Do sit and have breakfast with me.”

  “Of course.” Fresh fruit, some cheese, bread, and eggs waited for her, along with fresh water. She settled in at the table and took great care to not pile a plate high and shovel it all directly into her mouth. She took small bites and chewed slowly, keeping her eyes on her now seated host. He had nothing in front of him. “Are you eating, my lord?” she asked.

  “I’ve already finished.” He sipped from a mug of beer. “But please, do eat.”

  She nodded and continued with her meal. He watched her, and the weight of his gaze made her shift in her seat. The attention and, more, her response to it irritated her. One, he had no business making such eyes at a nun. And two, she might be imagining such eyes.