The Slayer's Redemption Page 25
When she next glanced at the door, it stood empty.
Alec fought to keep his thoughts centered in prayer. Until that day, his mind had been as still and reflective as a forest pond. His decision to become a monk had felt like the right one. Nevertheless, the words Clarisse had shared with him mere minutes earlier had ruffled his inward calm too much to allow for peaceful meditation.
She had made serious claims against Father Gilbert. Yet Alec found himself believing her words, for they explained why others had sickened while he had not. In addition, he had oft-wondered if the abbot, with his stained fingers and foolish laughter, had not unbalanced his mind by consuming too many of the herbs growing in his cloister. But what did it benefit him to inflict illness on his brethren?
It made little sense to Alec—as little sense as his remaining obedient to a lunatic. In his heart, he knew that there was no Godly reason for Clarisse and Ethelred to be imprisoned in the abbey. Moreover, he knew he need not feel guilty for planning to steal Horatio’s keys, despite his vow never to steal, yet he did all the same. Still, if he did not free the prisoners, who would? Already, in his peripheral vision, he could see Horatio nodding as he fought to stay awake through the prayers. Surely, he would fall asleep when he went back to guarding the prisoners.
As the prayers drew to a close, Alec headed for the courtyard while waiting for Horatio to return to the cellar where he would hopefully nod off. To his surprise, he found the open space littered with dozens of arrows, their winged ends pointed skyward. What had happened here? Who would have displayed such sacrilege as to volley arrows over the wall of a cloister?
Only one name sprang to mind—The Slayer of Helmsley.
No sooner had the name occurred to him than he discerned the sound of many horses thundering toward Rievaulx. The hairs on Alec’s neck prickled. Prompted by curiosity, he crossed to the gate to look through the peephole. What he saw sent his eyebrows winging. A veritable horde was coming toward him.
Moreover, there was no mistaking its leader as anyone other than the Slayer. Even if Alec had not recognized his pennant or the white cross emblazoned on his black shield, he would have recognized the warlord by stature. The sight drove a shaft of remembered fear through him.
At least fifty men rode under his flag, all of them armed to the teeth, bristling with spears and weaponry that made it apparent they meant to attack the abbey. Yet such violence was forbidden by the church and certain to get the Slayer excommunicated by the Archbishop of York himself. Uncertainty feathered Alec’s spine.
Just as suddenly, a thought occurred to him. Rather than keep the doors barred against an attack, what if he let the Slayer enter? No doubt, he had come for Clarisse and the Abbot of Revesby. Though Clarisse had insisted this same warrior who had killed his father was not an evil man, that was nearly impossible for Alec to believe as God’s truth. Yet if he invited him within, Alec might be spared from having to steal—or, worse yet, have to confront Horatio if he awoke.
Ascertaining that no one observed him, he slid back the iron bar that kept the door bolted and pulled the heavy doors wide open, each in turn, inviting the Slayer into the Abbey of Rievaulx.
Seeing the gates swing open before him, Christian hauled at the reins in suspicion. Behind him, his men-at-arms did the same, and their horses came to a stamping, snorting halt.
Christian signaled for his men to hang back. Nosing his destrier into the courtyard, he stopped and searched it for signs of human life. Aside from his archers’ bolts jutting up everywhere, it looked as abandoned as it always did. Then his gaze alighted on a solitary monk hovering in the shadows of a covered walkway.
Christian urged his mount toward the man. The closer he came, the more the monk’s resemblance to Monteign became apparent. Guilt slid over him with the feel of boiling oil. This could only be Alec.
The young monk edged into the sunlight, shading his eyes to look up at him. “If you are looking for the Abbot of Revesby and Lady Clarisse, they are here,” he said in worried tones.
Relief left Christian momentarily light-headed. Thank the saints, Clarisse had made it safely to the abbey. He swung a heavy leg over the back of his horse and dismounted. “Am I addressing Alec Monteign?”
Blue eyes rounded at the civil inquiry. “You are.” His gaze dipped to the breadth of Christian’s chest then up to the hilt of his broadsword peeking over one shoulder.
Christian tugged off his gauntlets and tucked them beneath his belt. Swallowing his pride, he thrust out a hand hoping the younger man would take it. “Forgive me,” he grated, bowing his head slightly. The words he had penned on vellum tangled in his throat as he waited for Alec to make up his mind.
More quickly than he could have hoped, the monk accepted his handshake with a clammy but firm grip. “All is forgiven. I have already given myself to God and released my feelings of anger and vengeance. If you’ve come to take back those wrongfully imprisoned here, I can show you where they are.”
He seemed eager for Christian to get the matter over and done with. The prospect of seeing Clarisse again quickened his heartbeat. “Where?” he asked.
Alec’s gaze darted toward the door at the end of the walkway. “They’re below,” he said, “guarded by Horatio. You must first take the keys from him.”
Concern tempered Christian’s excitement. “Where is your abbot?” he inquired.
Alec shrugged. “Likely in his cloister or mayhap in his herbal. I know not.”
Christian deliberated whether to involve his army or to leave them outside. Discretion seemed the better part of valor at that moment. He would handle this alone and find himself in less trouble with the church later.
“Show me the way,” he demanded.
Alec gave a nod of relief, then turned and led him through a nearby door. Christian flinched at the smell of sickness fouling the air. As he followed Alec down a maze of empty hallways, he studied the monk sidelong. It came as no surprise to learn that Clarisse’s Dear One resembled an angel with his fair coloration. Worse still, he conveyed an air of gentle integrity that left Christian feeling painfully aware of his dark and surly nature. ’Twas little wonder Clarisse had given her heart to such a gentle man.
They came to a heavy door, and Alec paused to look over at him.
“I thank you for returning my lands to me,” he said in a quick, awkward manner.
Searching his guileless expression, Christian felt his panic rise. “Does that mean you will rule Glenmyre in your father’s stead?” And marry Clarisse as was originally intended? He held his breath waiting for an answer.
“I would rather gift my lands to the church, unless that displeases you,” Alec replied.
Christian blinked in surprise. “You wish to remain a monk?”
“Aye.”
The young man was a fool to deny himself both land and a woman such as Clarisse, but that was his prerogative. Moreover, it left no one else competing for Clarisse’s hand. Relief welled up in Christian at his good fortune. “So be it,” he said, hiding his delight and gesturing for Alec to proceed.
“You first,” the monk invited, displaying unexpected cowardice. He opened the door and stepped back.
Christian gazed down at a flight of stone steps. Torchlight coming up from below licked over the damp walls. This is a dungeon, not a cellar, Christian realized, descending the steps cautiously. As he neared the bottom, he was not surprised to spy a number of barred doors. A figure lounging against the wall struggled upright as he stepped down onto the floor.
“You!” blurted the monk Christian knew as Horatio. The man had turned him away at the gate many times.
“Christian!” cried another more endearing voice. Glancing toward the bars of the door closest to him, he could not see Clarisse’s face in the darkness but recognized the luster of her hair reflected by torchlight.
Alec joined him, and Horatio shot the young monk a disbelieving glare. “Ye let him in?” he raged.
“Aye,” Alec admitted.
“Surrender those keys,” he ordered, pulling his sword from its scabbard. The sound of it echoed off the stone walls. “Or you will lose your life.”
Panic flared in Horatio’s eyes. “You will burn in hell for threatening to kill a monk,” he predicted.
Christian shrugged. “I shall burn in hell, regardless. The keys,” he prompted, holding out his free hand.
Horatio took a slow step in his direction, then suddenly swiveled and raced toward an open cell, perhaps intending to bar himself inside until other monks happened upon them.
Christian’s heavy chainmail kept him from reacting swiftly.
Alec, who was lighter on his feet, gave chase.
“Aye, get him,” Christian urged.
Horatio dived into a cell and sought to swing the barred door shut. But Alec threw his weight against it, barreling inside and knocking Horatio onto his back. They rolled for a moment on the floor, Alec grappling for supremacy as Christian entered the cell.
“Take the keys,” Alec urged, pinning his burly victim down as best he could.
Christian couldn’t help himself. Horatio had offended him one time too many. Leaning down, he plowed his fist into the man’s face, putting a swift end to the struggle. Then he unclasped the keyring from his belt.
Alec gaped up at him in astonishment.
“Sorry,” Christian apologized—except he wasn’t in the least.
Keys in hand, he returned swiftly to the first cell to free Clarisse. Inserting one key after another into the lock, he drank in the sight of her dressed in Callum’s clothing—a surprisingly appealing vision—and chained like a prisoner to the inner wall, which did not appeal at all but infuriated him.
“Oh, you are a blessed sight!” she cried, weaving on her feet.
No one had ever called him that before. Perhaps she’d meant Alec, who’d come to his side.
“’Try the biggest key,” the monk suggested.
“Here, you do it,” Christian said, standing back and leaving it to Alec to free Clarisse. If she loved young Monteign still, he reasoned, he would surely see it in her eyes when the man freed her.
However, her gaze had not wavered from his face, and she all but ignored Alec as he succeeded in getting her cell open before sweeping inside to release the locks of her manacles.
Bending nearly double, Christian followed Alec into the cell, hovering close should Alec need his help. It was all he could do not to reach for Clarisse and hold her close, reassuring himself that she wasn’t harmed.
All the while her regard remained fixed on him, as if she couldn’t credit his presence. When the chains fell from her, she moved immediately toward him, rubbing her chafed arms and necessitating that he back out of the small enclosure.
“Ethelred lies next door,” she said, with urgency. “I fear he may have died from thirst, having refused the wine. It is poisoned. Thank you, Alec,” she added, almost absently.
Rousing from what felt like a trance, Christian moved to the next cell over and spied Ethelred lying in a heap against the wall. “Alec, the keys!” he called.
As Alec worked to release the good abbot from his chains, Christian sensed Clarisse coming to stand beside him. The feel of her small hand slipping into his nearly stopped his heart. Incredibly, she gave his fingers a squeeze—one that conveyed both gratitude and contrition.
Sliding his thumb over her soft knuckles, he communicated his own apology. But there was no time to speak of it now.
“He is yet alive,” Alec assured them, casting the manacles aside. “Help me.”
It was up to Christian to carry Ethelred upstairs. With reluctance, he released the soft hand he was holding.
As they stepped out of the cellar into a sunlit hall, he glanced back at Clarisse. The bruise highlighting her right cheek bespoke of her ill treatment at Abbot Gilbert’s hands. A surge of fury urged him to violence.
Just then, Ethelred stirred, his eyes fluttering open.
“Put him down,” Clarisse suggested. “He needs to drink.”
Christian placed him gingerly upon a stone bench.
Putting a shaky hand to his head, Ethelred then looked up at them and managed a weak smile. “What took you so long, Christian?” he croaked.
“Find him water,” Clarisse begged of Alec, who hurried away at once.
“Where is Gilbert?” Ethelred looked up and down the hall.
“I haven’t seen him,” Christian answered. “And unless he wishes to meet his maker, he should not wish to encounter me either.”
The good abbot gave a swallow and grimaced. “I cannot leave without the proof of his malevolence. I must have something to present to the College of Cardinals.”
“Where is this proof?” Christian asked.
“In his herbal,” Ethelred said with confidence.
“You are too weak to search now,” Clarisse protested.
“Nay, I must,” he insisted.
At that moment, Alec returned at a run, bearing a flagon of watered beer. He offered it to Ethelred first, who gulped down most of it before offering it with an exclamation of apology to Clarisse.
“Alec,” Christian said, making up his mind to enlist the young monk’s help again. “Accompany Clarisse to the gate whilst Ethelred and I search your abbot’s herbal.”
“Nay, I would go whither you go,” she protested.
Her desire to stay with him warmed him, but it was impossible.
“Alec, take her,” he insisted. “And hold her fast,” he warned. “She has a tendency to run off.”
Clarisse raised her chin at him. “Only when I’m threatened.”
He sent her a tiny smile indicating, he hoped, his regret for scaring her away from Helmsley. As Alec led her toward the gate, she cast him a worried backward glance, and his hopes for the future continued to climb.
“Come, Ethelred,” he said, helping the good abbot to his feet. “Let us find what we need to condemn your colleague. Can you walk?”
“Aye.” Ethelred put one unsteady foot in front of the other, indicating they should follow the corridor in the opposite direction. “In here,” he whispered as they arrived at a closed door.
The hinges gave a low moan as he pushed it open. Several steps led down into a room filled with watery light, crammed with boxes and cages, all filled with snuffling, restless-sounding creatures. The breeze wafting from the high windows failed to alleviate the odor of animal waste and the overlying scent of herbs, suspended and drying in clumps from rafters crossing the ceiling.
Ethelred released Christian’s arm and tottered toward a table. It was littered with mortars and pestles, a crucible for heating herbs, and bowls that overflowed with seeds, roots, petals, and leaves. A collection of blue bottles lined the shelves above. The good abbot unstopped a bottle and sniffed it.
His attention fell upon a codex, which he opened and scanned. Carrying it closer to the window, he read aloud, “Infusion of Henbane mixed with the bark of Daphne mezereum will yield a poison causing lesions on the face, throat and tongue. But its bitterness betrays it and must be counterbalanced by devil’s bit, with honey of roses.”
Christian picked up a scrap of rolled parchment lying on the window ledge. Thinking it a note that Gilbert might have penned, he unfurled it and read, Archbishop Thurstan denies interdict at Helmsley. Ethelred visits you today to make inquiry.
Reading it a second time, he frowned as it struck him what this was—a message sent from Helmsley to the abbot to warn him of Ethelred’s impending visit.
It was just as Sir Roger had suggested, then. Someone at Helmsley communicated with Abbot Gilbert—but who? The hair at his nape stirred. The culprit could be just about anyone.
“This is all I need,” Ethelred declared, continuing to skim the codex’s contents. “He implicates himself with his experiments.” A moment later, he closed it and tucked it under his arm. “We can leave now,” the good a
bbot declared, but then he looked to the cages. In the closest one, a pig gazed up at him. “But first we must set these animals free.”
Christian heaved an inward sigh. Ethelred’s tender heart put him repeatedly at risk. Nevertheless, when the pig gave a squeal of joy, racing past his ankles, he considered Gilbert’s enraged reaction upon finding his animals missing, and he went to help the good abbot. A rabbit, two weasels, a turtle, a frog, and a rat all sprang from their various enclosures, some running, some hopping for the stairs.
“Now we leave,” Ethelred declared, sounding suddenly exhausted.
Christian caught him by the elbow and helped him toward the steps. They had barely begun their ascent when the door above them opened. Christian looked up to see daylight framing Gilbert’s robed figure and tonsured head. The abbot paused at the sight of interlopers standing just below him—not to mention the animals making their way toward him.
“You!” Gilbert cried, his gaze sliding in disbelief from Christian to the smaller man. “You should not be here.” His gaze fell to the book tucked under Ethelred’s arm. “Is that my ledger?” he cried.
“Aye, it is,” said the good abbot, with more strength than he’d shown up until then. “You have sickened your brethren with your experiments. Do you intend to claim that you also healed them?”
Gilbert’s breath grew labored. “How dare you insinuate such a thing!”
“I insinuate nothing. ’Tis all recorded in your tome.”
Gilbert took one step down toward them. “You misunderstand. I have been searching for a cure to this pestilence that has seized us.”
“A cure using mezereum and devil’s bit? Both are well-known poisons,” Ethelred scoffed.
“You know nothing about the art of healing,” Gilbert raged.
Just then, something small and furry brushed past Christian’s boot as it flew up the stairs. Its long body identified it as one of the weasels. A second later, it rippled past Father Gilbert’s bare ankles. At his cry of alarm, the frightened animal latched onto his sandal-clad heel.
Gilbert shrieked. He kicked his foot to loosen the animal's hold and immediately lost his balance.