“Excuse me, Harold.” She abandoned the Slayer’s book on the table and hastened toward Ethelred. He had spotted her as well, and his face lit up. His short stride was charged with purpose. They met by the empty fire pit.

“Lady Clarise,” he greeted her. “I was told to seek your assistance in showing me the herb garden.”

“By all means. But I’ve only stepped foot in it once,” she admitted. “I believe Dame Maeve knows more about herbs than I.”

“It was she who bid me seek you out,” he said, looking puzzled.

“Ah, well, the housekeeper is feeling ill.” Suffering from a case of wounded pride, she nearly added. “Shall we find the garden now? I would speak with you about a certain matter.” She glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder. The hall was deserted at midmorning. The Slayer had left with his master-at-arms to run through drills in the outer ward.

“Lead the way.” The good abbot gestured.

“What exactly are you looking for, Your Grace?” she called a moment later. He paced the walkway of crushed seashells, looking hot in his black robe. Sweat dripped from his temples as he peered at the rows of aster, tansy, and feverfew. He stroked his beardless chin in contemplation.

“I wish I knew, lady,” he cryptically confessed. His gaze hovered over a bright patch of horeshound, then inspected the heavy stalks of foxglove. At last he glanced at Clarise. “Do you know much about healing?” he inquired.

She shook her head regretfully. “Not I, Father. My sister Merry is skilled in the herbal arts. What little I know I learned from her. Why do you ask?” she inquired, feeling a chill despite the heat.

He clasped his hands together and looked away. “ ’Tis a matter the archbishop has asked me to look into,” he answered vaguely. He turned away and paced down another shell-strewn aisle.

Clarise followed his gaze and managed to summon the names of just a few of the plants crowding the narrow beds. Pink lady’s mantle, pale Saint-John’s-Wort, and purple pennyroyal. There were others, but she could neither name them nor list their qualities.

For the moment Ethelred seemed content with his inspection. He approached her, smiling a bit grimly. “What is it you wished to speak to me about?” he asked.

Clarise’s heart began to pound. She had waited so long for a priest to assist her. At the same time she felt as though she were bent on a secret mission, one that the Slayer would disapprove of should he catch wind of it. “Your Grace,” she hedged, plucking the folds of her salmon-pink gown. “There is a novice monk at Rievaulx, an old friend of mine. I’ve been unsuccessful at reaching him, either by letter or in person. I fear,” she added, feeling the heat of embarrassment on her cheeks, “that he may be stricken by illness there.”

“What is this brother’s name?” the abbot asked. His probing blue gaze was not without sympathy, and Clarise took heart.

“Alec Monteign. He was once my betrothed,” she admitted, baring all. “He went to Reivaulx six months ago.” She was startled to find that the pain of his desertion had miraculously eased.

“I believe I met him once,” Ethelred mused. “Is he a man of average stature, with golden hair, light eyes?”

“He is!” she cried. “When did you see him?”

“This winter past. He was newly come to Rievaulx, quite zealous to live the life of an eremite. I remember he approached me and asked me questions about my book.”

Alec hadn’t shared his religious zeal with her. It came as a surprise to hear of it. Clarise had to wonder if he hadn’t agreed to wed her for his father’s sake.

“Is it at all possible to get word to him?” she asked, wishing she had more confidence in his skills.

Ethelred thought for a moment. He gave the garden a quick but thorough inspection. Walls surrounded them on every side. The air was saturated with birdsong and the distant gurgling of the moat. “I think I can,” he told her quite decisively. “As you know, I will go to Rievaulx to investigate the matter of the interdict. I will look for Alec while I’m there.”

“But what if Gilbert denies you entrance? After all, Rievaulx is quarantined. He can say that in your best interest you must keep away.”

Ethelred’s eyes sparkled with adventure. “I was master novice at Rievaulx for two years. While I was there, I discovered something Gilbert doesn’t know.”

“And what is that?” she asked.

“A second entrance into the abbey.”

“Verily?” She found herself smiling in wonder.

“Aye, in a cave on the side of the abbey hill, there is a hole, big enough for a wild animal or a small man like me. The cave leads to an underground passage and thence to the chamber where I used to gloss Psalters. Now, should Gilbert deny me entrance, I will still find my way inside.”

“But what of the illness? You must be careful. They say if you breathe through a satchel of herbs, you won’t catch the plague.” She looked helplessly at the garden around them.

He patted her hand. “The illness is the least of my concerns,” he assured her.

She thought him exceedingly brave. “There is one more thing, Your Grace. Lord Christian wrote Alec a letter in which he offered to return Alec’s inheritance to him. Would you ask him if he received the letter and whether he has considered the offer?”

The good abbot’s eyes narrowed with sudden comprehension. “Do you hope that he will take up arms on your behalf?”

“I have nowhere else to turn,” she admitted, feeling suddenly forlorn, though her chances of getting word to Alec had never been higher.

The abbot frowned in confusion. “I thought perhaps Christian would help you now that you’ve told him the truth of your plight. Perhaps since you care for his son, he would be willing to reclaim your father’s home for you. Have you asked him?”

She looked down at her knotted hands. “I’ve already asked,” she replied, willing herself not to blush. “He refuses to help.”

A thoughtful silence followed her words. She glanced up to find his keen gaze on her face. “Would you like me to speak to him?” he offered kindly. “Perhaps I can convince him—”

A hot wave of mortification crested in her cheeks. “Nay, thank you,” she refused, not wanting the abbot to know of her humiliating choice. “If you can get word to Alec, you’ll have done more than enough.”

The abbot nodded gravely. “Then, I’ll do my best,” he promised.

“When will you go?” Desperation made her bold. She feared the Slayer would try again to persuade her. The thought made her heart race and her mouth go dry.

“Shortly after none’s prayers today.”

Good. If there was any recourse to the Slayer’s proposition, she would know it soon. “Thank you,” she told him. “How can I repay you?”

He winked at her as he tightened the sash around his waist. “I was headed to the abbey anyway,” he said.

Clarise’s spirits rose a notch. “I must go now. Simon is mine for the afternoon.”

“A blessed burden,” said Ethelred.

He is indeed, thought Clarise. Because of Simon, she was actually thinking of accepting the Slayer’s proposition. She had loved the infant from the first. She could not bear the thought of leaving him when the time came to leave Helmesly.

If she left. She refused to accept that the Slayer’s touch might influence her. Yet whenever the memory of her ecstasy replayed itself, her bones seemed to melt like butter, and a delicious shudder overtook her. Humiliation could not defeat desire. There was a part of her that would secretly revel in becoming his mistress. A part of her that found the Slayer exciting and fascinating. Only she refused to acknowledge it.

Clarise DuBoise had been born a lady, and a lady she wished to remain. She owed it to her bloodlines to discover if Alec would trade his cleric’s robes for a sword. Alec, she thought, would never demand such a price as the Slayer had demanded. He was far too honorable for that.

Abbot Gilbert crushed the purple berries in the large marble mortar, heedless of the juice that spurted stains onto his vestments. The beauty of being an abbot was that no one could take him to task for soiling his clerical garb.

At Rievaulx no monk dared question the things that he did or said. Anyone foolish enough to try was shut away in a dark cell, with Horatio visiting in short but painful interludes. These unfortunates rarely survived to speak of the horrors they’d endured.

Gilbert chuckled and reached for one of the glass vials on a shelf above him. Of all the chambers in the abbey, this cellar chamber was the most cluttered and unkempt. He preferred it that way. The lack of order encouraged him to think creatively. As he ground the seeds of the fruit into the pulp, he looked about his cellar herbal with satisfaction.

In addition to the shelves of corked vials, all of them unmarked and known only to him by their smell, the room contained a long table where he performed his masterpieces. On the table were various instruments for heating, mixing, and separating his creations. Squares of parchment were scattered across his work area. Now and then he jotted down the ingredients and quantities of his experiments.

Behind him, crates were stacked as high as the wall. These contained various beasts that snuffled and stirred in continual despair. Their animal odor blended with the herbs’ perfumes. A pair of foxes lived in one box, a pig in another—the gluttonous creature. It had knocked its slop out of the bowl, so that it dribbled through the slats of the crate onto the stone floor.

The smaller boxes held animals ranging from a mouse to a poisonous lizard. These were the recipients of his experiments. Some of them were wounded or ill when they came to him. He had healed a few with his herbal remedies—pure happenstance, he admitted. He had killed the majority.