“Was that your niece?” Clarise asked, closing the book. “Rose, that’s a pretty name.”
“Our pretty Rose has wilted,” he intoned in a singsong voice. His vague blue eyes darkened with loss.
Clarise felt a pang of sympathy for the old man. She reached across the plank table and touched his hand. “She is with the saints now,” she comforted, knowing Harold’s fascination for saints and martyrs.
Harold’s gaze drifted until it landed on her face. “My Rose had a baby,” he told her mournfully. He frowned as though struggling to remember something.
“Did she die in childbirth? ’Tis such a sad thing. Simon’s mother also died,” she reminded him.
“Not Doris,” he said, sounding relieved.
“Nay, Doris is well, thank God. ’Twas her babe that died,” she clarified, thinking him confused.
He scratched the bristles on his jaw. “So sad,” he echoed her earlier statement. “She was a baby once, my Rose. I rocked her on my knee. Here’s your horsey.” He clicked his tongue to imitate the clip-clopping of hooves.
“You must have been a wonderful uncle.”
“Harold, brother of John,” he said, as though introducing himself.
Awareness stirred at the edges of Clarise’s mind, but with her thoughts elsewhere, she failed to grasp what it was. Instead, she found herself recalling the conversation she’d shared with the Slayer over breakfast.
She’d had no intention of speaking to him at all, for she had no answer to his ultimatum. But hearing him recount for his men-at-arms Ferguson’s attack on Glenmyre, she’d realized he had seen her mother with his own eyes, and she longed for reassuring word of her. “How did my mother look?” she asked, buttering her bread to avoid eye contact. Nonetheless, her face flushed crimson, and she was certain that anyone who looked at her would guess her indignity of the night before.
He had turned his attention from his men to her. “Not well,” he’d said with a frown. “She seemed desperate to enter the gates.”
Desperate. The word sliced deep into her heart. “Could you not have tried to let her in?” It was useless to hide her dismay.
“I did try, lady.” He’d captured her hand, then, the strength of his grip reassuring. “The foot soldiers were too close, and a second wave of men hid in the trees. The most I could do was ensure she didn’t get hit by our arrows when Ferguson called her back.”
She had almost told the Slayer, then and there, she would accept to be his mistress. Ferguson had put her mother in the direct path of the enemy’s arrows! How could she risk the lives of her family by waiting another day?
But pride kept her in check. There was yet another option, one that did not involve the threat to her senses, the indignity of trading her body for the Slayer’s aid. With the Abbot of Revesby’s help, there was still a chance that she could contact Alec.
The scuffle of sandals roused her to the present. Just then, the good abbot stepped through the rear entrance of the hall. This morning’s service, followed by the sacrament of burial for Doris’s babe, had afforded no opportunity to catch him alone. Perhaps now, she thought, seizing what might be her only chance.
“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.”