At last, with her temples throbbing, she gained the last step. Light filtered around the edges of the door before her, yet the door was made of stone. She pushed. It didn’t budge.
Running her hands over the slimy surface, she discerned two iron pulls. Tugging them toward her, she was astonished when the door popped inward and rumbled to one side. It traveled in a stone trough, giving off a sound like thunder.
Her lungs swelled as she waited to be discovered. She realized she would give anything at that moment to have Christian with her, wielding his monstrous broadsword.
No voices called out. All was still in the sunlit chamber before her. It was a little workroom, cluttered with desks that were designed for the illumination of manuscripts. Hundreds of loose sheaves littered the tabletops. Jars of gold-leaf paint and horns of black ink lined the edges of the parchment. But the scent of ink had long run dry. Dust motes swirled in the rays of sunlight streaming through the window. The brilliance of the detailed paintings was dulled by time. Projects seemed to have been abandoned in midsentence.
The scourge, thought Clarise. She wished she had brought a sachet of herbs to cover her nose.
Stepping into the room, she dusted the dirt from her hands and knees and kept her ears pricked for sounds in the hallway. The abbey seemed as deserted as it had on the day she’d inquired at the gate. Finding grooves in the stone door, she hauled the door shut again. It closed with the finality of a crypt. She knew an urge to push it open and leave while she could.
She took a moment to consider how to execute her rescue. To skulk around the abbey unnoticed, she would need a monk’s robe. Such apparel might be kept in the cells where the monks slept. No one would likely be there, she comforted herself, providing they were well enough to be about their prayers.
The stark hallway was devoid of human life. She raced down the lengthy passage to the window slit at the end and caught a glimpse of the abbey’s gardens. Beautiful! Who would have suspected such variety of color behind the austere walls?
She took the stairwell to the right. It spiraled upward to a higher level where she supposed the men slept. The sounds of many voices had her hesitating. Was the refectory above her? she wondered. She had imagined it on the first level, as it was in most holy buildings.
Hugging the wall, she crept upward, if only to orient herself. As her gaze rose over the topmost stair, she was astonished to see a large chamber filled with rows upon rows of cots. Each bed was occupied by a groaning invalid. Only a few men tended them, moving among the rows to ease their companions’ suffering.
An infirmary, Clarise decided, freezing in terror at the grotesque scene. The ill lay struggling for breath. The pustules that reddened their skin seemed most virulent about the mouth. As she listened to the coughing and wheezing, she wondered if the blisters coated the victims’ throats.
Swallowing hard, she backed down the stairs, desperate to escape the horror. She could not go through with this plan. God forgive her, but she was mad to leave the Slayer’s castle and to strike out on her own. She would rather face Ferguson than this!
She did not even see the shadowy figure slipping up the stairs behind her. He clapped a hand on her shoulder, and she screamed so loud that her voice reverberated in the stairwell. The hideous countenance of Horatio swam into her view. As he grinned at her, his grip became an unbreakable hold.
“What have we here?” he leered in a rusty voice. His gaze was greedy as it absorbed the boyish garb. He wrenched off her hat, and her hair came tumbling down. “Hah!” proclaimed the monk in wonder. “So, yer back. The abbot will be pleased to see you.” He dragged her, kicking and cursing, down the stairs with him.
Above them, in the infirmary, a monk rose slowly from the side of a cot and listened. He’d thought he heard a woman screaming. The sound of it still rang in his ears, defying the logic that said he’d imagined it.
Two nights ago the Abbot of Revesby had halted him, while following Gilbert to his office chambers. He’d grasped his arm and quickly divulged two pieces of news that had him reeling with concern. Clarise DuBoise was looking for him, the abbot had said, and the Slayer wanted to give him back his lands.
Alec frowned as he stirred mush in the wooden bowl. It must have been the abbot’s words exciting his imagination. The woman who screamed had sounded just like Clarise, but that was impossible. She would not have been admitted to the abbey with the quarantine in place.
He shook his head in puzzlement. It was just one more mystery in the conundrum of riddles at Rievaulx. Why did the ailment afflict only some men at the abbey and not others? What were the animal cries that rent the nighttime quiet?
Something more than the scourge disturbed the peace of the tranquil monastery, and Alec dared discover the true nature of evil lurking in its halls.
Chapter Sixteen
Clarise measured the width of the windowless chamber, using the torchlight in the corridor to guide her steps. Seven . . . eight . . . at nine paces, her toe hit the stone wall. It was ten paces deep, and barely tall enough to keep the dripping spiderwebs from sticking to her hair.
She backed up to the middle of the room and wrapped her arms around her shivering frame. Her gaze was drawn to the chains dangling from the wall. This room was clearly used to detain prisoners.
What would an abbot need with manacles? she asked herself. Criminals were sometimes granted asylum in the holy houses, but never imprisoned in their cellars. Perhaps the chains were not for prisoners, but to discipline the monks. Aye, that made more sense, given Gilbert’s grim hold at Rievaulx.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor had her scurrying in vain for somewhere to hide. Yet there was no escape in a cell with only a crude table, a mat of hay in one corner, and a waste hole in the other. Clarise heard the jangling of keys. She saw the tonsured pate of a monk through the bars at the top of the door. When the abbot edged into the room, her worst nightmares seemed to be materializing.
She would rather have the grotesque Horatio keeping her company. The abbot had read her letters. She felt violated by him already.
He bore a tray in his hands, with a cup, a loaf of bread, and a candle on it. The flame sparked a mad light in his countenance, making him look oddly happy to see her. And yet the cruel twist to his mouth told her that his joy was a perverse one, whatever the reason for it.
“Clarise DuBoise,” he crooned, shutting the door behind him. Her gaze darted to the loop of keys he carried on a cord around his hips. “How good of you to come.” He laid the tray on the rickety table. The gems at his fingers caught the glow of the candlelight.
She backed cautiously away from him, saying nothing. The door was unlocked, she thought. Perhaps she could make a run for it.
“Like a proper host, I have brought you food. Sit,” he invited, nodding at the lice-ridden pallet. “Take nourishment. God knows how long you will feel well enough to eat. The illness is likely in your veins already.” Baring his sharp teeth in a smile, he came forward and extended the cup to her.
Clarise knocked it from his grasp, casting a sheet of wine onto the wall beside her.
The abbot gaped with astonishment and then hissed in outrage. “Why, you perfidious bitch! Have you any idea how precious that wine was?” He flew at her, arms raised like bat wings. His palm made stinging contact with her cheek.