Clarise reeled back. One of his rings had bruised her cheekbone. With righteous anger giving her courage, she barreled past the abbot and raced toward the closed door, pulling on it. The door swung open with astonishing ease. She threw herself into the corridor and ran headlong into a human wall.
Horatio. He’d been standing guard.
He held her fast, and she screamed until her throat felt raw. Certainly someone at the abbey could hear her. The corridors seemed to magnify her shrill cries.
“Chain her,” said the abbot, coming up behind them. He straightened his silk stole and handed Horatio the keys. “Give her nothing to drink until she begs for it,” he added in disgust. “Then post yourself outside the door. If the Slayer comes to call again, I will send another in your stead,” he added to his henchman.
Horatio manhandled her back into the cell. She was made to face the wall and breathe its damp, musty odor. The manacles banded her wrists with cold implacability. Using the keys, he locked them tight.
“I am sore tempted,” grunted Horatio, “to treat you like a lady.” He allowed himself the liberty of squeezing her buttocks. Clarise yelled in outrage and struggled to kick him.
Horatio grunted as her booted heel slammed against his shin. He stepped back quickly and spat at her.
She closed her eyes, willing him to leave. At the sound of his retreating footsteps and the click of the outer lock, she wilted in despair. The chains, with their short leash, kept her from reaching either the loaf of bread or the candle that beamed upward in the stillness.
You’ve done it this time, Clarise, she railed at herself. She had always been too impulsive, too quick to act before thinking. Rather than plead with the warlord, she’d come to Rievaulx alone and defenseless. In doing so, she had spurned the only person mighty enough to dispatch Ferguson. No, that wasn’t right. He had spurned her.
Dear God, don’t let me die here, she prayed, dropping her forehead against the wall. It was hardly comforting to learn that her instincts were right. The Abbot of Rievaulx had some wicked plot afoot, though she could not imagine what it was.
She huddled for warmth against the hard wall, feeling homesick. Only it wasn’t Heathersgill she missed, but Helmesly. She was assailed by the memory of Christian’s scent, his disturbing kisses. He would have made her his mistress. So what? She could have accepted that much for the time being. Then eventually, she would have done something to secure her footing.
She could have taught the warlord to love her.
She could have convinced him to marry her, for Simon’s sake.
But now it was too late. He wouldn’t know where to look for her, so long as Nell kept quiet. And she would waste away in this bleak, damp hole under the abbey.
Hot tears filled her eyes, spilling over her lashes to track down her dusty cheeks. What would become of her mother and sisters if she died in this musty cell? They had less than a month to live before Ferguson would hang them.
“Oh, Father,” she choked, invoking the memory of Edward DuBoise, “I have tried to protect Mother, Merry, and Kyndra—I have. But everywhere I’ve turned for help, men have betrayed me. I’ve done all that I can do. Please forgive me.”
Over the sound of her weeping came a low humming that recalled her from her pain. Clarise caught back her sobs and listened. The sound seemed to be coming through the wall. She pressed an ear to the stone. Someone was chanting a canticle in the chamber next to her. “Who’s there?” she called, unwilling to alert Horatio, who was standing guard in the hallway.
The chanting stopped. She heard the eerie scrape of chain across stone. “ ’Tis I, Ethelred. Lady Clarise, is that you?” She barely recognized the good abbot’s voice. It sounded raspy, weak.
“It is I, Your Grace,” she answered with happiness and sorrow intermixed. She was so relieved not to be alone, yet so remorseful for not bringing help.
“Why did you follow me? Is anyone else coming?”
She swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. The abbot sounded terrible. He must have caught the scourge, after all. Those lesions she’d seen on the monks’ mouths must be popping up on his throat and tongue.
“Lord Christian has come to the abbey twice now,” she sought to encourage him, “but they won’t admit him. He’s sent an urgent message to the archbishop. Oh, Your Grace, please forgive me,” she added, bursting into tears anew. “I ought to have told the others how to get inside the abbey, but I didn’t. I followed you on my own.”
“Why?” he asked. She thought she could hear him sinking onto the floor.
Why, indeed? What in heaven’s name had she hoped to accomplish, but to prove to Christian that she didn’t need his help—not that he had offered it. “Lord Christian and I had a falling out,” she admitted.
Ethelred said nothing for so long, she thought he’d fallen asleep. “Don’t drink the wine, my child.”
“What’s that?” She pricked her ears to his sudden warning.
“Don’t drink the wine,” he rasped. “You will . . . seem to show the symptoms of the plague.”
“Show the symptoms? I don’t understand. If the wine makes you sick, then it cannot be the plague.”
“ ’Tis a simulation.”
“Quiet in there!” Horatio shouted through the bars. “You two are not meant to talk.”
She obeyed the monk, too stunned by Ethelred’s news to think of anything to say. So, the disease was a fraud, no doubt made possible by the many plants growing in the abbey’s garden! What on earth was Gilbert hoping to accomplish by poisoning his monks?
When she whispered this question to Ethelred moments later, she got no reply. He had either fallen asleep or fainted. The chill of isolation struck her to the bone, and she sank to her knees. The chains weren’t long enough to let her sit. She was left in a posture of penitence that was supremely painful. How long could she stand it? she wondered, beset by panic.
Ironically, this was the treatment she had feared from the Slayer. Instead he’d given her a feather mattress and colorful gowns. Even when he learned the truth of her identity, he’d forgiven her and offered her his sword arm. His stipulation had been simple enough. A warm embrace. A body willing to receive him.
Hadn’t he proven that his touch was more than tolerable? She spent a moment warming herself with the memory of his intimate caresses. Oh, what she would give to feel his arms around her now, to curl herself into the security of his sure embrace.
Then she remembered her anger and his cruel words. Was his threat prompted by jealousy? Did he really think her in love with Alec?
She found a ray of hope in the thought. If he were jealous, then it meant he truly cared for her. Her heart expanded, then folded in on itself. His feelings would have little impact on her situation now. No one knew where she was, at least not until Nell admitted to their scheme.
How long would that take? Knowing her lady’s maid, no more than three days. Could she live that long without a drop to drink?
“Psssst. Clarise, is that you?”
Clarise shook her head. In her misery, she must have imagined the ghostly whisper.
“Lady, look to the door!” This was said more urgently.
She looked. Her eyes widened, and her heart leaped up at the sight of Alec’s boyish face. He peered through the bars at her, looking amazed and nonplussed. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
She struggled to her feet, her chains jangling noisily. Alec, of course! She’d forgotten all about him and the possibility of his help. “Where is Horatio?” she asked, hopeful that Alec had clubbed him over the head.
“Supping in the refectory.”
Some of her elation dimmed. Alec didn’t have the keys to set her free. “Oh, Alec,” she stammered, not knowing where to start. “I’ve been trying to reach you.” Now that she could finally speak to him, she found that the words she had poured to him on printed page would not come forth. “I have long needed your help,” she managed lamely.