His anger subsided to a steady boil. After all his blustering and accusing, she found it in her heart to feel concern? He couldn’t speak for the humility that clogged his throat. Shamed by his unworthiness, he kept his eyes downcast.
“My lord, I want you to know something,” she told him, wresting his gaze upward. “I have not loved Alec for a very long time. Perhaps I never loved him but only thought I did. I was more in love with the hope that he would rescue us from Ferguson.”
Christian had to wonder if Horatio hadn’t killed him, after all. She didn’t love Alec? Not even a little? It sounded too good to be true.
“I only sought to appeal to him one more time, because . . . well, because you threatened to return me to Ferguson.”
He shifted her in his arms and looked away again, scowling. He had forced Clarise to do the very thing that had caused him to burn with jealous rage.
“Alec won’t leave the abbey anyway,” she added, without a hint of sorrow. “I’ve been wasting my time. He doesn’t even want his inheritance back.”
Their conversation was abruptly terminated by the reappearance of his men. The Abbot of Revesby was propped between them. The little man flinched against the sunlight in the open corridor. Christian assessed his health. His skin looked dried and shriveled. His shrunken frame betrayed starvation. But there was no sign of sores on his face.
The abbot moved his lips only to emit a croak.
“Find him water,” Christian commanded one of his men.
The man had taken no more than a step when Alec materialized again, bearing a full bucket and a loaf of bread. He placed it before the good abbot. Christian saw a flicker of gratitude in Ethelred’s eyes before he sank to his knees and began scooping water into his mouth.
Alec turned to Christian. He appeared a little shocked to see Clarise in the mercenary’s arms but not at all dismayed. His mouth hardened in a manner that reminded Christian of Monteign’s face beneath the visor of his helm. “Abbot Gilbert is in the herb garden,” he announced. “I told him that I turned you away from the gate.”
Again, Ethelred tried to speak. At first he choked, for he was still desperately drinking the water. “We need proof that he is sickening the monks,” he rasped. “The College of Cardinals must have proof to condemn him.”
“Sickening?” Christian asked. Clarise had said something similar when he freed her.
Alec summarized the abbot’s foul experiment, offering himself as evidence that the wine, which he never drank, had been tampered with. “He means to make a name for himself by curing the monks of the very sickness he conceived.”
“Do you know where he mixes his herbs?”
The young man nodded. “I will take you there,” he said. His gaze shifted to Clarise, who was watching from the circle of Christian’s arms. “I won’t let you down this time,” he told her.
She gave him a faint smile. “Thank you.”
Christian insisted that his men-at-arms take Clarise outside the gates. He was gratified to hear her protests.
“Nay, I will not let you go alone,” she said, with the same haughtiness that had drawn him to her in the first place. The worry in her eyes was a novelty. No one but Sir Roger had ever spared a thought for his safety.
“My lady, you are in no condition to accompany us.” He pried her gently from his shoulders and made her stand. Her knees folded under her weight, lending proof to his statement.
She cast him a pleading look.
“Go,” he commanded, forcing himself to sound firm.
Ethelred rose shakily to his feet. “I must accompany you,” he said. His voice had gathered strength.
The abbot was in worse condition than Clarise. “If he goes, then I am coming, too,” she argued, shaking off the arm of the man who tried to help her.
Christian rubbed his jaw with agitation. Clarise had no business in the abbot’s affairs, while Ethelred had initiated the inquiry. She would have to wait at the gate. “Give her some water,” he commanded to his men, turning quickly away so he wouldn’t have to face her pleas or her anger. “Then take her to the gate.”
“This way,” Alec gestured.
Christian put a helping hand under the good abbot’s elbow and trailed Alec down the corridor. He threw one last look over his shoulder and encountered Clarise’s worried stare.
Alec led them clear to the other end of the abbey. Their footfalls on the flagging invaded the hush of the long corridors. “Down here,” whispered the monk, pushing open a door.
The hinges gave a low moan. Stairs hewn from the rocky hillside beckoned them downward. The barest light guided their footsteps. Strange animal noises greeted them, fluttering, scuffling, and grunting. Alec paled and stepped aside. “I can go no further,” he admitted.
Christian noted the bead of perspiration sliding from the young man’s temple. “You have been most brave. Tell me how to repay you for the losses I have caused.”
Alec looked him in the eye, his expression somber. “Take proper care of Clarise,” he urged. “She is worthy of great loyalty and love, as those are the very traits she shows to others. I let her down. See that you do not.”
He nodded, seeing wisdom in the young man’s words. “Come, Your Grace.” He motioned for Ethelred to take his arm as they descended the stairs to the abbot’s laboratory.
The faint light, he ascertained, came through a ventilation slit at ceiling level. Christian was first impressed by the number of boxes and cages piled about the room. The chamber reeked of waste and feed and the overlying scent of drying herbs, suspended in clumps from pegs along the ceiling and walls.
Ethelred released his arm and headed 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. Ethelred unstopped a bottle and sniffed it.
His attention fell on a scrap of paper, and he turned it toward the window to read the scribbled words. “Infusion of Henbane,” he murmured and reached for another bit of paper. “Bark of Mezereon Spurge, just a pinch. Devil’s bit, with Honey of Roses.”
Christian caught sight of a scrap by his toe. Thinking it another ingredient, he picked it up and unrolled it. Archbishop Thurstan denies interdict at Helmesly. Ethelred comes today to make inquiry. As he read the warning a second time, the full implication of its existence came to him.
Someone at Helmesly had been spying on Gilbert’s behalf! It was just as Sir Roger suggested the day he was given Clarise’s letters. The evidence was overwhelming. The culprit could be just about anybody. He felt a stirring at the nape of his neck.
“Excellent,” said Ethelred, holding several bits of parchment together. “This should be enough to implicate Gilbert.” He looked at Christian. “I think we should go now.”
Christian heartily agreed. The damp air of the cellar was worming beneath his armor. He felt distinctly chilled. “Just one more thing,” he said, turning toward the cages behind him. Reaching high and low, he twisted the latches that held the animals captive. The first to break free was a filthy pig, who nosed his way free with a delirious squeal.
Ethelred gave Christian an approving look. Together they approached the stairs. With the good abbot still weak from his captivity, the climb up the narrow passage was laborious. Christian was tempted to pick the man up and carry him. There were so many matters to attend to.
They had ascended little more than halfway when the door above them yawned open. The Abbot of Rievaulx appeared with a candle in his hand. As they were disguised by the darkness, he failed to see them. But the noise of the liberated animals alerted him to trouble. He thrust the flame of his candle to a rush holder, and the tallowed rushes flared into life. The stairwell blazed with brightness.