Marie mustered as much dignity as she could find. “My Lord Clavret,” she frowned, “this is highly inappropriate. I accept your entry was a mistake...”
She trailed off as her shock faded and she saw he wasn’t wearing a shirt. In fact, as far as she could see, he wore nothing at all save a towel wrapped around his waist, which he held closed with one hand. Some dark hair grew on his broad chest, and a bit trailed down from his navel to vanish below the towel. The candlelight also highlighted the curves of his muscles, his strong arms and chest, even his stomach. For a moment when he stilled, he looked carved from stone. Except statues didn’t have such scars. A red line slashed across his left collarbone. An ugly purple scar cut across the right side of his stomach, near his navel. There were other various small marks, too. What had he survived?
When she managed to draw her eyes back up to his face, she saw he was smirking. A flame of blood flashed in her cheeks.
“Perhaps you would like to see me better?” He stepped toward her, gently moving Rachel out of the way. “If you like, I can help you finish your bath. Or we could save the servants the trouble of having a new one drawn, and I could join you.”
“Lord Clavret!” Marie managed a scandalized tone when what she wanted to do was laugh. She had been momentarily taken aback by a nearly naked man, and he had caught her staring, but she was no besotted virgin.
“No sharing a bath then?” He sighed dramatically. “How tragic.”
“Out,” Marie said and lifted an arm from the water to point at the door from whence he’d come.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “this is my bathroom. It is you who are in my space, lady.”
“Sister,” Marie corrected. That title needed to remain firm. Lady Marie might well have enjoyed an evening with the viscount. Sister Marie? Not at all.
“Sister,” he bowed his head, “I apologize for the mistake.”
He clearly wasn’t leaving, and she didn’t want to sit there until the water grew cold and her fingers and toes turned to prunes. “Rachel,” Marie asked. “Could you bring me that towel?” A large one hung on a hook next to her clothes.
“Of course, Sister.” Rachel hurried over and grabbed the cloth, bringing it to the edge of the tub.
“If you wouldn’t mind, perhaps, holding it between me and his lordship so that I might stand?”
Rachel positioned herself as a kind of screen, holding out the towel so that Marie was blocked from the lord’s view.
Marie stood up and paused, letting the warm water roll off her. The air had chilled as the water had lost some of its heat, and goosebumps rippled across her flesh. She eased one leg out, careful with her footing, and then the other. She turned her back to the towel, and Rachel draped it around her. After a few moments of fiddling, Marie had secured the towel around her, under her arms, leaving her hands free.
“Now,” she said, and moved to spin around and make a biting statement that hadn’t yet quite formed in her head. But the marble floor was wet, both with condensation and the water from her own dripping body. Her feet betrayed her, slipping one after the other, out from under her and surely sending her into a graceless wet heap.
Instead, arms caught her. “Easy there.” Lord Clavret’s voice was soft as he gathered her into his arms.
She flung her arm around his neck and clung to him.
“I’ve got you,” he said, and smiled down at her. “The floor can be quite treacherous when it is wet.”
“Clearly,” she managed. His black hair had fallen forward as he leaned his head down toward her, a kind of veil between them and the world. With her free hand, she pushed his hair back behind his ear.
“This close the rose is even more lovely,” he said, leaning closer so he could see it better. He seemed taken with it but dragged his eyes back up to her face. “Do you always dress this well for a bath?”
“No!” She shook her head. “I mean yes.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t take my rose off,” she said. She stared at him, into his eyes, ignoring the fact that the bare skin of her shoulder was pressed against his bare chest. Her heart thumped hard, but pressed against him this way, she could feel his, too, a comforting beat. She rested her free hand on his chest, grazing the scar on his collarbone, and would have stayed there in his arms for a long while had not Rachel coughed discreetly behind them.
“Put me down. Now,” she insisted, and then winced at her tone. “Please. Thank you for catching me, but I am fine now, if you’ll set me on my feet.”
“Bien sûr, mon petite nonne Marie de France,” he whispered softly enough that only she might hear. He lowered her feet to the floor but kept an arm around her waist until he seemed sure she had her footing. “Do you have shoes?” he asked.
“No,” she said and blushed even more. “I hated wearing them as a child, and I still dislike them.”
He let go of her and eased away. “I understand. I prefer the feel of the grass or stone beneath my feet, too.” He leaned in, conspiratorially. “One reason I am called the Wolf, among many, of course.”
“Oui.” Marie cautiously stepped back to her clothes and grabbed them from the hook. “I’ll leave you to your bath.” She moved past him, one foot slipping enough that she darted her hand out to steady herself on his shoulder. She gathered herself as much as she could and fled from the bathroom through the only open door. Right into his rooms.
Marie was relieved to find the room empty. She heard the door close behind her and turned to see Rachel, who took her clothes from her.
“Come now, Sister,” she said quietly, “let’s get you dried and dressed.”
“Do you think he’ll come back in?”
“No.” Rachel shook her head. “I think he’s had enough of his fun tonight.”
Marie rubbed the towel over herself, wiping away as much water as she could as fast as she could. She then snatched her shift and followed it with her habit. “I’ll skip the wimple. Just take me back to my rooms.” As she turned to find the main door, she scanned the room—a sinner’s paradise. The bed was large, draped in cloths and pillows. Silk scarves hung from the four massive posts. The colors were red and gold, in the curtains, the wall decorations, everything. Even the vanity was filigreed with it. Still, she couldn’t help but notice a lurking sense of loneliness. The room in the tower, with the books and papers, seemed much more occupied, more human.
“This way.” Rachel took her arm and led her from the room and back up to her tower.
Once Rachel had been shooed away with the evening’s dishes and promises that Marie was well, Marie changed into a shift for sleeping and sat at her desk.
“Good lord,” she muttered.
Asta scurried across the room and onto her shoulder, chittering in her ear.
“You don’t want to know, pretty girl,” Marie said as she stroked the ferret’s lithe body. “But the sooner we get what we need and get out of here, the better.”
She hadn’t managed to get through all the books Clavret had given her, including the smallest one, which waited on her desk. She snatched up the octavo book and flipped it open. The writing began immediately, with no title page. The hand was strong, with tight but clear writing, edge to edge, on every page. No fancy capitals or illustrations. As soon as she began to read, she saw why. This was verse, a romance. A tale of Arthur’s knights. Illuminations weren’t necessary. The poetry was detailed and clear and, at least to her mind, wonderful. She flipped forward in the book to a break in the text. These were a series of romances. Knights and crusaders. Ladies and magic. Monsters and miracles.
Why had he given her these? Were they scandalous? Sinful? Or did he genuinely believe she’d enjoy them? Perhaps he had made a mistake.
At any rate, they were the perfect antidote to the strange, unsettling, and mildly humiliating day.
By the time she was settled in bed, Asta curled up on the pillow next to her head, the near-full moon shone in through the window, giving h
er enough light to read. Dawn came quickly, and, though disappointed, she put the book away and tried to get a few hours of sleep.
Chapter Seven
Marie finally awoke when the bright sun cast a beam across her eyes. On the pillow next to her, Asta opened her eyes and blinked.
“Good morning, Asta,” she said, and the ferret flipped over on to her back for tummy scratches.
Marie stretched and swung her legs off the bed. She stood and stretched again, walking to the window. Judging by the sun, it was already around noon, and she had been supposed to meet him at breakfast.
“Oh dammit,” she said. She missed morning prayer again. She was not, she had to admit, the best of nuns. She tugged off her sleeping shift and did a quick wash in the water, now cold, that a servant had brought in sometime earlier. Truly, she could get used to people who believed in sleeping in from time to time.
A thorough search of the room revealed that Rachel had helpfully taken her habits to be washed, so she slipped on clean underthings and dug a plain dress from her trunk. She draped the dress over her head and began to pull on the laces at the side to fit it more to her body. She moved over to the window for more light, her back to the door. “Dammit again,” she said. The laces were a knotty mess. No way she could fix them with the dress on, at least not by herself.
As if an answer to an unspoken prayer, there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” she called, and heard a key turn in the lock. She stripped the dress off again. Rachel certainly had her timing down pat. “I’ve got my laces all knotted up. Do you think you could help?”
“Quite possibly. I’m very good at undoing laces,” a wry and very masculine voice answered.
She spun around, relieved that she hadn’t removed her shift too. “Lord Clavret—don’t you…” She trailed off. He had knocked. “I was not expecting you.”
He smiled. “You did not come to breakfast, nor lunch. I worried that perhaps you had fled after your bath.” He held a book in his hands. He was dressed, and so was she, mostly, which was better than last night. He looked as though he were ready to ride.
“No, no,” she said and held the dress to her chest. “Indeed, I was studying until dawn, and no one woke me.”
“Ah.” He stepped forward toward her and glanced at the bedside table at the octavo there. “I understand. Did you find anything interesting?”
“Perhaps,” she said. She gave in to the fact that he wasn’t leaving unless she threw him out, and she didn’t dare try that—it was his house after all—so she flung the dress over her head and yanked it down over her body. The knots would have to wait. “Let me check my notes.” She gestured at the desk, but he didn’t move.
What the hell was he waiting for? He wasn’t even looking at her—he was staring intently at the bed.
“Good God, what is that?” He lunged.
Marie squeaked and darted aside, certain he was coming for her.
He wasn’t.
Instead, there was a loud squeak, and Lord Clavret cursed. “Dammit! It bit me!” He tugged at the blankets. “Where are you?” He climbed on the bed, flung the pillows aside, searched under them.
“My lord?” Marie asked, watching the man dig through her blankets.
Suddenly Asta darted from under the bed and climbed up Marie’s dress, digging in her claws until she settled herself across Marie’s shoulders as usual. “This,” she pointed at the man in her bed, “is your fault,” she said to Asta.
Asta snorted in response.
“Excuse me?” Lord Clavret glanced over his shoulder. “What’s my fault?” He clambered out of the bed. “There it is! What is that?” He cleared the space between them and reached for Asta.
Marie caught his wrist. “Stop it! You’re scaring her.”
The ferret hissed and bared fangs at him, and the man snatched his hand away.
“It’s afraid of me?” He examined his hand right below the thumb where a couple of drops of blood had formed and run down his hand.
“She is a ferret. Her name is Asta.” Marie stroked Asta’s tail as it curled around her neck.
“A pet?”
Marie shrugged. “A companion.” Now that he seemed attentive to her, she went on. “I did find a few things of note.” She walked over to her desk and picked up one of the books. “This one,” she said, “had some interesting things to say about magical objects. Or it seemed to. I had started to read the passages when Rachel came in last night.”
“And did you return to the book after your bath?” he asked.
“No. I went on to look at other things. But I’ll go back to it today.” Truth was, the romances had interested her more than anything else she’d ever read. But the stories were all about men with almost no women, and when there was a woman, they were occasionally brave, but their stories paled in comparison to the adventures of the knights. Of course, the lady loved the knight because that is what ladies do and that is what knights have done to them. She wanted to read love stories where love was the story.
“I see.” He scooped up the book he had dropped on the bed. “I found a few things on spelled books.” He joined her at her desk, his flirtation seemingly forgotten.
He opened the book and flipped a few pages. “Here.” He handed it over to her.
She read the passage. “A book sealed in blood may be opened with blood?” She looked up at him. “I don’t know how the book was sealed—but a blood sealing seems…” She trailed off. “Demonic. And our book has a cross on it.”
“A good way to hide evil,” Clavret said softly, “is to make it look like something good.”
“I suppose,” she said, wary. Surely a pert comment would follow, she thought. But none did. She returned her attention to the book. “Oh, virgin blood in particular, of course.” She rolled her eyes.
“You don’t happen to know any, do you?” he asked her, his eyes bright again.
“Perhaps,” she said. She rubbed her left thumb against the base of her ring finger absent-mindedly. She tensed—a year, almost exactly. How could she have forgotten? Yesterday was midsummer—the day she had been married. She swallowed hard.
Clavret laughed. “Don’t fret, little nun,” he teased. “I don’t think it would take all your blood to open it. I’m sure just a prick would suffice.”
“Yes,” she murmured in agreement with whatever he’d said—it hadn’t registered. She was miles away, in a pale green dress embroidered with flowers, vines, and birds—it must have taken ages, but her mother had insisted she look perfect. Gerard had worn fancy clothes, for him. He’d chosen a dark outfit he wore hunting, with patches in various places. His rough and tumble nature only made Marie love him more. It was an arranged marriage, but from the moment she met him, when she fell into his deep brown eyes, she loved him and knew she would love him forever. She blinked, and a fat tear rolled down her cheek.
“Marie?” Clavret’s voice brought her back. “I was only joking—”
She wiped the tear away with the back of her hand and looked at him. The genuine concern on his face gave her pause. What had he been saying? She glanced down at the book in her hands. Spell-bound books. Blood bindings.
“Are you well?” He reached out and touched her arm.
She jerked away from his touch, and he snatched his hand back. “I’m fine,” she said and forced herself to smile. “I was just thinking.” She glanced down again. “No.” She shook her head. “I doubt a virgin’s blood would open it anyway—usually it requires blood from the person themselves.” She waved the book at him. “Says so, right here.”
He nodded slowly. “Yes. Indeed, it does.” He seemed about to say something else.
“What else does this have to say…” She skimmed it. “‘Try burning a book to get it to reveal its secrets.’ I think not. Oh,” she said reaching something useful, finally. “Most books are bound by spells and usually can be undone with the right words.” She looked up at him. “Well, that’s something, I guess.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Given that the monastery is in Kells, and all the monks there are Irish, I’m guessing the words are Irish.” He arched his eyebrows. “So, does the little Celtic nun from France speak Gaelic?”
“Wouldn’t that make me a witch?” she asked with a devil-may-care-smile. Was she one? She didn’t know. Not so far as she could tell—without the rose, she would have died that night with the demon. “Do you know anything about the stolen crozier?” she said.
He scowled. “It’s a shepherd’s crook, meant for use, not decoration, though it is beautiful. The narrow shaft is covered in copper, with four ornate silver knobs descending to the pointed tip, each decorated with animal inlays. The crook itself is silver, too, with an even more ornate knob connecting it to the shaft. The crest is decorated with bird carvings, and, at the place where the crest met the crook is a carved human head.”
“Do you know what relics were in it?”
“No.” He shook his head. “They didn’t tell me.”
“You’ve been to Kells? You’ve seen it?”
He closed his eyes, like he’d said too much. When he opened them, they were cold, and his face was a rigid scowl.
She wanted to reach her hand out and smooth the frown lines. They made him look much older and as dangerous as his reputation, revealing pain in his whole countenance. “The bishop said you had experience with dark magic, but he never said you’d actually seen the crozier.” The thought that it could be him who stole it rose in her mind.
“Dark magic?” He gave a sharp bark of a laugh, and his frown turned into a deeper scowl. The contempt he felt was palatable. “Of course the bastard would say that.”
The woman closed the book and stared at him. Bleiz didn’t blame her. A comment like his needed explanation. “The bishop knows that I’ve seen it,” he said. “He sent me there. After I returned from the Crusade, I was different, as I’m sure you’ve heard.” He paused, waiting for some remark.
When she said nothing, he continued.
“I traveled to Kells after I returned from Crusade. The monks there even let me be touched by it when I was rechristened.” He looked at her, daring her to say something, anything.
The Wolf in the Cloister Page 6