The small pack across her chest, nestled under her robes, had slipped down around her waist. She shifted it back into a more comfortable position across her chest. Asta poked her head out and blinked. “We’re here, girl,” Marie whispered to her. “We’ll be inside soon, and I’ll get you some food.”
She looked up at the castle. Strange that something so nearby a cathedral could have such the sinister reputation. Viscount Clavret was known far and wide. She had heard mention of him and his club when she was still part of the royal household long before she joined Shaftesbury. The bastard son of a good man, the Viscount Clavret had vanished on Crusade. Whoever—whatever—returned was a debauched shell. Still handsome according to some, he seemed determined to indulge in every delicacy, carnality, and luxury from the East to England. She had heard that he had the devil’s eyes, the devil’s smile, and even whispers that he had the devil’s—she cut herself off from the thought. Nuns—especially new ones—didn’t need such distractions.
She blew out a sigh and, feeling hairs flutter around her face, hurried to tuck away the long reddish-brown locks. She wished for a rest, even—heaven reward her!—a bath before dealing with this man. Though the bishop had assured her that she would be quite safe, she couldn’t help but shudder at the sight of the massive stone structure and the heavy gates that would fall behind her once she was inside.
“Brother…?” The porter approached her.
She turned, relieved to find that her disguise worked. How safe could she be, she wondered, if the bishop had thought it better that, regardless of how she traveled, she present herself at the castle first as a monk, not a nun? She stripped the small bags off her horse before handing off the reins to a waiting servant.
“I’ll see to those, Brother.” A second porter nodded at her and took the bags from her hands.
“Thank you. A cart with the remainder of my belongings will be along tomorrow.”
“You intend to stay a while?” The first porter, an older man with silver-gray hair, seemed concerned.
“I do, indeed,” Marie said, working to keep her voice low and quiet. “I go where the bishop tells me, and he has sent me here. He assured me that I would be welcomed.” She pulled the bishop’s letter from her pocket and handed it to the man.
The porter nodded. “I’ll take this straight to his lordship then.” He scuttled away.
“I’ll take your horse to the stables,” the younger servant said. Now that she looked at him, she could see he couldn’t be much more than a boy. He was tall, but skinny, though he looked well-fed. “I’ll take good care of him,” he added, as he stroked the horse’s neck. Gringolet could be a holy terror if he wasn’t fond of his handler, which was how she had ended up with such a steed in the first place.
After a short wait, a monk—or rather a servant dressed like one—approached. “Right this way, Brother.” He bowed with enough courtesy, but there was something off, a guilty look about him. Marie had found in her few months at the abbey that outsiders usually looked guilty when they saw her—or any nun, really. It seemed everyone had sins they were hiding, though it wasn’t like Marie could magically see them.
She patted her chest quickly, eased by the small lump of her rose still secure against her skin. No matter the time of year, the gold was always warm to her touch. Around her wrist, the rosary with her Celtic cross swung gently. She caught it in her hand for comfort.
The monk led her past the porters and through the front gate. He smiled and bowed deeply, a twinkle in his eye that increased her sense of dread. She stepped inside, and a wave of warmth hit her. Noise—voices, but too jumbled to make sense. Strange scents—perfumes that were thick and heavy that made her nose wrinkle, like the too-heavy incense favored by some of the priests.
“Am I interrupting something?” she asked, a whisper.
“His lordship often has gatherings.” The sham monk led her to the left. “And he is delighted to have you. He insisted I give you a tour of the revelries before bringing you to him.”
That couldn’t be good. “That’s quite all right,” Marie protested. Thankfully the growing noise muffled the high pitch of her voice. Her heart had sped up, and she glanced longingly back at the now-closed door behind her. “You can take me directly to him. I’ll spare you the tour.”
“Nonsense,” the servant/monk huffed. “His lordship is firm and does not like disobedience.”
Marie wanted to insist, but she knew better. She’d seen servants and even lords and ladies in less high positions disciplined by men and women eager to emphasize their own power and place. She disliked this Clavret more and more. No way out but through, she supposed.
“We begin our tour here.” The servant nodded, and two guards pushed the ornate doors open.
Waves of sound—laughter, moans, and chatter—rolled out, as did the smell of…what? Marie inhaled again, and fire lit up her cheeks. She knew that scent. She stopped, frozen—she thought she would never be anywhere near such things again.
“Come along, Brother.” The monk cheerfully took her arm and dragged her into the room, heading straight for the center. The room wasn’t overly large—a parlor—but it was decked out in the most gaudy style. Blood-red curtains hung on the windows, and obscene tapestries and statues that would have taken her several moments to fully comprehend decorated the walls. Pillows on the floor, soft couches all around, and all were occupied with men and women in different states of undress.
Marie fought against her desire to openly stare—she was a bit curious after only a glance, but the servant was watching her, that same smirk on his face.
“Such sin,” she said, grasping for something to say. Truly she was taken aback by the openness, though perhaps not giving as stunned a reaction as the man seemed to want. She kept her head down, the cowl blocking most of the sights, hiding her face at the expense of satisfying her curiosity. He led her through room after room, each a vulgar display of some revelry or another. Food, sex, and, heresy repeated ad nauseum.
“We are almost there.” He led her through another doorway and paused. She glanced up to see a makeshift altar, an upside-down cross, and a spread of delicacies and wines instead of the blood and flesh of Christ. Black drapes weighed down the cross.
Marie choked back a laugh and turned it into a cough. Everyone in the room seemed deathly serious, as if what they were engaged in was somehow truly demonic. Certainly demons delighted in sins of the flesh, but really. These folks were no more conjuring evil—real evil—than they penitently prayed. She pressed her Celtic cross to her lips, allowing the clearly delighted servant to continue to think the poor monk he believed her to be was so distressed he nearly choked.
He bowed her through yet another door—the receiving room of the house. A large fireplace took up most of the side wall, and a few yards across from it was a dais on which two men sat—both in masks. One, a red fox, with the hair to match. The other, a wolf. So here was the master of the house.
The fox rose. “On behalf of the most generous Viscount Clavret, I welcome you to Sarum Castle.” He bowed low, but it was more comic than respectful.
“You may go” the wolf said, waving the monk tour guide away.
She had half a mind to simply turn and follow the monk. She certainly wasn’t going to curtsy, or bow for that matter. Instead, she walked to the dais, keeping her strides long and clean with no feminine hips.
The man in the wolf’s mask, though sitting, was obviously quite tall. He had black hair, long around his shoulders. His long tunic was fitted, showing a broad chest and narrow waist. The belt was leather; the clasp was gold—real no doubt, as were the gems in it. His hose were tightly fitted. Silk she guessed. Pale fur lined the inside and hems of his tunic; the rest was a deep indigo. Even his leather boots were spotless and shone in the firelight. He certainly dressed to impress. Perhaps the tales of his beauty were lies and the mask he wore, passed off as a part of the revelry, hid a monstrous face. An appearance that punished his transgressi
ons and revealed the horror inside.
“If I am inconveniencing your lordship,” she said directly to the wolf, “I would be happy to retire and speak to you tomorrow.”
He laughed, and it rolled down her spine, sending chills. She’d given up—very deliberately—those kinds of feelings. If only her body had gotten the message.
“Young man,” he taunted, “the bishop was quite clear in his missive. You and I are to learn from each other. How are you to fight the evil of the world if you are unfamiliar with it? Old sins are much easier to shun than new, are they not?”
“I am knowledgeable enough on that subject, I think,” she replied, her temper rising. “And I was told that I was sent here to do the Lord’s work, not learn lessons. And certainly not waste my time.”
In truth, she had no idea what the bishop had written in his letter, only that it would be sufficient to allow her access to the Viscount and his library. His knowledge from his time in the Crusades was deep.
He leaned forward as if to see her better. His wolf mask was tied with a black silk ribbon, and she could see small streaks of white at his temples. His eyes sparkled a green that seemed to glitter in the firelight and the lights of the copious candles surrounding his dais. They were tempting, yes, and dark, but not evil. She’d seen evil up close. This was not it. “It is my time to waste.” His voice was cold, though his eyes still seemed playful.
“I have had a long ride, my lord,” she said. “We can, perhaps, save the games for the morning? You have so much now to entertain you.”
He rose with swift grace, and he was, indeed, tall and lean. He stalked down the few steps toward her like an animal, like she was prey. “My ‘entertainment,’” he glanced to the side, “save my dear fox, has grown dull. Perhaps you might entertain me.”
“That is not my vocation.” She wanted to step back. He was in her space. Thankfully he was tall enough that she could keep her face down, turned to the side, and he might not know she was a woman. She herself was tall, sturdy. Not at all like most of the women she’d seen on her passage through to this room. She sensed that if he knew she was a woman, the conversation would change quickly. That was a surprise that could wait until morning.
“So, no time for games?” He sighed. “Very well. The bishop alluded to some crisis. What is it he wishes me to do?” There was an edge, an anger in his voice, like his work for the bishop wasn’t voluntary. How could a man who flaunted so much sin be bound to a priest?
Her mind flashed back to the night in rose maze. “The Kells Crozier. It has been taken.”
“What?” He shook his head. “Those damned fools.” He strode past her a few steps, and she turned to watch. She jumped out of his path as he returned and settled into a pace. He stopped and looked at her. “How many dead?”
She glanced down again, shielding her face. “None,” she said. “They snuck in and out without notice. Though one monk is missing.”
He snorted. “No violence to the monastery itself?”
“No.” She shook her head.
“They knew the person who took it.” He turned to the fire.
“It would seem so. Or they knew who the person appeared to be.”
“So you think this crime is demonic?” He studied the flames, like they might tell him something.
“My guess is yes. I have not been there to see.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “And do you think seeing would help?”
“Perhaps.” With his fierce gaze on her, she wanted to be far away from him, but she didn’t dare move.
He inhaled deeply. He reached behind his head and untied the mask, dropping it on the ground. “Come now,” he said. “Take a good long look.”
She did. The stories she had heard about his appearance had only been correct in their estimation of the intensity. He was as beautiful a man as she had ever seen. The flames cast dancing shadows on his skin, tanned from time in the sun, but not burnt. His angular cheekbones and sharp nose were every bit aristocratic. His mouth was perfect, soft lips and a gentle curved smile. His eyes shown even brighter green, and tiny lines gathered at their corners.
“Your turn, monk,” he said. “I do not know why you haven’t revealed your face, but I have shown you mine.”
“I’d rather not,” she said, backing away.
“Oh no.” He strode toward her. “Quid pro quo.”
He caught her shoulders in a tight but not painful grip. His brow furrowed. “You’re a slight thing. Do they not feed you?” He pushed the cowl back.
Chapter Three
The monk was a nun.
Bleiz laughed, a burst of mirth easing the tight irritation at the bishop.
“Hello, little nun.” He let go of her cowl and caught her right hand, bringing it to his lips. “This is a surprise.”
“I was traveling alone…” she stammered.
Her distress was beautiful. She was tall, so the disguise made sense. Under the shapeless brown wool, who would know there was a woman? Her face was splattered with freckles, and her hair, the few wisps that escaped the hairnet, was auburn, sparkling in the firelight. Gray eyes, too. A rarity.
“The bishop thought it best for safety’s sake,” she went on. Her gaze had shifted to his hand when he had raised hers to his mouth, and now she seemed fixated on his lips.
“For the road or after you arrived?” He arched an eyebrow.
“Both, I suppose,” she said, regaining her composure and taking back her hand. “Now, though it is not terribly late, I have had quite the ride.”
He allowed a small snort of a laugh, and her cheeks blazed to life.
“The journey,” she corrected herself. Her frown was stern. Indeed, some day she would make quite a good nun. Damn all the shapeless clothing she wore. He would love to know whether the freckles, even brighter at her blush, traveled down her body, too.
“You rode the twenty miles today?” he asked, impressed.
“It’s twenty-two. And I did.” She drew herself up. “Lord Clavret, my sex matters little to our assignment. I am certain that you and I can work well together, for the soul of our people, at least.”
“At least,” he echoed. There was a touch of French accent in her voice—not an English lass, then. He wanted to strip the hair covering off, too. How long was it? Those fools in the church often hacked off a woman’s hair when she entered. He wanted to run his fingers through it. “How old are you?” he asked. She was no child, that was certain, but she had a kind of ageless look about her.
“Twenty.” She fidgeted with a necklace, revealing a rose on a gold chain—it flashed in the firelight.
For a moment, the rose’s flickering was mesmerizing, like the light was coming from within. Bleiz reached for it.
A loud crack sounded as the nun brought her hand down and slapped his away. “Don’t!”
He pulled his hand back and ran his other hand over it—she had a strong swing, and it stung.
“It’s just a trifle,” she said. She held his gaze, curling her fingers around the rose.
“My apologies.”
She nodded in acceptance but didn’t let go of the charm.
There would be time to find out about the necklace later. He stepped back, and she seemed to calm some. A pity. She still hadn’t taken her eyes off his face. Had she never been this close to a man, at least a man not of the cloth? At twenty she might have been in the abbey a decade. A tantalizing thought caught him. Perhaps she had been sent away from her home. Shaftesbury was powerful enough. Perhaps this was a move for power? Her family, someone important, hoping to have influence in the south of England? So many questions—so many delicate knots to untie. And not just of the metaphorical sort.
“So you’re twenty,” he repeated, heading back to more solid ground. “Well, then, little nun, you have had some time in the world.”
“Do not call me that,” she snapped. “It doesn’t suit me.” This time she did not back down after the outburst.
Little
nun it would be.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Twenty-five,” he said.
“You already have lines around your eyes,” she said, surprised. Her eyes widened, and she covered her mouth for a moment. “I didn’t mean,” she said. “You don’t look old.”
“Don’t I?” His expression turned grim. “I feel it.”
“Of course,” she said, looking abashed. Still, she did not draw her gaze away from him. “Bless you for your sacrifices.”
He snorted. “Damn me, more likely.” He waved at a servant. “Take our little nun to the tower room. See that whatever belongings she brought are delivered.” He glanced at her again. “Along with warm water for refreshment and an evening supper.” He nodded. “Unless I am mistaken, you look ravenous.”
If she sensed any entendre, she ignored it. “Thank you, I would very much like something to eat.”
“Yes sir.” The man bowed and gestured for her to follow. She let her glance linger on Clavret for a moment and followed the servant. Was that desire in her eyes? His mirth returned. No, he had never helped a nun off her virginal pedestal. He had mused that it was one line he dared not cross. Now he knew for certain that it had been lack of opportunity.
“Wait, little nun,” he called as she arrived at the door to the household.
She turned, and even across the room her eyes sparkled, and she finally let go of her rose. “Yes, my lord?”
“I do not know your name. I am Bleiz.”
“Sister Marie,” she said. “Goodnight, Lord Clavret.” She stepped past the servant, opening the door herself to get away from him.
When the door shut behind her, Bleiz looked to his friend, sitting again in his chair.
“I think, Fitz, I have found a cure for my boredom.”
The man took off his fox mask and grimaced slightly. “She seemed demure enough to me.”
The Wolf in the Cloister (The Wolf and the Nun Book 1) Page 3