The Wolf in the Cloister (The Wolf and the Nun Book 1)

by Emily Leverett

  “We are to study together,” he said with a smile. “In close quarters.”

  “The studying, yes,” Marie said and took a sip of water. “What do you have to teach me?”

  He laughed. “You sound as though you doubt I can teach you anything.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m sure there is much you could teach me.” She smiled. “Whether or not it is something I wish to learn…” She shrugged.

  “I see,” he said, but he held his smile. “I am much more open-minded.”

  “So we start today?” she asked and finished the last bite of her bread. “Now?”

  He stood. “If you like.” He stepped from the table and headed out of the room.

  Marie followed him, keeping track of the way. Like the night before, she wound up a long staircase, but this time, she arrived in the other of the two towers.

  He opened the door. “My study,” he said and gestured her inside.

  The first thing she noticed was the bookshelf stacked with papers and books. A heavy desk, like a stout older sibling to the one in her room, took up a chunk of the wall and was covered in parchment and books. Small cubbyholes held quills and inkwells. A stack of candles and matches waited in the corner to fill the multiple sconces and candlesticks around the room. There seemed to be enough to turn the night to daylight if he desired.

  Without thinking, she made straight for the bookshelf. Most of the books had some sort of marked binding. Some were in Latin, others French and English. She recognized some Hebrew and Greek lettering. And then there was a book whose script she did not recognize, but she could guess. She drew it out and flipped it open. The marks were beautiful. Round, smooth script that seemed to dance on the page. The ink was deep brown, almost red, and though the text took up the full page, with no illuminations or even historiated capitals, it didn’t look cramped.

  “Ahh,” he said looking over her shoulder. “You have good taste to choose that one.”

  His breath on her cheek almost made her jump. She froze and managed not to slam the book closed like she had been caught doing something naughty, though his tone definitely suggested it. She drew a deep breath and cleared her throat. “Is this Arabic?”

  “It is.” With his left hand, he reached around her from behind and pointed at the page. He lightly pressed against her back and leaned over her left shoulder while he rested his right hand on her right hip. “It is written right to left.” He slid his finger under a line and spoke the words softly in her ear. The musical language pleased, and his deep voice raised goosebumps on her blessedly covered skin.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. “What does it say?”

  “This page says that should the chickens take a certain kind of illness, there are three different types of treatment.”

  She laughed. “That’s not terribly interesting, at least for our purposes.” She wanted to lean back against him.

  “No,” he said. “Though other parts are more so. More learning and theology, less animal husbandry. But with foreign manuscripts, one cannot be too picky about content.”

  She traced her fingers over the text, feeling the ink. “Did you copy this?”

  He moved away from her to sit on the edge of his desk. “No. I have copied some, but this was a gift from a man I knew in Jerusalem.”

  “Crusade?” she asked as she slipped the book back into its place on the shelf. She could sense the books and wanted to reach out to them with more than just her hands and eyes, but not yet, not with him in the room.

  “Indeed.” He crossed his arms and regarded her. “Where do you think we should begin?”

  “With the books?” She gestured at them. She scanned the shelf again and chose another book, this one in Latin. She opened it to the first page and started. “This is a book on witchcraft?”

  “It is.” He stared at her.

  She flipped the page. This one had a beautiful illumination of a horrific scene. The butchery of a woman, torn apart by horses ripping her into quarters. The facing page had text and a small mark, a hand pointing at an important section. Apparently, this was one of the many steps needed to insure a witch would not return from the dead. Especially, it made clear, a Celtic witch.

  With each turn of the page, she was hit with one gruesome description after another of witchcraft, demons, and monsters. Through the course of the book, the hand changed as different authors took over. Perhaps it had been passed down as a family heirloom. She paused to read a long passage in French, this one about the evil influence of witch women on the men in France. She slammed the book shut.

  “Garbage,” she said, and shoved the book back on the shelf.

  Lord Clavret laughed. “The pictures?”

  She glared at him. “They are bad enough—but the words are worse. And the details about witches and French men.” She almost stomped her foot.

  “Indeed, the French do seem particularly open to women’s wiles. So have I heard. But tell me, little nun of Shaftesbury, why does the assault on the French so bother you? Or is it the assault on the witches?”

  “I am from France,” she admitted.

  He laughed again. “From France? Ah, well, that is why you were so unmoved by my little party. It was probably terribly dull, comparatively. Who is your family?” he asked. “Perhaps I know your father.”

  “My parentage is of little concern,” she managed through gritted teeth.

  “Very well.” He smiled at her, every bit the wolf. “My little nun, Marie of France.” He bowed slightly.

  Marie’s cheeks flushed with anger. His words stung, though he couldn’t know why. Her birth had been carefully concealed, at least on this side of the channel. Marie of France she had been called. Not Marie of Plantagenet. Not the daughter of the Count of Anjou and Duke of Normandy, and the stepdaughter of a Holy Roman Empress. Not the bastard sister of King Henry II. No. Here she was little better than a peasant, left to endure the taunts of men like this.

  “Now, tell me honestly, could you really read everything in the book?” His eyes sparkled as he spoke, and she wanted to slap him.

  “Of course I could!” she said. “I can speak Latin, French, and English, and read and write them as well. I have been studying Hebrew and Greek, though I haven’t made much progress.” She left out the part about speaking and reading Gaelic.

  His eyes widened. “The good bishop has sent me quite the scholar.” His voice carried a touch of sarcasm, and Marie let that go.

  “Indeed. So shall we get to work?” She waved at the books. “Shall I keep selecting random titles so you can grin about their contents, or are you interested in what I have brought?”

  His bright eyes turned cold. “If you have something useful to share, by all means.” He bowed.

  Marie did her best to look down her nose at him—difficult because of his height, but she managed. She drew the book out of her pocket and handed it to him. Before she could speak, he had rifled through it.

  “It’s blank.” He looked at her. “For copying some of my books? Bishop Josceline knows I’m very cautious with whom I share my books.”

  “It’s not blank.” She nodded at it. “The bishop said you were familiar with dark magic. He thinks it has been used to hide the contents. This was found at Kells, near where the crozier was stolen. His hope is that revealing the contents can tell us who took the staff.”

  “Oh.” He looked slightly abashed and glanced at the book again. He opened it and flipped through a few pages more slowly. He thumbed through again. “Yes. Now I see what you mean.” He looked up at her and smiled. “My apologies, Sister Marie.”

  Marie shrugged and fought the urge to snatch the book back from him. For some reason, having it out of her possession made her nervous. If he was an evil man, him opening the book might be worse than its contents remaining hidden. “How do we make the words visible?”

  “I’m not sure. I had thought to start with the book on witchcraft you so wisely selected. But I am inclined to agree with you
that the contents are more fantastic than useful. Especially with something like this. I believe the advice that book would give would be to burn the book, and then the Celt who owned it.”

  “Celts are not evil!” Marie snapped. “My mother is a Celt.” She regretted it as soon as she spoke it.

  He seemed utterly unsurprised and rather pleased with himself. “That explains the auburn hair and freckles. Are you a witch too?” He was teasing her.

  “No.” She drew a deep breath. She didn’t like to lie, but witch was such an ugly word. And who knew how he would take it—perhaps as an invitation?

  “I didn’t think so,” he said, quiet disappointment in his features. “The bishop would never send someone so interesting.” He scanned his shelves and began to pull various books out, stacking them on his desk. Once he had pulled about a dozen, he turned to her. “So, research.”

  She glanced that the stack. The books varied in size and heft. “You think these all are useful?”

  “Frankly, no.” He sorted the books into two stacks. “But right now I haven’t got any better ideas.” He picked up one stack and handed it to her. “Do you read quickly? Can you skim?”

  She took the books. “I do, and I can.” She resettled the surprisingly heavy bundle in her arms. “So shall I return to my room and read these and we will meet again to discuss them?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Or you could stay in here.” He glanced at the bed. “I have no lack of comfortable places to read.”

  “No.”

  “Very well. Here.” He took a few quills and a couple pots of ink and set them on top of her stack.

  “Thank you.” She shifted the bundle again, tilting the books so the ink bottles slid toward her, against her chest, corralled by her arms.

  “Parchment?” he asked.

  “No.” She got to the door and turned to him for help. “I’ve got my own.” She jutted her chin at the leather-bound book. “Give that back to me, will you?” She fumbled for some good reason. “I’m not supposed to let it out of my sight.”

  He eyed her for a moment before dropping it on top of the ink and quills. He opened the door for her and bowed slightly. “Shall we meet tomorrow to discuss our findings?”

  “Of course, my lord.” She gave a weak curtsy, not wanting to disrupt her stack, and left the room. The door shut quietly behind her, and she wondered how she would manage it down the winding stairs, across the castle, and back up again. She certainly wasn’t about to ask him for help. “Come on, Marie,” she said to herself. “You’ve hauled more than this at the abbey.”

  Chapter Six

  Marie made it back to her rooms without dropping anything. She carefully set down the stack on the floor and drew the key from her pocket. She unlocked the door and scooped up the pile, making sure she didn’t drop the bottles. Somewhat unsteadily, she managed to get the pile to her desk and set it down before the quills and ink slid off and landed on the desk with a thud.

  She dropped into the chair and looked at the spines of all the books. The top one was an octavo, about six by nine thumbs, while the others were quartos, about nine by twelve thumbs. The smallest one looked far more worn through personal use. She set it aside for later. If Lord Clavret had given her some kind of personal diary as a joke, no doubt it would be an interesting read, but for now, the crozier was more important.

  She handled all of them delicately, though none seemed particularly fragile. She’d skin someone who hurt one of her books, so she might as well offer the lord of the manor the same courtesy.

  Two were in the same strong hand, and the other three were different. All five of the manuscripts were miscellanies, no rhyme or reason to any of them. Whatever had caught the owner’s fancy had gone in where there was space. There were Bible passages, both in Latin and translated into English and French. There were recipes for food or physician’s potions, some of which made her roll her eyes. They were old wives’ tales, as likely to make a problem worse as to cure anything. Others, though, made sense or reminded her of different things her mother had taught her. There were treatises on kingship, landowning, and estates. There were apologies for art and music. There were sermons.

  The rare times magic did seem to come up, it was mentioned in vague terms. Good magic came from Heaven, often the Virgin Mary. Evil magic was demonic through sinful men and women.

  She trudged through the manuscripts in different hands first. Sometimes she got lucky and there were titles, or fancy historiated capitals, or particular markings like pointing fingers or notes in the margins. As often, though, there were no markings.

  The third book proved rather interesting, with a long dialog between a knowledgeable old priest and a young soldier. The discussion began with boring, typical topics: marriage and virginity, forgiveness for sins committed in war versus on Crusade. Then the topic shifted to magical objects, something Marie had never seen addressed in a systematic, theological way. Her rose seemed the very essence of the description, but at that moment, the knock came, startling her from her studies.

  Only then did she notice how much the light in the room had dimmed. Dusk had fallen, and soon she wouldn’t be able to read at all. She lit a couple of candles on her desk and then rose, taking one, and lit a few more around the room. She shooed Asta, who had been snoozing on the top corner of her desk, onto the bed and under a pillow for hiding.

  “Come in?” she called, retaking her seat at her desk.

  Rachel bustled in with a tray. She bobbed quickly and set the tray on the table near the fire, between two chairs. “I didn’t bother you at noon, m’lady, but I cannot let you go without supper.”

  Marie stretched her hands above her head and arched her back. Whatever was on the tray smelled delicious. She stood. “Thank you, Rachel. I’d have gone on all night if you hadn’t stopped me.”

  Rachel bobbed again. “Do you want me to draw you a bath?”

  “Yes,” Marie said, shoving down any guilt rising from the clash between being a nun and being treated like a noble lady. “I think I’ve done enough work for today.”

  Rachel smiled. “Yes, m’lady.” She turned toward the door. “I’ll come fetch you when it is ready.” She shut the door behind her when she left.

  Marie settled into the chair and gazed at the food. She took a bite of the meat, covered in a thick gravy. Venison. One of her favorites when she was a child. There were fresh greens, too, and water and wine. She sipped carefully at the alcohol. Not that there was anyone around to see her, or care if she drank a bit too much. Whatever it was, it was very good and likely very expensive. She whistled for Asta, and the ferret darted over. She settled herself in the opposite chair and sat up on her hind legs.

  “Go on,” Marie said with a smile.

  Asta darted forward and onto the tray, grabbing a piece of meat Marie had cut. She nibbled it down and then headed for the greens.

  By the time Rachel had returned, Asta was well hidden again.

  “Come along,” she said with a smile. “The bathroom is a bit of a walk away.”

  Marie nodded and followed her out. Barefoot again, and still in her habit. The route took them down the stairs and into the center of the house.

  Rachel knocked at the door, and when no one answered, she opened it, letting Marie in.

  The nun gasped. She had seen luxury in France with her mother and father. And this, while not quite royal, was a close second. The room was small, but the floor was laid with dark marble that sloped slightly toward the center where a large tub waited, filled with steaming water. Below the tub was a drain in the floor. In the four corners of the room, elaborate candelabra stood with dozens of candles.

  Rachel closed the door behind her. “Can I help you with your wimple and dress, Sister Marie?”

  “Oh, yes!” She shook her head as though she had been dreaming.

  Rachel waved her over to a chair, and when she sat, she removed the pins and wimple. She twisted Marie’s hair up and fixed it on top of her head with the pins
.

  “Come on now,” Rachel said. “Off with the habit, shift, and underthings.”

  Marie complied, eying the steaming water. The smallness of the room had kept it filled with steam. Once naked, Marie moved with nearly unladylike swiftness to lower herself into the bath.

  “Sweet Mary,” she said as she sank into the water up to her neck. It had been a long time since she’d had the benefit of such pure luxury. Once she joined the abbey, she had been sure she would never have it again. A small table next to the tub held a cloth and soap, and Marie gathered up both, sat up, and began her wash. Eventually a fine layer of suds and bubbles covered the surface, hiding all but her head and neck from view.

  “I believe I’m done bathing,” she said to Rachel, who sat in the chair. “But can I sit here a bit longer?”

  “Of course, dear,” she said. “You’ve had a long ride yesterday, quite the welcome here, and a long day at study. Take some time to let the water ease your bones.”

  “Rachel, you are a saint.” Marie slid down a bit farther and rested her head on the edge of the tub. She bent her knees, keeping her feet braced against the far side so that just the tops of her knees peeked from the soapy surface. She closed her eyes.

  Something clicked, and a voice called, “No, I’ll set it up, Jean.”

  Marie bolted upright to see the door swinging inward.

  Lord Clavret stepped into the room.

  Marie let out a gasping squeak and dunked herself back under the water to her chin.

  “My lord!” Rachel scolded. The small, gray-haired woman surged from her chair and sped across the small space to put a hand on his chest. “You knew I offered Sister Marie a bath!”

  The man’s green eyes sparkled in the fluttering flames of the candles, and the light shone off his black hair, hanging free around his shoulders and face. He grinned at Marie.

  “I am sorry, Rachel, dear. I do now remember you told me that.” He bowed to Marie. “My lady. I trust you find your accommodations satisfactory? It isn’t everyone who I allow in my private bath.”