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Chapter Three
Like a moth drawn to the brightness of the fire, Bridget found herself obsessed with a dangerous desire to see the stranger again. She wanted to ask him all about his home across the water—this Lyonsbridge. She could only begin to imagine all that he could tell her of life outside the walls. But the monks had guarded the secret of her presence all these years. She didn’t dare expose it. She would not see the Englishman again, she told herself firmly as she mechanically performed the morning chores. She would not even venture near the monks’ quarters until he was safely away from the abbey.
But she could not rid herself of the memory of his blue eyes and teasing smile. His words ran over and over through her mind. Her ears rang with the sound of his deep voice as he’d called her “angel.”
At midday she gave up the idea of getting in a good day’s work and wandered across the courtyard toward the church. Her conscience told her that she should spend the rest of the day on her knees begging the Lord’s forgiveness for being ungrateful for the life she’d been given. But instead, she turned away from the church door and went to the attached building, which housed the abbey’s collection of manuscripts. As usual, the library was empty.
It was a poor collection compared to the great monasteries in other parts of Europe, but it contained the expected religious texts, which were dusted by one of the monks each month and rarely, if ever, read. The brothers of St. Gabriel were more interested in the scientific volumes, and these they kept out in the work shed, where they would be readily accessible.
Bridget sometimes thought of the library as her own private sanctuary. She’d read every single book many times, but she returned most often to a special cupboard that contained volumes deemed unsuitable for perusal by the brotherhood. She’d been nearly fifteen years old before she’d dared look inside. Once she’d begun, however, the books had become her favorites. She read the tragic Greek myth of Orpheus who had traveled all the way to the underworld to find his lost Eurydice. She sighed over the love poems of Ovid. But she was most fascinated with the tales of the great English king, Arthur, and his bold knights.
She took out the volume and began to read, though she could as well have recited the words by heart. Was Ranulf a knight? she wondered. They’d found him stripped of all possessions, but if he was from a noble family, surely he had come on horseback. He did have the strength of a warrior, she thought, flushing as she remembered the night she’d stripped away his bloody tunic.
Eagerly her eyes raced over the familiar words. Lancelot had come from the continent to England to join Arthur’s fabled court. There he had found love with beautiful Guinevere. Now this knight, her knight, had come from England to the continent on his own noble mission. Would he too find love? Bridget smiled at her own fantasy.
The knight lying in the monks’ quarters dressed in one of their habits had nothing to do with the legendary Lancelot. Nor would a poor girl raised in a forgotten monastery have anything in common with the fabled English queen.
“Bridget! Are you in here?”
Brother Francis’s voice interrupted her dreaming. Quickly she closed the wooden cover of the big book and slid it back on the shelf. “Aye, I’ve been studying,” she said, jumping up from the stool and going to meet the monk at the door before he could pay too much attention to the corner of the room that had been occupying her attention.
Francis’s face was grave, and Bridget’s first thought was of the patient. “Is he worse?” she asked in alarm. “Has the fever heightened?”
Francis shook his head. “Nay, he’s better. That’s the problem. He’s on his feet, even, and swearing to Alois that he intends to search the monastery until he finds the lovely nurse who has cured him.”
Bridget winced. “Didn’t you tell him I was part of the delirium?”
“Aye, sweet mischief maker. But this time he’s too sure of his own faculties. He’ll not hear me.” He gave her a reproving gaze. “I told you ’twould be foolish to go to him again.”
Bridget tipped her head, considering. “Well then, you’ll have to tell him that I was a maid from Beauville whom you brought here to tend him. Send him there to search for her.”
“I’d have to tell a falsehood—” he began.
“Forgive me, Brother, but how many falsehoods have you told these many years to keep my presence a secret? One more will do nothing to alter the toll, I wager.”
“I’ll think on it,” he said. “But for the moment, I’m to bring you to Alois.”
Bridget groaned. Alois was the abbot of St. Gabriel. He had always seemed to Bridget to be a fair man but, unlike Francis, he had absolutely no sense of humor. She knew that his reprimand for her actions would be much more severe than Francis’s gentle chiding.
“The stranger himself said that I may have saved his life,” she told Francis.
“Aye, child. We all know that your medicines can work wonders, but ’tis the other that has raised Brother Alois’s concern.”
“The other?” Bridget asked.
Francis averted his eyes and stumbled over the words as he explained, “This man—the, um, patient—he’s claiming that he kissed you.”
As it turned out, Bridget had had to face not only Brother Alois, but also Brother Cyril, the abbey prior, and Brother Ebert. She might have expected Ebert, since he was the brother who, by common consent, had most to do with the outside world. It had been Ebert who had first found the wounded stranger on the road, and Ebert was the monk who most often rode to the city when the necessity arose for some item that the monks could not grow or create themselves. Most often this meant something for one of the monks’ inventions.
The three awaited her arrival sitting side by side on the high trestle bench in the small sacristy at the back of the church. They wore identical habits, since Alois refused to distinguish himself from the others by wearing abbot’s robes. Bridget knew she had nothing to fear from them, but at the moment they resembled three vultures perched on a log.
Francis stood next to her as she stopped in front of them.
“My child,” Alois began. “You have been our charge these many years, and every one of us in this brotherhood has vowed to protect and care for you.”
“I know, Brother, and I’m sorry if I’ve caused—”
Alois held up a hand. “’Tis no fault of yours, Bridget. The fault was ours for not realizing how difficult it would be to keep you from the world now that you’ve grown into a—” the abbot stumbled over the words “—into a mature woman.”
Bridget had been called to account before for minor transgressions, but she sensed something different about this audience. She was used to gentle chiding, a softly reproving smile. Instead the expressions on the faces of her three accusers seemed to reflect something resembling fear.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
Brother Ebert leaned forward. “Do you have something to tell us, Bridget? Did this man—this stranger—do anything—anything—”
He stopped. The words were beyond even the worldly Ebert.
Bridget felt a tug at her heart. What Alois had said was true. The brothers had cherished and protected her as if they had been her parents, but somewhere along the line it seemed almost as if she had become the mother and they the sons. She knew little of the world, but thanks to her readings, she probably had more sense than any of them about what could happen between a man and a maid. She could see that the monks were afraid for her, and that they had no earthly idea how to communicate either that fear or the love that inspired it.
She wished she could go to each one of them and give them an embrace, but that, of course, was forbidden by the Rule. Instead she tried to put her feelings into her smile. “You can stop worrying about me. Nothing passed between me and our visitor. Perhaps I should not have tended to him myself, but there’s no help for that now.”
Cyril was tapping a foot nervously on the crossbar of the bench. “She says nothing happened. What more do you want from the girl?” he asked impatiently. “Make her promise not to see him again, and let’s be done with it.”
Bridget rarely saw Cyril outside of the work shed, and she imagined he was anxious to return to whatever experiment he was currently conducting.
Ebert nodded agreement, but Alois looked uncertain. “As abbot, I must be sure.”
Francis, who’d been standing next to Bridget, spoke for the first time. “The man was in a fever, brothers. He scarcely remembers what transpired, and soon he’ll be gone. I don’t think we need to take any further action.”
With his three brother monks waiting for his word, Alois finally nodded agreement. “Do you promise, Bridget?” he asked.
Bridget nodded. “I’ll stay well out of sight until he’s gone.”
Alois let out a long breath. “Very well, then. We’ll speak of the matter no more.” The three monks stood with noticeable sighs of relief, then filed silently out of the room.
Ranulf sat on the edge of the bed hoisting the heavy cloth belt in his hand. The thieves who had robbed him, if they had been thieves at all, had either been incredibly impatient or stupid. They’d taken his horse, his weapons, his outer clothes, even his boots, but they’d left him wearing a small fortune beneath his undertunic. And the plump little monk had just restored it to him untouched. For a man who’d been nearly beaten to death, Ranulf was amazingly lucky.
“How far is this town, Brother?” he asked Francis. “And what’s the maid’s name? I’d like to visit her home to thank her and compensate her for her service.”
The monk’s cheeks jiggled as he gave a vigorous shake of his head. “She’d not receive you, sir. Nay, ’tis best left alone. The only reward any of us wish is your return to good health. With the fever gone, it shouldn’t be long before you regain your strength and can be about your business.”
Ranulf was not ready to tell the monk that his business was to begin here at St. Gabriel. He wanted his strength back and his head totally clear before he began his inquiries about Edmund.
“I appreciate what you all have done for me, Brother,” he said, “but I believe it was the maid’s medicine that saved my life, and I don’t intend to leave without showing my gratitude.”
Francis sighed. “Beauville is a long ways from here, Sir Ranulf. You’re not yet strong enough for the trip.”
Ranulf’s head still hurt, but his mind had regained its sharpness. Something in the monk’s words confused him. “If she lives so far from here, how was it that she was tending me in the middle of the night?”
“You must be mistaken,” Francis answered stiffly. “She comes at midday.”
Ranulf glanced at the tiny window where a shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom of his cell. Had he been that muddled? he wondered. Or were day and night all one in this foreign land?
“She treated me by candlelight. I remember it distinctly.”
“Ah, sir, you were in too sorry a state to remember anything distinctly. Now I think it’s time for you to lie down and get some sleep, lest you fall back into the delirium you’ve just left.”
Ranulf looked from the monk down to the money in his hand. “Shall I give this back to you for safekeeping?” he asked.
Francis laughed. “You need have no fear of thieves inside the walls of St. Gabriel. Your coin has no value to us here.”
Ranulf shook his head in wonderment. He’d never met such men before. The monks who had tended him seemed to be uniformly content with their lot. They appeared to have none of the failings of ordinary men—greed, ambition, desire.
He dropped the heavy belt to the dirt floor beside his bed. “I’ll just leave it here for now. But though your holy brotherhood may have no interest in my gold, I’ll warrant my nurse would find good use for a few of these coins. I still intend to seek her out when I can mount a horse.”
“Mules are the only mounts you’ll find here at the abbey.”
“Until I can mount a mule, then.” Ranulf grinned. “I haven’t been on one since I was a page, but I won’t disdain the beast if it will take me to where I can outfit myself anew.”
“They are steady creatures, I’m told, though I haven’t been on one myself. I keep meaning to give it a try.”
Ranulf bit back a laugh at the picture of the rotund little monk on top of a mule. “Perhaps we’ll go seek the maid together—when I’m well enough.”
“Perhaps,” Francis said with a nervous smile. “Now, sleep. The sooner you regain your strength, the sooner you can be back on your journey.”
Ranulf nodded and settled back on his cot. The monk seemed anxious to be rid of him, and even more anxious to avoid his questions about the beautiful woman who had come at least twice to his bedside. There was something odd about the monk’s story of a village maid, and it had been night when she had visited him. He was sure of it. He didn’t understand why they were being so evasive, but he was determined to find out. He was anxious to begin his inquiries about Dragon, but his brother had been missing for three years—the quest could wait another day or two while he solved the riddle of his mysterious angel healer.
It was good to feel the sunshine on his face, Ranulf thought, especially considering how close he’d come to never feeling anything ever again.
“So where is this magnificent mule you’ve promised me, Brother?” he asked Francis as they walked across the courtyard toward the barn.
The monk smiled. “Are you sure you’re ready to try riding? Your wound is still fresh.”
“Aye, but my brain is like to rot from the inside out if I don’t get away from that cell for a while. I’ll just give it a try, and see how it feels again to be up on a mount—any mount,” he added with a rueful twist of his mouth. He’d brought Thunder, his big gray stallion, all the way across the Channel only to have him taken by his assailants. The loss hurt more than his head wound.
“At least our mules will give you no trouble. They’re old and lazy. They had other names once, but for years now they’ve been called Tortoise and Snail.”
Ranulf joined in the round monk’s hearty laugh as they reached the open barn doors and went inside. The mules faced each other in stalls on opposite sides just inside the entryway.
“Which is which?” he asked.
Francis started to answer, then stopped as a scurrying sound caused both men to turn their heads toward the back door of the barn. Ranulf’s eyes had not adjusted to the dim interior, but as he looked toward the patch of daylight coming through the small rear entry, he saw a slim shape dash around the edge of the door and disappear.
Francis cleared his throat loudly. “This is Tortoise,” he said, taking Ranulf’s shoulder and turning him toward the right-hand stall.
Ranulf twisted his head to look back toward the far door. He was almost sure that the figure he’d seen slipping through it had been a woman.
“Has my nurse come to visit from her town?” he asked Francis.
The monk shook his head. “Nay. She’ll not return now that you’re well.”
“I thought I saw—” He nodded toward the rear of the barn.
“The stable boy? He comes to muck the stables every few days.”
Ranulf frowned. “I thought you said the monks did all their own work here.”
“Aye, except for—except for this, er, stable boy. He lives on a farm nearby, from a poor family, he needed the work….”
In Ranulf’s experience, men who had taken holy vows were invariably honest, but once again he had the feeling that the congenial Francis was trying to deceive him. He’d caught only a glimpse of the figure in the barn, but he was now almost certain that it had been the young woman he was seeking.
He listened absentmindedly as Francis introduced him to the two mules, who, while not Thunder, were not the sorry creatures he’d feared. Either one would do to get him as far as a town where he could purchase a new mount and weapons.
He reeled with a wave of dizziness as he swung up onto the back of the one they called Snail, but soon recovered his balance. A short walk around the barn was all he needed to see that he was perfectly capable of riding once again, though he did tire quickly.
He’d give himself a day or two more to recover, he decided, handing the animal back over to Francis. In the meantime, he’d try to discover why the monk was lying to him about his beautiful midnight nurse.
Bridget raced around the back of the abbey buildings and darted inside the kitchen, breathing heavily. It had been a narrow escape. She’d promised to stay safely hidden while the stranger was still at St. Gabriel, but she’d come seconds away from running smack into him.
“How was I to know Francis would bring him wandering around the barn?” she asked aloud to the abbey cat who lay curled beside the fire. The tawny animal gave a delicate yawn and went back to its nap.
At first, Bridget had thought the man was another of the monks. He still wore the habit she’d dressed him in that first night. But it had taken only moments for her to realize her mistake. Even in the rough habit, you could see the visiting knight’s broad shoulders and powerful arms. And the robe ended well above his ankles, since he was taller than every brother in the abbey, with the possible exception of Ebert.
Bridget lifted the stone jug from the table and poured herself a cup of ale. She was hot and irritated. She knew that the monks were right to keep her from the visitor, but she hated having to run away like a frightened rabbit.
“What would be the harm in a few minutes of conversation with the man?” she asked the cat, who raised its head again with an expression of annoyance. “He’ll ride away soon and forget he ever saw me here. Would it be the end of the world or the end of St. Gabriel to have one person from the outside learn of my presence here?”
The cat’s only answer was the continued stare of its big black eyes. It appeared to be waiting to see if there would be further interruptions of its mid-morning slumber. When Bridget remained silent, the big furry animal stretched out its front paws and lay back down to sleep.
The monks of St. Gabriel had a schedule of duty—kitchen, garden, repair, animals—that they rotated to give everyone a fair turn. Bridget had devised the system. Until she had taken charge, work had been performed haphazardly. She participated in much of the work herself, but caring for the animals was not among her assigned tasks. She did, however, make it a practice to check the barn daily to be sure that everything had been done properly.
Any lapses would not be due to laziness or lack of will. But more than once a monk who was engrossed in testing a new method for making gates open by themselves would forget that he had left a cow unmilked or the pigs with no feed.
The sudden arrival of Francis and Ranulf had prevented her from making her normal morning rounds. Missing a day would make little difference, but when she finished cleaning up after the evening meal, she decided to give the barn a quick walk-through before she retired to her little house.
The long spring twilight was fading as she opened the heavy barn doors. Patches of pink sky showed through two openings in the roof of the big building, but the interior was dimmer than during her usual visiting hours. She should have brought a lantern, she thought. A gust of wind through the doors at her back made her shiver.
The barn was quieter than in the daytime. Some of the animals had already nestled down for sleep. The two mules tossed their heads as she passed, but quickly lost interest when they saw that her hands were empty of the carrots she occasionally brought them.
She moved along the center aisle, her eyes skimming over the three cows, the coop full of chickens. Everything seemed in order, and the sky above her was growing darker by the moment.
Shrugging off a sense of unease, she turned to leave.
Suddenly a hand grasped her arm and an unmistakable deep voice said, “Good evening, angel.”
Chapter Four
Bridget gasped and spun around to look up into blue eyes that were kindled with amusement.
