“Supping in the refectory.”

Some of her elation dimmed. Alec didn’t have the keys to set her free. “Oh, Alec,” she stammered, not knowing where to start. “I’ve been trying to reach you.” Now that she could finally speak to him, she found that the words she had poured to him on printed page would not come forth. “I have long needed your help,” she managed lamely.

“For what?” he asked, glancing fearfully over his shoulder.

He was afraid. She understood that he would fear his abbot, and yet his temerity only dampened her spirits.

If he couldn’t even face Gilbert, there was simply no hope that he would battle the burly Ferguson. “Can you get me out of here? The Abbot of Revesby is in the chamber next door. They have tortured him, I fear. He sounds unwell.”

Alec gazed at her, stricken by her predicament and clearly stunned by her words. “I have no key,” he said after a moment. “But I will try to get it. I don’t understand what brought you here.”

She sighed. “You left me to live with Ferguson,” she accused him flatly. “You abandoned my family to his treachery and fled to Rievaulx.”

“The Slayer seized Glenmyre,” he defended himself, curling a hand around one of the bars. “I had no choice. He killed my father; he would have killed me, too!”

She shook her head at him. “He had no intention of killing your father. He’s been trying for weeks now to give you back Glenmyre.”

“That’s what Ethelred told me,” the young man admitted. “But why would he do that?”

“Remorse,” she answered simply. “He only meant to put an end to our marriage alliance. Your father, who was no doubt given false information, mistook his intentions.” She changed subject midstream. “You never wanted to marry me, did you?” She felt only calm acceptance in the asking; her bitterness had faded.

Alec took his time in answering. “Clarise, my calling was always clear to me,” he said uncomfortably. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t love you.”

“As one Christian loves another,” she finished for him.

He gazed sadly into the light of the candle.

Clarise looked, also. The candle’s wax was melting at an alarming rate. Soon the cell would be plunged into darkness. “You have to help us,” she told him firmly. “Your abbot is a madman. Listen to me. The wine here is poisoned, you mustn’t drink it.”

“I never have,” he said. “I’m allergic to elderberry.”

So that was why he hadn’t caught the illness. “Gilbert is making the monks here very ill. I don’t know what his purpose is, but Ethelred knows. That’s why he is imprisoned here. Gilbert fears that he will reveal his depravity to the archbishop.”

Alec’s brow furrowed with disbelief. “But he preaches the Word of God. How can this be?”

She had once found his innocence appealing. Now she wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled. “Alec,” she said succinctly, “your abbot is making me thirst until I beg for the wine. You must find a way to set us free. There is another way out of the abbey besides the gate. Just get these doors open, and no one will know it was you who helped us. We will disappear without a trace.”

He gazed at her with thoughtful gravity. “I will find the key,” he promised at last.

Her knees quivered with relief. “Horatio has it,” she said. “Hurry.” She put her forehead to the wall. When she next glanced at the door, he was gone.

The disappointment he had seen in Clarise’s eyes reminded Alec of the looks his father had often sent him.

Alec tried to force his mind back to his morning meditations. Normally he didn’t notice how hard the flagstone flooring was or that his legs had fallen asleep beneath him. But this morning he could not abandon himself to spiritual ecstasy. Reality intruded. The knowledge that Clarise had been chained in a cold cell all night kept him from peace with his God. The knowledge that the abbot was causing innocents to suffer disturbed him greatly. But who was he to rebel against authority?

If not you, who else? asked his conscience. His bedridden brethren were useless, though he’d dumped all the wine he’d come across down waste holes, giving water to the sick, instead. If he had doubts about the poisoning, he had only to consider the evidence. He was one of a handful who hadn’t yet fallen ill.

There were other things about Gilbert that had troubled him over the months. The unseemly fits of laughter, the stains on his hands and vestments. He had overheard the abbot boast that he would heal the ill at Rievaulx with his knowledge of herbs. Perhaps he meant to make a name for himself by reversing the process he’d initiated.

With a sigh Alec abandoned his prayers and stood. Fortunately, most of his other brothers had left the chapel before him. He bowed to the host and wandered to the nearest window slit to look outside. The walls at Rievaulx were impossibly high, obscuring the view of the countryside from nearly all the windows but this one.

What man could concoct evil in the midst of such beauty? The morning sun spun a coppery web across the sky. The land below undulated like a counterpane quilt, with patches of earth tones, patches of green. Helmesly loomed in the distance, a mighty stronghold, holding up the horizon with its four towers.

Alec’s gaze fell to the winding cart road that passed below. A cloud of dust told him that even at this early hour, horsemen were approaching the abbey. He hoped mightily that it was the archbishop, come to make inquiries. He, Alec, had never been one to take initiative. To defy his abbot and the vows of obedience required more of him than he had to give.

Perhaps he would be spared having to wrestle Horatio for the keys. The envoy drew closer. He counted five horsemen all together. It wasn’t the archbishop. These men were heavily armed.

The warrior at the lead was the largest. His very darkness compelled Alec to focus on him. When he spied the white cross at the corner of the black shield, he gasped with recognition. The Slayer was coming a third time to Rievaulx.

Rumor had it he’d come twice before while Alec had been busy tending to the ill. The last time he’d seen the warlord with his own eyes, he’d been watching his father’s ambush from the wallwalk at Glenmyre. He’d seen his father’s chest crack open like a nutshell under the Slayer’s sword. And then he’d run.

If Clarise had spoken the truth, then the warlord was neither vicious nor greedy. He wondered how she would know that. Perhaps she had gone to the Slayer with her plight. Perhaps the man was looking for her even now.

Hope dawned like a blinding sunrise. Here was the answer to his prayers! With speed he’d forgotten he possessed, he bolted to the steps that would carry him to the courtyard. Normally Horatio answered the bell at the abbey’s gate. This time Alec would answer it and let the Slayer in.

Christian ground his back molars together and tugged with impatience on the bell rope. He had no hope that the monstrous creature who usually answered the summons would let him in. Nor would he let him speak to the abbot. He was wasting his time.

He would have to find the secret entrance that Clarise herself had used. God knew how long that could take. He had no idea where to begin looking for it.

The sound of someone running caught his attention. The peephole snapped open. There stood a young monk, panting from his haste and staring at him through wide, gray eyes. “Are you looking for Clarise?” he said.

Amazement kept Christian mute a moment. “Are you Alec?” he guessed.

“I am,” said the monk, paling slightly. He glanced anxiously over his shoulder. “She is on the lowest level, the Abbot of Revesby, also. Both of them are chained. Will you help me?”

“Open the gate,” said Christian steadily.

Alec drew back the bolt and pulled the gate open. Christian motioned for his men to dismount and follow him. They led their horses into the empty courtyard. Iron shoes rang smartly against the cobbles. The monk seemed to shrink into the shadows at the noise. “Leave the horses,” Christian instructed, dropping his reins. He looked at Alec. “Show us the way.”

Alec took a visible breath, then darted across the courtyard. The men followed him. As they passed under the archway with its Latin message, Hic laborant fratres crucis, Christian felt a blade of fear bisect his spine. The monk had said Clarise was chained. He couldn’t stand to think of her enduring any mistreatment, especially when he was responsible. He should have governed his jealousy!

They strode along the abandoned passageway. The stink of illness seemed to permeate the cool shadows. Christian ignored the stench and stared at the baldpate on Alec’s tonsured head. The youth was as handsome as an angel. In his eyes he read not only fear, but determination and honesty. No wonder the lady loved him. Walking in the monk’s wake, he felt like an animal, rawboned and scarred.

Could she bring herself to love the Slayer?

He focused his attention on the route they were taking. At one point Alec froze in his tracks. As the murmur of voices drew closer, he motioned the men to retrace their footsteps. They took an alternate route and managed to avoid detection.

At last they stopped wandering through the maze of corridors. “They’re down here,” said the young man, pointing down a flight of stairs. “Horatio is guarding them. You will have to fight him.”

Christian knew a moment’s surprise. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked.

Alec glanced down the stairwell. “I set aside my sword when I joined the brotherhood.” A self-conscious blush made his ears turn pink.

The warlord felt suddenly better about himself. “Does that mean you will remain here?” he asked. “Have you no desire to rule your people?” Marry your betrothed?

Alec lifted an earnest gaze at him. “Clarise told me of your offer. I never expected such magnanimity of spirit. If you show equal kindness to my father’s serfs, then Glenmyre is better in your care than in mine. In truth, I would be too often in my prayers to rule wisely.”

So much was said in so few words. There wasn’t time now to beg the handsome monk for his forgiveness. Christian looked into his trusting countenance and his heart gave a pang. He thrust his hand out and prayed the man would take it.

Alec put his own hand forward. The squeeze of his fingers was a balm to Christian’s soul.

“Hurry,” Alec encouraged as he glanced down the stairwell. “You may find Horatio sleeping. He sometimes naps through prayers at prime.”

Christian pulled his broadsword, Vengeance, from its leather scabbard. “Stay here,” he told his men. “Don’t come unless I call for you.” He wanted to rescue Clarise single-handedly. Holding the sword before him, he ducked his head and charged down the shadowy stairway.

The light of a torch steered his passage. He rounded a turn and came face to face with a robed figure. It was the monk who normally answered the gate.

Horatio’s flat face registered surprise. His mouth popped open and he backed up, giving Christian a view of the space behind him. A row of doors lined one side of the wall. The silence behind the barred windows was alarming.

“I’ve come for the abbot and the lady,” he growled, sizing up his enemy. Horatio was a hulking man and not to be taken lightly.

“Humph,” the monk snorted. “Ye cannot have ’em. They’re ill,” he added, showing his rotten teeth in a snarl.

“Stand aside, monk, or I’ll shave your head with my sword.”

“Not exactly a fair fight with that sword o’ yours is it?” Horatio taunted. “But then I don’t expect fair play from the likes o’ you.”

“You know nothing about me.” Christian slammed Vengeance back in its resting place. “I don’t kill clergy.”

The monk gave a grin that betrayed his relief. He put his fists up, ready to fight.

The man’s hands were the size of hams. Christian gave an inward groan. It was a tiresome thing to have scruples, he thought, putting his fists up slowly. Then, without warning, he sent a jab at Horatio’s nose that brought a fountain of blood gushing out of it.

The monk howled and gingerly touched his wound. When he looked at Christian again, there was fury in his eyes.

“My lord, is that you?” called a woman’s voice from one of the closed cells.

The sound of her voice was so welcoming that he forgot about Horatio. Wham! A full set of knuckles slammed into his right eye and had him staggering against the wall. Christian regained his balance just in time to see another fist flying toward his face. He twisted out of the way. His gaze snagged on a heavy iron cross hanging on the wall beside him. Without a second’s hesitation, he wrenched it off the peg and, taking advantage of Horatio’s forward momentum, landed a stunning blow to the monk’s head.