Dickon seemed to be growing weaker every day despite her efforts, but she found herself with a growing number of patients from among the serfs. When she questioned Ida about it, the old woman told her that Isleen was not particularly skilled at healing, and disliked such labor.

"But it is the lady’s duty to care for her people," Elf said, shocked. "Do you mean in all the years she has been married to my brother, she has not healed those who came to her for aid?"

"Not once," Ida said. "She does not give your brother an heir, although he has children among the serfs. She will not bind up her people’s wounds, or prescribe for an ague, or flux. She is useless."

"But Dickon loves her," Elf said softly.

Ida made a rude sound. Then she muttered, "A lot of good it does him to love so useless a female. When my poor lord Richard is dead, you will be a better mistress for Ashlin, my dear lady."

Elf said nothing more. It was foolish to argue with Ida. Her mind had been set against Isleen from the very moment she had arrived at Ashlin. Still, Elf was concerned about her sister-in-law. Just last night she had caught her feeding Dickon a sweetmeat that Elf knew he loved, but should not have. It was not the first time, either. Elf was hard put not to scold her sister-in-law severely. Instead she had protested gently while Isleen had looked properly contrite at first, then made a face at her.

"Isleen, you must not feed Dickon anything of which I do not approve, for it is difficult enough getting his belly under control. The sweets but upset him, although I know you do not mean to harm him. You spoil him because you love him, but you cannot."

"If I were ill, would you care for me so tenderly, my lady Eleanore?" Saer de Bude asked her. She found his smile unpleasant.

"It is my duty as an infirmarian, and a servant of our God, to use what skills I have to ease suffering, sir," Elf answered him primly.

"It would be easy to recover if I were tended by you" was the silken reply. "You are most fair."

Elf flushed, ignoring him, for his words were quite inappropriate, and he well knew it. A gentleman did not speak to a bride of Christ in such a suggestive manner. She bent low over her tapestry frame, but she did not miss the angry hiss of her sister-in-law’s voice, although she could not hear her words.

"How dare you flirt with the pious little bitch!" Isleen whispered to Saer de Bude. "If Richard were well, he would kill you for your words to her. Are you mad?"

"No, I but think of our future, as should you, my pretty cousin. Have you and I not planned all this? And is this not why the little nun was called from her convent? You have played your part well so far, Isleen. Do not allow your jealousy and envy of her to ruin everything. It is you I love, and not the little nun. It has always been you. Had I been a man of property, we might have convinced your father to give you to me instead of Richard de Montfort."

"But you are not a man of property," Isleen murmured cuttingly.

"No, I am not, but I will be once I wed your sister-in-law," Saer de Bude answered his cousin. "Then Ashlin will belong to me. When I suddenly find myself a widower, it is you who will be my bride." His eyes, so deep a blue that they were almost black, looked into hers passionately. A lock of his golden blond hair fell lazily over his forehead. Isleen wanted to reach out and push it back, but she knew she dared show no sign of intimacy toward her cousin.

"She will not marry you, or anyone else," Isleen said almost spitefully. "I saw her only once, before she came to Ashlin, when Richard and I were first married. He took me to her convent so I might meet her. I think he hoped I would offer to bring her back to Ashlin. The fool! She was but a child then, and knew nothing. Now, however, she is grown enough to know what she wants, and 'tis a nunnery, although I cannot understand why. She is certainly pretty enough, and with Ashlin for her dowry, can easily attract a flesh-and-blood husband, but she wants none but her Lord Christ. How can you compete with that, cousin?"

"If we cannot bring her around reasonably, there is but one way, Isleen. I will rape her. Her convent will not have her if she is despoiled. Believe me, her virginity will be gone, and the little nun well used before I release her to prayerfully reconsider her decision."

"You are very wicked," Isleen murmured in appreciative tones. "I think you hope she will resist you so you may violate her."

He chuckled darkly. "Perhaps I do," he said. "Would you like to help me, Isleen? Would you like to rape the little nun, too?"

Isleen’s blue eyes widened. "How?" she whispered half fearfully. This was dangerous territory. Sometimes Saer frightened even her, but she had to admit to herself that she was intrigued by his words.

"I have among my possessions an object called a dildo, which I purchased at the Moor’s shop in Hereford. It is a forbidden object, not easily obtainable, but the Moor knows my tastes. It is shaped like a manhood, and fashioned of polished ash wood." He smiled wickedly at her. "After I have taken the little nun’s virginity through her temple of Venus; perhaps you should like to take her other virginity through her temple of Sodom. The dildo can be used by its hand grip, or you might enjoy attaching it to yourself with the leather straps I have for it, and playing the boy, cousin. Would you like that, Isleen?"

Her cheeks were flushed with the lewd thoughts racing through her mind as he had spoken. The depravity of his suggestion was absolutely mind-boggling. "Yes!" she said. "Oh, yes, Saer!"

"Then, stop being such a jealous little fool," he said quietly to her.

Across the hall Ida watched the pair suspiciously. "Do you see how flushed she is, my lady," she murmured to Elf. "What could he say that would make her flush so? It cannot be anything fit for a decent woman’s ears. They are poisoning Lord Richard, I am certain."

"Do not say such a thing! 'Tis wicked, Ida! What would make you voice such a suspicion?"

"Lady, you have been too sheltered!" Ida told her. "You must see things as they truly are. Your sister-in-law is a wicked woman. Perhaps she has been sweet to you, but that does not change the fact that she is wicked. We fear for you when the lord dies, left with that woman and her cousin. It is very likely that they are lovers, my lady. He has been seen on several occasions coming out of her chamber. We could not tell the lord in his helpless position, but you must know!'

"I do not understand," Elf said softly. "Does she not love Dickon, Ida? How can she betray her husband if she loves him?"

Ida’s weathered face was kind, and her eyes were tender with concern. She patted her mistress’s hand gently. "I do not believe the lord’s wife ever loved anyone but herself. All she wants to do is take. She knows not how to give of herself, or of anything else. You have been taught to sacrifice your all for the world as did our dear Lord Christ. The lady Isleen does not know the meaning of the word sacrifice. She wants her cousin, and she wants Ashlin."

Elf was extremely disturbed by Ida’s words. Sheltered and innocent she might be, but she was no fool. She had frankly wondered about the apparent intimacy between Isleen and Saer de Bude. It had begun to concern her that Dickon would rally only to grow sicker, and always after Isleen had tempted him with his favorite sweetmeats, sugared almonds. Was he, as Ida suggested, being poisoned? It was unthinkable! But it was also very possible. She sighed. She wished Isa and Matti were here to talk to, or Sister Cuthbert, who was a font of common sense. She was alone, though, and as helpless as her brother’s serfs, unable to prove her suspicions and forced to stand by and watch as Richard de Montfort slowly faded away.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the entry of a knight ushered into the hall by Cedric, the manor steward. He introduced himself as Sir Ranulf de Glandeville, returning from Wales on the king’s business. He was a large man with a deep voice.

"Will you give me shelter this night, my lord?" he asked Richard, who was now awake and alert as he lay upon his cot.

"You are most welcome, my lord," Richard said graciously, albeit in a weak voice. He looked to Isleen, who smiled vapidly, but made no move to see to the comfort of their guest. "This is my wife, the lady Isleen," Richard said in an effort to encourage her to courteous action.

Isleen smiled again at the knight, but remained in her place. Ranulf de Glandeville was but a momentary distraction from Saer’s licentious words. "And my younger sister, the lady Eleanore, who will be mistress of Ashlin when I am dead," Richard finished, his anger aroused by his wife’s open lack of hospitality.

Elf arose, prodded gently by Ida. "You are most welcome to Ashlin, good sir," she said. "Ida, please fetch our guest a plate and some wine. Come, sir, sit by the fire and warm yourself while our good Ida brings food. It has been a rainy, chill day for June." Taking his cloak, she said, "We will see it is dried for your departure tomorrow."

"Thank you, lady," Ranulf de Glandeville answered her. "You are kind, and I am grateful for your hospitality." He sat, observing those of consequence in the hall. Another man who was familiar. The lord’s beautiful wife and his equally beautiful sister. By her simple gray garb he recognized the sister as a religious. Her long pale red-gold braid, however, told him she had not yet taken her final vows. The heart-shaped face was sweet, and he thought it a shame that her calling was to God and not a husband. His thoughts were interrupted by the other man who was approaching him.

"I am Sir Saer de Bude. We have fought together for the king," the man said. "The lady of this manor is my cousin. I have been here this past year aiding her husband, who is ill to death as you surely see."

Ranulf de Glandeville stood, and held out his hand. "I thought you familiar, Sir Saer," he replied. The man was officious and tactless. He almost behaved as if he were lord here, and not Richard de Montfort.

"Wine!" Saer de Bude called loudly. "Why have we no wine?" He swaggered with a proprietorial air toward the high board. "Come, sir, and join me. The servants will bring your food quickly."

Not knowing the situation, and not wishing to appear rude, the king’s messenger sat himself at the high board. The fair lady Eleanore herself set down a plate laden with food and a fresh trencher of bread. There were slices of well-hung venison, a generous spoonful of rabbit stew, several juicy prawns, a thick slice of ham, an artichoke, and a wedge of cheese. With a small smile she handed him a polished wooden spoon. He flushed beneath his ruddy wind-tanned cheeks, realizing his appetite had been showing. Crossing himself, he bowed his head a long moment, then crossing himself again, he began to eat. When he had mopped the last bit of gravy from his pewter plate with the last scrap of bread, and swallowed a final gulp from his cup, he sat back with a grin of contentment.

"Lady, you set a fine table," he said appreciatively.

"This is my brother’s house," Elf said modestly.

"You have, I would imagine, returned home from your convent to help," Ranulf de Glandeville observed. "Have you been able to aid your brother, lady? Is there anything I can do to aid you?"

"Dickon will die," Elf said, voicing for the first time what she had all along known in her heart. This knight had kind eyes, and for a brief moment she didn't feel quite so alone. "I am the assistant to our herbalist and infirmarian. It is said I am skilled in these arts, but just when I think I am making progress, my brother has a relapse. It has happened thrice now in the few weeks I have been back at Ashlin. If I cannot overcome the mystery of whatever it is that plagues him, I cannot make him well, sir. It is but a matter of time, and he will indeed surely die." There were tears in her gray-blue eyes as she spoke.

"You cannot determine what ails him?" the knight probed gently.

"It is a complaint of the belly first and foremost," Elf told her companion. "Pains, sometimes so severe his body folds itself in half. A continuous flux in the bowels. He has lost most of his hair, and a good many of his teeth. His skin is sallow, and tinged with gray. He is but ten years my senior, but he appears an ancient man now. All I can do," she concluded, "is keep him comfortable, sir. I feel so terribly helpless that I cannot make him well again."