LITMIR.BIZ

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Sometimes it was difficult to tell the brothers apart at a distance in their identical habits, but she could somehow always recognize Brother Cyril. He was not plump like Francis, nor tall like Ebert, but there was just something about him, the way he moved, his energy and determination. Whereas most of the order were relaxed and happy, Cyril always seemed to be moving impatiently from one task to another. Bridget suspected that much less work would get done at the abbey without Brother Cyril’s pushing.

      Cyril and two other monks were working around the big furnace, but Bridget knew that including them in the debate would not help her cause. The monks were united in trying to protect her from the outside world.

      “Is he of right mind?” she asked Francis. “Has he told you about himself?”

      “Aye, he tells me his name is Ranulf.”

      “’Tis a Saxon name.”

      “Aye. He’s English.”

      Bridget hid a little shiver of excitement. The man was not only from outside the walls of the abbey, he was from outside of Normandy itself. He had traveled the world, crossed the water. She had a fierce desire to talk with him. An hour or two in his company would no doubt teach her more than a month in the abbey library. It was impossible, of course. But at least she could see the man again.

      “I’d like to check the wound myself,” she said. “I’ll wait until he’s in a sound sleep tonight, then I’ll just slip in and change the dressing. If I’m gentle, he shouldn’t wake.”

      “’Tis a foolish risk to run for the sake of a stranger,” Ebert observed.

      “The stranger is nonetheless one of God’s children, is he not, Brother Francis?” She appealed to the monk she knew to have the least resistance to her pleadings.

      “Aye, but…”

      “And therefore deserves no less care than the worthiest of saints. Is that not in the Rule?”

      Though every waking minute of the Cistercian life was supposedly ordered by the sacred set of laws called the Rule, none of the monks of St. Gabriel were too well versed on exactly what the holy proclamation contained. Francis and Ebert exchanged a bewildered look, and Bridget seized her advantage.

      “’Tis so, exactly,” she exclaimed. “I’ve read it myself, and as a dutiful, if unofficial, daughter of this abbey, it’s my place to abide by its teachings. I’ll go to the stranger tonight while he’s in a sound sleep. If he wakes up, he’ll think it’s his angel come to see him once again.”

      “Child, we cannot—” Francis began.

      “It’s settled, then,” Bridget interrupted, and before he could continue his argument, she spun around and skipped lightly out of the building.

      Henri LeClerc, Baron of Darmaux and Mordin Castles, sat in his high-ceilinged receiving chamber at Darmaux and glared at the man in front of him as if he were some kind of bug that had crawled out from one of the cracks in the drafty stone wall.

      “I didn’t tell you to kill the man, Guise,” he said. “I told you to find out why he was asking directions to St. Gabriel.”

      Charles Guise, sheriff of Beauville, did not flinch at the baron’s scathing tones. “You were right, mi-lord. The man was obviously a fighter. He put up more resistance than we had anticipated and I thought it best to get rid of him at once.”

      “You thought?” LeClerc stood and walked toward the sheriff until his odd violet eyes were only inches from Guise’s. “You’re not in my service to think, Guise. Now we have no idea what this English knight was doing here or how much he knew about the abbey.”

      The sheriff met LeClerc’s gaze. “As I said, he was a warrior. We may not have been able to take him alive.”

      “Five of you? Against an unarmed knight? Do I have nothing but mewling babes working for me?”

      Spit from the baron’s vehement words flew into Guise’s face, but the sheriff appeared to take no notice. “I’m sorry milord is displeased,” he said.

      LeClerc made a sound of exasperation and stalked back to his chair, sitting down heavily. “We should probably talk to our holy friend at the abbey to find out if he knows why the man was headed there.”

      “It’s some time before our monthly meeting, and we’ve agreed not to approach him on the abbey grounds.”

      “I don’t care how you manage it, just talk to him.”

      “As you wish, milord.”

      “What have you done with the body?”

      For the first time, Guise looked uncomfortable. “It seems to have been…misplaced, milord.”

      LeClerc’s eyes narrowed into two violet slits. “Misplaced,” he repeated slowly.

      “Aye. After the skirmish, we rode away and by the time I had reconsidered the matter and sent some men back to dispose of him, the body was gone.”

      All the fury had disappeared from the baron’s tone as he said in silky tones, “Which means, my dear sheriff, that you aren’t even sure that the man is dead.”

      “Oh, he’s dead, all right. I can’t imagine a head hard enough to survive the blow I gave him.”

      In the same deceptively soft voice, the baron continued, “I want this man found, Guise. Dead or alive.”

      “Aye, milord,” the sheriff acknowledged with a bow.

      “I suggest it be soon.”

      Guise’s palms began to sweat. “Aye, milord,” he said again. Then the baron waved him out of the room.

      It had been easier to daydream about another visit to the sick man than it was to carry it out, Bridget realized as she stood in the little hall outside Ranulf’s cell. What if he wasn’t asleep? What if he awoke and this time realized that she was no holy creature but a flesh-and-blood woman?

      What if he mistook her for the unknown Diana once again and tried to repeat his kiss? The thought sent a rush of blood to her cheeks.

      With the warm poultice cooling in her hands, she took a deep breath and stepped into the dark room. Her candle flickered a dim light over to the bed. Bridget gave a small sigh of relief as she saw that not only was the patient breathing in deep sleep, he was flushed with the night fever. Her ministrations could again be explained away in the morning as a dream.

      She sat next to him on the bed. In spite of the fever, he looked better. The sunken shadows around his eyes were gone. She’d read that the Saxons were a fierce people. She’d wager this man could be fierce enough if pressed. She could read his strength in the broad line of his jaw and the power of his shoulders. Her gaze drifted to his full mouth. His lips on hers had not been fierce at all. They’d been tender and warm.

      She straightened her shoulders. She had no business thinking about that kiss. Biting her own lip against the memory, she briskly began unwinding the bandage around his head. He moaned and half opened his eyes.

      “Shh,” she whispered. “It’s all right. I’m here to help you get better.”

      “Angel,” he rasped.

      “Aye, ’tis your angel come to tend you once again. Close your eyes and sleep if you can.”

      But his eyes opened wider. “You’re not Diana,” he said.

      He’d got that much straight, at least. “Is Diana your wife?” she asked.

      With obvious difficulty, he shook his head and whispered, “She’s to be…Dragon’s wife.”

      “Nay, I’m not Diana. And there are no dragons here, sir, so you need have no fear. You’re safe inside the abbey and we’re going to see that you recover.”

      “Angel,” he said again.

      “I’ll

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