Valentine (3 page)

The priest shook his head. “He’s not dead.”

“My goodness, how could you possibly know that?” Mary peered at the book again. “I realize I’m rather sheltered here, but I’ve not heard mention of any Spaniard—this . . . this Valentine Alesander.” She straightened.

Father Braund swallowed.

“How do you know, then?” she demanded. “Tell me, because I will not have this man, whoever, wherever he is. I refuse to be married to
him
. I don’t want
him
!”

“Well, I should hope not,” the priest said. “He’s a criminal wanted by the Crown.”

“A
criminal
?” Mary shrieked.

“Shh!” Father Braund clutched at her arm and looked around the chapel fearfully before returning his gaze to her and continuing in a whisper. “A group of pilgrims returned from the Holy Land only a fortnight ago, bringing further word about the king of Jerusalem’s defeat at his mighty fortress. It’s been determined that the siege was enabled by a small group of traitors in the king’s own company, and that this Alesander was among the betrayers. Four men in total—Gerard, Hailsworth, Berg, and your Alesander—all on the run, and now sought by every bounty hunter and Christian ruler the world over.”

“He’s not
my
Alesander!” Mary hissed. She collapsed on a bench and threw a hand over her eyes. “No! No, no, no! It was all so perfect!” After a moment she dropped her hand and turned on the bench to face Father Braund. “Surely the king would see this farce terminated. He would not hold me to such an evil agreement.”

“There’s more,” the priest admitted. “Alesander’s family was once wealthy nobles—some of the most respected and powerful in the kingdom of Aragon. But there was a rebellion, and this man—your husband—double-crossed his family and absconded with a vast portion of their wealth. It is rumored he murdered at least one of them. His kin have been searching for him for years. If they—or he—should discover his connection to you, and that you are soon to wed another, it is completely conceivable that they could come looking for you and insist that the match be honored for the dowry to replace what was lost to them, and Alesander could then lay claim to Beckham Hall.” Father Braund paused, seeming to consider. “That is, of course, if he was not hanged first, leaving you a penniless widow with no home.”

“He is
not . . . my . . . husband
!” Mary insisted. Her stomach knotted and her mind raced. If her betrothed—a man profoundly loyal to the Christian king of Jerusalem, who had nearly lost his own life in the Holy Land protecting King Baldwin—found out about this ancient agreement with one of the traitors, he would absolutely call off the wedding. Perhaps he would even be granted Beckham Hall for his trouble and embarrassment.

He could never find out. Never.

Mary looked up at Father Braund. “What can I do?”

The priest gave a deep sigh. “There is only one possible solution, and it is highly unlikely you would succeed.”

“I don’t care. I must try.”

The priest nodded and then came to sit next to Mary on the bench. “Through my religious connections, I have heard of an abbey that has taken on the task of gleaning information that would bring justice to the four traitors.” He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out an object that he kept clenched in his hand. “You must visit that abbey and enter into a confessional with a red curtain. Once there, give the priest this.”

He held out his hand; lying in the center of his palm was a single gold coin.

Mary picked it up with a thumb and forefinger, noting the rough edges and Latin inscription.

Father Braund continued. “Tell the priest—Father Victor—tell him everything. Tell him the name of the man you are looking for. If there is any help to be had, he will be the one to provide it. We are fortunate that your wedding is yet months away—it is common for those engaged to inter themselves at a religious house for a period of intense instruction. It should raise no suspicion with your betrothed, but we must not reveal your exact destination. To anyone. Not even to Agnes.”

“Then I don’t see that this is so very difficult a task after all,” Mary said. “I only have need of a conveyance to carry me to whichever part of England the abbey is in, and—”

“Not England.”

Mary paused. “Scotland?”

Father Braund shook his head. “Austria. On the Danube River.”

“Austria?” Mary shrieked. “How am I to get to Austria? I’ve never even been to London!”

Father Braund stared at her for a moment. “Are you ready for a real adventure, Lady Mary?”

 

V
alentine Alesander pretended to peruse the wares at the market stall as he circled around in pursuit of his quarry. He picked up a strand of garlic, seemed to consider it as he gave the stall’s proprietor a sage nod of admiration, and then returned it to the pile. Two more slow, sidling steps to the right to the next stall, which offered a selection of cheeses.

The woman was stopped, considering a large wedge wrapped in cloth with great concentration before putting it down and picking up another, smaller piece.
Eldest daughter; many mouths, little coin.
Valentine leaned his left forearm along the stall’s half wall.

“Good day,” he said. “Beautiful weather for marketing, yes?”

The woman glanced up with a frown, and then her face softened as her eyes took in Valentine’s person. Her lips and fingertips were stained berry pink.
Fruiter’s daughter.

“Indeed,” she replied. “God is admiring his creation.”

“As am I,” Valentine replied, taking in the young woman’s abundant curves.
Perhaps eighteen.

Her brow wrinkled.
Steady suitor, arranged marriage.
“Well, certainly. It is your duty always to point to his wondrous deeds. Everyone appreciates your dedication.”

“Is that so?” he asked, taking a half step closer. “Perhaps you would like to express your appreciation in a more . . . personal manner?”

“I—” the woman started, her frown increasing into an expression of distaste. “I must go. Good day, Brother.”

“Wait,” he called after her, straightening from the stall, but she had already fled through the milling crowd of the village. “Damn.”

“I do believe you are losing your touch, Brother Valentine,” the deep voice said from behind him. Valentine turned to see Roman Berg, a bouquet of long loaves beneath one massive arm, his voluminous robes making the man seem twice as wide as he already was.

“I am no losing my touch—it is only this damned gown,” Valentine muttered, jerking at the brown cowl sagging against his chest.

“Certainly it is.” Roman chuckled. “The women of Melk would not risk hell by dallying with a man under holy orders—not even one with your pretty lashes. And Victor has warned you about your forwardness with the women villagers.”

“Bah, Victor. I hate this place.” Valentine turned and joined Roman as the man began to walk back through the village.

“ ’Tis better than a Damascene dungeon.”

“I will only concede that the climate is milder,” he answered. “In truth, we are as trapped here as if we were still beneath Saladin’s hand.”

“Perhaps,” Roman said. “But I still prefer this locale. And that we are not dead. Any matter, something to distract you for a bit—Stan says a large group of pilgrims has come to Melk today. I know not from which direction they hail, but perhaps they carry some bit of news. I’ve not seen Victor since Lauds—which you were absent from. Again.”

“I am
pretending
to be a monk, Roman.
Pretending
,” Valentine enunciated. “I am glad you find some enjoyment in the role, but me? Pfft!” He threw up his hands and noticed crossly how the movement caused the villagers he and Roman passed to bow their heads.

Roman smiled and raised his right hand to make the sign of the cross in the air before them. “God’s blessing upon you.”

Valentine only smiled stiffly until they had passed the pious group. “I suspect Victor would have us all become monks in truth!” he continued his rail. “It is Brother This and Brother That all the day—and that is when we are even allowed to speak! But do you know the worst part?” he demanded of his friend.

“No women?” Roman guessed.

“No women,”
Valentine said. “No a maid, a laundress—nothing! Only men!”

“Melk is an abbey of monks,” Roman pointed out. “I don’t know why you do this to yourself every time. Perhaps you should stop coming to the market.”

“And go completely mad?” Valentine kicked at a rock in his path, very aware that the action was childish. “I hate this place.”

“Well, one thing is certain—there is nowhere else for us to go in the foreseeable future, lest we yearn for stretched necks. The bounties on our heads are such that every man with a sword and a too-light purse is looking for us.”

Roman came to a halt in the dirt road, having reached the end of the market and the fork that led either deeper into the village or up the long and narrow path to the monstrous abbey on the cliff overlooking the Danube River. Valentine paused to listen to his friend.

“I know you are unhappy here. But there is nothing to be done about it. I for one am not sorry that you came upon Chastellet, else Stan, Adrian, and I would all likely be dead.”

The giant’s words kicked at Valentine’s conscience. “I am no sorry for that either, my friend. Forgive me. I am no myself today.”

“I think you are very much yourself.” Roman grinned and clapped Valentine on the shoulder as he nodded past it pointedly. “Cheer, Brother—it seems as though a lovely pilgrim has need of religious assistance. And since I must return to Lou in the mews, I shall leave you to her. And I shall not tell Victor. See you at supper.” Roman stepped away with a wave and then turned up the path toward Melk.

“Tomorrow is my birthday,” Valentine said to Roman’s back when his friend was far enough away that he could not overhear. He sighed and turned to look down the path where Roman had indicated.

She approached swiftly, glancing about her, but Valentine could not tell if she was wary of someone following her or disconcerted by her surroundings. Her gown was clearly English, simple but well made. Her kirtle was a drab brown with gold braid trim and belt, revealing a plain, creamy underdress with wide bell sleeves. Her hair was the color of chestnuts, hanging long over one shoulder and twisted with ribbons. Her complexion was the epitome of an English lady of sheltered and privileged life, like the petals of a peony, a dusting of pink across her cheeks and nose. She was striking in her distress, and her eyes were locked on Valentine as her little slippered feet carried her closer.

Valentine grinned.

“Excuse me, man of heaven, excuse me. Good morning. I need you to helping me,” Mary called out, struggling to find the right words in the language of Melk. Miraculously, the man in the brown robes seemed to be waiting for her at the top of the steep path.

She was so tired. Exhausted. The last leg of travel to this little Austrian village had nearly been Mary’s undoing. Her legs and back were stiff from the long ride up and down the endless hills, and now that the horses were stabled and out of her reach, Mary had no choice but to traverse the rolling streets on foot. The natives must be part goat.

But she must hurry. If her chaperones discovered she was missing before she could reach the man she sought, a cry of alarm would be raised and she would be locked in her room at the inn until the pilgrim party moved on in the morning. She might have only minutes.

She reached him at last. “Good morning,” she said with a gasp.

“Good afternoon,” the monk corrected in a smooth voice, and as Mary tried to catch her breath, she noticed that this had to be the most handsome monk who’d ever donned a habit. His tanned skin fitted perfectly over the angular planes of his strong jaw. Dark brown eyes sparkled from beneath lashes that seemed too lush to belong to a man. His dark hair was cut short to his head, and although the copious brown wool hid his physique, his shoulders were broad, the tight cincture of his robe hinting at a lean frame.

“Afternoon? Excuse. I have no speaking,” she apologized. “I want a man quickly.”

The monk’s lips parted in a grin that could only be described as devilish, his teeth shockingly white and even against his sun-kissed skin.

“Hello,” he said, his English flavored with an accent that was not of this little Austrian village. “Certainly I am that man for you, my lady.”

Mary gave a tremendous sigh of relief and turned her face toward the heavens. “Oh, thank God!” But she had no time for extended thanksgiving . . . they would be looking for her soon. “Are you Victor?”

The monk frowned. “Victor? No,” he hedged, and then his sultry smile returned. “But you may call me Victor if it pleases you.”

“No.” Mary shook her head and glanced over her shoulder. “I need Father Victor. Please, oh please, tell me that he resides in yonder abbey. I’ve come such a long way and my time is short.”

“Well,” the monk drawled, “perhaps . . . perhaps I know of a man named Victor. Indeed, I do. And perhaps,” he took a step closer and reached out to touch a curl of her hair, “I could be persuaded to introduce you to him. Although I can no think how he could be of assistance to a lady as lovely as you.”

Mary was near to losing control. If she did not get what she needed here in Melk, she would be swept off in the morning with the group. She closed the short distance remaining between them and grabbed the monk’s cowl in both fists.

“Is he there or not?” she demanded through her teeth.

“You.” The monk chuckled. “Such passion!”

Mary screeched in frustration and released him. “Never mind,” she said, picking up her skirts once more and starting toward the path to the abbey. “I shall find him myself! You should be ashamed!” she tossed over her shoulder.

“Wait!” she heard him call out from behind her, and then the sound of his footfalls on the path. “I am ashamed, yes!” He came even with her once more as she tromped up the hill. “Please, do no run away. I am sorry to have disregarded your plea in my admiration. I shall take you to Victor, of course. He is right this way.”

She glanced at him, thinking that perhaps she had judged him too hastily. After all, it was likely the religious behaved differently in other parts of the world.

“Thank you,” Mary replied. “He must hear my confession immediately, so if you would be so kind—”

“Confession?” the monk repeated. “If that is what you seek, perhaps we should . . . share a meal first, and I could counsel you that you might completely purge your conscience.”

Mary stopped in the path and gaped at him. “What kind of monk are you?”

He shrugged and gave her another grin.

“I have come all the way from England to meet this priest. I have endured weeks of road travel, sea travel, infestations of lice. I’ve shared a bed with an old woman who can’t keep her hands to herself. I’ve essentially run away from home, and my nurse is likely out of her mind with worry. I am very happy that I will marry a great knight later this year, and I don’t have time for your nonsense! Unless I accomplish what I set out to do
this very day
, my entire life will be ruined!” She shoved a finger into his chest. “And if it is because of
you
that I miss the opportunity to see Father Victor, I will personally see to it that you are defrocked.”

His smile widened. “You wish to defrock me?”

“Argh!” Mary screamed, and once more took up her march to the abbey.

“Fine! Fine!” the monk acquiesced with a laugh. He easily matched her pace. “So determined! I do hope your betrothed knows what he is getting himself into by marrying you. I will take you to Victor.”

She spoke not another word to him as they climbed the path together, and it took all of Mary’s self-control not to burst into tears. As they neared the monstrous compound, she was distracted by the beauty and scale of the abbey. Imposing winged cherubim stood watch on both sides of the wrought gates, and inside the bailey, Mary was surprised by the cultivated gardens, fountains, and pools, and the numerous statues that gave the area the feel of a luxurious royal enclosure.

Everywhere she looked, men in brown robes seemed hard at work at some task, or floated past her en route to another part of the massive structure. The long, rectangular courtyard was edged against the steep walls by a covered walkway, where delicate columns upheld graceful arches, and within the shadows she saw even more brethren. None seemed to pay any attention at all to her arrival. Her ears were filled with the sounds of bubbling and splashing water, sweet bird-song, distant bells, and . . .

Nothing else. She guessed there must be over a hundred monks within earshot, but there was no laughter, no conversation, no calls.

She turned to her reluctant escort. “Is this a silent order?”

He only gave her a sideways look of exasperation.

Mary allowed herself a little smile. “That must be quite uncomfortable for a brother of your . . . loquacious nature.” Another glance confirmed her observation was accurate by the tight line of his finely shaped lips. He couldn’t speak here.

He guided her through one of the arches by taking hold of her elbow, but Mary shook him off, choosing to follow at the hem of his swishing robes. They entered the abbey proper through a set of vestibules, ever increasing in size, and then through a maze of wide corridors, until they came into a long, narrow hall.