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been before.
    “This is not helping,” she hissed, kissing him back.
    He grunted, her annoying, seducing honeyman, and his fingers smoothed across her rump. “More than enough for now,” he said, smacking his lips as he lowered her to the ground.
    The front of his tunic bulged and she was glad. “Serves you right.”
    He turned a cartwheel by her feet and came up smirking. “Yes indeed, my zesty girl, but you will not be thinking on demons and dead folk now, nor indeed until you need to, and you have fresh herbs to gather.”
    “Most generous.”
    “I like to think so, cariad .” He winked and began to march jerkily in the direction of the sun, away from the thatched houses of Lower Liss and toward the wilderness surrounding the monastery.
    Yolande started after him, exasperated that he was right, irritated by her own lusts, but yes, also mightily distracted from the battle to come.
    And how does he know that I need herbs?

Chapter Three
     
    The monastery of Saint Michael and Saint Magdalene under the Tower was built in a strange place, right enough. Geraint swatted another fly from the back of his neck and swore not to moan but wandering mile after mile in a fen of marsh and buzzing insects, with only wading birds and the odd sheep for company, did nothing for his spirits. He marveled at how Yolande kept going without complaint. The flies did not seem to touch her either.
    “How much farther?” He launched himself after a sheep that stared at him. The startled animal bleated and fled. Its fleece was shedding, a tangle of seeds and maggots.
    “The sheep are untended,” Yolande remarked, frowning. “This place is going back to the wilderness. I wonder if they have had the pestilence.”
    Geraint shrugged his aching shoulders. As a tumbler, he expected his body to ache but today was worse than usual. Every limb, every joint throbbed like the toothache. The crucifix in his pack weighed like a stone rather than wood.
    “There is no dishonor in turning back, Geraint. You have guided me so far.”
    “I stay with you, woman. When will you get that through your head?”
    “Thank you,” she said quietly.
    “Do you understand now?” he persisted. She bit her lower lip. It shamed him to see her disconcerted. What is wrong with me? “How much farther?”
    She chuckled, annoyingly amused by his whining. “Not too far, honeyman. See that dot above the horizon? That is the hillside of the Tower and its monastery.”
    Did she just call me honeyman? “What did you say?”
    “The Tower is older than the monastery, I think. Me? I said nothing, I only answered you.” Her voice was guileless but her eyes were bright. Had he not been up to his armpits in fen sludge, he might have chased her, insisted on more of an answer, but he was sick of this flat, featureless land.
    “It sucks at you, I know. It is a place where evil flourishes. That is what you are feeling.”
    “Do not tell me what I feel!”
    She shrugged as if his surly petulance was no more than she expected and moved on, slogging through the damp, sticky afternoon.
    “Is this the end of the world?” He knew he was being unfair but he could not stop it.
    “It is a door, certainly.”
    He was so surprised by her answer he stumbled, sprawling full length. Ooze filled his tunic and mouth and he yelled.
    Yolande dragged him to his knees. “Quiet! There are watchers here. That is who you are sensing.” She knelt and brushed mud and grass off him, then she was in his arms and he was shuddering, clinging to her. “It is the place, the place. That is all.” She stroked his hair as if he were a child, and he was ashamed. Self-disgust at his fear scorched through him. “You are a sensitive, that is all.” She drew back as far as his clutching arms would allow. “The first time I came here, I threw up. And I am trained.”
    “By the devil?” he croaked.
    “Hush.” Rapidly, she made the sign of the cross above both of them. “Take care of what you