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say.”
    Finally, his mind was beginning to work and he scrambled to recover bits of learning beaten into him as a reluctant novice. “Saint Michael is a guardian, a warrior.”
    “Some places are more receptive to evil and this is one such place. The monastery was built as a gatehouse, a defense.”
    “And the other saint? And the Tower?”
    She knelt back on her heels in the sludge, giving him a look as if he were a bright, annoying student who had asked difficult questions. Perhaps I have.
    “The abbot is not sure about Saint Magdalene or the Tower. It is pagan, he says, though not necessarily evil.”
    “How can I help?” His words surprised him, even as they came from his mouth, but he knew at once that he meant them. He brushed a gobbet of mud off her left shoulder. “I want to help. Tell me how.”
    “Do you know prayers, prayers to Saint Michael?”
    “I do.”
    “Say them to yourself. All the time. Say them aloud.” Her voice sounded as pure as a bubbling spring in this lowering place. “Say them in Welsh, the old tongue of this land.”
    “And what will you be doing?”
    Had she winked at him then? “Praying to the Magdalene, of course.”
    He scrambled off his knees and helped her to her feet. Understanding that he had been under a kind of spiritual attack gave him heart. His pack no longer dragged, his head no longer ached. Indeed, he felt light, filled with purpose. I will help her best these spirits, devils, whatever they are.
    “We should link up too,” he said, trying his luck as he reached for her fingers. Why not? It is a good thing I feel for her and I wish her all joy and safety.
    She glanced at their joined hands, her lips quivering, but said nothing.
    “We go on?” he asked.
    “We go on.” She cleared her throat. “We do not want to be here at nightfall.”
    True enough. But what is waiting for us at the monastery?
    * * * * *
     
    Abbot Simon, a tower of a man, looked down his Norman-French nose at Geraint. “You are most welcome, daughter.” He addressed Yolande in Latin, another sign of disapproval. “The entertainer may sleep with the lay brothers.”
    “Geraint should stay with me.” Yolande spoke in English to help Geraint. Her heart was beating so fast she wondered if it might burst out of her body but her instincts, sense of justice and even her sense of gratitude were clear. Geraint had to stay. “He is most helpful.”
    “And willing,” Geraint put in, speaking in flawless Latin. “Do the others know?”
    They were in the chapter house and her prickly, I-am-as-equal-as-you-are honeyman had directed a question to Abbot Simon that she wanted to ask but had hesitated to do so, lest it was ill-mannered.
    Abbot Simon’s suave, beardless face twisted in distaste. “I beg your pardon?”
    “Do the monks know that a restless spirit troubles this place? Do the lay brothers know or are they too lowborn and bovine to be told?”
    “Who are you to ask me that kind of question? Is your name Richard Rolle?”
    Puzzled, Geraint stared at Yolande.
    “He was a holy man, a mystic,” she said quickly. “He was much revered here in the north during his life and remains famous for his letters and sacred writings.”
    Geraint turned back to the abbot. “What does this Richard have to do with my question?”
    The abbot cleared his throat. “Nothing. Just as what I tell the lay brothers is no concern of yours.”
    “But it should be yours.”
    Yolande grew hot from the tips of her toes to the top of her scalp. Never had anyone spoken to Abbot Simon so frankly. Not even my father. She looked up at the corbeled roof of the chapter house, wishing she were somewhere else. The holy father can be arrogant and it is the way of the world, but Geraint is right. All are in danger here and all should know.
    Abbot Simon cleared his throat. “Yolande, I shall see you in church. I will escort your companion there in a moment.”
    After wanting to be somewhere else, she was suddenly intent on