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smile.
    These facts meant more to the sheriff than any demands for Christian charity. This once he would refrain from striking the lad’s head with the flat of his sword for the insult of spitting on his horse. He might not be so charitable should Simon dare to defy him again.
    Voices interrupted Fulke’s thoughts and he looked up.
    Two lay brothers walked toward him.
    “At last you have come,” Fulke said, making sure his annoyance was evident to the approaching men.
    A louder voice grew more demanding.
    The lay brothers abruptly changed direction and went to Baron Otes.
    While the baron roared for assistance, his servant gestured frantically at the horse. The pitiful beast did look as if its legs were ready to buckle.
    Nodding their understanding, the lay brothers eased Otes out of his saddle with deliberate care. Soon, the nobleman’s feet were firmly settled on God’s earth.
    The horse snapped at his former rider. The gesture was indifferent and missed its mark by a foot.
    Otes jumped away with impressive alacrity.
    Had Fulke not been so exasperated, he might have laughed. “The animal should have bitten him,” he fumed. “And if God were merciful, the wound would have festered. Satan could have had his company then and the horse my blessing.”
    As if he had overheard Fulke, the baron looked up, caught the sheriff’s eye, and stared like a hawk hovering over a mouse.
    Fulke willed himself to turn around and focus on the abhorrent moss covering the priory walls behind him. His heart filled with bitterness. Why had the Devil failed to lay claim to the baron’s wicked soul? Or was God to blame for this delay?
    He looked heavenward and hissed, “How can You allow the man to live? It would be unjust if one of his victims was hanged for taking revenge because of the baron’s crimes.”
    Then terror struck him with an ague. Crossing himself, he wondered whether there was an ominous meaning in the baron’s stare. Perhaps the man had decided it was now Fulke’s turn for destruction.
    Anger over the baron’s profitable use of extortion was quickly extinguished by the waters of remorse. As Fulke well knew, it was his own fault for owning a secret this ruthless man could use against him.

Chapter Six
    Eleanor was deeply troubled. Either the heat had chased away her reason or her heart did have cause to pound so.
    Realizing she was panting with exertion, she slowed her determined rush along the path to the hospital and put a hand over her breast. As she took in a deep breath of hot air, the prioress willed her heart to a softer thudding. Then she abruptly halted. Looking across the priory grounds, familiar landmarks shimmered.
    Were her eyes bewitched, or was she was going to faint? “You shall not,” she commanded, and her body stiffened like a reprimanded soldier.
    She changed direction and left the path, walking at a more moderate pace toward the monks’ cemetery. A visit to the sick might not be wise until she had calmed sufficiently to think more of their needs than her own concerns. Just because Father Eliduc was an unexpected member of the queen’s company, she should not feel such turmoil.
    Of course she had cause to distrust him. After discovering how he had lied about the true nature of his visits to Brother Thomas, with piteous tales of the monk’s dying kin, she grew outraged. It was such shameful abuse of her compassion.
    She had seen the priest once thereafter and sent him on his way without the slightest tremor of unease. That day, her only emotion was unrepentant glee when she told Eliduc that her monk could not travel this time to care for some sick relative. Brother Thomas had vowed to become the hermit of Tyndal and emulate a desert father because the weight of his sins had become unbearable. Today, the arrival of the priest had inexplicably frightened her.
    Eleanor was not so naïve as to think she had ultimately chased him away after his last visit, nor was she so foolish as to conclude that