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into his deep hazel eyes.
    His breath tasted of mint. “God works in strange ways.”
    “If you believe He exists.”
    “Surely you are in fear of the Almighty.” The moon decided at that moment to duck under a cloud.
    She shuddered. “Nay. I am not.”
    As if waiting for some force to come down and smite her dead, his eyebrows raised to the heavens. Then his soft beard caressed her ear when he whispered, “You should not speak so, not even alone with me.”
    With a quick shrug, she slid off the ledge. “I’ve already confessed, hoping for some good counsel. My priest shared it amongst the villagers and now none will approach the keep.”
    The monk’s eyes turned dark as he took her hand. “That priest has sinned most egregiously. What is confessed is sacred.”
    After giving him a snort, she backed away, and began the long climb down the ladder. “What does it matter? Come. It grows late. No doubt your men have roasted the hares by now and we can have a bit of meat before we sleep.”
    The whole way down, she cursed her broken nature. Surely a woman should have better sense than to lust after a monk.

Chapter 8
    Bleating goats woke Nicholas from the little sleep he’d managed and he cursed. Most of the night, he’d stared at the tufa ceiling, reliving that one sweet kiss. When he did dream, it was only of her. Bloody palms of Christ. Best not dwell on it. Already his shaft was hard and wanting for relief.
    At least I’ve made some progress with the prickly queen. Or has she seduced me?
    Rising, he kicked Eaton, snoring in a nearby pile of hay. “Wake up you lazy sod and see to it that breaking-of-fast is edible. I’m off to the village.”
    While his friend grumbled, Nicholas wandered into the open courtyard, still deep in shadows. Horse manure was knee-high in places, and broken vessels lay strewn about everywhere. High above, guards in the ramparts spoke quietly, gazing out over the ocean. In the brick gatehouse, the chest of the watchman heaved up and down.
    What she’d said last night about the village priest gave him grave concern. Best to see to it as his first chore of the day. Grabbing a skin of water, he exited the keep. The dog, Loki, ambled alongside under the clear blue sky, as if they’d been friends for years.
    Odd. No tradesmen met him along the way, nor carts filled with goods. The road from the village into the keep lay quiet except for scores of bleating sheep, running in circles and trampling pastures.
    Just outside the village, an armed guard woke from snoozing upon a large rune stone. He yawned and said, “State your trade.”
    “Are you blind, sir?” Nicholas held up the cross around his neck, and pointed to his sandaled feet.
    “Uh, you must be one of them new brothers. Sorry. Just so’s you know, I can’t allow you to go back. Evil business in the keep, that.” The guard winked, as if that explained all, and lay back down.
    What the devil? Giving a quick nod and blessing, Nicholas ducked through the gated hole in the crumbling wall. It would’ve been easier to climb one of the many piles of rubble. From there, he traveled the main road, dotted with rotted thatch, crumbled buildings, and piles of filth.
    The priest, no doubt forewarned, waited outside the only well-tended building in the center of town. Robed in fine wool, he shouted at two young men stuffing hay under a platform in a large square near a stone cross. A kind of pitch, as used in torches, sat in buckets beside the structure.
    “Father Michael?” Nicholas’s stomach rolled and his hand reached for a sword he no longer carried. God’s blood. He means to burn her alive? He stomped toward the priest while Loki sniffed and growled.
    The cleric fingered his ornate cross and sneered in Latin. “Franciscan, I presume, from your pathetic attire?”
    The bastard would pay for that tone. “I’m Brother Nicodemus and have been sent by His Holiness to serve the Isle of Man.”
    “Be gone.” The priest shooed both man