Vexed by the insistent echo in his ears—which sounded like the fearsome howl of some deranged, hell-born beast—Galen attempted to open his eyes. No sooner had he done so than his lids fluttered closed, the stupor proving a difficult foe to best.
Determined to rouse himself, he once again clawed his way to the brink of wakefulness. After a hard-fought battle, he emerged the victor, finally able to awaken from his incognizant repose. But his victory came with a price, his head throbbing with a thundering pain, one that was equally matched with the hunger pangs in his belly.
Somewhat anxiously, he peered around the room, hoping to see his lady wife.
“Laoghaire,” he uttered hoarsely, his need for her eclipsing all else.
But the person he most desired to see was not there. Instead, another woman hovered over the top of him.
“Thank God you have awakened,” Melisande murmured, tears falling unchecked down her cheeks.
While he was surprised to find her there, he was even more bewildered by his surroundings, his eyes taking note of the plain crucifix above the door, the small window set into a stone wall, and the simple, three-legged stool beside the bed. None of which was familiar to him. That he didn’t recognize the spartan chamber unnerved him.
With some difficulty, he managed to raise his head off of the pillow. All too soon the room began to swirl before his eyes, and he decided it might be best not to make any more sudden movements.
“Where am I?” he asked.
Seating herself on the stool, Melisande said, “This is St. Dunstan’s abbey.”
Galen looked at her sharply. “An abbey?” he repeated, her answer making no sense to him. “How long—” he paused, momentarily distracted by sound of his own voice, which sounded weak and slurred. “How long have I been here?”
“We brought you to the abbey three days ago. After you fell from your horse,” Melisande added, perhaps hoping to nudge his memory.
Three days!
While the memory was not altogether clear in his mind, he vaguely recalled falling from his destrier . . . just before his world turned to darkness.
“Where is Laoghaire?” he asked, puzzled by her absence.
Almost immediately, the color blanched from Melisande’s face. “She has been condemned for a witch.”
For a stunned moment, Galen wondered if he’d heard correctly. But when he saw Melisande’s obvious distress, he knew his ears had not deceived him.
“Mother of God, no!” he exclaimed, stricken with a terror unlike any he’d ever known. His anguish was so great that it felt as though his heart had just been pierced by a barrage of sharp arrowheads.
“How? When?” he asked, unable to speak in full sentences.
Somewhat guiltily, Melisande bowed her head and stared at her hands, which were clenched together tightly in her lap. She then proceeded to tell him a tale that reeked of villainy at every turn, Galen shocked to learn that in addition to lacing his wine with henbane, Dame Winifred had also force-fed him milk of poppy to ensure that he remain unconscious. All of which was done so she could falsely accuse Laoghaire of having used witchcraft to put him in a dark stupor. But even more astounding was to learn that the matron had been aided in her evil plot by the debauched priest, Father Giroldus.
Ignoring the pain that ricocheted back and forth across his skull, Galen pushed himself into a seated position. “So, the priest is in league with your mother, is he?”
Melisande shook her head, disavowing him of the notion. “Father Giroldus knew nothing of my mother’s scheme. That said, he was very quick to give credence to her accusation against the countess. I think . . . I think that is why my mother was . . . was so keen to have you brought to St. Dunstan’s,” Melisande hesitantly added, clearly reluctant to speak of the matter.
“Because she knew she had an ally here,” Galen said, the pieces starting to fall into place.Damn the priest!“Rest assured, there will be more than one score settled this day.”
“I think you should know that the countess promised no reprisal would be taken against my mother,” Melisande made haste to inform him. “Furthermore, my mother has already departed for St. Bride’s nunnery, where she will live out the remainder of her days doing penance for her grievous actions.”
Galen silently cursed, annoyed that the matron cunningly sought sanctuary at a nunnery, enabling her to escape prosecution. As with Father Giroldus—who took on the role of court’s inquisitor with the abbot’s blessing—the true culprits were beyond his reach. That left only Simon Blàrach, who knowingly gave false witness against Laoghaire.
“What time is judicial combat set to commence?”
Melisande gaped at him, as though he’d just uttered something unintelligible. “It is to begin at the seventh hour. But, my lord, surely you do not mean to—”
“Laoghaire is all that I hold dear in this world,” he rasped between clenched teeth. “And I will not have her suffer here one moment longer.” He’d learned at a tender age just how savage a place a monastery could be.
Biting back a grunt of pain, he threw back the woolen coverlet. He called out for his squire, and was surprised when Sir William de Graham answered the summons.
“Bring me my sword and armor!” he commanded.
