He yanked his hand away, scowling. I turned away without speaking and went to busy myself with tidying the small pots and packets of medicines on the side table. I arranged them into small groups, sorted by function: marigold ointment and poplar balm for soothing, willowbark, cherry bark and chamo-mile for teas, St. John's wort, garlic, and yarrow for disinfection.
"Claire." I turned back, to find him sitting on the bed, looking at me with a shamefaced smile.
"I'm sorry, Sassenach. My bowels are griping, and I've a damn evil temper this morning. But I've no call to snarl at ye. D'ye forgive me?"
I crossed to him swiftly and hugged him lightly.
"You know there's nothing to forgive. But what do you mean, your bowels are griping?" Not for the first time, I reflected that intimacy and romance are not synonymous.
He grimaced, bending forward slightly and folding his arms over his abdomen. "It means," he said, "that I'd like ye to leave me to myself for a bit. If ye dinna mind?" I hastily complied with his request, and went to find my own breakfast.
Returning from the refectory a bit later, I spotted a trim figure in the black robes of a Franciscan, crossing the courtyard toward the cloister. I hurried to catch up with him.
"Father!" I called, and he turned, smiling when he saw me.
"Good morning," he said. "Madame Fraser; is that the name? And how is your husband this morning?"
"Better," I said, hoping it was true. "I wanted to thank you again for last night. You left before I could even ask your name."
Clear hazel eyes sparkled as he bowed to me, hand over his heart. "Fran?ois Anselm Mericoeur d'Armagnac, madame," he said. "Or so I was born. Known now only as Father Anselm."
"Anselm of the Merry Heart?" I asked, smiling. He shrugged, a completely Gallic gesture, unchanged for centuries.
"One tries," he said, with an ironic twist of the mouth.
"I don't wish to keep you," I said, glancing toward the cloister. "I only wanted to thank you for your help."
"You do not detain me in the least, madame. I was delaying going to my work, in fact; indulging most sinfully in idleness."
"What is your work?" I asked, intrigued. Plainly this man was a visitor to the monastery, his black Franciscan robes conspicuous as an inkblot among the brown of the Benedictines. There were several such visitors, or so Brother Polydore, one of the serving brothers, had told me. Most of them were scholars, here to consult the works stored in the abbey's renowned library. Anselm, it seemed, was one of these. He was, as he had been for several months, engaged in the translation of several works by Herodotus.
"Have you seen the library?" he asked. "Come, then," he said, seeing me shake my head. "It is really most impressive, and I am sure the Abbot your uncle would have no objection."
I was both curious to see the library, and reluctant to go back at once to the isolation of the guest wing, so I followed him without hesitation.
The library was beautiful, high-roofed, with soaring Gothic columns that joined in ogives in the multichambered roof. Full-length windows filled the spaces between columns, letting an abundance of light into the library. Most were of clear glass, but some had deceptively simple-looking stained-glass parables. Tiptoeing past the bent forms of studying monks, I paused to admire one of the Flight into Egypt.
Some of the bookshelves looked like those I was used to, the books nestling side by side. Other shelves held the books laid flat, to protect the ancient covers. There was even one glass-fronted bookshelf holding a number of rolled parchments. Overall, the library held a hushed exultation, as though the cherished volumes were all singing soundlessly within their covers. I left the library feeling soothed, and strolled slowly across the main courtyard with Father Anselm.
I tried again to thank him for his help the night before, but he shrugged off my thanks.
"Think nothing of it, my child. I hope that your husband is better today?"
"So do I," I said. Not wanting to dwell on that subject, I asked, "What exactly is perpetual adoration? You said that was where you were going last night."
"You are not a Catholic?" he asked in surprise. "Ah, but I forgot, you are English. So of course, I suppose you would be Protestant."
"I'm not sure that I'm either one, in terms of belief," I said. "But technically, at least, I suppose I am a Catholic."
"Technically?" The smooth eyebrows shot up in astonishment. I hesitated, cautious after my experiences with Father Bain, but this man did not seem the sort to start waving crucifixes in my face.