Chapter One
Flickering candlelight illuminates the herbarium, the glow faintly visible to me through the shuttered windows. The full moon, which is just now sinking behind the low hills off to the west, is far brighter than the feeble burning wax, not that I need much added illumination given my superb night vision. The building itself is of a fair size, well-built as with all the other buildings within the Abbey compound. These monks are enthusiastic and willing workers. I step from the path and pace through the ankle-high grass to one of the windows. I try to peer through the chinks of the wooden shutters, but have no luck. I can see nothing of the room's interior. Still, if the design holds true to the other herbariums I have seen and visited over the years, then there will be one large room on the main floor and a small half-attic?little more than raised shelves used as cramped storage space?under the thatched roof. The door is, of course, closed tight and locked from within and I lack the proper key to gain easy entry from without. I don't bother to try the latch. At this hour of night, the herbarium is almost certainly locked up tight and I see little point in wasting my time attempting to gain access.
The soft chanting of the brothers at prayer comes to my straining ears on the night breeze, a pleasing sound as nearly forty male voices mingle in the Latin verse. They are up well before the sun. Such dedicated men, of various ages and types, all united in their faith. I believe that I have seen all of them over the few days I have rested here among them. They're mostly middle-aged adults, though there are a handful of young boys only recently initiated, aging up to an ancient abbot approaching the end of his long life. Most are weathered and aged by their endless toil in the fields, though some of the young adults are fine specimens of muscled, athletic manhood.
I feel a stirring of hunger within my chest, but I am not here to feed. I force the urge away with a shake of my head and bury it inside me.
No, I am here to seek access to the contents of the monastery's gardens?to the forbidden fruit of the apothecary's gardens to be more specific.
And a simple locked door is not going to thwart me from obtaining them.
I take one final look around, but not a single human or animal is visible. Not even a bat or a moth is abroad at this hour. Gathering myself for the jump, I bend my knees in a crouch then leap up, landing atop the thatched roof with scarcely a sound. The devout brothers will be chanting vespers for a good while yet, so I know I have little to fear from them. The small window looking out from the semi-attic gapes open, left ajar either by accident or design, and I am able to slip through it. My lips twitch in a faint smile. A good thing I am thin. This upper floor of the stone herbarium is scarcely half the size of the ground floor and given over to storage. I stay partially crouched, for the roof is low and even I must stoop; how the taller monks avoid hitting their heads while seeking their supplies is beyond my imagination. I make my careful way between the stacked chests and ranked barrels with little effort. One floorboard creaks, and I halt in mid-step, but hear no sound from below. I am undiscovered.
The steps leading to the ground floor are rough-hewn, and several of them creak underfoot in a most alarming fashion no matter how lightly I attempt to tread. I do not enjoy sneaking through the abbey buildings in this manner. I am a creature of the outdoors?of crowded cities if I have my choice?and I feel trapped by the closeness of my surroundings. Still, I am left with little choice but to venture indoors now. I have searched the abbey gardens repeatedly by moonlight, but after two nights of fruitless searching, I have given up hope of finding the herbs I seek on my own. If I could ask the monks for their aid, then I would have departed these grounds days ago, but those particular herbs are viewed as dangerous by most people.
The handful of still-burning candles on the main floor gives me light enough to see the interior. 'Tis much as I had expected. A large table stands in the centre of the room, laden with the tools of an apothecary?jars and mortars, bowls, knives, and many herbs. Crates are stacked along one of the walls, and shelves cover most of the others. A locked cabinet. Other small tables reduced the available floor space even more.
A young monk lays sleeping atop a pile of hay in the corner opposite the stairs. He does not stir as I carefully slip past him. Sun-bronzed skin gleams invitingly between his tousled brown hair and the rough collar of his coarse tunic. His lips are parted slightly as he breaths deeply of the sweet lures of Morpheus.
I feel my own lips part as I gaze longingly at him. The sweet blush of youth lies upon his features, though his frame is that of a man, and I can scent his musk in the air. Sweet, like fresh perfume.
Oh, I long for him.
Wish to run my fingers through the curls in his hair.
I hunger to taste him.
I find myself hovering over him, unable to recall walking across the floor. My fingers brush lightly against his cheek but he does not stir at the soft touch of my cold fingers against his rough stubble.
He is gorgeous.
With a silent snarl of frustration, I drag myself away from him, across to the largest table where a score of herbs lay in various states of preparation amid jugs and bowls. Dried herbs mingled with fresh. Some are steeping in water, others in wine or other alcohol. I look at the small clay jugs, searching for the particular mixture I desire. There are tinctures and ointments, fresh herbs and dried flakes?such a wide choice.
But I seek a particular mix ... one that was not apparently left out for the unwary to access. My eyes hastily search the shelves and the bunches of sweet-smelling herbs hanging from the rafters to dry. I pick up a pestle and sniff the end before dropping it back into the stone mortar.
The hoot of an owl startles me and I freeze, straining my senses to seek out danger. There is none that I can detect?even the monk still slumbers deeply?and I turn back to the table. A bowl is resting over a small candle, some mixture of herbs and wine mulling. No doubt the monk was set to watch the steeping this night. I blow out the candle.
A locked cabinet stands in the corner beyond the sleeping boy and I hasten to it. Locked, but the small clasp is weak and I am able to bend it open with a sudden pull. I pause, eyes flicking hastily to the young monk, but the noise of the breaking lock has not awakened the sound sleeper. 'Tis a good thing, for I have no desire to be discovered here.
More jars await my searching eyes inside the small cabinet. And this time I do find that which I valiantly seek. Pulling half a dozen small vials from within my tunic, I hasten to fill them with wormwood, nightshade and other potent herbs before resealing the jugs and then hiding the vials once more upon my person. I take care to return the jugs to their original places, or at least as near as I can recall. I do not require vast amounts of the drugs for my intended purpose, nor do I wish to be needlessly greedy with my pilfering and thus alert the apothecary to my pre-dawn theft.
I close the cabinet and carefully hang the broken lock back on the door so as to obscure the theft. With some little luck?and the grace of the gods?the tampering will not be noticed for several days, and the meaning of the broken lock will not be readily apparent even then. I have left herbs enough behind that mayhap none will notice the lessened amounts even when the broken lock is discovered.
A few days will be time enough and more. Long enough for me to be done with my deed then far away from this abbey, and farther still from this entire valley.
I creep back to the boy's side and stare down at him, lying in the straw atop a few burlap sacks. I like them young. I know there is a goody smile twisting my lips as I gaze at him. Oh, do I long to taste his essence. The scent of the herbs hanging above his reclining form is heady, mixing with his own scent. There are bunches of rosemary and basil, of thyme and others I cannot readily name. One of the candles gutters out, plunging that corner of the room into shadow.
Is it a sign, I wonder. "Do the gods wish me to sate my lusts this night?" My whisper, though soft, is enough to make the monk stir in his sleep.
With another silent snarl of frustration, I turn away from the boy. I hurry to the stairs and ascend to the upper floor to leave by the window through which I had first entered. He has, and will have, no idea just how close he came to tasting death this night ... or how close he came to rapture.
* * * *
I creep into my small room in the guesthouse and carefully lock the door behind me. I have completed my task long before the monks have finished their pre-dawn prayers. Let them stand in their cloisters and pray, let them attempt to appease their One God. My own worships have been made to the many gods and goddesses?and what have they ever done for me?
I do not bother to light any of the candles the kind brothers have provided for my use just as I took care to extinguish the one which had been lit at twilight. I wish anyone stirring about the abbey guesthouse to think I lay sleeping soundly in my chamber. I check the window to ensure that it is well-shuttered and locked. With the door equally secured, I am ready to retire for the day.
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