Page 57 of The Rebellious Countess
He hesitated. Knowing he had to put his trust in Hag’s knowledge of this area and this man despite being over a day’s ride away. “No.”
“Yet you wear a uniform.”
“Half a uniform.”
“Does that make you half a soldier?”
Damnation. Was it not bad enough he’d argued with his wife over the existence of an imaginary child, and now a priest was going to split hairs over a bloody jacket and hat? A perilous quiet filled the air as he stared at the man beyond the candle. Hisfists clenched. His jaw tightened. It took everything he had to rein in his anger and frustration and not kick the damned door down. The priest must have sensed the danger in the air. His rising temper. One moment the door was pushing hard against his foot, and the next it swung open to expose the man in monk’s robes looking up at him.
“You have grown into a big, fine man,” the monk said, as he looked Elias over from his shoes to his messy hair sticking out from under his hat.
Elias’s brow drew together. “We’ve met before?”
The monk laughed. “Of course we have. I am Father Charles. I was in charge of ensuring the pilgrims made it across to Mont-Saint-Michel safely. You were but a boy of seven or eight then, I believe.”
Elias tried to remember the round cheeks, straggly gray hair, and shining grey eyes. He was average height, but his dark robes covered everything else, and nothing about this man brought a memory to mind.
“I’m sorry?—”
The monk shook his head. “I could not wear my robes back then. I couldn’t show my allegiance to the church over the King, nor could I show my allegiance to the King over the church. It was a difficult time.”
“And now?” Elias knew the life of a priest in France was not an easy one. Supporters of the revolution had killed the refectory priests who remained loyal to the Pope, and supporters of the church had killed constitutional priests loyal to the King. Because of the political upheaval, most holy men and women had been arrested and deported or killed.
The man’s smile was genuine. “We have a reprieve, since France is focused on outside forces.”
“Even while Napoleon is holding the Pope captive?” Elias had heard of the Pope’s kidnapping a few years prior. As far as he knew, Napoleon still held the leader of the Catholic church.
Father Charles response was hesitant. “He is aguestof our leader.”
Elias nodded as he looked around the interior of the mill, which housed two silent millstones that were not moving in tandem with the sails of the windmill as he’d expected. Instead, they stood stationary on top of a larger stone covered in flour dust. He glanced at the monk.
“I don’t make flour twenty-four hours a day. I live here. Can you imagine the noise I would have to sleep through?” The wheels of the sails groaned at that moment, emphasizing the constant noises of motion within the mill.
Elias nodded and continued his visual search of the interior as he casually walked the inside of the building to ensure no soldiers were lying in wait of an unsuspecting Englishman hellbent on rescuing an earl. Another stone hung through a hole to the second floor above them, the cogs of the turning mechanism visibly engaged to a sister wheel made of wood hanging above it. There were ropes and pulleys throughout the entire space and made captaining of a ship look easy.
The interior room was lined with bags of flour stacked against the walls, with a smaller room the size of servants’ quarters bordering it. Peeking into the space, Elias observed two bunkbeds, and a hammock like the sleeping quarters aboard ship. The accommodations were small and tight, a place that would make most sailors feel right at home. Only one bed contained bedding that looked like he had awakened the man from his slumber. The other bed frame even lacked a mattress. A well-used trunk sat at the end of the bunkbeds, and a small washstand stood on the opposite side of the room. The room lacked personal touches beyond a bar of soap and a wash basin.
He looked back at the priest. “You work alone?”
“Yes. The farmers bring the grain, and I work the mill.”
There was no fireplace for warmth or to cook by. He understood the desire to keep fire away from the grain, but wondered where the monk cooked or how he kept warm in the winter.
Steps leading to the second floor hugged the exterior wall. “What’s on the second floor?”
“That is where the grain is brought in and sent down toward the stones.”
Elias raised his brows and pointed toward the steps. “Do you mind?”
“Be my guest.”
“I will be done shortly.” Keeping an eye on the priest while he ascended the steps, Elias listened for additional creaks in the floorboards that might disclose the presence of another. The second floor of the mill contained the chute for the grain, along with numerous wooden wheels which made the mill functional as a one-man operation. He had no doubt the monk worked long, hard hours, and suspected the robes concealed more muscle than fat.
Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he returned to Father Charles. “Hag—Aventine said you would have a gift for her.”
The priest paused and looked at him as if the man had no idea what Hag wanted. A warning skittered down his spine, and he slowly reached for the knife on his belt as the priest tapped his chin in contemplation. Elias took a half step back and removed his knife from his belt when the priest suddenly raised his hand in triumph. “Of course! I have been holding it for some time.”
Without a misstep, Father Charles went into the small sleeping quarters and Elias followed. The priest glanced over his shoulder and Elias shrugged. “I need to ensure you’re not getting a weapon.”
