Page 68 of The Rebellious Countess
The edge crumbled, his grip loosened, debris showered down over him, and he scrambled and clawed at the top of the wall with both hands. His grip slipping, the sound of Máira’s gasp reached his ears as he nearly fell at her feet.
Desperately he dug his fingers into what suddenly felt like grass, weeds, and soil. He pulled with both hands, finding a bit of purchase in the wet, muddy ground. He could not fail. Hewouldnot fail.
Fighting the crumbling stone at his feet, the ground giving under his grip, every muscle strained with each inch he gained. Finally breaching the top, where he saw no nearby threat, he threw one elbow over and waited. Listened for a step, a stone, a bristle of leaves, or an intake of breath. He breathed in the scent of the ocean air, trying to detect body odor or the smell of a soldier’s cheroot.
Once again, nothing. The night was as peaceful as if he were at the helm of his ship.
Nothing was that bloody tranquil.
He swung his second forearm over the edge, pulled himself up, and rolled to his feet in the grass. What he had not expected was to be at ground level looking at the abbey garden, filled with overgrown shrubbery reaching for the night sky.
Five pillars marked the opening to the grassy knoll he’d unwittingly breached. Silently he crept to the closest entrance of the garden where he hid amongst the shadows.
He waited.
The untroubled air held nothing but a wordless warning of danger to come.
Silently he made his way through the open corridors surrounding overgrown rose and boxwood bushes. He found no torches lighting the paths, and with the moon hidden behind dark clouds, the entire place appeared abandoned.
He made his way around the perimeter and quickly found the door to the abbey—locked. He cursed. How could Máira possibly open it after breaking her tool off in the last gate? Yet he had no choice. He couldn’t leave her unprotected any longer, and he couldn’t enter the abbey without her unless he made a hell of a racket kicking it in with his boot.
He returned to the edge of the wall, lay down in the wet grass, and looked over the edge.
“Thank God,” she whispered, and reached up to take the rope.
Digging in his bag, he pulled out the grappling hook and rope, and dropped the rope end. He felt her tug, and pulled her up the wall, her small frame climbing the expanse as if she had been doing it her entire life. With one last heave, he pulled her over the edge, and she fell on top of him, her body forcing him onto his back in the tattered grass.
The two of them stood, and he took her hand in his as they crossed into the long open-air corridor. They hugged the wall as they advanced, their backs grazing across the ancient stonewalls. He stopped a few pillars away from the door to the back of the abbey.
He leaned so close his lips almost touched her cheek and whispered, “The door is locked. Do you have any tools left?”
She nodded. He brought her up to the door and with his back to her, he stood guard.
Whispered curses befitting a sailor sounded at his back. He turned and gripped her arm, shaking his head for her to be quiet. A moment later the lock snicked free, and he turned around and grasped her arm again, pulling her close enough to whisper into her ear, “Stay at my back. Grasp the back of my shirt. I want you close enough to feel you there.”
Her hand bunched a handful of his shirt under his stolen jacket and he cautiously made his way into the darkened interior of the abbey. It was not the altar.
Damnation. He’d chosen the wrong door. Going over the maps in his head, he oriented himself and prayed he didn’t make another mistake, because once again, no sconces were lit. They entered the darkened room with Máira sticking close as he’d instructed. He reached up to feel sconces as they passed and found them cold and burnt down to nub. The candles had not been replaced. Something was going on at Mont Saint Michel that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand tall.
A moan reverberated off the stone walls, and he froze, the sound eerily like that of the dead coming back to life.
“Simon,” she whispered.
He turned and covered her mouth with his hand while holding the back of her head with his other. He shook his head and waited a heartbeat, and another. With his lips at her ear he whispered, “If there is a prisoner close, a guard may be closer. At the other end of this room is the chaplaincy. Father Charles said the guards sleep there.”
She nodded and pulled his hand away. Once again, they proceeded with caution until a squeak was accompanied by another moan. They waited in silence. Another loud squeak echoed down through the second stairwell from above them.
The stairs curved in a steep, narrow spiral, making him concentrate on what was in front of him instead of the woman clinging to his shirt. Pitch black turned to a shade lighter as the flickering glow from a torch began to filter from up above. Gradually the light became brighter, making him want to curse it and thank the heavens for the visibility it lent at the same time.
At the bottom of the stairs, he paused and looked down a long hallway banked with connecting arches that created individual temples to every saint ever canonized. Iron bars blocked off the sections of the hallway that had once held small alcoves for worship. It was ironically fitting to see bars where worship should occur, since the country had been at war with the Church, and the Church had been at war with the country as long as he could remember. Each seemed to want to hold the other accountable for sins they both committed.
Nearby moaning broke the silence once more, until someone yelled in a very unchristian manner for the person in misery to be quiet.
“Are these the prisoners?” She whispered.
He nodded, hoping to keep her silent.
“Do you think Simon is here?” She started to walk past him.
