Famished Page 2

  “Famished,” Clive admitted.

  “There’s nothing worse than gnawing hunger, is there?”

  “I… guess not.”

  “We’re lucky in the modern world. Sustenance is never farther away than a short jaunt to the market. In the old days, things were different. Hunger was a specter then—a black demon, waiting to devour souls.” He grinned as Clive stood up beside him, prepared to follow. “But we don’t have to worry. Come.”

  Chapter 2

  Blaylock spent a restless night, twisting and sweating in his plush king-sized bed. When he finally did manage to fall asleep, he saw Ulrich’s death again—from the same vantage point where he had originally watched it happen. He’d been standing in the library, concealed just at the right angle to see inside the hidden room without being spotted himself.

  As he had expected, Ulrich had wasted no time in leaving his work in the regular library and sneaking through the hidden panel once Reginald had told him about it in confidence and then made himself scarce. Blaylock had not been able to see Ulrich’s face, but he could easily imagine his greedy smile as he dashed in to run his hands over the priceless medieval books arranged on the old tables. When he opened them, though, he froze and then began to back away.

  Blaylock had enjoyed watching him stumble away in shock. He had welcomed Ulrich’s company, since it had made a nice change from Reginald’s grumbling, but only to a point. The man himself had quickly become insufferable, with his constant talk of his superior Teutonic intellect and advanced understanding of practically every aspect of medieval scholarship. Blaylock had quickly abandoned any thoughts of bedding him as his arrogance began to grate.

  Moments later, Ulrich’s screams had filled the room. At that point Blaylock closed the panel and turned away. He had seen enough to know he had fulfilled his duty as master of the abbey—at least until the next visitor came. And that visitor was here now.

  Juxtaposed with that mildly unnerving memory was the look of pure joy that spread across Clive’s youthful face when Blaylock had first shown him the outer section of the library. The secret panel, of course, was again closed and hidden, and Clive had never suspected there was anything more than the usual heaps of moldering codices in the room. There would be time enough to reveal more. Blaylock was in no hurry. As with Ulrich, he hoped to have a few days of pleasant conversation with Clive before the inevitable happened. He needed something to break up the monotony of life at the abbey, after all.

  At the first sign of morning, Blaylock got up, relieved that his mostly sleepless night was over, and made his way to the kitchen to see if Reginald was up and about yet. He was, but without a word he pointed a knobby finger in the direction of the library.

  “What’s happened?” Blaylock demanded. An unusual clammy feeling gripped him. Surely Reginald hadn’t gone against his express orders and shown Clive the secret room already!

  “See for yourself, sir,” Reginald said with barely disguised annoyance. He shrugged as he turned and went about making coffee.

  Blaylock walked to the library a bit more quickly than he was accustomed to do. He flung open the door and felt a flood of relief when he found Clive seated at one of the reading tables, a few antiquarian manuscripts scattered around him. When he glanced up at Blaylock, Clive looked a bit guilty. Good, Blaylock thought. Until that moment, Clive had begun to seem too virtuous to be genuine. What was his hidden vice? Everyone possessed at least one. Had Clive, like Ulrich, contemplated stealing the books or discreetly cutting a few pages out?

  “Is something wrong?” Blaylock asked as Clive’s blush flowered over his smooth, round cheeks. Briefly, Blaylock envisioned himself swiping a hand over that warm, plush flesh. Then he, too, felt the sting of embarrassment.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I got up early and decided to get to work without waiting for your permission. I know I should have waited for you to join me.” He held up his hands, safely encased in the requisite white cotton gloves, essential when handling rare old books. “I promise you I have treated everything with the utmost care.”

  This was the big secret? Blaylock struggled to hide his disappointment. “Quite all right,” he managed. “Your enthusiasm pleases me. After all, books are meant to be shared. They are meaningless if they simply sit on a shelf, untouched.”

  Clive offered a shy smile, and Blaylock tilted his head to see what he had been reading. “Ah,” he said, recognizing the obscure symbols scrawled on the page. “An alchemical treatise. Have you a special interest in magical texts?”

  “Not particularly.” Clive laughed. “I mean, the books are interesting, but to anyone in the modern world they seem hopelessly silly, don’t they?”

  “I don’t know. Even today, some believe there are hidden formulas for gold in such books that can still work—they need only be interpreted correctly.”

  “Well, that’s sort of daft, isn’t it? I mean—that isn’t where gold comes from. Science has the answers, not magic. I would hope we’ve learned at least that much by the twenty-first century.”

  “You are a skeptic, then, when it comes to all things mystical?”

  “Well, a certain degree of skepticism sort of comes with education.” Clive’s ears were now red, along with the rest of his face. The exchange clearly made him uncomfortable. Why? Blaylock wondered. “Doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. Some are fond of saying that the longer they study, the more they realize they really know very little. The world is just so vast—the possibilities so endless.” Blaylock waved his hand in the air. “But in any case, the prospect of gaining wealth through magical means does not appeal to you?”

  “I guess everyone wants to be rich at some level. I’m no different, just because I like to think of the good I could do in the world.”

  “Such as…?”

  “Oh, you know. I’d set up scholarships and fund museums and things. Money should be used to help others.” Clive smiled shyly. “You must donate to a lot of charities with a place like this.”

  “I have accountants who handle such matters. I do not have a head for business.”

  Clive laughed. “I do my taxes with software. It takes about five minutes because I have barely two quid to strike together. We’re from different worlds, you and I.”

  Truer words were never spoken, Blaylock thought. This man was entirely unlike any he had ever seen before. He felt an odd stirring in his chest whenever Clive spoke. Blaylock felt a dull throb in other parts of his body, too. Most unwelcome, if not entirely unexpected. He did lead rather a solitary life at the abbey. Every now and then his body, like any man’s, cried out for relief.

  Well, best not to dwell on that. He took his pleasures when he wanted, in anonymous city clubs or other venues where no one knew him. Though it had occurred to him that he might easily find the necessary victims in such a place, he had never dared to lure someone home for that purpose. The risk of being recognized and followed or investigated was too great. In general, he preferred to limit or even forego physical delights in the interest of safety.

  While he pondered his dilemma, he noticed Clive gazing at him with blatant curiosity. It wasn’t just the interest of a scholar trying to ingratiate himself with the owner of rare manuscripts, either. Clive’s stare held the unmistakable interest of one man in another.

  Now that he thought about it, he had already made great progress in performing his duties as master of the abbey. The culmination of his efforts was merely days away. In the meantime, was it really so wrong to attend to his own satisfaction? Did he not deserve a little self-indulgence with a man who appealed to him?

  He felt a smile cross his face. It wasn’t his usual cynical smirk, but something warmer and more genuine. Clive noticed, too, and his own face relaxed in an easy, happy grin.

  “I’m really glad you invited me here, Mr. Blaylock,” he said.

  “Let us have no more of this needless formality. Call me Elwyn, if you wish, or simply Blaylock. I am not fond of my first n
ame. It has always sounded rather weak to my ears.”

  “I like it. It’s different. Noble, somehow. And please call me Clive.”

  “With pleasure… Clive.” Blaylock held out a hand. “Would you like to join me for breakfast and then take a brief walk around the grounds? I can point out some of the more interesting features of the abbey’s grounds and architecture.”

  Clive nodded. “I would like that. Very much, in fact.”

  “Then come with me.” Blaylock held out his hand, and Clive stood up and took it.

  After an adequate breakfast of toast, kippers, and eggs, the two of them walked around the perimeter of the abbey’s vast lawn, enjoying the crisp early autumn morning. Blaylock talked about generic subjects, such as the difficulties of maintaining the grass, trimming the shrubs, and keeping poachers and trespassers out of the surrounding woods. He noticed that Clive maintained a rapt, fascinated expression no matter how dull the subject matter became.

  “Reginald does what he can, of course, but he is only one person, and getting on in years, at that. We have help come in from the village now and again. People don’t realize how expensive an estate is to maintain in today’s world. The original monks had free labor. There was something to be said for that.”

  Clive nodded as though mulling the situation over. “What happened to the monks when the Reformation drove them off the land? Were they killed?”

  “It’s an interesting legend. The monks here were a closely knit group. They did not do healing and ministering to the poor like others, so even the villagers found them a mystery and even feared them. Therefore we must take every legend with the proverbial grain of salt.”

  “They were busy making books, perhaps,” Clive suggested. “They were too preoccupied to tend to lepers and such. Your library benefitted from their dedication instead.”

  “Quite right. Anyway, the story goes that the abbot received word from a traveling minstrel that King Henry’s men were on their way to physically wrest possession of the Abbey from them and strip the very walls of gold and other treasures. Legend has it that the twelve monks who resided here immediately threw down their daily tasks and withdrew into the abbey as a group. They barricaded it with furniture and barrels of wine and oil while they decided what to do.”

  When he paused, Clive jumped in to prompt him, obviously excited by the story. “And? What happened next?”

  “Like many other monastic enclaves, they refused to submit, king or no. They felt they served a higher power, and they would not be moved.”

  “They stayed and fought the king’s soldiers?” Clive gasped. “That can’t have been pretty.”

  “Actually, you might be surprised at what happened.”

  “Tell me then, please!”

  “When the soldiers got here, as you might expect, they broke down the doors and entered the abbey with their swords drawn. Make no mistake—they were prepared to kill whomever they found inside, monks or brigands alike. When they forced their way inside, though, they were stunned at what they found.”

  “Let me guess,” Clive said grimly. “The monks had committed suicide rather than allow the soldiers to slaughter them.”

  “Not exactly. At least, not that we can prove. Admittedly, it is one theory.”

  “What did they find, then? Not bodies?”

  “Not bodies. Robes. Empty ones, scattered about on the floor. The flesh-and-blood monks were nowhere to be found that day… and indeed they never were.”

  Clive brightened. “They escaped, then. Made their way to France, or Scotland, perhaps.”

  “As I said, there are many theories.” Blaylock was touched by Clive’s apparent concern for men who had lived five hundred years before him, with whom he had no direct connection and little or nothing in common. It had been a long time since Blaylock had felt such a connection even with someone standing next to him.

  With Clive, though, he began to get an idea what such an emotion might feel like. It was not entirely unpleasant.

  “What do you think happened, Elwyn?”

  Blaylock shrugged. “Legend has it there are secret passages and rooms in the abbey. Perhaps they tunneled to freedom and escaped into the countryside on foot. They may have disguised themselves or sought refuge with other rebellious folk who preferred to remain Catholic in defiance of King Henry’s orders.”

  “I hope they did. I am of no particular religious persuasion, I admit, but I detest brutality and killing. I prefer to study the lighter side of the past—the art, the costumes, the music…”

  “And the books, of course.”

  “Yes. Those most of all.”

  “Of course, it’s also possible that perhaps they took some sort of action no one could have expected.”

  Clive frowned. “Such as…?”

  “Times were different then. People believed in magic. Who knows? Maybe some of them actually succeeded in performing it.”

  “Are you suggesting they spirited themselves away using some sort of… supernatural means?”

  “It’s a possibility. Rumors hinted at such at the time. Superstition? Perhaps. Who can say? None of us were there, and the abbey itself can tell us nothing.”

  “Are you quite sure?” Clive was frowning, his eyes bright as though he were thinking something over. “It seems to me that it might… under certain circumstances.”

  Blaylock nodded with satisfaction. It hadn’t taken him long at all to pick up on Blaylock’s suggestion. Clive was a clever young man indeed. What a shame his talents would come to nothing in the academic world.

  “You mean the walls might contain some sort of secret panel?” Blaylock asked innocently, leading him on.

  “Exactly. It’s not so hard to believe. This place was constructed in the days when attacks by bands of thieves and constant warfare were facts of life. It seems likely the original architects concealed some escape hatches in the stone. Maybe even a place to hide treasure. Abbeys were filled with gold and jewels, of course. That was the main reason King Henry wanted them dissolved… and despoiled.” Clive stopped walking then and looked back at the abbey with a dreamy look Blaylock found quite endearing. “Wouldn’t it be magnificent to make such a discovery! You haven’t yet, have you?”

  “Alas, no. If such secret panels exist, they are too well hidden for me. Possibly they were sealed over long ago.”

  “If I uncover any clues in the library manuscripts, I’ll be sure to let you know. What an amazing find that would be—especially if we made it together!”

  “I appreciate that,” Blaylock said with a smile. Ulrich, at least, had never made a promise to share in his discovery, and indeed his main purpose in entering the secret room had been to steal whatever he found there. Blaylock was positive about that. Clive was no doubt just babbling in his excitement—when he thought about it more, his attitude would change. Blaylock would have to wait in order to see if his dark seed bore an even darker fruit. “You never know what wealth might be hidden inside the Abbey walls,” he prompted.

  “Oh, that isn’t my main interest. I would simply like to be a part of history. It would be an honor to be the first person to look at something again after it had been lost for hundreds of years.”

  Blaylock lifted a brow. It finally dawned on him that Clive might be putting on an act… pretending to be naïve in order to throw Blaylock off his track while he searched for the treasure. Yes, that had to be it.

  “You are an unusual young man, Clive,” he said, thinking out loud. “Tell me more about yourself.”

  Clive blushed. “Nothing to tell, really. I come from a modest lower middle class home. Made good, got myself a spot at university, that kind of thing.”

  “Are you close to your parents?”

  “Nah, not really. They divorced some years ago—both remarried now with new families. They sort of left me to make my own way in the world, which actually suits me fine.”

  Good, Blaylock thought. No one about to miss him when he fails to return to his rooms at
the university. Hopefully, he’d kept his word about concealing his trip to the abbey from his mates.

  “Have you ever been in love?” he asked next.

  Clive’s blush deepened and flamed across these sweet, soft cheeks. “No. I’m too busy with my studies for that sort of thing.”

  “Ah.”

  They walked along in awkward silence for a while. Finally Clive spoke again. “Plus… can I tell you something, Elwyn? I’m not sure why I get the sense you might understand and won’t judge, but I do.”

  Finally, Blaylock thought. A confession. So Clive did have dark secrets after all. A drug addiction? Criminal conviction? Gambling habit? He couldn’t wait to find out.

  “Of course,” he said in a soothing voice. “Tell me. I promise you I will still be your friend afterward.”

  “Thanks. Thing is… I’m not like other blokes. I mean… I’m not interested in women… or that sort of thing. You know.” He seemed to choke a little. Then he looked up at Blaylock expectantly, blinking behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

  “Really?” Blaylock raised his brows. He wasn’t at all shocked—something about Clive had set him off from the beginning, when he’d felt a pull toward him. Still, knowing he hadn’t been mistaken gave him a little rush of satisfaction.

  “Does that… um… does that bother you?”

  “Not at all. You should feel at home here, Clive. Perfectly at home.” As they walked, Blaylock slipped his hand around Clive’s and gave his fingers a friendly, reassuring squeeze. Clive glanced over and gave him a shy smile that made Blaylock’s chest tighten.

  Suddenly, he knew he couldn’t deny the truth any longer. He hated what had to happen to Clive. In fact, he didn’t want it to happen at all, his duties as master of the abbey be damned. Perhaps there was some way to change things, after all.