“M y apologies, Lady Rosaline. To startle you was never my intent.” Friar Camillo rose from his knees, his heavy wooden bead rosary in one hand. He’d been praying at the small shrine dedicated to the Virgin Mary; he was almost invisible clad in his brown robes and concealed by twilight.

I felt foolish with my hand at my wrist, searching for a knife that wasn’t there, but .

. . why was he praying at this shrine? Now?

I had too many suspicions floating in my mind to ignore that he was here where he should not be; and for all that he was a monk, he was also a tall, strapping man.

I retreated a step. “Friar Camillo, I didn’t mean to disturb you. ”

“Indeed, you did not. I had finished my devotions.” He lowered his hood, and again his youth, strength, and good looks struck me. “On this beautiful autumn evening, may I walk with you?”

Not really. “I didn’t expect to see anyone in the garden.”

He took that as assent, probably because no one refused a monk, and joined me on the path.

“They’re expecting me back as soon as possible.” With suspicion weighing on me, I sensed it was wise to tell him someone inside knew where I’d gone and when I’d be back. As we walked, I asked, “Why are you here?”

“Friar Laurence sent me to do what I could for the prince of Verona’s soldiers.”

“Right.” That explained why he was in the palace; the guards would always grant a holy brother entrance. “How are the men?”

“Much cheered by your good soup. I blessed the healthy going into battle this night and cared for the wounded.” He smiled down at me. “You have made many friends with your clean sweep of the kitchen and your skill with a pot and spoon.”

I may have smirked with self-satisfaction. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“On my way out, I discovered the shrine to the Virgin and took a moment to say a prayer for my own mother. She’s suffering and will soon join our dear Lord in heaven.” He sounded composed, considering the topic.

I crossed myself. “May a choir of angels carry her forth.”

He also crossed himself. “Amen.”

Now I felt thoroughly foolish for suspecting the monk of any ill-doing. He was too young to have taken Elder’s life, Friar Laurence trusted him, and Barnadine had sponsored him at the prince’s table. What more credentials did he need?

“Is your mother in your family home?”

“Indeed, no. She is a holy sister in the convent attached to mine.”

I blinked. It was not unusual for a widow to join a convent rather than remarry, yet his tone indicated there was more to the story.

Indeed, I was right; for without self-consciousness, he confessed. “Unwed, she joined the convent on her sixteenth birthday and there gave birth to me. My future was thus predestined by her past.”

“Your father?”

“Unknown. Nor did I know her for all my boyhood. It was not until I took my vows and began serious work among the poor and ailing that I met her, Sister Agnese.” No wonder he’d been composed; he had known her for a short time, and without the relationship of mother and son.

“Sister Agnese also cares for the poor and ailing?”

“The convent sponsors lodging for those whose lives are ending and have no resources or kin to care for them. A most holy sister, she worked tirelessly to ease their passages into the next life, and so the disease that eats the flesh took her as well. Now Sister Agnese fills a bed in the lodging and there lifts everyone’s spirit with her cheerful acceptance of her impending passage. ”

I don’t know that I’d have the strength and the resignation to cheerfully accept what sounded like a painful passing. “When she met you, did she know you?”

“She did, although she said nothing, but eventually I comprehended why we were allowed time together.” He walked with his hands folded and a smile on his handsome face.

The spicy perfume of dianthus recalled me to my duty, and I stopped before the bed of flowers so pink they glowed in the setting sun.

“Do you have your eating knife?” It was a question asked while fully recognizing that if my foolish suspicions were not, in fact, foolish, I could be putting my life at risk.

Without hesitation, he pulled the small sharp implement from the scabbard on his belt and handed it to me, hilt first. I thanked him, and with well-hidden relief, I knelt beside the flowers and cut them with one sweep.

I placed them in my basket and handed his knife back to him.

“Thank you. I’m collecting fragrances to place under Princess Ursula’s nose. In that way, I hope to rouse her.”

“I’d heard she was attacked.” He looked grave.

“By a cruel and brutal villain.” As I spoke, I watched closely and thought I saw a shadow of trouble cross his face.

“Is there no improvement?” At my sad denial, he said, “I pray that God’s will be done; her return to health or her quiet passing to the heavenly gates.”

I lifted the flowers. “I prefer to draw her back to life.”

“An excellent strategy! Scent can be invigorating.” Energy infused him.

He strode into the herb garden, blade in his grip.

As he moved from plant to plant, he said, “Mint to rouse the mind, oregano to remind her of God’s gift of food, lemon balm to brew, garlic chives .

. . ah, the savory glory! And lavender to bring serenity, should she embrace her passage into paradise. ”

He used his knife swiftly, skillfully—clearly, a healer at home in an herbal garden.

In only a few moments, I had a basketful of fragrances for Nonna Ursula, and felt more at ease with Friar Camillo.

He was a nice young man, caring and generous, and again I assured myself he had no ulterior motive for his appearance in the palace garden, except, perhaps, to ingratiate himself to the podestà and his intended bride.

That was not such a terrible ambition for a young monk, was it?

Nevertheless, I escorted him to the door onto the street and raised my hand to him, urging him to go in peace . . . but to please go. (I didn’t say that last part.) When the door had shut behind him, I moved in all speed to Nonna Ursula’s chambers.

I found the kitchen boy gone, Old Maria sitting beside the fire looking more like a withered crone every time I saw her, Tommaso standing at attention, and Princess Isabella and Cal scraping the last of the soup from the pot.

Cal looked better for his sleep, rested and less pained. He dressed himself once again in the dark and brooding prince of Verona uniform; the warrior had returned. Really, it was too bad; I enjoyed having him at a disadvantage.

“Rosie, you tossed our cook from the house!” Princess Isabella said in awe and gratitude.

“To be precise, Marcellus tossed him.” I grinned in remembrance of that well-placed fist.

Cal looked up with interest. “Did he?”

“I merely had to duck away from the flying body fluids,” I assured him. I placed the basket on the table and reached for him; I thought to examine his shoulder.

With a single cool glance, he refused my support.

I halted, feeling an ego-deflating sense of rejection.

His gaze slid to his sister, to Old Maria, to Tommaso, all watching with interest.

I understood. He’d allowed me to care for him when he needed it, but now we returned to the proper-in-public, hands-off betrothal, and maybe some sneak-around, hair-sniffing behavior in private. I wished that he’d make up his mind! I asked, “How is the shoulder?”

He placed his hand on the joint and carefully exercised it. “It will do.”

Gentle reader, can you say, “Damned with faint praise”?

He added, “You’re a good apprentice apothecary.” Considering what scoffing had ensued when he had discovered me working in Friar Laurence’s shop, this was a vast improvement.

“Yes, I am.” I saw no reason for false modesty.

Cal placed his spoon in his now-empty bowl and pushed it away. He folded his hands on the table and stared at me. “How was your walk in the garden with Friar Camillo?”

Princess Isabella sat straight up, and her eyes sparkled. “Friar Camillo was here? I wished I’d seen him. He’s so handsome!”

Cal and I both looked at her.

“And charming!” she added artlessly.

We turned back to each other.

“I went out to find you and saw you rushing after him into the herb garden,” Cal said.

“You . . . watched me? Us?”

“I didn’t watch you. I simply didn’t know he was visiting you.”

“He wasn’t visiting me. Friar Laurence sent him to see what more he could do for your soldiers and he stopped at the shrine to pray.” I could have told Cal about my mission in the garden, but I didn’t appreciate the sensation of being interrogated. “Friar Camillo was helpful to me.”

“He’s very at ease for a young man.” Cal seemed to find that offensive.

“From what he told me of his early life, I think he has reason to behave in a manner that increases his social value.”

“You discussed his early life?”

“He was praying for his mother, who is ill.” Cal couldn’t be jealous of a monk, could he? “Is there a problem with Friar Camillo?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Because Barnadine introduced him into the house and Friar Laurence likes him.”

“True.” Cal was agreeing with me, but he was clearly not backing down from . . . whatever stupid stance he had taken.

“If you think I should be warned about him, please say so.” I was still miffed . . . or miffed again.

Princess Isabella watched us lob conversation, challenging back and forth, as if we were in a ball court. “Cal, are you jealous because I said Friar Camillo is handsome and charming? You’re not handsome, but you can be charming.” In a doubtful tone, she added, “Sometimes.”

I confess, I smiled in mockery. “When you put yourself out.”