My Lady De Burgh
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The l’Estranges seemed to be oblivious to such danger, however, and they waited expectantly for his answer, so he choked out a polite thank you and excused himself with a nod. As he walked away, Robin realized he had reached an impasse in his efforts to lift the curse.
But his lack of success was hard to accept, for if he did nothing, then surely he would find himself wed. And soon.
Robin watched his host raise a cup in salute to the de Burghs and wondered, not for the first time, what on earth he was doing on the Marches while unrest was abroad in the land. Whether prompted by concern for his way of life or drunk on too much wine or just eager to escape the press of people at Campion, he had left his family home in search of the mysterious Vala, against all tenets of good sense.
Arriving unannounced, he had nonetheless been welcomed by the lord and lady, who proceeded to hold a feast in his honor, a celebration with which Robin was vaguely uncomfortable. From the veiled hints, he gathered that they thought his unexpected arrival, coming so soon after Stephen’s, meant that he and his brothers were engaged in some sort of covert mission for the crown. Robin would have laughed aloud, if it were not for the tense atmosphere that hung thick over the castle.
It wasn’t until late, after he had been regaled with the transgressions of Llewelyn and his brother David and their followers that Robin finally approached the topic that had sent him recklessly to the boundary between England and Wales. He leaned back in a casual pose and tapped the edge of the table.
“So, tell me, do you know anything of a prince named Owain ap Ednyfed or his wife, Vala?” Robin asked.
The lord and lady exchanged glances. “What of them?”
Robin smiled benignly. “Relatives in England were asking about her.”
The lord frowned. “She died long ago.”
Something about his curt reply made Robin alert, and he shook his head as a servant offered him more wine, for he needed his wits about him. “Was there a child?” he asked.
Again, the surreptitious looks were exchanged, and he could feel the lord’s eyes boring into him, probing him for secrets. No doubt, they thought him privy to knowledge of an uprising or the fate of their holdings. Little did they guess that his query had more to do with a dotty pair of so-called soothsayers than any questions of Welsh independence.
Somehow Robin didn’t think they would find his quest amusing, and so he gracefully retired early. He was no warmonger like his brother Simon, and this visit had made him determined to turn around and hie himself back to safer ground as soon as possible.
Unfortunately for the remaining de Burgh bachelors, it appeared that he had met not just an impasse, but the end of his road. Idly, Robin wondered what the lord would say should he ask the direction of a local wise woman, perhaps some ancient Celtic practitioner, and he snorted to himself. The whole idea of finding someone to lift a curse seemed absurd now that he was well away from Campion Castle and the l’Estrange aunts.
He was too easily swayed. How often had his brothers traded on that trait, especially Stephen, who had sold him plenty of counterfeit religious relics in his youth? And, apparently, age had made him no wiser. Desperate to avoid the same fate as his siblings, he had latched on to the first scheme presented to him, no matter how foolhardy, when he would do better to pursue more traditional avenues.
A true relic might counteract the curse, Robin mused. Perhaps he should approach a priest or even make a pilgrimage to some shrine, though he had no idea which one. Saint Agnes was the patron saint of purity, but since it wasn’t really purity he craved, Robin dismissed that idea with a grunt.
The sound, followed swiftly by another, echoed off the castle walls and Robin slowed his steps. Although full of rich food and wine, his de Burgh senses were still as sharp as ever, and as he reached the dark passage before his assigned chamber, he felt the presence of another.
The local situation being what it was, Robin slipped a hand to the dagger he kept tucked at his waist. Larger and more lethal than the usual dining knife, it could be silent and deadly when wielded with his skill. His fingers closing around it, Robin turned slightly, just in case a cudgel was poised behind him, a distinct possibility considering that everyone here thought him a spy.
But when he pivoted to glance around, Robin saw that no assassin stood there, only the man who had served him at table. Still, the fellow had a furtive air about him that kept Robin alert. “My lord,” he whispered, looking back over his shoulder as if he would speak in secrecy.
“Aye?” Robin answered, though he had no wish to be further embroiled in the problems of the Marches.
“She did not die, but fled,” he said.
“Who? Vala?” Robin asked.
The man gave a stealthy nod. “And there was issue, a daughter who lived, though all would deny it now. I saw her myself!”
Intrigued, Robin stepped closer. “Where are they now?”
But footsteps rang out in the passageway behind, and the man grew wild-eyed, edging past Robin hurriedly.
“Wait!” Robin called after him.
“Look to a refuge for women in your own land, my lord, one for those burdened by sorrows!” he said. Then he disappeared into the darkness, leaving Robin to contemplate the whole curious episode with a jaundiced eye. Just when he thought the road had ended, instead it opened up in all directions.
But did he care to follow?
Robin moved restlessly atop his massive destrier and wondered what on earth he was doing poised outside a nunnery. And not just any nunnery, but Our Lady of All Sorrows.
It had been a long, strange ride. Although he had seen no further sign of the servant who had spoken to him so clandestinely, Robin had bid goodbye to his host, determined to forget all about the woman who had married a Welsh prince. But somehow, once he left the border, Robin had ended up at the nearest abbey, the only place he would deem a refuge for women, and there he had inquired about other such houses. And when he heard the name of Our Lady of All Sorrows, he knew a sudden urge to travel there.
Robin told himself that simple curiosity drove him, for the conflicting tales of Vala’s fate would interest anyone. And he had always loved a good puzzle. In addition, he might well provide a service for Stephen’s wife’s family, who, no doubt, would be happy to learn their kin still lived. Perhaps even a reunion could be arranged.
Yet, despite these smug assurances, Robin was aware of some other, deeper compulsion urging him onward. Whether it was concern for his own future or a simple desire to put the matter to rest, he wasn’t sure. But when he discovered that the nunnery lay not far from Baddersly, he returned to his brother’s demesne in good time. There he left behind his men-at-arms, so that he might continue alone on the last stretch of a journey that even he was beginning to view as bizarre.
And so he found himself on this bright early-spring day looking upon the gatehouse to a small abbey surrounded by groves of tall elms. And faced with his destination at last, Robin felt a twinge of shame at what had brought him here. His selfish desires to avoid marriage, which the Church so encouraged, seemed a blaspheme upon this sacred house.
Our Lady of All Sorrows obviously was a place of peace, of quiet women, pure of soul and body, devoting their life to worship. And, for a long moment, Robin remained where he was, hesitant to enter the sanctuary that lay within, to disturb the stillness, broken only by the soft call of birds among the branches above him.
It was while he was considering his course that the cry went up, rising from within the walls to drift upon the wind and reach his ears, faint and frantic. At first, Robin could hardly think he heard aright, but soon the words came to him loud and clear. Although he had never imagined such issuing from a holy house, he could no longer ignore the astonishing plea.
Robin charged through the gates even as “Help! Murder!” rang in his ears.
Chapter Two
Robin barely paused to tether his horse before rushing toward the heavy doors of the abbey. Inside he found absolute chaos as nuns and servants ran either toward the screams or away from them. Brushing past the others, he strode ahead, hand upon the hilt of his sword, until he burst outside once more, into some sort of walled garden.
He surveyed the area quickly, taking in the small group of women standing in a circle. To one side of them, a nun was seated on a stone bench, making loud gasping noises, a less shrill version of the shrieking he had heard, while two others tried to comfort her. The lone man, probably some sort of servant, appeared to be as horrified as the women, and detecting no threat from him, Robin relaxed slightly.
Still, he kept his weapon at the ready as he stepped toward the small knot of females. Several of them fell back as he approached until at last he could see what held their attention and had caused the furor. In the center of the group a young woman lay prone on the grass, obviously dead.
As Robin took in this sad sight, the nuns seemed suddenly to become aware of his presence, for those nearest him squeaked and quailed, gathering together in a trembling huddle, leaving two others who remained apart, apparently unafraid. Robin’s eyes went to the closest of the duo, an imposing figure whose eyes brimmed with intelligence and concern. Assuming she was the abbess, Robin opened his mouth to introduce himself, but a voice stopped him.
“Come to finish off the rest of us, have you?”
Robin started, stunned that someone would accuse him, a de Burgh, of doing murder, and he glanced down to where the second fearless female crouched near the deceased. Again, he prepared to speak, intending to deliver a scathing denial, but when he took a good look at her, his mouth stopped working. In fact, for a long, helpless moment, every one of Robin’s bodily functions shut down, and all he could do was stare. At her.
Like the others, she wore a wimple that left little of her face showing, but what he could see was distinctive. Beautiful, in fact. Her forehead was smooth and pale, her brows delicate, tipped at the corners and an intriguing reddish color, like summer sunlight or autumn harvest. They hovered over eyes a lovely shade of blue that fascinated him. Though he could see nothing of her hair, her face was oval, ending in a stubborn little chin topped by lips set, too, in a stubborn manner. Oh, but what lips! Gently curved, they held a hint of color that reminded him of exotic berries or ripe fruit.
And suddenly, he was desperately hungry. Robin felt the world spinning around him as he gaped, rushing from beneath his feet to hurl him headlong into a future for which he was unprepared, but at the very last moment, he gulped, his fingers clinging tenaciously to the life he had known. And in that instant, he recognized her.
She was the One, the female who would destroy his existence as he knew it, enslave his mind, ensnare his body and suck all the fun out of everything. Well, it wasn’t going to happen. Robin felt his mouth begin to work again, and it turned down into a fierce scowl. Curse or no curse, he was not going to marry this woman. Ever. And it was impossible anyway, he realized, as a sudden dizziness claimed him.
Day of God, he was destined for a nun!
“If blood makes you queasy, you had better sit down.” Robin heard the voice, rife with disdain, and realized that she was speaking. Obviously, she no longer deemed him the murderer, but now she thought he might faint at the mere sight of death. Robin wasn’t sure which presumption was more insulting.
He glared at her. “I am not a killer, but neither am I likely to swoon at a little blood,” he said, injecting a healthy dose of contempt into his voice. Then, in a gesture of dismissal, he flicked his gaze to the abbess. “I am Robin de Burgh of Baddersly, where I stand in stead of my brother, Baron of Wessex,” he explained with the innate confidence of his family.
Even if she had no idea who he was, the abbess ought to recognize his name. At the very least, she would be familiar with the surrounding holdings, especially one as large as Baddersly. “I was outside and heard the cries for help and came directly,” Robin added.
“My lord,” the abbess said, inclining her head graciously. “I am the abbess here. We are honored by your presence, though you find us in a quandary, for it appears that one of our fold has met with an accident, or worse.”
“No accident this,” she said, drawing his attention once again. “But murder most foul.”
“Ah. So it was you I heard shrieking,” Robin said. Although he suspected it was the other nun who continued to sniff and moan upon the bench, he could not help mocking this one in return for the taunts she had tendered him.
“Not I!” she answered, her eyes flashing, and Robin smiled smugly, pleased to get back some of his own.
“’Twas Catherine you heard, and we are grateful to her for sending up the alarm,” the abbess said, halting the argument that Robin sensed was forthcoming from the younger woman who eyed him so rebelliously.
“In fact, it appears that her cries served us well since they summoned you, my lord. ’Tis most fortuitous that you were passing by at this moment,” the abbess said, and Robin made no move to contradict her. After what had happened on the Marches, he thought it wise to be more discreet concerning his interest in the former Vala l’Estrange. And this unfortunate business might provide the perfect opportunity to make subtle inquiries without revealing his true purpose.
“Has the coroner been summoned?” he asked.
“Actually, I think he has just arrived,” the abbess replied. When Robin looked around, she smiled slightly. “I believe you are the coroner, my lord. The man who holds Baddersly has always taken that office, though there has been little enough need for him in recent years, thank the Lord.”
“But his sudden appearance here might be no coincidence,” she said, rising to her feet, and Robin’s outrage at her accusation was tempered by curiosity as she stood. She was taller than he had expected, but still the top of her head would barely reach his chin. She appeared slender, yet shapely, allowing Robin’s imagination to wander until he told himself it was most unseemly to speculate on what a nun might look like naked.
“Sybil!” the abbess scolded. “You have no reason to speak so of Lord de Burgh, whose aid will be most welcome.”
So her name was Sybil. Robin rolled it around in his mind, and, again, he felt that fierce sense of recognition. Sybil. Her name spoke of ancient mysteries, oracles and exotic lures tendered to unsuspecting men. Robin frowned. Luckily, he could not be counted among them, for he distrusted her on sight.
“As penance for your speech, you will work with Lord de Burgh on his investigation into the sad death of Elisa, providing him whatever assistance he might require,” the abbess said.
Horrified at her words, Robin opened his mouth to protest, but Sybil was quicker. “But he might be the murderer!” she exclaimed.
Robin felt his face flush. “As well could she be!” he countered. If Sybil was the One, why did he feel like thrashing her? Surely, his brothers had not suffered this odd reaction to their intended spouses!
“I hardly think either one of you is responsible, but you may keep an eye upon each other, if you are so uneasy,” the abbess said. “That is, if you will be gracious enough to aid us, my lord? I could send a message to the bishop, of course, but since you are already here…”
Robin tore his attention away from Sybil and back to the abbess, knowing full well that the older woman had neatly maneuvered him. But it little mattered in this case, for he had his own reasons for agreeing.
“Certainly, Reverend Abbess, I would be most happy to help you in any way I can,” Robin said, firmly ignoring Sybil’s complaints. She made a noise that sounded awfully like a snort of contempt, but stepped back to gesture toward the prone body in invitation, as if daring him to investigate. Did she think he would fall faint at the sight? Robin nearly laughed aloud, for he had been in battle. He was a de Burgh.
“Who found her?” Robin asked as he knelt beside the dead woman.
“Catherine and I,” Sybil answered in a belligerent tone, and Robin pondered what she could possibly have against him. Perhaps she was one of those nuns who held a grudge against men. Or mayhap she simply resented his intrusion into her ordered existence. Still, she seemed too sharp-tongued for a holy woman. And too beautiful. And too shapely.
Robin glanced down at the body, the dead one, in an effort to tear his thoughts away from the live one that was claiming far too much of his interest. “Did you touch her?”
“Of course, we checked to see if she still lived!” Sybil replied, her answer sending the nun Catherine into a new fit of wailing. Robin glanced up at the One sharply in reprimand, and her mutinous expression made him wonder if all that bravado covered up her own fears. Or her own guilt.
Wonderful. Not only was he was destined for a nun, an abomination in itself, but a murdering nun. That made her worse than his brother Geoffrey’s wife, who had killed her first husband defending herself, but at least belonged to no holy order. Nay, Robin told himself, quite firmly, this woman was not meant for him, no matter that she seemed for all the world to be the One. She was a woman of God, and he would do well to remember as much.
Robin shook his head and tried to concentrate upon the matter at hand. “Did you move her or was she exactly like this when you found her?” he asked. The dead woman’s form was twisted, the upper portion lying mostly on her back, while the lower rested on her side. Blood had seeped from a wound to the back of her head, but was no longer fresh. Dark, thick and drying, its condition told Robin that she probably had died during the night, certainly not within the last hour.
“I only turned her slightly,” Sybil said, her voice still ringing with animosity.
Robin ignored it to continue his study of the deceased. Nearby lay a large rock with blood upon its surface that appeared to correspond to the woman’s injury. Indeed, the situation of the body made it appear as if she had fallen and struck her head, though it would take a mighty tumble to do such damage. Robin looked around, his gaze lighting upon the nearby stone wall, and he mentally judged the distance from its top to the ground. If Elisa had been climbing over the top during the night and had slipped, she might well have met her death.
“Perhaps ’tis no murder, after all,” Robin said, “But an unfortunate accident.” Although he didn’t want to speculate on the nun’s reason for clambering over the high stone barrier, Robin knew that she would likely not be the first member of her order to engage in clandestine meetings.
“Nay! Elisa would not have been on the wall,” Sybil said, following his thoughts as easily as if he had spoken them aloud. He glanced up to see that she had crossed her arms in front of her in a stance so belligerent that Robin didn’t know whether to laugh or growl in exasperation. “Besides, ’tis too convenient,” she added. “More likely, the murderer arranged all in a effort to appease the gullible.”
Robin bristled at the insult, but, instead of arguing, he lifted the dead woman’s head, carefully inspecting the wound to see if it matched the marks on the stone. Long ago, he had learned the secret of concentration from his father and his brother Geoffrey, and so he tried to focus solely upon what he was doing, despite the sound of the abbess herding the nuns from the scene.
All of them, that is, except for Sybil. She remained, continuing her complaints, and even though Robin heeded not her words, she definitely was a distraction. How on earth had she come to be a nun? Obviously, this order did not hold to the tenets of silence, Robin decided, even as he heard her voice on the edges of his awareness, tempting him to stop her mouth, preferably with his own.
Loosing a low oath that he hoped might offend a woman of God, or at least make her be quiet, Robin assessed the injury before him. During the studies of his younger years, he had taken an interest in medicine, so the sight did not disturb him. Nor was he likely to faint away as Sybil had suggested. But he did find something interesting.
“You’re right,” he said suddenly, finally putting a stop to the incessant flow of speech from Sybil’s lips. “She was murdered,” he said into the blessed silence. The peace was brief, however.
“What? How do you know?” Sybil asked, and he gently turned Elisa’s upper body onto her side.
“Look here,” he said. When Sybil gamely knelt beside him, Robin tried to ignore the pleasant waft of her scent. She was too near, but there was no help for it. Gritting his teeth, he pointed to a spot on the back of the dead woman’s head. “Another blow.”
Sybil looked at him then, her eyes wide, and he saw that they weren’t just blue, but a light, lovely color surrounded by a rim of darker blue. He felt himself swaying, nearly falling, before he caught himself. Drawing a deep breath, he looked at the dead woman.
“She was struck twice,” he explained in a strained voice. “Obviously, the smaller injury did not kill her, and your murderer was forced to render another blow. If she had simply fallen, she would have been hurt only once.”
“I knew it,” Sybil said beside him, her tone so rife with excitement that it roused an answering clamor within his traitorous body. Against his will, Robin felt alive, as if every humor within him was cavorting and screaming, She’s the One! He had to struggle for breath, taking in a deep draught to steady himself. And although his fingers itched to reach for her, instead he wiped them on the grass and rose to his feet, greeting the returning abbess with no little relief.
“I am sorry, Reverend Abbess, but I fear your worst suspicions were correct. She was killed,” Robin said.
The abbess shook her head sadly, her gaze resting for a long moment upon the dead woman before she returned her attention to Robin. “Then I must trust you to discover who did this foul deed, for we cannot have someone preying upon the good women here.”
Robin nodded his agreement, and the abbess once more inclined her head toward the body. “Now, let us allow the infirmaress to attend Elisa.”
“As you wish,” Robin answered. “I have examined the wounds, but I would like to look around here a bit,” he added, though the garden area was well trampled by those who had come before him. Walking slowly about the body, Robin knelt to inspect the ground several times, and found nothing unusual for his efforts. His keen-eyed brother Dunstan might have been able to make something of the tracks in the grass, but the comings and goings of onlookers had obscured whatever slight impressions might have been here earlier, leaving Robin no trail. Of course, the knowledge that Sybil’s blue gaze followed his every move didn’t help.
Did she feel the attraction between them, or was a nun oblivious to such things? More likely, this one was too shrewish to notice, Robin thought. And he was saddled with her for the duration of his stay here! Suddenly, Robin wondered if he could solve the murder while avoiding Sybil and keeping to his original mission to find out about Vala l’Estrange. It seemed a complex assignment, but Robin was too much of a de Burgh to give in to doubt. He had never failed at anything yet.
Although he had learned nothing in his search, Robin was determined to continue it outside the nearby walls. Rising to his feet, he turned to the abbess. “I would inspect the area on the other side, and I will need to speak with all of the nuns,” he said.
“We will make arrangements to have them meet with you in the hall,” the abbess replied. “And, of course, we will provide you with chambers in the guest house. Sybil can show you to a set of rooms.”