My Lady De Burgh

The thought of being alone with the One made Robin’s entire being rouse to alertness again. His gaze immediately transferred to Sybil, though against his will. It was an altogether unsettling sensation. He had always been the master of his fate, but now he sensed an ominous sway in his command. Is this how his brothers had felt, helpless victims of an overpowering something beyond their control? Although seized by lust, more was involved here than mere sex, though how could that be when he hardly knew her, and what he did know of her, he heartily disliked? And yet, he was drawn to her, yearning to discover everything about her, her history, her facets, her secrets.

Robin shook his head to clear it and told himself in a firm, manly, decisive way that this woman held no power over him. But somehow he was still studying her as she hovered over the dead woman, presumably awaiting the approach of the infirmaress and other nuns…other nuns. That knowledge brought Robin a certain comfort, for no matter what her unusual effect upon him, Sybil could not be meant for him.

Obviously, something had gone awry this time, allowing him to escape the curse, for his intended already had answered a higher calling. Safe in that assurance, Robin donned a smug smile as he watched her take charge of the removal of the body, issuing directions that were the province of the infirmaress. Apparently, Sybil made no discrimination, but alienated everyone with whom she came in contact.

Robin might have laughed, if he hadn’t been so exasperated. He turned to the abbess, who now stood beside him. “Rather forceful for a nun, isn’t she?” he commented in a dry tone that did not hide his opinion.

The abbess lifted her brows. “Oh, Sybil is not a member of our order, though she has long dwelt with us. She remains a novice, having never taken her vows. I sometimes fear she is destined for the outside world, with all of its heartaches,” the abbess said, and Robin felt his complacency drop away, along with his grin. Not his world, he thought, with something akin to panic.

Seemingly oblivious to his reaction, the abbess left him to speak with one of the other women, while Robin reached up to tug at the suddenly constricting neck of his tunic. With a scowl, he glared at Sibyl, outraged at what he considered her duplicity. Perhaps she was not a nun, but that didn’t mean he was going to turn around and marry her. It was not as though she could make him, he thought mutinously, for how could she? Hold a knife to his throat? Lure him into a compromising situation? Robin grunted in amusement.

In truth, there was naught she could do, for he was prepared for any tricks. Already, he was one step ahead of his brothers in that he knew what was afoot. Seizing upon that small advantage, Robin felt his innate confidence returning. After all, forewarned was forearmed, and Robin was a master of weapons.

As Sybil stood watching the nuns take away Elise, she clenched her hands at her sides to prevent herself from following. The grief she had set aside momentarily returned, fresh and sharp, making her want to put herself between Elisa and the women who would prepare her for burial, as if she might, by dint of her own fierce will, somehow delay the inevitable or change the events that had transpired.

Swift upon the heels of those thoughts came a shocking rage, directed at a religious existence that somehow had allowed this abomination, at the world in general and, finally, at Sybil herself, where it turned into a gnawing guilt that threatened to eat away at her very being. The words if only, if only, beat so loudly in her head as to drive her mad.

If only she had gone to the abbess when she had first suspected that Elisa had taken an unhealthy interest in someone outside the nunnery walls. If only she had pressed her friend to give up the relationship. But Elisa had never admitted she was seeing anyone, and Sybil, well aware of the punishments awaiting a nun who strayed from her vows, had said nothing. At the time, Sybil had thought she was keeping a confidence. Now, she saw things differently, for banishment or excommunication would have been a better fate for Elisa than death.

If only she had done something! But Sybil had never dreamed that Elisa’s preoccupation had gone so far. She had been behaving strangely, yet who would have thought such an innocent would tryst right within the convent walls? Or that the lover she was meeting would do her in? Sybil shuddered, her intrinsic courage at odds with the frightening reality of the outside.

It was an old conflict. Having abided at Our Lady of All Sorrows since her childhood, Sybil knew no other existence, yet she had always possessed a healthy curiosity about the world. That sense of wonder had tugged at her, keeping her from her vows even when others urged her to take them. Those nuns who had lived outside the walls had impressed upon both she and Elisa the dangers to be found there.

If only Elisa had heeded the warnings. Guilt rose to swamp Sybil again, for hadn’t she, too, been stricken with a restlessness that the nunnery could not satisfy? A harsh, bleak winter had left her eager for spring, anticipating some change in the air instead of the same deadly dull march of days. As had happened often before, she felt stifled, as if she were choking on her very existence, but what else was there for her?

She had no family, no entrée into a venue she knew nothing about. How would she manage, even if she arranged to leave? The Church liked to keep those who had once entered these walls within them always, and Sybil felt the heavy burden of her duty, of promises made to nuns now dead. Then she would try to be pious and worthy, but her unruly nature always was at odds with her good intentions. And eventually, the monotony would begin to slowly constrict her again until she felt she couldn’t breathe, that her life here was no better than bondage.

Then she would turn her head toward the west and wonder what lay beyond the orchard and the fields and even the village itself…. As if through no will of her own, Sybil turned her head, but this time she saw a sight that had never greeted her before: Robin de Burgh.

He looked strange in the little herb garden, though others of his sex had been here before on occasion—servants usually. He was different somehow. Larger, more masculine, he seemed to fill the small space with his strength and his maleness, as out of place as a bull among the delicate early-blooming violets. No, not a bull, with its rage and clumsiness, but something else wholly beyond her experience.

Sybil’s brow furrowed at that puzzle. She didn’t care to be caught at a loss, and her reaction came swiftly and automatically, outrage pushing aside her guilt and pain. How could the abbess ask her to work with this, this man? Not only was he a member of the outside world, but he was a male! He had no business involving himself in the affairs of the nuns. He was an intruder into this sheltered place, a reminder of what existed outside, bold and untamed and unknown.

Sybil seethed. She had taken exception to him the moment he strode into the garden, free and strong and confident, his clothes boldly declaring his station and the set of his wide jaw bespeaking his arrogance. He represented all that she was not, and Sybil was honest enough to admit that she resented his power and his sex. But there was more to her rancor than simple envy.

What she most disliked about Robin de Burgh was the way he made her feel, for he affected her as no one ever had before. It was apparent the instant she laid eyes upon him. She had been kneeling over Elise, shocked and stunned, Catherine’s screams ringing in her ears, when she lifted her head. And there he had been, bigger than life, bigger than anything she had ever seen. She had noticed men before, monks and clerks and laborers from the home farm, even villagers, but never had she seen anyone like Robin de Burgh.

His chest was broad, his shoulders massive, his arms and legs thick with muscle, and yet he moved with a grace that belied his form. A knight, the abbess had called him, which explained the strength of his body, but not the reaction of her own. Sybil felt as though she had taken a blow to the chest, her heart pumping, her lungs struggling for breath, and then she had looked upon his face….

He was beautiful.

Sybil had slipped back upon her heels, dumbstruck that a mere man could exhibit such perfection: thick, dark hair, a comely brow over wide cheeks, tanned and unmarked, and eyes that reminded her of burnt sugar, rich and clear and sweet. As if they weren’t bad enough, then there was his mouth, which made her own feel dry and wanting. Indeed, her entire being seemed seized by unruly desires, and, not one to meekly accept such disturbing sensations, Sybil had spoken, drawing his ire, eager for it, in the hope that his hold over her would be broken.

But it wasn’t. Even now she burned with an odd sort of need for this man, and this man only, a feeling that made her even more resentful of his presence here and the task the abbess had laid before her, to work with him. It was intolerable, Sybil vowed, and would soon be put to an end. He might be coroner, but she would find Elise’s murderer herself and be rid of Robin de Burgh and the havoc he wrought.

Just thinking of him had quickened her heartbeat, and Sybil glared across the small expanse of the garden at him, but that did little to ease her distress. Indeed, her gaze was caught by the shift of his wide shoulders as he began to move, and she trembled like a weakling as her attention drifted down his tall back to the narrow hips that were hidden beneath his mail coat. Cheeks flaming, Sybil drew a deep breath and shook off this unhealthy preoccupation with a male form, quickly transforming her dismay into anger.

“Where are you going?” she demanded even as she hurried after him.

He didn’t bother to stop and acknowledge her, but spoke over one of those massive shoulders of his. “Outside to have a look about the grounds.”

Sybil hesitated a moment, seized by a cowardly urge to quit his company, but it was swiftly overwhelmed by curiosity. And determination. Should this knight find something, she refused to remain ignorant of it. Besides, she was to keep an eye upon him. Although her instincts told her he was not a killer, still she owed it to the abbess to do her duty. And right now her duty was Robin de Burgh.

And so she followed. He did not wait for her, and she cursed his long legs that seemed to eat up the ground as he strode through the passage to the great hall. Oblivious to the stares of those around him, he continued out the main doors and around the building, unerringly heading toward the walls of the herb garden, which looked out over the orchard.

There she found him pacing along the stone barrier, head bent, as if he expected the murderer to have left his mark upon the grass. He paused, here and there, just as he had in the garden, kneeling to inspect the ground, though Sybil could see nothing. Finally, he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes so beautiful that Sybil nearly swallowed her tongue.

“There’s nothing here,” he said, with a grimace.

Sybil could do no more than stare stupidly at him while she tried to control the sudden trembling in her limbs.

“Have there been any strangers about?” he asked.

Sybil shook her head. She found it difficult to concentrate on his words when his mouth moved. She had torn her attention away from his eyes only to find it engaged by his lips. Out here in the vast expanse of the grounds, he seemed more approachable, more real, as the sunlight dappled his features, and somehow the notion made her heart pound erratically.

Then his mouth moved again. “No one unusual?” he prompted, and his questioning look made Sybil wrest control of herself from whatever forces were affecting her.

“No. None that I am aware of beyond the occasional cleric, but I deal mostly with boarders, not travelers. We should check with Elizabeth, who handles lodging for the poor, pilgrims and others seeking but a night’s stay. And the abbess would have more contact with visitors.”

“And the servants knowledge of packmen and the sort,” Robin mused. Rising to his feet in one graceful motion that almost stopped her breath, he glanced toward Sybil again, and she felt his attention clear down to her toes. He seemed to study her with a wary sort of animosity, that had Sybil wondering just what his complaint was before she realized he probably disliked being paired with a woman.

“If you’re to help, then let us be about questioning these people while their memories are fresh,” he snapped, confirming her suspicions.

Well, she didn’t care to be stuck with him either, Sybil thought, lifting her chin, but the abbess had decreed that they must work together, so she would obey. She could only hope that the killer would be found soon, for once the murder was solved, Robin de Burgh would be on his way.

And Sybil would be glad of it.

Chapter Three

Although Robin didn’t like spending any more time than necessary with the One, she appeared to be not only his assistant as coroner, but his sole contact within the nunnery—unless he wanted to go chasing after the abbess. Striding away from the orchard after an especially long, unsettling glance at her, Robin had to slow his steps for her to catch up with him, even as he tried to avoid looking upon her. It was a nearly impossible task, but he managed it while barking out a request for a messenger.

After all, he couldn’t remain here indefinitely, when no one at Baddersly knew his exact whereabouts. He had promised the solicitous steward there that he would not hare off without a word, as his brother Simon had done before him. God knows he didn’t want Florian to think he was entangled with a female, as Simon had been. And anyway, he needed some clothes and personal effects, more than the few he had brought with him, for he had no idea how long he would be staying.

That thought made him frown. For the sake of the residents here and his own peace of mind, Robin hoped that he could soon find the murderer, ask about Vala, and be on his way—far away from Sybil. In the meantime, however, he had to suffer her to show him a chamber in the guest house; simply following her into the building was an exercise in both restraint and agitation.

Watching the subtle sway of her hips, Robin gritted his teeth in an effort to control his baser impulses, even while he wondered what the abbess was thinking to put someone like Sybil in charge of tenants. No wonder the old woman thought her destined for the world! A beautiful young novice like his One had no business being anywhere near the guests, let alone taking them to their rooms.

If he were running things, Sybil would find herself cloistered as far as she could be from outsiders. Why, he could just imagine some lecherous old nobleman leering at her, or worse, and the thought wrought havoc with his temper. Although he usually took a lighthearted view of nearly everything, Robin suddenly found himself struggling against a fierce surge of possessiveness.

Sybil ought to be protected instead of flaunted before the eyes of any stray man, whether tenants, clergy, servants or whoever. And Robin certainly didn’t trust the nunnery walls to secure her. Indeed, he was surprised that she wasn’t the one lying dead, murdered by some jealous admirer or unwanted suitor. The thought made him suck in a harsh breath, as if someone had kicked him in the gut, and it was all he could do not to reach out and grab her to him, just to keep her safe.

Robin shook his head, struggling to gather his straying wits. In all probability, if he were to touch her, the One would scream her head off, and then she wouldn’t be the only one suspecting him of murder! Deliberately, he backed away, though his whole body seemed to rebel against such a course. Robin tried to reason with it.

Just because he felt this odd sense of recognition in connection with Sybil did not mean that she was his responsibility. Why should it matter to him what happened to her, if she got herself in some kind of trouble or even was involved somehow in the death of the nun? She was not his concern, Robin told himself. Still, he felt atypically disoriented as she led him through the guest house to a private chamber, as if his mind was at war with the rest of him. And losing.

Robin took a deep breath and looked around. It was a well-appointed room, better than the average wayfarer could expect, and he nodded in approval as he dropped his pack upon a low stool. The bed was larger than he had anticipated, and he stared at it long and hard before his gaze swung back toward Sybil. Although the door remained open, the knowledge that they were alone together sent his blood rushing to nether regions.

Along with the surge of lust, Robin felt that curious sense of familiarity, as if he had known this woman forever, that despite her black looks and tart tongue, they were made for one another. For a long moment, he even had the notion that should he hold out his hand, she would take it, joining him eagerly. But instead of extending his fingers toward her, Robin lifted them to the neck of his tunic, where he tugged hard. Tempted as he was by the sight of that bed, he knew that such urges led to madness, or at least to marriage. And with a groan of panic, he hurried from the premises so swiftly that his companion was forced to run after him.

Once back in the main building, they were met by a grim-looking older nun with a coarse complexion. A forbidding creature, she nodded stiffly at them and without a word, led them down the corridor once more to what she called “the day room of the novices,” a spare chamber with little more than a narrow table and benches.

It hardly seemed a cozy place, and for the first time, Robin wondered what kind of life these nuns, even the novices like Sybil, must have. As a de Burgh born into wealth and privilege, he was well used to his comforts, but what comforts did Sybil have? The question disturbed him, and he sank down onto a bench irritably. What did it matter to him how she lived?

“Although the order is gathering in the chapel to say prayers for the dead, as is only proper, the Reverend Abbess has decreed that each must leave, one at a time, to speak with you,” the old nun said, her fierce expression leaving no doubt of her disapproval.

“As for you, Sybil—” her voice a venomous hiss, the nun turned her bulky figure toward the smaller novice in a vaguely menacing fashion that made Robin half rise from his seat, “I assume that you will find some time to appear in the chapel and pray for the one who has left us, especially since you claimed to be her friend.”

Sybil blanched, and Robin stood, immediately taking exception to this harridan who was harrying his…whatever. He had to struggle against the urge to knock the old woman down, although his brain told him that attacking a nun might not be the best way to begin his duties here. Drawing a deep breath, he launched an entirely different type of offense.

“Thank you for your most gracious assistance,” he said, giving the bully his best de Burgh smile, the one with the dimple. After all, he had not grown up around Stephen without learning a few of his older brother’s tricks. “Would you care to be the first to join us?”

The old woman blinked, the only sign that his wiles had dented her rigid facade, but drew herself up stiffly. “I certainly would not! I have other responsibilities that require my attention, along with religious duties that must be observed, though some of us neglect them!” she added, with a cold glance at Sybil.

“Later, then,” Robin said, bowing slightly in a show of graciousness. But his eyes narrowed as he watched her go, putting her to memory, just in case she did not return. Her attitude, though perhaps normal for her, made him wonder if she were avoiding the questions he was bound to ask in pursing the killer.

Turning back to Sybil, Robin was relieved to note that she had regained her color. “What ails her?” he asked, inclining his head toward the doorway.

Sybil shook her head. “That is Maud. She often gets her tail puffy.”

“Her tail puffy?” Robin echoed, bemused.

“Like one of the cats that prowl the gardens and fields when met with another,” Sybil explained.

“She doesn’t seem overly fond of you,” Robin commented.

Sybil shrugged. “She likes very much to be in charge, and considers herself second only to the abbess. No doubt, she resents my assignment.”

“Ah. She would assist me herself,” Robin said, thoughtfully.

Sybil pursed her lovely lips. “Don’t flatter yourself. Maud would rather draw her own conclusions, without answering to anyone. Right now, she probably is put out because she thinks I have the abbess’s favor, which she is always currying. But she is mistaken, for this assignment is a penance,” Sybil noted, making her disdain for his company very clear.

Why did she dislike him so? Robin swallowed the prick to his pride and studied her, but she swiftly turned her face away. Had she something to hide? He wondered once again if her odd behavior stemmed from guilt, but felt a swift, fierce resistance to that notion. Although he had no intention of marrying her, Robin would not care to see her hang for murder. His protective instincts rose to the fore, but he promptly squashed them, reminding himself that Sybil’s troubles were none of his business. As coroner, he would do his best to see justice done, whether the intriguing novice was involved or not.

Robin’s grim musings were interrupted by a faint knock upon the door. Striding forward, he pulled it open, only to hear a gasp as a slight nun eyed him fearfully. It was Catherine, the screamer, so he drew a deep, steadying breath and put on his best de Burgh manners.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Please come in.” He tried to put the nun at ease, for he needed whatever information these women could provide him. His suspicions about Sybil aside, Robin guessed that the killer was someone known to the deceased, probably a man to strike such a blow, though a strong woman like Maud might do such damage as well. And if she got her tail puffy enough, she just might attack, Robin mused.

Still, Elisa’s killer had most likely been a man and one with whom she had had close, perhaps even intimate, contact. Most murders were the result of too much drink or overwrought passions, and since the nun could hardly have been carousing at an alehouse, that left one probability, Robin thought grimly. He hoped that someone at the nunnery knew the identity of the fellow.

Catherine, however, was not that someone. When questioned, she alternated between moaning, crying and useless babbling about a vengeful God. Since Robin was fairly certain that a more earthly being had been involved, he finally let the nun return to the chapel. Although mindful of her mourning, he nonetheless was relieved to be rid of the weepy woman. He had to admit he preferred Sybil’s contempt; it was better than caterwauling.

Robin’s eyes narrowed. For someone who had given him a running argument earlier, the One was being awfully quiet. He slanted her a glance, wondering what was going on in that lovely little head of hers, but she only returned his curious look with a mutinous expression. Obviously, there was no use in pursuing that line of inquiry. He could only guess that she was not speaking to him now that they were alone.

Robin would have been amused, if he hadn’t been so concerned about his investigation. He’d better have more success with the next nun, or he was going to be here forever. That notion made him glance surreptitiously back at the One even as he tugged at his neckline.

“Is there a problem with your clothing?”

Robin blinked, surprised at the sound of her voice, but not by the scornful tone of it. What was she asking? Something about his clothes? He felt heat surge through him even as he lifted his brows in mute question.

She sent him a pointed look. “It just seems to me that your tunic is too tight since you are always pulling at the neck of it. Or have you some bodily rash that makes you constantly itch and rub yourself?”