by Brit Darby
She settled down in the single chair in her room, her cloak drawn about her shoulders in the predawn chill. Liam’s cloak. She fancied she caught his scent in the wool, and her mind was busy again, mulling over all she had learned in the past weeks. The shock had passed, but the fact remained she was a daughter of Ireland.
She hugged her knees to her chest and wondered if the fact of her heritage would make a difference to Liam. From their first encounter, her being English stood between them like an invisible wall. Would he even believe it? Alianor’s mind changed course and she revisited her decision to leave Wolf Haven.
Would Liam understand why she left Wolf Haven in the dead of night? Would he ever forgive her? Alianor sighed again, realizing speculation was futile. Liam had a mission to fulfill; he must protect his people, and Alianor only complicated his cause, his life. She proved a distraction when she was with him — he did not think clearly. He risked not only his life, but his followers’ as well.
Alianor’s thoughts turned to her own future. Her prospects were dim and she could not stay at Cill Dara forever. By enraging de Lacy she knew she must have infuriated the King as well. Lackland would either force her back to de Lacy’s bed, or his own. It seemed nothing had changed, except everyone was furious with her. She shivered, hating this helpless, trapped animal feeling.
A soft knock startled Alianor, the nun on duty waking the others. She glanced toward the window, and as it was wont to do, the pearly light of the new day peeked at her through the panes of glass.
Used to the routine, Alianor rose and dressed in her black gown, mended and clean. She hurried to make her ablutions then attended the service of prime in the adjoining church with the sisters.
When the nuns retired to the chapter house to attend business and orders of the day, Alianor joined six other women who had sought sanctuary. Together they milked cows, fed chickens, baked bread, laundered and mended habits.
Alianor did not mind the humble chores and tasks. She found the other women interesting. All of them suffered similar plights — some evaded abusive families, others were widows who found themselves alone in the world.
She had bonded with one of the women from the first day. Although older, there was a comforting warmth and wisdom about the middle-aged Ione inviting her confidence. They exchanged stories during their chores, and Alianor heard Ione’s tragic tale, making her forget her own trials for a while.
Without expectation of pity or giving complaint, Ione revealed she had been beaten by her parents as a child, and sold into carnal slavery at a young age to pay for their drink. She had borne six children by a much older merchant who kept her as his leman, as well as abusing and whoring her out. Her children were all dead from various tragedies; in the last year her twins died of fever and her youngest killed when her father hurled the infant against a wall in a drunken rage. Ione found the courage to leave the brute and sought refuge at Cill Dara, where the nuns tended her broken bones and mind with no questions.
“St. Brigid wrought a miracle and healed my mind, body and soul,” Ione told Alianor, and there was true peace in her eyes and smile. Alianor envied her contentment; the woman’s inner peace gave her hope she might someday find it herself.
One day after mass, Ione took Alianor to see the site of the sacred flame of St. Brigid nearby. Legend said it had burned for centuries without wood, first in pagan times and then tended by nineteen nuns from St. Brigid’s order after her death.
Later Ione showed Alianor a round stone tower, standing vigil over the countryside. She told her about the bird — a lone falcon living at the top. The locals called it St. Brigid’s Bird and, though the bird had nested there for years, it curiously had no mate, and thus never any offspring. The stone tower was high, but Alianor fancied she caught sight of fluttering wings in the window.
Reminded of Goliath, a sadness touched her soul. Seeing her face fall, Ione said, “You need never walk alone again in shadow, milady. Like the bird up there, St. Brigid welcomes you and eases your sorrows.”
It was hard for Alianor not to feel a touch of optimism when she looked at Ione’s serene face and clear, bright eyes.
Other than those rare outings, one day was much like other at the abbey. The women worked in the cloister until the third hour after sunrise, when the office of terce was held and high mass. After mass, Alianor lit a candle for Walter, and four more for both her birth and adoptive parents. Later the service of sexts took place and at last, a humble dinner.
They were permitted one hour of recreation each day, and Alianor usually chose to read. The abbey had an extensive library, not all of it ecclesiastical. Lately she had chosen to curl up with Marie de France’s The Nightingale, a bittersweet tale in which joy and torment intermingled in two lover’s lives. How well she knew the feelings. Even the evil baron in the tale reminded her of de Lacy.
Alianor was usually deep in her reading and loathe to set aside the book when the bells rang the office of nones. Fortunately, nones was a shorter service than the others, though afterwards she could anticipate more work in the cloister or gardens, vespers, and after twilight compline and the Great Silence. By the end of the day she was ready for bed.
Camber walked over from the Black Abbey and visited her every day. This time he arrived after terce, sparing her a grueling turn in the buttery. He hugged her and declared she was too thin. “You look pale, Nora. I know damp eves are hard with no hearths in the cells.”
“’Tis not cold stealing my appetite and the roses from my cheeks, Cam.”
“You must not worry, Nora. You’ve sent word to The Marshal, what more can we do but wait?”
She nodded. “I sent messages to both Kilkenny and Carlow, but it will take time for word to reach him. If he is in England at court, it will take even longer and this troubles me greatly. It’s only a matter of time before the King finds me. I cannot hide here forever. Perhaps it’s best if I petition him first.”
Camber looked grave. He drew Alianor to a wooden bench in the hall, where they both sat. He took her hands into his and said, “I have unfortunate news. The King himself has come to Ireland, and it seems de Lacy has his ear now for he resides at Fountainhall. Your only hope is to remain hidden here until The Marshal responds.”
“Right under Lackland’s nose?” Alianor laughed mirthlessly. As the crow flies, Cill Dara was not far from Fountainhall. It was an amusing notion, the King and de Lacy both searching high and low for her across Ireland, and here she was, practically on their doorstep. How much money would they waste on efforts to salvage their pride and bring one defiant woman to heel?
A thought occurred to her and she drew a fearful breath. “Cam, you are the one in immediate danger. Should the King discover you are here —”
“His men have already come sniffing ’round.” Camber patted her hand to comfort her. “They know naught of my presence, and my brethren there will not betray me. I think they assume I never left Wales, but I still fear being followed. I cannot risk coming to the White Abbey anymore.”
“I understand.” Alianor squeezed his fingers affectionately. “You are a most loyal brother, but you must take care not to risk your own safety. I could not bear it if …” She couldn’t finish and glanced away. When she looked back, Camber was shaking his head, a distressed look on his face.
“Nora, I do not deserve you as my sister.”
“Why? What reason could I have not to love you, dear brother?”
“I confess to having kept something from you. You see, I knew the Fitz-Thomases were not our real parents.”
Her eyes widened. “What? How long have you known?”
Camber sighed. “Only a few weeks, though I see there were clues here and there over the years. Greta told me before I came to Ireland to look for you. She said Walter told her before he died.”
At Alianor’s swift intake of breath, he added, “You mustn’t blame Greta for keeping the secret; she had been in Coventry’s service her entire life and was loyal to a fault
. Even Edie did not know.”
“I see,” Alianor replied, though, in truth, she did not understand why Walter would have kept the truth from her, and it hurt her deeply.
Camber sensed her dismay despite her efforts to put on a brave front. “Lady Maud begged Walter to preserve the tale of our being late-life blessings born to her and Sir Geoffrey. So, besides the two of them, nobody but Walter knew.”
“But why did they all believe it must be kept secret?”
“Perhaps they feared our inheritance was at risk if it were common knowledge. Though, in the end, it mattered little. Once I took the cowl, my inheritance was no longer an issue and all passed to you.”
“Which in turn passed to Walter when we married, and when he died, Lackland swooped in like the vulture he is, and claimed it all for his own coffers,” Alianor said, not without bitterness.
“Aye, it grieves me you were so sorely abused, Nora. I cannot understand the hearts of some men.”
Camber was an innocent when it came to things like lust and greed; avarice went beyond his thinking. It was true the King had taken much from her, but not her spirit and pride. She would starve and die a pauper, before she would be coerced into his bed.
Forcing herself to think of other things, she posed another question. “Do you not wonder how Maud and Geoffrey managed to explain their late-life blessings, children already four and five years of age?”
“Well, it seems the Fitz-Thomases frequently traveled to Normandy to visit family, and once they stayed for several years. When they returned to England, they told everyone we were both born while abroad. Lady Maud even renamed us after her own parents, good English names to minimize anyone’s suspicion.”
Still, Alianor felt sad as all the pieces fell into place.
Seeing her expression, Camber said, “Walter only sought to protect you, Nora. I am sure he did as he thought best. Knowing Walter, he merely wanted us to feel secure in our adoptive parents’ love.”
“Yes, he would only wish for our happiness, I know.”
“Perhaps Greta erred in judgment also, but to her credit she came forth and told me what she knew. And, she did confirm Felicity’s story that Walter had discovered us as convent foundlings.”
Alianor nodded. “I dreamed last night of our real parents. It all seems so clear, as if a fog has been lifted from my memories. They died in a shipwreck, as Felicity said. Our mother hung the cross about my neck as the ship was sinking.”
“So, it could be as Felicity claims — the tale is true.”
“I don’t know, Cam.” Alianor wanted to believe, but it frightened her.
“I’m sorry I did not tell you sooner, Nora. After all that happened …” He pushed a stray strand of hair from her face. “I thought it might be too upsetting. I hope you aren’t too angry with me.”
Alianor shook her head. “I am never angry with you, Cam. Not for long anyway. Where is the cross?” She did not see the outline of it beneath his tunic.
“Safe, in a secret place at —”
She raised a finger to her lips and shushed him. Some sound — something out of the ordinary in the quiet cloister caught her attention. Alianor stiffened. Distant voices echoed down the hall. Someone was coming. At least one of the voices was male.
“Cam, you must go,” she whispered and pushed her brother from the bench. “There is a rear exit in this abbey leading to the garden. The gate is unlocked and you can get to the street. Now hurry, before you are seen.”
Chapter Twenty-five
HEART POUNDING, ALIANOR WATCHED from a window as Camber slipped through the gate and vanished as the visitors to Cill Dara came upon her in the hall. Several were nuns and pages, and she recognized one as a squire. Striding in front of the pack was a tall man in a tunic bearing a red lion. She ran to him with a little cry of relief.
“Lady Coventry. I apologize for the delay,” William Marshal said, his voice grave though his eyes held genuine warmth. “When your message arrived I was on the field, trying to batter skill into my youngest son.” When they met in the hall he swept up her hand and bestowed a chivalrous kiss upon it, his gallant demeanor reminding her of Walter.
Alianor smiled through her tears. “You do me great honor by flying here at my beck and call, Earl Marshal.”
“William,” he offered graciously. Even though he had been Earl of Pembroke for years, Alianor knew he never held with formalities. William Marshal glanced over his shoulder and with a mere look, the others with him melted away to leave them alone.
Alianor invited him into the abbey library, the nearest place to provide him comfort, and where they might find privacy. She offered him a seat and a glass of malmsey but he declined both, choosing instead to stand with his gaze assessing the rows of books upon the shelves. Soon he transferred his intense look to her. “Your note was rather cryptic, milady.”
Alianor nodded. “I apologize for my vagueness, but I feared it might fall into the wrong hands.”
“I can well guess whose hands those might be.” William frowned.
“Pray forgive my assumptions but I did not know where else to turn. With Walter gone …” she faltered but managed to recover. “Since his death, William, I fear things have taken a dark turn.”
“You know I am ever your willing servant, Madame. It grieved me to hear of Walter’s death. Isabel and I were here in Ireland when we received the news. When next I returned to court, I heard rumors Lackland had taken a fancy to you. And when you dared defy his desires, he cast you to a Norman lout, de Lacy. A man so vile I would not lend my horse to, let alone marry the lady-wife of a dear and honorable old friend. Alas, you were already gone by the time I was aware of what had transpired.”
William sighed wearily. “I am sorry to hear you have suffered from the King’s whims, Lady Alianor. He is not like his brother Richard, nor even his father, Henry. They were difficult men, but reasonable.”
Alianor nodded. She knew how The Marshal himself suffered under Lackland’s reign — often cast from court and reeled back to the King’s side, probably more times than he could count. “I pray you can help me, William.”
“Alas, only when I am in John’s favor can I bend his ear,” William confessed. “Right now, I am not. He is brooding over my long-time friendship with de Braose. I retired to Carlow to see my family and give him time to calm himself. At least I had reward of seeing Isabel.”
“And how is your dear Isabel?” Alianor asked with a fond smile. Like Walter and she, William was much older than his wife. Their story was a true romantic match, and their ten children — five boys and five girls — a testament to that love.
“Fit and feisty,” William said with a chuckle. “If you recall, Isabel inherited her mother’s spirit and remains true to her Anglo-Irish heritage as a princess of Leinster. She never allows any of us men into the keep until we’ve all bathed and are clean-shaven to boot. We must forever mind our manners lest she show her stubborn temper and heaven help us when she does.” He rubbed his jaw as if anticipating his return home.
To Alianor this seemed the perfect segue to tell her own story. He said nothing until she was finished, only his eyes widened slightly in the telling. “I have heard of Caomhánach, milady. His exploits are well-known to me, though our paths have never crossed.”
“Fortunately for both of you, methinks,” Alianor said with a nervous laugh.
William smiled back. Alianor suspected the grizzled old knight sensed there was more to this tale. Despite her efforts to hide them, her unspoken feelings for Liam might well be obvious — she couldn’t know for sure. But ever the diplomat, he said nothing more on the topic and asked no questions. Instead, he offered graciously, “My hearth is ever open to you, Lady Coventry. Come back to Carlow with me, and let my dearest Isabel scold you in person for not seeking our aid sooner.”
She could not conceal her relief and embraced him with gratitude. Again, voices echoed down the hall, causing Alianor to step back in alarm. One of them was a woman’s
raised tone, the indignant voice of the abbess, Mother Clare. The ringing march of many footsteps on stone caused great concern and Alianor felt a warning deep in her bones. The Marshal tensed, and the voices grew louder as they approached.
Alianor opened the library door and peeked out. Mother Clare, several sisters and half a dozen soldiers were headed in their direction. Mother Clare argued with the intruders but, for the most part, they ignored her protests, although she did manage to impede their progress.
Alianor knew the abbess was trying to buy them time, but they would be upon them to soon for her to flee. She whispered over her shoulder, “You must go alone, sir. It seems the King has found me.”
William came to her side with a snort of defiance. “I will not abandon you, milady.” His hand dropped to the sword hilt at his side. The sixty-four year-old knight was calm, and, come what may, willing to defend her to the death. Alianor loved him for it, but too much was at stake. She would not be the cause of Isabel losing her husband, and ten children their father.
“You cannot help me, William,” she said, tears blurring her sight.
This only deepened his resolve and he growled in reply. “I can stall them long enough for you to escape.”
“Please.” Alianor raised her hand and placed it upon his weathered cheek, looking up into his troubled eyes. “I only asked for your help, William. I would not have you die for me. Go. Waste not another second.”
His dark eyes filled with pain and conflict. She knew how hard it was for this doughty warrior to step down in any battle. “I would honor Walter by defending his widow,” he said with a determined headshake. Alianor realized it was too late, as the others were only steps away. The time had passed for him to slip away unnoticed.
“So,” she said, seeing the guard approach, “I surrender myself to you, William Marshal, as if to the King himself.” She lifted his sword-arm from the hilt of his weapon, and placed his big hand upon her arm instead. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, hoping she made her point clear. His brow furrowed, but he did not release his grip on her.
