Lord Faramus lifted an eyebrow. ‘So? Sir Breon will get her agreement.’
Eric shook his head, frowning. ‘Aye, he probably will, Sir Breon is not a gentle man. My lord, have you thought about the methods he might use to persuade her?’
‘Sir Breon will do my will. Send him in.’
‘Mon seigneur, Lady Rowena wants to become a nun.’
‘Tant pis. She will marry one way or the other.’ With a sigh, Lord Faramus clapped Eric on the shoulder. ‘No hard feelings, de Monfort, I won’t hold this against you.’
‘Wait.’ Eric put up his hand. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of Sir Breon forcing himself on Lady Rowena was unbearable. Naturally, the thought of one day being count of Sainte-Colombe was tempting, but it was the thought of Lady Rowena in Breon’s hands that pushed him to accept. ‘I’ll do it.’
Lady Barbara gave him the tiniest of smiles. If Eric had blinked he’d have missed it. Oddly, her smile gave him heart. It made him realise that he was her choice, Lady Barbara wanted him for her daughter. Lord knew Eric had never looked to force any woman into marriage, let alone Lady Rowena, but if he didn’t agree then Sir Breon surely would. Eric must spare her that.
The count’s eyes glittered. ‘You agree?’
‘Aye.’ Eric thought fast. Agreement would buy time. Clearly, Lord Faramus hadn’t had time to accept Lady Rowena’s decision to enter the convent. That much was understandable, the realisation that his cousin would inherit his lands rather than his daughter must be hard to swallow. Given more time, Lord Faramus would surely come to his senses.
Eric had to admit it was flattering to think that Lord Faramus and Lady Barbara had chosen to put their extraordinary proposal to him first. It showed a measure of trust. Of approval. Lord Faramus was a hard man, hard and determined, but he must love his daughter.
And there sat Lady Barbara, smiling that small smile. Eric looked directly at her. ‘I will keep your daughter safe,’ he said. He wouldn’t marry her though, he couldn’t. It would be sacrilege to come between Lady Rowena and her calling.
‘I know,’ Lady Barbara murmured.
‘I am not sure she will remember me.’
‘She will.’ Lady Barbara bent over her sewing.
Yes, if Eric kidnapped Lady Rowena, he could keep her safe. And then, when Lord Faramus came to his senses, he would return her to the abbey. Count Faramus must see reason in the end. Even a great lord like him couldn’t force the king’s goddaughter into marriage.
‘I’ll do it, on these terms,’ Eric said. ‘I’ll not hurt her. And I want your word that you will not meddle.’
Lord Faramus stroked his beard. There was a pause. ‘Yes, yes, I shall leave everything in your hands.’
With a bow, Eric left the solar.
As the door swung shut behind him, Lady Barbara set her sewing aside. ‘I told you he’d agree.’
‘He had me worried for a while. Rowena is a stubborn wench, but God knows I wouldn’t wish Breon on her.’
‘I wouldn’t wish Sir Breon on any woman,’ Lady Barbara said drily. ‘I knew Sir Eric would agree if faced with that. He has a kind heart.’
‘It’s nothing to do with his heart, orphans always make the best recruits.’
‘Faramus!’
‘Don’t delude yourself, Barbara, for de Monfort this is the chance of a lifetime. He was a foundling, for pity’s sake. He’s done well to win his manor, but he wants more power, more land.’
‘He wants Rowena.’
Lord Faramus sent his wife a pitying look and shook his head. ‘Barbara, you’ve been listening to too many ballads. That boy wants land, this is all about land.’
Lady Barbara looked at her husband and didn’t reply.
* * *
At St Mary’s Convent the next morning, Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe dressed as quickly as she could. ‘Hurry, Berthe,’ Rowena said.
Outside the sun was shining. Rowena couldn’t bear to be inside a moment longer. She lived for her morning rides or, more precisely, she lived for those few brief moments of each day when she could delude herself that she was in charge of her life. She eyed the door to their cell, as ever she was half-afraid that one of the nuns would appear and ban her from taking her exercise in the open air.
‘Very good, my lady.’
Berthe set about binding her hair into the simplest of plaits and Rowena tried not to fidget. Berthe seemed to take for ever covering her head with the grey veil deemed suitable for a girl who was shortly to take her preliminary vows. She adjusted it and pushed a golden tress out of sight.
‘Ma dame, please keep still, I almost stabbed you with a hairpin.’
‘Sorry, Berthe, I’m longing to be outside.’
Berthe gave the veil a final twitch and stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘There. You look lovely, my lady. Fit to face the world.’ Her face fell. ‘Not that it matters, they’ll be confining you inside these walls soon enough. And cutting off all that beautiful hair. It’s a crime, if you ask me, my lady.’
Rowena gave her a straight look. ‘You don’t like it here, do you?’
Berthe glanced around the chamber. On account of her mistress’s status it was larger than most of the nuns’ cells, large enough to contain a bed for Lady Rowena and her maid. The walls were roughly plastered and lime-washed. The only ornament was a wooden crucifix on the wall opposite Rowena’s bed.
Berthe shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter much what I think, does it, my lady? You’re the one who’ll be staying here, not me.’
Rowena’s throat tightened. ‘That is true.’
Rowena picked up her riding crop. She wanted to ask Berthe to stay with her at the convent. The difficulty was that Berthe showed no signs of liking convent life, rather the reverse. It was a pity, as Rowena liked Berthe and ladies were allowed maids in this convent, even if they were not called maids as such. But Berthe had shown no sign of a calling. Indeed, Berthe seemed to dislike the place as much as she did...
Rowena drew a sharp breath. No! What was she thinking? She didn’t dislike it here. It was quiet. Peaceful. It was far more restful living in a convent than in a castle. In convents the person in authority was a woman, and here in St Mary’s Convent Mother Pauline was most definitely in charge. The few men allowed through the gate—a couple of gardeners, the grooms—wouldn’t dream of crossing her. Within these walls, women were most definitely in charge.
Rowena was pulled two ways. She had told the world she wanted to be a nun; she’d told everyone that she had a calling. Her father was a practical man rather than a religious one and she’d had to cross swords with him to get here. She stared blindly at her riding crop. Soon she would be taking her preliminary vows. The bishop was coming to the abbey to say mass on the morning of the Feast of the Visitation and she would be clothed as a novice afterwards.
Briefly, she closed her eyes. She did have a calling, of course she did. However, she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t sometimes have doubts. She had made such a fuss to be accepted as a nun, how in the world could she confess that she didn’t fit in as well as she had imagined? The trouble was that her father wanted her to marry. And she could never marry, the wound left by Mathieu’s death was too raw. Poor Mathieu. He’d had such a sweet, loving nature, she’d never forget how they would sit for hours among the daisies in the meadow by the river, talking and making daisy chains for each other.
‘My lady, is something amiss?’
Rowena clenched her riding crop and prayed for a stronger sense of calling. She must make this work. When she had first arrived at the abbey, she had been resigned to the idea of taking the veil. She’d been too busy grieving to face marriage to Lord Gawain and the convent had been her only escape. It had been a rebellion against a world where she had been viewed as a chattel to be married off at her father’s whim. At the beginni
ng, life here had felt satisfying. But now...
Despite her determination to take the veil, there were doubts. Lord, the days turned so slowly. The quiet, once so pleasantly peaceful, sometimes seemed like the quiet of the grave.
‘My lady?’ Berthe caught her by the arm and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Thank the Lord, you’ve realised you weren’t meant to take the veil.’
‘No. No.’
‘Yes, you have, I can see it in your face. You’ve changed your mind about becoming a nun.’
Vehemently, Rowena shook her head and reached for the door latch. ‘You’re imagining things.’
‘I don’t think so. Look at you, desperate to get beyond the convent walls.’ Berthe gave her a kind smile. ‘It’s no shame, my lady. In truth, it’s better to decide you’re not suited to the convent before you take your vows. That’s why the nuns insist that you spend time with them before becoming a novice. It’s a test of sorts. You want to go home, you want to become Lady Rowena again. Your father won’t be angry, he hates the idea of you mouldering away in here.’
‘My father hates the idea of Sir Armand getting hold of his land.’ And he will force me into a marriage I do not want. I will become a nun.
Rowena opened the door and stepped over the threshold. She understood very well that the months spent at St Mary’s had been some form of a test. But Berthe was wrong if she thought she was eager to return to her former life. Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe would be made to marry at the behest of her father and Rowena refused to marry. She missed Mathieu. ‘You’re wrong, Berthe. Wrong. I can see that you hate it here, but you mustn’t assume that I do too. Life here is better than life in a castle. It might not be as exciting, but it is peaceful. And that is all I ask for. Peace. I want to rest my head in a place where women are in charge.’
As Rowena hurried down the corridor, Berthe’s voice followed her. ‘They won’t let you ride out at whim once you’ve taken your vows, my lady. They’ll cut off your hair.’
* * *
One of the convent grooms had Rowena’s grey mare, Lily, saddled and waiting when she arrived at the stable. ‘Thank, you, Aylmer,’ Rowena said, leading Lily to the mounting block.
Aylmer swung on to another horse. ‘Where to today, my lady? Do we ride into town?’
‘Not today. Today I’ve a mind to ride north.’
‘As you wish, my lady.’
Rowena and Aylmer trotted out through the gates and took the path leading up through the convent orchard. Rowena was discomfited to realise that her spirits weren’t rising as they usually did. Finding herself staring down at Lily’s head, she frowned.
Novices, like nuns, weren’t allowed any possessions other than their habits, their crosses and their psalters. When Rowena took her vows, Lily would no longer be hers, she would belong to the convent as a whole. Rowena swallowed down a lump in her throat. Lily had been given to Rowena when she was a foal and she was glad they weren’t actually going to be parted. She would miss the rides though. Novices weren’t permitted to roam through the abbey estate as she’d been doing these last weeks.
Leaning forward, Rowena patted the mare’s neck. ‘Lily, you form part of my dowry to the convent. Soon you will belong to all the nuns in common. I may not be allowed to ride you, but I’ll still be able to see you every day.’
Lily’s ears pricked, for all the world as though she was listening.
With the convent and the town at their backs, the track wound steadily up through the apple trees. They were about a mile from the main road. A couple of horsemen had drawn rein at the top of the rise. They were looking towards the convent.
A knight and his squire? Rowena’s fingers tightened on the reins. She only had instinct to tell her that she was looking at a knight and his squire, but she was certain she was right, even though the horsemen bore no insignia that she could see. They were too far away for her to make out their features. She marked the flash of a gilt spur—yes, that larger man was definitely a knight—and felt a flicker of unease. He had dark hair. She would feel happier if she could make out his features.
The knight was mounted on another grey, a stallion. Rowena found herself staring at it. She knew her horses and the stallion on the rise put her strongly in mind of a grey she had seen years ago in her father’s stables. No more than mildly alarmed—she was yet on convent lands and if this knight was one of her father’s, surely she had nothing to fear—she spurred up the hill.
As she and Aylmer approached, the knight jammed on his helmet, and again Rowena felt that flicker of disquiet. The man wasn’t wearing chain mail, just a brown leather gambeson, and the way he had shoved his helmet on—it was almost as though he didn’t want to be recognised. Held in by a strong hand, the stallion sidled.
Rowena glanced at the squire, a lad of about fifteen. He had honest brown eyes and a scatter of freckles across his nose. He looked like a choirboy playing at being a soldier. This time something about him was definitely familiar. When she drew level with the squire, Rowena came to a halt. ‘Do I know you?’
The boy blushed to his ears and made a choking sound. His hand was curled firmly round the hilt of his sword. Familiar or no, the way he stared at her had Rowena going cold.
The knight’s horse shifted. A large hand caught her wrist and held it in an iron grip. Choking and spluttering in outrage, Rowena dropped the reins and wrestled to free herself. ‘How dare you? Release me this instant!’
Aylmer cried out, ‘My lady!’
The knight tightened his grip. Rowena flailed about with her free arm and Lily snorted and sidestepped.
Rowena was conscious of the knight’s squire closing in on Aylmer, but she was too busy fighting to free herself to pay him much attention. She heard a thud and then Aylmer’s voice again, faint and full of distress. ‘My lady!’
Poor Aylmer was on the ground, his sword lay some feet away. The choirboy squire had him at sword point.
The knight captured Rowena’s free hand and immediately set about tying her wrists together. Icy fear shot through her veins. Fury had her choking in anger. She twisted and wriggled, but it was impossible to see the face behind the gleaming visor of his helmet, just the faint glitter of green eyes. The knight shifted his hand over her mouth even as she began to scream.
‘Let me go!’ she cried. ‘Let me go!’
Her heart thumped as she fought to escape that iron grip. Then, just as she was certain matters could hardly get any worse, she was hoisted from her saddle and thumped face down—like a sack of wheat—in front of the knight. The wretch had shoved her across his saddle-bow.
The harness clinked and his horse began to move. The knight was abducting her! The blood rushed to her head, she could see the grey’s threshing forelegs, the ground rushing past—the grass, a daisy, a buttercup...
‘Who are you?’ she gasped, jolted by the movement of the horse. Dismayed as she was, she was certain this man was in some way connected with Jutigny. Who was he?
A large hand settled in the small of her back. She felt his fingers curling around her belt, holding her firm. ‘Never fear, I won’t hurt you. You’re safe.’
She knew herself to be outmatched, and a sob escaped her.
‘My lady, you are quite safe. You have my word.’ Amazingly, his voice sounded soothing.
‘Let me down!’
‘I’ll let you down when we are out of sight of the abbey. Be still, my lady.’
Chapter Two
Eric kept a firm hand on the wriggling bundle of fury that was Lady Rowena. He had hardly recognised her as she had ridden towards him through the orchard. How long had it been since he had seen her? Two years? Three? She must be eighteen by now.
Rowena de Sainte-Colombe had been a pretty child and Eric had heard she’d grown into a beautiful woman. However, nothing had prepared him for the sight of h
er, slender and elegant even in a drab gown and veil that could only have come from a convent. The grey that should have muted her looks did nothing of the kind. It framed a beauty that was simply breathtaking. Her eyes seemed brighter, bluer than they had done when she was a child. Her skin was flawless, perfect, and as for her lips, Lord, Eric had never seen such rosy, kissable lips.
They were the lips of a woman who wanted to become a nun, he reminded himself as he gripped her belt. Lips that wanted to do nothing more than chant litanies and sing psalms. Heavens, this woman had chosen life in a convent over life as the Countess of Meaux and, one day, Sainte-Colombe. She’d certainly looked prim as she had ridden towards him. Prim and aloof. There’d been no sign of the carefree child he’d once known.
As they moved off, Lady Rowena’s grey veil streamed out like a pennon. Eric stifled a grin. She didn’t look quite so prim now. Fearful her veil would become tangled in Captain’s hoofs, Eric leaned forward to gather it out of the way. He found himself holding more than he had bargained for, Lady Rowena’s blonde hair, bound in a neat braid, came too. He juggled with veil and braid, struggling not to pull on her hair. In the tussle, the ribbon fell from the tail of the braid and the long, golden tresses began to unwind.
Holding her firmly, Eric pulled up and glanced over his shoulder to see that Alard had dismounted. Arm looped through his reins, his squire had Lady Rowena’s groom at bay. The two other horses, Lady Rowena’s and the groom’s, were placidly cropping grass under one of the apple trees.
Eric nodded at Alard, it was a signal they had arranged earlier.
‘On your way,’ Alard said, dismissing the poor groom.
The groom hesitated, rubbing his skull. His expression was pained. ‘What about Lady Rowena?’
Alard’s sword caught the light as he leaned towards the groom. ‘On your way. Come back for your sword later.’
Lady Rowena's Ruin Page 2
