Love Above All

by Speer, Flora

  “Hush, my dear.” Quentin wrapped his arms around her stiff form. “I know what you are feeling.”

  “You cannot possibly know,” she cried.

  “But I do. Cadwallon was right to say this evening is remarkably similar to the night before a battle. Like a squire who has never seen combat, you are afraid you won’t acquit yourself well once the action begins.”

  “What I am afraid of,” she declared, “is that Janet will be gone or, if she is still there, we’ll have to fight to get her away, and she’ll be injured. I couldn’t bear it if she were hurt.”

  “I hope she knows how much you love her,” Quentin said. “Let me tell you now what I tell my squires before a battle. You will be no use to me, or to anyone else, if you work yourself into a frenzy and use up all your energy before the combat begins. Fionna, you must rest.”

  “I can’t rest.” She clutched at him, dragging wads of his woolen tunic into each hand.

  Quentin felt her violent shaking and knew she couldn’t go into Abercorn in such a state. Nervous as she was, she’d commit some impulsive mistake that would surely end in disaster. And if anything happened to Janet, she’d blame herself for the rest of her life.

  He shifted his grip on Fionna, swinging her up into his arms. Then he sat down on her cot, holding her on his lap. As her warm, rounded hips settled onto his thighs he immediately became aware of his postponed longing to possess her, to make her his. But, however much he desired her, he couldn’t take advantage of her while she was in such frantic distress. He decided he’d hold her for a time, gentling her as he would calm a nervous colt. He’d distract her from her very legitimate concerns about her sister, until she fell asleep. He told himself he could bear his own masculine discomfort, for he was used to celibacy.

  “Quentin.” She snuggled against him, burrowing her face into his shoulder, not questioning his intentions because she trusted him to protect her.

  Quentin set his jaw and tightened his arms around her, vowing to control his rampant desire. She needed comfort, not the imposition of a man’s urgent bodily demands.

  She raised her head from his shoulder to look directly at him. Her eyes were wide, and her lips were parted in expectation.

  At that moment restraint was too much to ask of any man. Quentin took the kiss she offered, delighting in the way she melted against him.

  “I thought you were angry with me,” she whispered. “I thought you hated me.”

  “No,” he murmured with his lips upon her throat. “I don’t hate you.”

  “But you have been angry with me,” she persisted, while her fingers slid through his hair, the mere touch sending sensual chills down Quentin’s spine.

  “Seldom have I been more annoyed by a woman.” Or more confused by a woman, though he didn’t tell her so. In her present frightened state, Fionna needed no reminders of his lingering questions about her veracity. The movement of his lips against her breast robbed the words of any hint of rebuke and he hoped she’d soon forget what he had said.

  She was wearing the green silk gown again and Quentin could feel her nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric. His own body was hardening, too. He was rapidly approaching a point at which he’d find it almost impossible to stop himself from taking what he wanted from Fionna. She wriggled about on his lap, moving against him in innocent abandon. Quentin groaned.

  “Have I hurt you?” She reached down to touch his hardness. Quentin caught her hand, stopping her just in time.

  It took all of his inner strength to make him prevent himself from pushing her down on the cot. What he wanted to do with Fionna, and knew he ought not to attempt, ceased to matter when, an instant later, he heard Cadwallon calling to him.

  “Yes?” he responded in a strained voice. He listened in mingled frustration and relief as Cadwallon spoke of a question Royce was raising about their preparations for the next day.

  “As you just heard, I must leave,” Quentin said to Fionna.

  “Very well.” He could hear the regret in her voice.

  “Try to sleep.” He lifted her fingers to his lips and held them there for a few moments.

  He didn’t look back as he departed from the tent.

  Chapter 9

  That Abercorn was an ancient religious house was evident in its humble buildings and in the rough stone wall surrounding it. The abbey church was small, with tiny windows, and the dorter where the nuns slept was not much larger than the church. Within the angle formed by church and dorter lay an herb garden, where the plants were neatly cut back and the soil was mounded around the plants in anticipation of winter’s long chill. Outside the wall a narrow swath of fields had been gleaned of the late harvest. In the empty furrows a few birds pecked at whatever scanty remnants they could find. No one was working in the fields, or in the garden. Not a single human figure was visible.

  “It’s certainly a desolate place, and not as formidable as some I’ve seen,” Royce remarked, reining in his horse to look over the abbey with a thorough eye.

  The rest of the troop stopped just behind Royce, at a spot where they could look down on the scene from atop a slight rise. Beyond the abbey lay the choppy grey waters of the Firth of Forth. On the opposite side of the firth, Fionna could just make out the misty shore of Fife.

  “You think it’s undefended?” asked Quentin. He raised a skeptical eyebrow as he surveyed the area. “That door at the gatehouse looks sturdy enough to withstand a Viking attack.”

  “Abercorn probably was raided by Vikings,” Royce said. “It looks old enough to have been here during those violent years, and it’s close enough to the firth to provide an easy target to anyone arriving by boat, though whether the place ever contained any treasure worth looting is debatable. Fionna, are you ready?”

  “Yes.” Unwilling to betray her increasing nervousness, she bit out the single word in the same cool tone the men were using. She understood their seemingly idle conversation was their way of appearing to be indifferent to the possibility of danger lurking behind the innocent-looking door of Abercorn, or in the forests beyond the cleared fields. From the corner of her eye she saw Quentin glancing at her, but she refused to meet his gaze directly. Once Janet was safe she’d have to deal with her feelings about Quentin. But not now; not until later.

  “I’ll deploy my men along the edges of the woodland and then rejoin you,” Royce said to Quentin. “You and Cadwallon stay hidden among the trees with Fionna until I return. Braedon, come with me. We can use you on the other side of the abbey.”

  Fionna’s impatience grew with every passing moment. Left to herself, she’d have run down the slope to pound on the heavy wood door of the abbey and demand immediate entrance. Only the many warnings issued by her four tutors in the skills of spying prevented her from acting on the impulse. They had repeatedly impressed upon her that Janet’s future depended on her actions in the hour or two after they reached Abercorn. She had taken the admonitions to heart; she’d not jeopardize her sister’s safety.

  After what seemed to Fionna an incredibly long time, Royce rejoined the three who waited on the raised patch of land.

  “The men are all in place,” Royce announced. “As far as we can tell, everything is peaceful down there. Nothing within sight is moving, except for that boat in the middle of the firth.”

  Fionna spared only a quick look at the boat Royce mentioned. Then she looked at it again, for a moment longer this time, and her chest tightened.

  “I’ve seen a large sailing vessel like that before,” she said. “It’s the kind of ship that travels between Scotland and France.”

  “You are thinking of Colum.” Quentin’s hand briefly rested on hers. “The chances are good that Colum is still in France and that is an innocent ship, a merchantman plying its trade, and nothing more.”

  “You’re trying to make me feel less nervous,” she said.

  “True.” Quentin’s eyes shone with excitement. “The best cure for your bout of nerves is for us to put our plan i
nto effect at once.”

  “Go, then,” said Royce. “Fionna, believe in your heart that you will encounter no problems at all and our scheme will succeed. At the same time know that I and my men are here, ready to back you if you need us.”

  “Thank you, Royce,” Fionna said, twisting in her saddle to face him.

  “Thank me again after you and Janet are in England,” Royce told her.

  “Come on.” Cadwallon kicked his horse’s sides and pulled on the reins of the spare mount he was leading, the horse Janet was to ride on leaving the abbey. “We’ve talked so much about our plans that even I am becoming nervous. And, Quentin, you know how dangerous my nervous spells can be.”

  Quentin uttered a laugh that startled Fionna with its harsh eagerness. Then he followed Cadwallon down the slope toward the narrow path that led directly to the closed door of the gatehouse. Fionna took a deep breath and went after the two men.

  Cadwallon was first to dismount. He strode quickly to the gatehouse entrance and pulled on the bell chain.

  Quentin lingered to help Fionna off her horse. She held tightly to his arms for a moment.

  “Bow your head,” Quentin instructed. “Calm your thoughts. Remember to ask entrance in a humble way.”

  Just as Fionna reached the door someone pulled open a panel behind a metal grate that was set into the door at face level. She couldn’t see who stood behind the grate.

  “Yes?” The voice was female, and it sounded youthful. “What is it?”

  “I’ve come to beg admittance,” Fionna said, keeping her voice low and her head bowed. “May I speak with the abbess?”

  “Do you come alone?” The voice sounded a bit frightened.

  Fionna imagined the woman behind the grate trying to peer through it to see who else waited on the doorstep. She decided to reassure the woman.

  “Two of my dearest relatives have escorted me here, to keep me safe along the way,” Fionna said. “They also seek an audience with the abbess.”

  “Wait where you are. I’ll ask if Mother Abbess will receive you.” The panel behind the grating slid shut again.

  “So far, so good,” muttered Cadwallon. To Fionna’s astonishment, he grinned at her.

  “You’re enjoying this,” she accused him.

  “If I didn’t enjoy it, I wouldn’t do it,” he said.

  “Be quiet, both of you,” Quentin ordered. “Fionna, for heaven’s sake, try to look humble.”

  “I’m trying!” She spoke too loudly, and at once clamped her lips shut, saying not one word more until the heavy abbey door began to open.

  “Mother Abbess will see you,” said the same voice they’d heard before. “I am Sister Mariad. Please, come in.”

  Upon noticing the tall knights who accompanied Fionna, both men wearing full armor and with swords belted at their sides, Sister Mariad uttered a squeak of fear and stumbled backward a pace.

  “Don’t be afraid of them, Sister,” Fionna said, remembering to keep her voice low. “As I told you, my cousins rode with me from Carlisle, with the intention of protecting me, which is why you see them prepared for combat. They are honorable knights and will offer no violence to those who accept them peacefully.”

  “I have been told to ask your name,” Sister Mariad said. She continued to regard the two men as if she didn’t quite trust Fionna’s reassuring words. She was a plain-faced, sturdy girl, wearing a gown of undyed wool, with a rough linen wimple covering every strand of her hair.

  “I am Lady Ursula of Wortham,” Fionna said, following the instructions Royce had given her.

  “You are welcome, Lady Ursula,” said Sister Mariad. “I will show you to the reception room. However, the men must wait in the entry hall.”

  “If I leave my sword here, may I accompany Cousin Ursula to her interview with the abbess?” Quentin asked.

  His offer surprised Fionna, though she tried not to show it. Neither Quentin nor Royce had mentioned one of the men going with her. She kept her eyes on the stone floor of the entry hall while she awaited Sister Mariad’s response.

  “I am sorry,” Sister Mariad said, not sounding the least bit sorry. “The rule is that no men are allowed beyond the entry. Not ever; not for any reason.”

  “It’s all right,” Fionna said to Quentin. “I will speak to Mother Abbess, and then I’ll come back to talk with you, dear cousin, and tell you what we have decided.”

  “We won’t stir from this hall until you return,” Cadwallon said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in those hushed confines.

  “Come this way, please, Lady Ursula.” Sister Mariad opened an inner door and gestured to usher Fionna through it.

  On the other side of the door lay a small reception room furnished with a bench against one wall, a small table, and a single chair. Another door opened on the opposite side of the room.

  Undoubtedly, the chair was for the exclusive use of the abbess, Fionna thought. She’d be surprised if any visitors came to Abercorn who held rank high enough to appropriate the chair from the woman who was in charge of the abbey. If any of the sisters came from noble families they certainly hadn’t made large donations to the abbey, for the furniture was of poor quality and the walls of the little room were unpainted plaster. The room was angled so its single window looked out across sloping ground to a beach and the firth. A chill wind off the water blew through the unshuttered window.

  “I’ll tell Mother Abbess you are waiting,” Sister Mariad said.

  Left alone, Fionna was about to go to the window, to look out in search of the ship she’d seen earlier, when a footstep at the inner doorway made her pause.

  “I am Mother Hroswitha,” said a quiet voice.

  The abbess was tall, thin, clad in grey wool, with a spotless white linen wimple. She pulled the door shut as she entered, leaving Sister Mariad outside the room.

  “How may I help you?” The abbess’ aged, heavily lined face was further creased by a fleeting smile that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

  “Mother Hroswitha.” Fionna made a deep curtsy. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Rise, my child, and tell me why you are here.”

  Surely, Fionna thought, the sweet purity of the abbess’ face and the gentle sound of her voice were signs of holiness. Impulsively, Fionna dropped all pretense and spoke the truth.

  “I have come to see my sister, if you will allow it,” she said.

  “Who is your sister?” asked Mother Hroswitha.

  “Janet of Dungalash. She came here to Abercorn years ago, as a student in your school.”

  “I know who she is.” Mother Hroswitha’s voice was no longer gentle, but oddly cold. A faint narrowing of her eyes indicated a sudden, thoughtful tension. “You come early, Lady Ursula. Your brothers have sent a messenger to say they will arrive tomorrow morning to take Janet away. I understand she is to be married at once.”

  Fionna hesitated, shocked speechless for a moment. She knew she should have expected the news, and she silently thanked heaven for sending her to Abercorn before Janet was removed from the abbey. Noting Mother Hroswitha’s sharp watchfulness, Fionna bitterly regretted not following Royce’s instructions more precisely. Thanks to her own hasty words, she feared her effort to remove Janet was about to go badly awry.

  At least she was inside the abbey. She vowed that, whatever happened, she wasn’t going to leave without Janet. She thought quickly, while at the same time she tried to notice details, as Royce had taught her to do. Thus, she saw how Mother Hroswitha’s eyes had narrowed a bit more and she realized the abbess was harboring a growing suspicion that all was not as it appeared to be with her unexpected visitor. Fionna tried the first excuse that came to mind and she prayed the abbess would accept it.

  “If you will allow me, Mother Abbess,” Fionna said, trying to keep her voice low and calm, “I would like very much to speak with Janet today. You see, I must return to Carlisle at once, to rejoin my husband at his command. Thus, I won’t be able to attend Janet’s wedding. I w
ant to wish her well, and to offer her my blessing. We haven’t seen each other for several years and I fear we won’t meet again for a while. Please, Mother Hroswitha?”

  As she finished her plea, Fionna remembered to keep her head bowed and her hands clasped at her bosom in an attitude of petition. She held her breath and silently said a little prayer in which she asked for the abbess to find her substitute story acceptable.

  “Since you are Janet’s sister,” said Mother Hroswitha, “and since it’s plain to me you are eager to see her, I will permit a short visit.”

  “Thank you so much!” Fionna would have gone to her knees in honest gratitude if Mother Hroswitha hadn’t turned away from her, toward the door.

  “I will have Janet sent to you at once. I will also order refreshments. We have a fine crop of apples this year and our cider is unusually tasty.” Mother Hroswitha paused with one hand on the door latch. “As for the men who accompanied you to Abercorn, they must remain in the entry hall and Janet may not speak with them.”

  “I understand. Sister Mariad explained the rule to us,” Fionna said. She was too overjoyed at the prospect of seeing her sister to complain about abbey regulations. With Quentin and Cadwallon waiting on the other side of the reception room door, she entertained no concern about her ability to leave the abbey with Janet.

  While Fionna waited, Sister Mariad appeared bearing a wooden tray on which rested a pottery pitcher and a silver cup.

  “The cider is excellent this year,” Sister Mariad said, filling the cup. She handed it to Fionna and watched as Fionna tasted it.

  “Mother Hroswitha said the same thing, and both of you are right,” Fionna told her. “Sister Mariad, how long have you lived at the abbey?”

  “I beg you will pardon me, Lady Ursula, but we are forbidden to speak with strangers except for the sake of curtesy, and we may not discuss our lives here.”

  “No, it’s I who must beg your pardon,” Fionna said. “I should have known better than to question you. I only wanted to learn if you know my sister.”