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 beginning, 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 ty
ing 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.’
Copyright © 2015 by Carol Townend
ISBN-13: 9781460387795
Lord Lansbury’s Christmas Wedding
Copyright © 2015 by Helen Dickson
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
Lord Lansbury's Christmas Wedding Page 26
