pair of so-called soothsayers than any questions of Welsh independence.
Somehow Robin didn’t think they would find his quest amusing, and so he gracefully retired early. He was no warmonger like his brother Simon, and this visit had made him determined to turn around and hie himself back to safer ground as soon as possible.
Unfortunately for the remaining de Burgh bachelors, it appeared that he had met not just an impasse, but the end of his road. Idly, Robin wondered what the lord would say should he ask the direction of a local wise woman, perhaps some ancient Celtic practitioner, and he snorted to himself. The whole idea of finding someone to lift a curse seemed absurd now that he was well away from Campion Castle and the l’Estrange aunts.
He was too easily swayed. How often had his brothers traded on that trait, especially Stephen, who had sold him plenty of counterfeit religious relics in his youth? And, apparently, age had made him no wiser. Desperate to avoid the same fate as his siblings, he had latched on to the first scheme presented to him, no matter how foolhardy, when he would do better to pursue more traditional avenues.
A true relic might counteract the curse, Robin mused. Perhaps he should approach a priest or even make a pilgrimage to some shrine, though he had no idea which one. Saint Agnes was the patron saint of purity, but since it wasn’t really purity he craved, Robin dismissed that idea with a grunt.
The sound, followed swiftly by another, echoed off the castle walls and Robin slowed his steps. Although full of rich food and wine, his de Burgh senses were still as sharp as ever, and as he reached the dark passage before his assigned chamber, he felt the presence of another.
The local situation being what it was, Robin slipped a hand to the dagger he kept tucked at his waist. Larger and more lethal than the usual dining knife, it could be silent and deadly when wielded with his skill. His fingers closing around it, Robin turned slightly, just in case a cudgel was poised behind him, a distinct possibility considering that everyone here thought him a spy.
But when he pivoted to glance around, Robin saw that no assassin stood there, only the man who had served him at table. Still, the fellow had a furtive air about him that kept Robin alert. “My lord,” he whispered, looking back over his shoulder as if he would speak in secrecy.
“Aye?” Robin answered, though he had no wish to be further embroiled in the problems of the Marches.
“She did not die, but fled,” he said.
“Who? Vala?” Robin asked.
The man gave a stealthy nod. “And there was issue, a daughter who lived, though all would deny it now. I saw her myself!”
Intrigued, Robin stepped closer. “Where are they now?”
But footsteps rang out in the passageway behind, and the man grew wild-eyed, edging past Robin hurriedly.
“Wait!” Robin called after him.
“Look to a refuge for women in your own land, my lord, one for those burdened by sorrows!” he said. Then he disappeared into the darkness, leaving Robin to contemplate the whole curious episode with a jaundiced eye. Just when he thought the road had ended, instead it opened up in all directions.
But did he care to follow?
Robin moved restlessly atop his massive destrier and wondered what on earth he was doing poised outside a nunnery. And not just any nunnery, but Our Lady of All Sorrows.
It had been a long, strange ride. Although he had seen no further sign of the servant who had spoken to him so clandestinely, Robin had bid goodbye to his host, determined to forget all about the woman who had married a Welsh prince. But somehow, once he left the border, Robin had ended up at the nearest abbey, the only place he would deem a refuge for women, and there he had inquired about other such houses. And when he heard the name of Our Lady of All Sorrows, he knew a sudden urge to travel there.
Robin told himself that simple curiosity drove him, for the conflicting tales of Vala’s fate would interest anyone. And he had always loved a good puzzle. In addition, he might well provide a service for Stephen’s wife’s family, who, no doubt, would be happy to learn their kin still lived. Perhaps even a reunion could be arranged.
Yet, despite these smug assurances, Robin was aware of some other, deeper compulsion urging him onward. Whether it was concern for his own future or a simple desire to put the matter to rest, he wasn’t sure. But when he discovered that the nunnery lay not far from Baddersly, he returned to his brother’s demesne in good time. There he left behind his men-at-arms, so that he might continue alone on the last stretch of a journey that even he was beginning to view as bizarre.
And so he found himself on this bright early-spring day looking upon the gatehouse to a small abbey surrounded by groves of tall elms. And faced with his destination at last, Robin felt a twinge of shame at what had brought him here. His selfish desires to avoid marriage, which the Church so encouraged, seemed a blaspheme upon this sacred house.
Our Lady of All Sorrows obviously was a place of peace, of quiet women, pure of soul and body, devoting their life to worship. And, for a long moment, Robin remained where he was, hesitant to enter the sanctuary that lay within, to disturb the stillness, broken only by the soft call of birds among the branches above him.
It was while he was considering his course that the cry went up, rising from within the walls to drift upon the wind and reach his ears, faint and frantic. At first, Robin could hardly think he heard aright, but soon the words came to him loud and clear. Although he had never imagined such issuing from a holy house, he could no longer ignore the astonishing plea.
Robin charged through the gates even as “Help! Murder!” rang in his ears.
Chapter Two
Robin barely paused to tether his horse before rushing toward the heavy doors of the abbey. Inside he found absolute chaos as nuns and servants ran either toward the screams or away from them. Brushing past the others, he strode ahead, hand upon the hilt of his sword, until he burst outside once more, into some sort of walled garden.
He surveyed the area quickly, taking in the small group of women standing in a circle. To one side of them, a nun was seated on a stone bench, making loud gasping noises, a less shrill version of the shrieking he had heard, while two others tried to comfort her. The lone man, probably some sort of servant, appeared to be as horrified as the women, and detecting no threat from him, Robin relaxed slightly.
Still, he kept his weapon at the ready as he stepped toward the small knot of females. Several of them fell back as he approached until at last he could see what held their attention and had caused the furor. In the center of the group a young woman lay prone on the grass, obviously dead.
As Robin took in this sad sight, the nuns seemed suddenly to become aware of his presence, for those nearest him squeaked and quailed, gathering together in a trembling huddle, leaving two others who remained apart, apparently unafraid. Robin’s eyes went to the closest of the duo, an imposing figure whose eyes brimmed with intelligence and concern. Assuming she was the abbess, Robin opened his mouth to introduce himself, but a voice stopped him.
“Come to finish off the rest of us, have you?”
Robin started, stunned that someone would accuse him, a de Burgh, of doing murder, and he glanced down to where the second fearless female crouched near the deceased. Again, he prepared to speak, intending to deliver a scathing denial, but when he took a good
