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 beginning, life here had felt satisfying. But now...
Despite her determination to take the veil, there were doubts. Lord,
