By Queen's Grace (2 page)

A rare, small smile graced the nun’s face. “I remember their disputes well. I have since thought that if Matilda had listened to the abbess and accepted, she might have spared herself much heartache.”

Heartache, aye. King Henry wasn’t the most attentive or faithful of husbands. Sweet heaven, the man had at least a dozen bastards scattered about the kingdom. Yet Matilda
often said that if she had to do it all over again, she’d make the same decisions.

“Matilda has known heartache, but she dwells on her joys,” Judith said. “Her two children. The king’s trust in her to rule in his stead when he is away. Her ability to fund projects and charitable acts dear to her heart. She enjoys being queen, and I think her a good one. Someday, I should like to do as she does.”

Sister Mary Margaret huffed. “Then you may as well become an abbess. The queen spends more time here than in London, to escape her faithless husband.”

Judith couldn’t argue the point. Matilda retreated to Romsey as often as she could. Yet her marriage wasn’t all bad. Henry was fond of his wife, and beyond his fickle ways, treated her with a measure of respect. Matilda, on the other hand, loved her husband with her whole heart.

Judith never tired of hearing the romantic story of their meeting, of how dashing Prince Henry had visited the abbey with a friend, of how he’d asked to pay his respects to the Saxon princess who resided there. Matilda’s eyes would grow misty when she spoke of Henry’s charm, of how he’d taken her heart with him when he left. Of how he returned, time and again, and finally asked her to be his queen.

Matilda held no illusions about her marriage. She knew it to be an astute move on Henry’s part, uniting the noble houses of England and Scotland. Judith held no illusions, either. Someday her hand would be granted to a man with whom one of the royal houses wished to solidify an alliance. She could only hope for marriage to a man she could not only like but love, and who might love her in return.

“Not all husbands are faithless,” Judith finally said.

“Mayhap not, but most men worthy of a wife of your rank think nothing of keeping a mistress or two. Then the
wife becomes unhappy and turns shrewish. Best to avoid the unpleasantness altogether.”

Not all noble marriages turned sour. She had only to look to her friend Ardith, a Saxon lady who’d married Gerard, a powerful Norman baron, and was happy beyond belief. “Could not a woman find happiness in her children?” she asked, citing the Church’s only acceptable excuse for marriage and consummation.

Sister Mary Margaret shook her head. “Mayhap. But to have children, one must submit to a man’s base urges and then give birth. I doubt children are worth suffering the pain of either the consummation or the birthing.” The nun rose from her stool, her face flushed from discussing so worldly a subject. “‘Tis overwarm in here. I believe I shall go out for a breath of air. Keep scrubbing.”

Judith scrubbed, not only to hurry the chore along, but to take her mind off submitting. It didn’t work. It might have if talk of urges and submitting didn’t bring to mind the face of one particular man. The male who had first, and last, aroused her curiosity and stirred her urges.

Corwin of Lenvil.

Sweet heaven, she hadn’t seen Corwin in three years, yet could recall his startling blue eyes, a body wide at the shoulders and narrow at the waist, a smile that warmed her from head to toe.

Maybe, at the age of ten and five, she’d simply been ripe to feel those urges. Maybe she recalled Corwin’s handsome face so vividly because Ardith frequently mentioned him in her letters. Unfortunately, she also remembered him because Corwin had shown her kindness and she’d repaid him with meanness.

Corwin had brought Ardith to Romsey, to see a nun whose skill as a midwife was unequaled. Poor Ardith had been so upset, and Corwin…well, Judith had never seen
the like. Imagine a brother who so cared for his sister that he would risk the wrath of a baron to ease her mind.

She’d thought Corwin courageous as well as handsome, and her unfettered interest in the man had been so apparent that Matilda noticed and issued a warning.

“You must not encourage his attention,” Matilda had said. “Corwin is a nice young man, but has neither the rank nor wealth to play suitor to a royal heiress.”

Thoroughly disappointed, Judith had snubbed him the next time she’d seen him. Even now, after all this time, she felt a twinge of remorse for her crass behavior, and a greater twitch of embarrassment for her arrogance in assuming Corwin had given any thought to becoming her suitor.

He certainly hadn’t pursued the matter. He’d never returned to the abbey to see her. Even if he’d tried, Abbess Christina or Queen Matilda would have turned him away.

Still, meeting Corwin had been a good thing. She’d learned for certain she wasn’t suited to be a nun. Not that she’d harbored much doubt before then, but she certainly couldn’t’ imagine any nun experiencing the tingles of awareness she’d felt when near Corwin.

The knowledge that she wasn’t immune to a man’s charm gave her a measure of confidence when arguing with Abbess Christina about taking vows.

Judith grabbed the biggest and heaviest of the iron kettles. She slid it gently into the tub, but managed to create a wave of water that splashed up and soaked the front of her robe.

Frustrated, Judith rolled down her sleeves and headed for the courtyard just beyond the kitchen door. High, gray stone walls loomed before her, blocking out nearly all of the sunshine that struggled to lightthe small courtyard. Sister Mary Margaret sat on one of the benches, her eyes closed.
Other nuns, also silent, were scattered about on others. A few walked about slowly, talking quietly to companions, making hardly a rustle in the never-ending peace.

No male ever intruded on this inner courtyard, not even the traveling priest who would say Mass in the abbey’s chapel on the morn. Joy and laughter weren’t allowed entry, either. Only when Matilda was in residence, and then only in the privacy of the queen’s chamber could Judith laugh without censure.

Many of the nuns, like Sister Mary Margaret, had chosen this life and were content. But there was unhappiness here, too, among the daughters of noble houses who’d been given to the Church as children and had no hope of escape. The thought of being trapped here forever. Judith shook off the dire thought, knowing it would never happen. Someday she would leave this place, and doubted she would ever return. If she did, it wouldn’t be by choice.

‘Twas the quiet-the endless drone of days without change or color or laughter-that was driving her witless, she decided. That and the ceaseless pressure from the abbess. ‘Twas beyond time to get out, to end these useless bouts of self-pity, to stop waiting for a prince to come to Romsey Abbey as Prince Henry had come for Matilda. Maybe ‘twas time she went in search of her own prince.

With that intriguing thought. in mind, Judith returned to the kitchen, rolled up her sleeves and went back to her pots.

If her fate in this world was to marry a high-ranking noble, then the best chance to meet her future husband was at court. If she wrote to Matilda and asked if she could come, would her aunt allow it? Perhaps. Judith had been to court before, though not in a long time. The prospect brightened her mood.

Getting such a letter out of the abbey would prove a challenge. The abbess would throw a fit if she learned of
Judith’s plotting. Maybe the visiting priest would be willing to deliver her letter, providing he was headed toward London.

Even if she didn’t find her very own prince at court, once there, if she begged the queen’s grace, she might be able to stay and not return to Romsey Abbey.

And she would never, ever, be forced to scrub another pot.

T
he crystal blue sky and early summer sun had called hard to Judith. Tagging along on an outing to gather medicinal plants, to escape the abbey’s gloom for a morning, had seemed such a good idea. Until now.

Judith held back a strong curse directed both at the ruffian intent on kidnapping her and at herself for putting a group of innocent nuns in danger. If she’d remained in her cell, patiently waiting for an answer from Matilda, she wouldn’t now be in this dire fix.

From atop his horse, an older man-obviously the leader-stretched out his hand toward her. “You have naught to fear, Lady Judith, if you will just come quiet like,” he said.

Judith glared at the man, who shifted in his saddle, fully expecting her to relent. He appeared to be about her father’s age, slightly grayed and life worn, sporting a full, shaggy beard. A warrior still, by the hard-muscled look of him. A Saxon, by the sound of him.

Several paces down the road, two young men, also mounted on fine steeds, held Sister Mary Margaret and four other nuns-who huddled together and prayed for deliverance-at bay.

If she fought, if she ran, would the ruffians harm her companions? Judith didn’t think so. The men risked forfeiting their immortal souls if they harmed the nuns. Besides, ‘twas she the brigands had come for. They’d singled her out, knowing her identity.

Sweet heaven, she’d been foolish to put herself at risk. She’d been warned of the dangers a royal heiress faced from those who would use her for their own gain. But she’d been outside of the abbey walls many times over the past years and nothing untoward had ever happened.

“What do you want of me?” she asked, her voice amazingly steady considering how her hands shook, hidden within the sleeves of her robe.

To her surprise the ruffian smiled at her. Almost tenderly.

“You have a destiny to fulfill, lass,” he said. “We have not the time for explanations, but know that you will want for no comfort or proper deference.”

Judith summoned every ounce of royal blood in her veins and tilted her chin higher. “‘Tis a strange deference you show me, brigand. If you truly wish to give me my due, be gone!”

His smile disappeared. “I cannot, my lady. I have my orders. ‘Tis for you to decide to come quietly or by force.”

“By whose orders?”

“My lord’s, soon to be yours, too.” He stretched out a hand. “Come, my lady. We must be off.”

So, some noble thought to force her into marriage to raise his standing at court, did he? ‘Twas not an unheard-of practice. Judith had just never thought it could happen to her. Still wouldn’t happen, if she could help it.

She slid her hands from her sleeves. “You may tell your
lord
to go straight to hell!”

She rushed the horse, slapping it hard on the rump. The brigand swore as his mount reared, but Judith didn’t stop
to admire her handiwork. Skirts hiked nearly to her knees, she bolted into the woods.

“Oswuld! Duncan! Catch her!” the man called out.

She didn’t give a thought to being quiet about her flight, just to putting distance between herself and the ruffians. Twigs snapped beneath her booted feet. Tree limbs reached out to tear her black robe. Still she ran, leaping over logs and winding among the trees, in a headlong rush for a spot where she knew she could hide in thick underbrush.

If she lost her pursuers, she could later regain the road and make a dash for the safe haven of the abbey, the same abbey she’d been thinking of as a prison for so many weeks now. Amazing how one’s view of the world could change so quickly.

Judith gave a brief thought to her companions and prayed that they would remain safe. She would have the ruffian leader’s head on a pike, hoisted high over the abbey’s door, if he harmed one hair on Sister Mary Margaret’s head.

Over the noise of her panting she could now hear the two men who gave chase. They shouted back and forth at each other, directing the search. One even had the gall to call out to her, suggesting she be sensible and halt ner foolish flight. She couldn’t hope to escape them, he taunted.

Despite the ache in her chest and the pain in her legs, Judith quickened her pace. She ducked under a stout oak branch and headed down the steep hill beyond. She fell at the bottom and landed hard on the forest floor.

“I see her, Duncan! This way!”

Judith scrambled to her feet. She didn’t look back. If she could make it over the next hill, she would be safe.

“To your left, Oswuld! Keep on her heels!”

Up she ran, slipping on the long grass, her entire being focused on the top of the rise. Sheer force of will got her over. Only a few yards off stood her refuge-a fallen oak,
nearly hollow, smothered by vines and guarded by brambles. Quickly, ignoring scrapes and pricks, Judith crawled into the sanctuary of the oak and curled up as small as she could.

She buried her face in her robe to muffle her panting. Mercy, she hadn’t run so hard since her early youth. She longed to draw a deep, refreshing breath, but didn’t dare. From the rustling sounds, she could tell that the men had reached the top of the rise.

They came to a halt. Judith could almost feel their searching eyes pass over her hiding place, looking for some sign of her.

“Duncan?”

Silence stretched into eternity.

“This way, I think,” he finally answered. “Aye, look here, a piece of her robe.”

Judith closed her eyes and silently cursed.

The men resumed the chase, thundering past her hiding place in the direction they thought she’d run.

Acute relief trembled through her limbs. She’d done it. She was safe. Her heart still pounded, but it would calm. The fear she’d masked with anger began to abate.

The men would search for a while yet, but unable to find her, would return to their leader and report failure. By then, she’d be well on her way to the abbey. Until she was sure the men were gone, however, she would remain where she was, shooing away the bugs that made the rotted log their home, picking at the burrs that clung to her torn robe.

She wrinkled her nose against the stench of her nest. She could bear it, having no choice.

Abbess Christina was going to have a fit. Over the torn robe. Over her leaving the abbey without permission and then wandering so far away. Punishment, this time, would involve far harsher measures than scrubbing pots. But for
all the abbess would bluster, she would also know how to proceed. These ruffians must be caught and dealt with before they could do further mischief.

Judith jumped when a thump reverberated through the log, as though something had hit it. A squirrel? Rabbit? An animal with sharper teeth?

“You might as well come out, my lady,” said a voice she now recognized as Duncan’s. “I would as soon not come in to drag you out.”

Nay! This couldn’t be! How had they found her? Why hadn’t she heard them circle back? None of the answers mattered, for obviously they’d retraced their steps and found her hiding place. Or were they guessing? She didn’t move.

Thump.

“Have a care with those stones, Duncan,” Oswuld said. “If you hurt her.”

“I will not hurt the lady. Unless, of course, she makes me crawl through those brambles to drag her out of that log. What say you, Princess? Do you come out or must I come in?”

Whether they were sure of where she hid or not, they wouldn’t leave without checking, and she’d be found. Judith sighed.

Thump. Thump.

Judith swatted at several, agitated bugs. “Stop that!” she shouted, and crawled out of the log. She stopped short of wading through the brambles as she faced her tormentors.

The ruffian with the smug grin on his face had to be Duncan. He tossed several stones on the ground and dusted off his hands. The other, a lad barely grown into his beard, must be Oswuld. Oswuld looked malleable, Duncan no less than stubborn, but she wouldn’t know until she tried.

“Could we come to a bargain?” she asked.

Both men caught her meaning and shook their heads. She tried again.

“You know who I am, so you must know that my uncle Alexander and aunt Matilda have the wealth of entire kingdoms at their disposal. Return me to the safety of the abbey and I will see you are both richly rewarded.”

Oddly enough, ‘twas Duncan who seemed to consider her offer. Oswuld didn’t.

“We have our duty, my lady,” the younger man said. “Besides, wealth would do neither Duncan nor me any good if my father hunted us down and carved out our hearts, now, would it?”

“Your father?”

“Thurkill, the man whose horse you pushed out of your way. He will not forgive you that for a long while, I wager.”

Judith didn’t care if Thurkill ever forgave her, and didn’t plan to be in his company long enough to find out. Somehow, she must convince these two men to let her go, or escape them once more. Judith plowed through the brambles, this time feeling every prick and scrape. The men moved forward as she came out of the patch, one on each side of her.

“What you do is unlawful,” she said.

“And for the greater good of England,” Duncan stated with a gleam of righteousness in his eyes. He grabbed her elbow and steered her back toward the road.

She jerked away. “I fail to understand how abducting me can possibly benefit the kingdom!”

“Well, you see, my lady, we-”

Oswuld interrupted, warning, “Duncan, that is a tale for my father to tell.”

Duncan took the rebuke with little grace, but said no more.

During the long walk back to the road, Judith looked for opportunities to escape. But with both men so close, she didn’t find one.

Thurkill waited where she’d left him, as did everyone else. The nuns still huddled together, unharmed.

“Took you long enough,” Thurkill complained.

Oswuld smiled. “She is a smart one, Father. Nearly gave us the slip, she did.”

Mercy, Oswuld sounded proud of her!

Duncan nodded in agreement, then grumbled, “Aye, she did. Has a mouth on her, too.”

Judith bristled, but kept her mouth closed.

“She can complain all she wishes and it will not change a thing. Let us be off,” Thurkill said.

The dread returned, with full and shattering force. These men were truly about to take her away. She’d wanted to leave behind the bleakness of the abbey, but not as someone’s prisoner.

“I beg you to reconsider, Thurkill,” she said, her voice shaking, tears far too close to the surface. “Have you no mercy in your heart?”

“None. Hand her up.”

Thurkill reached out a hand. Duncan and Oswuld grabbed her arms.

Judith screamed.

The woman’s first scream rang with anger, the second revealed her fear.

Or so Corwin judged from the distant sounds-too far away to be sure and too close to ignore.

He reined in his horse and signaled the company behind him to halt. Sitting quietly, resting his gauntlet-covered hands on his thighs, he tilted his head to listen. No more screams-only the rustling of a summer breeze through the
surrounding woodland and the shuffling of soldiers’ feet on the dusty road.

William rode up beside him, with his sword already drawn. “Trouble ahead?”

“I hope not,” Corwin answered, but he wouldn’t be amazed if he found trouble, or at the least suffered another delay. The journey from Wilmont to Cotswold should have taken a sennight to complete, but had now dragged out to nearly a fortnight. A broken wagon axle. A horse gone lame. A nasty illness bringing most of the men low for days. The weather. All had conspired against him.

At least he’d been able to find a highly skilled carpenter in Romsey who, along with his assistants, now walked at the end of the entourage. The man could do with wood what a sculptor could do with clay or stone. Gerard was sure to be pleased with the man’s work.

Now, so near to Romsey Abbey, another delay loomed.

He must investigate, of course, not so much to aid a woman in trouble as to ensure no harm threatened the company of men and wagons in his charge.

Corwin turned in the saddle and called to Geoffrey, “William and I will go ahead and see what is happening. Keep the company here until we return.”

Geoffrey nodded.

Corwin nudged his horse up the road, setting a cautious pace, hoping that whatever situation lay ahead could be resolved quickly. He wanted to deliver his sister’s letter to Romsey Abbey, then be off to Cotswold. If he pushed the company, he could reach the manor by nightfall.

He crested the hill to see a group of five nuns. One of them, the shortest, seemed to be sobbing into her hands. The others hovered over her as if comforting her.

William sighed. “Only nuns,” he said, sheathing his sword.

“Aye, nuns,” Corwin echoed.

To his chagrin, he wondered if one of the taller blackrobed women might be Judith. Likely not, because all of them wore veils, and unless her circumstances had changed drastically, Judith wouldn’t be veiled.

He’d thought of Judith too many times over the past few days, probably because of the letter he carried tucked securely between his chain mail and the padded gambeson beneath. Often, he’d envisioned her as the heart-faced, sweet-voiced maiden who’d been so kind to Ardith, whose dove-gray eyes had sparkled with interest in him. Then he would recall their last encounter-Judith’s nose high in the air, firmly declaring him unworthy of her notice.

His embarrassment had stung hard, still rankled, even though he knew she’d been right. He might be Saxon, as was Judith. He might be an excellent warrior and a loyal servant of his lord, a man of good family and honorable reputation. Nothing, however, could change the fact that Judith was of royal birth and he wasn’t.

Truly, he had no wish to see Judith Canmore again, not even to confirm if she’d blossomed from an adorable girl into a beautiful woman.

Corwin urged his horse to a faster pace, wondering what had made one of the nuns scream. Near them, several baskets lined the side of the road. A few were tipped over, the plants the nuns had been gathering strewn about. Obviously, something had caused one of them a fright, but he sensed no danger now.

As he and William approached, the nuns turned to look. Their expressions of stark fear caused him to slow again. He’d expect wariness-but fear?