To the Lady Born (10 page)

“I did not see her leave.”

“She knows every way in and out of Hedingham, even the secret ways.”

His jaw ticked. “Where is this nunnery?”

“Not far; it is to the north of town. You cannot miss it.”

Weston’s jaw was ticking furiously, feeling foolish that he’d not seen her leave no matter if she knew secret ways or not. It was his job to know everything. He felt like a failure. Compounding that was the fact that Owyn had escorted her; the soldier was supposed to be loyal to him but it had been clear, since before his time at Hedingham, that Owyn was loyal to the lady.

Weston knew he was going to go and retrieve her. It was just a matter of convincing her to leave the convent before he was forced to burn it down.  As he pondered that predicament, he caught sight of Esma and Neilie from the corner of his eye. He turned to look at them.

“I will ask you a question and I require total truth,” he said to both of them. “To evade my question or lie to me will incur serious consequences. Is that clear?”

The women nodded fearfully and he continued. “Esma,” he looked at the serving woman. “You told me the night I arrived that Sorrell had abused Lady Amalie severely.  You said that he broke her wrist and nearly killed her.”

Esma nodded. “That is true, m’lord, all of it. Ask any of the soldiers, for they will tell you….”

Weston cut her off. “I know it is the truth,” he said. “But what you did not tell me was that Sorrell raped her. Is this true?”

Esma and Neilie looked as if they were about to become ill.  Neilie broke down in tears, weeping into her apron as Esma struggled not to succumb to tears as well.

“Several times, m’lord,” Esma finally whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “He hurt her very badly.”

By this time, Weston’s mercurial fury had abated, leaving nausea and sorrow in its wake. It was confirmation of the rumor from people who would know the truth. He gazed at the women, understanding how hard it must have been for them to stand by helplessly while all of it went on. The depth and breadth of what the occupants of Hedingham endured during Sorrell’s tenure was still revealing itself to him in all its horror. It must have been hell.

“Why did you not tell me that?” he asked hoarsely.

Esma wiped at her eyes. “We did not know you, m’lord,” she murmured. “It was enough to tell you that she was abused. I did not want more shame to be heaped upon her by telling you that the commander had stolen her innocence.”

“Is that why she tried to kill herself?”

Esma closed her eyes and nodded; she couldn’t even reply.  Weston sighed faintly, his eyes trailing to the bed where the deed undoubtedly happened.  In his mind’s eye, he could see sweet little Amalie fighting off a drunken knight to no avail. The pain she must have felt, the shame, was immeasurable. He closed his eyes to the horror of it, turning away from the bed.

“So she has committed herself to a convent because she was raped,” he muttered, looking up to the heavens as if to beg for wisdom. “Dear God; is it really true?”

Esma, unsure if it was a rhetorical question, answered him. “It is, m’lord,” she said. “She is compromised. She knows she will never be a marriageable prospect now that she has been ruined. Perhaps it was Bolingbroke’s plan all along.  Perhaps he ordered his commander to do it to punish the earl for fleeing England like a coward. Perhaps he….”

She froze when she remembered who she was talking to.  Weston, pale and drawn, turned to look at her, unmoved by her words.  He was more focused on the fact that the servant mentioned that Amalie was no longer a marriageable prospect.

“Her friend Cecily was here earlier,” he said. “The woman was spouting off about her wedding and I could tell that Amalie was upset by it. Cecily invited her to the wedding but Amalie refused to go. Is that why? Because she feels she is no longer a marriageable prospect?”

Esma nodded faintly. “More than likely, m’lord.”

Weston just stood there, finally shaking his head and quitting the chamber.  Esma and Neilie watched him go, hearing his footsteps disappear down the staircase before turning to each other with varied degrees of anxiety.

Without another word between them, they went back to their tasks in a mechanical, repetitious fashion, cleaning the chamber of a woman who would never return.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Mother Abbess was not surprised to see Amalie de Vere within the walls of the Benedictine nunnery founded by her ancestor, Alberic de Vere, shortly after the invasion of William the Conqueror.  She had seen Amalie many times over the years, as she was the patroness of the convent along with her brother, the current Earl of Oxford.

Mother Mary Ruth had been at the convent for most of her seventy years, quite an old lady by any standards, and remembered three generations of the de Vere family.  Upon seeing Lady Amalie, she greeted her warmly.  She was thrilled at the lady’s visit. But she was not prepared for the lady’s request.

The tiny Mother Abbess had to repeat the request to make sure she had understood correctly. “You… you wish to join the nunnery?”

Amalie was standing in the spartanly furnished entry of the convent with her satchel at her feet.  Dressed in a sturdy brown woolen surcoat, a soft eggshell colored shift and the heavy fur-lined cloak that Esma and Neilie had cleaned of the mud, she looked determined.

“I do, Mother Mary Ruth,” she said decisively. “I would make a good nun; I am not afraid of hard work or difficult conditions. I understand it would be much different from the life I have been living at Hedingham but I truly feel that this is where I need to be.”

The mother abbess gently took Amalie’s hand, holding her warm digits in her tiny, cold palm.  It was apparent that she was shocked by the nature of the request.

“Lady Amalie,” she said evenly. “I have known you since birth, my child.  You and your brother have been great patrons of our convent.  You have been both generous and attentive. But never at any time did you mention your desire to assume a life entirely devoted to God. Why, may I ask, have you made this decision?”

Amalie knew that question would come sooner or later; she wasn’t so sure she was prepared for it sooner.  She hadn’t had time to think up a truly believable lie. But after what had happened with Weston earlier in the day, she had reacted more on impulse than on a carefully planned idea.  She was terrified of Weston’s advance, terrified of the potential of her own feelings for the man, and terrified of what would happen when the truth became known. 

As she tried to think of something reasonable to tell the Mother Abbess, all that came forth were frightened, embarrassed tears.

The Mother Abbess could see the distress in the young woman and she took her by the hand to a small room off the entry.  There was a chair, a table and little else, and she gently pushed Amalie down onto the chair.   As she sent another nun for some wine, the elderly abbess returned her attention to the distraught young lady in the chair.

Like everyone else in Hedingham, she had heard of the young earl’s flight to Ireland when a price was put on his head by opponents of the king.  She had also heard rumors for years that the young earl was, in fact, more than a supporter of the king. Words like ‘lover’ had often come in to play where the rumors were concerned.  It was a terrible reputation for the man, even more terrible for his sister. 

Lady Amalie had always been a genuinely beautiful and good girl, kind and generous, where her brother could be a monster.   When the earl fled and left Amalie to the mercy of his enemies, there were whispers of panic and sorrow about the town on behalf of the young woman. Bolingbroke’s men still occupied the castle, which was why, the Mother Abbess suspected, Lady Amalie had come.  She wondered what had taken the girl so long to seek sanctuary.

The wine came and the Mother Abbess forced Amalie to take a few sips of the tart, red wine.  As Amalie began to calm, she looked at the Mother Abbess apologetically.

“I am sorry for my lack of composure,” she said quietly.  “I am afraid these days have been difficult ones.”

The Mother Abbess put a gnarled hand on her shoulder. “I understand, child,” she said softly. “Please tell me why you feel the need to join the Benedictine order.”

Amalie sniffled, wiping delicately at her nose. “Surely you have heard that Bolingbroke now inhabits my family’s home.”

“I have.”

“I must get away from them.”

“Then we shall give you sanctuary. You need not join us in order for the convent to provide you with protection.”

Amalie looked at her, wide-eyed and relieved. “Is this true?” she wiped at her nose again. “I… I did not know that.”

The Mother Abbess smiled warmly. “If that is your wish, then we would be happy to care for you.  All of the armies in the entire world, including Bolingbroke’s, cannot breach this place. You are safe here.”

Amalie wiped a shaky hand over her face. “I do not know what to say,” she said. “Gratitude is not enough. I was so fearful that I would have nowhere else to go.”

The Mother Abbess held her hand. “Of course you do,” she said. “We are happy to have you.”

Amalie looked up at the woman, knowing that she needed to be completely truthful with her so she would know what she was dealing with. It would be unfair to keep such important information from the woman.  The tears began to return.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “But… but there is more to it than mere sanctuary.”

“More? What more?”

Amalie took a deep breath, nauseous that she would be forced to put into words her painful shame.  Speaking it would be reliving it and she tried not to let her nerves and emotions swamp her as she summoned the strength to speak.   Her body was quivering with tension as she spoke.

“After my brother fled, Hedingham was confiscated by the Earl of Derby, Henry of Bolingbroke,” she was speaking so softly that it was difficult to hear her. “Henry sent a battalion of men to occupy the castle, including a commander who was purely evil.  I was able to avoid him for a good length of time but, unfortunately, he started showing interest in me. Horrible, vile interest.  One night, he became drunk and… he came to my room for carnal purposes.  When I refused, he beat me so horribly that he cracked my wrist.  I fought him as best I could but he was too strong.  When the beating was over, he… I was unable to fight back, you see, so he… he took me by force.”

The Mother Abbess was gazing at her with wide-eyes, pity and horror overwhelming her.  As Amalie struggled not to dissolve into tears again, the old woman sank to her knees next to her, holding her hand tightly.  There was a great deal of pity in her expression.

“My sweet, dear girl,” she whispered. “I am so sorry for you.”

Amalie half-shrugged, half-nodded as if to accept her condolences, but she wasn’t finished with her story yet.

“The beatings went on well into the night,” she murmured, tears beginning to stream down her face again. “After every beating, he would take me again, more brutal than before. By morning, I was nearly dead from being abused as the commander left my chamber and went about the castle bragging of his conquest.   I was saved from further abuse by a young soldier who hid me away from the commander so he could not find me to repeat his evil deeds.  My servants and I lived in the stables, in tunnels, and in other parts of the castle so he could not find me.  But our prayers were eventually answered and the commander was sent away.”

The Mother Abbess held her hands, caressing them gently. “God is merciful,” she whispered. “But you should have come to me immediately. Why didn’t you?”

Amalie shrugged, sniffling. “I do not know,” she said honestly. “Hedingham is my home, I suppose. I would not let anyone chase me from it.”

The Mother Abbess’ old eyes were sharp. “Yet something has,” she whispered knowingly. “A brutal man could not do it. What has sent you to me now?”

Amalie lifted her gaze, thinking of Weston, of the truth she had hidden from everyone until now.  She found she could hardly keep it to herself any longer, the horrible truth that ate at her like a cancer.  She struggled to keep her composure together as she spoke those fateful words.

“That night of horror took root,” she whispered, closing her eyes tightly when she could no longer meet the woman’s gaze. “I carry his child.”

The Mother Abbess didn’t openly react, but inside, she hurt deeply for the beautiful young women.  The admission had been like a dagger to her soul, sharp and painful. She suddenly felt very protective of Amalie, a fierce lioness of virtue when others would seek to harm her.  She put an old hand on Amalie’s lowered head, reassuring and warm.  She could think of nothing else to do that would be of any comfort.

“Not to worry, Ammy,” she did something out of character; she kissed the top of the blond head to comfort the lady so desperately in need of it. “We shall take care of you. You needn’t worry in the least.”

Amalie’s face was streaming with tears; she still couldn’t bring herself to look the woman in the eye. “But… but what of the baby?” she wept.

Mother Mary Ruth stood up stiffly; her old knees weren’t as spry as they used to be.  She could see that she had a job ahead of her, a task of great care.  Generations of the de Veres had taken care of her order. Now it was time for her to take care of the de Veres.

“We shall worry over him when the time comes,” she said firmly.  “For now, I will have you rest until supper.  Will you do this?”

Amalie nodded but she was still sobbing softly.  The Mother Abbess gently pulled her to her feet, holding her hands tightly. If the old woman was shaken by the news, she didn’t let on, at least to Amalie.  Right now, she deduced that the woman needed someone to show some strength for her, not weigh her down with more tears.  She led her towards the door and opened it.

“Come along,” she said gently, motioning to a nun down the corridor to come to her. “Sister Teresita will take you to rest now.  I will see you at supper.”

Amalie let the nun lead her away, deep into the bowels of the old Benedictine nunnery that had stood for centuries.  The Mother Abbess stood there long after Amalie had disappeared into the darkness, her thoughts wandering to the horrible deeds committed against the young woman.  It was a tragedy in a world that was full of tragedy.  She struggled not to let the depression of the events get to her.  Turning on her heel, she went about her business.

Lady Amalie would fit well with them, she was sure of it.  And Mary Ruth would personally kill the next Bolingbroke bastard who set foot at the Nunnery.  There was nothing as dangerous as an avenging angel.