Deborah Simmons - My Lady De Burgh

Armes frowned. “What’s so odd about it? Seven healthy young men of marriageable age are bound to seek out spouses, especially lords from such an important family.”

“To carry on the dynasty!” Cafell noted, gleefully.

“Perhaps,” Robin admitted, though privately he didn’t accept that explanation. His brothers had never seemed intent upon reproducing until after they were wed. And why all of them at once? Dunstan had married late, but the others were doing so younger and younger. “Could it be that someone has put some kind of, ah, spell on us all?”

“Probably your own sire,” Armes muttered, and Robin blinked, wondering if he had heard her aright.

“Oh, he’s jesting, aren’t you, Robin?” Cafell said, playfully striking his chest. “Your brother warned us that you were a trickster.”

Robin felt his hopes ebb. Perhaps he was known for a few pranks here and there, but he was deadly serious, and he didn’t know how to impress his urgency upon the eccentric l’Estranges.

“I think he means it,” Armes said, and they both studied him with renewed interest.

“Why, Sister, I do believe you’re right! But, why would you want to—”

“He’s worried about himself,” Armes said in a rather disgusted tone that made Robin straighten, though he could hardly take offense at what was the truth.

“Oh, you poor boy!” Cafell exclaimed, patting his arm, which produced more little bell sounds. He glanced around, uncomfortably, but she only leaned closer, as if to impart some secret. “I wish we could look into your future, to reassure you, but Brighid frowns upon those things, you see. Although I admit she is growing more open-minded of late.” Cafell looked a question at her sister, who firmly shook her head.

“I do not think she would appreciate that sort of interference with her new family,” Armes said.

Robin felt his shoulders droop in disappointment. He didn’t want a bit of soothsaying; he needed a curse lifted. And even if these two were willing to help, it didn’t appear they had the necessary skills. Abruptly, he brightened as a new course struck him. “Perhaps there is someone else you know, in the same line of trade, so to speak, who might be able to consider the problem?” he asked hopefully.

Armes sniffed. “’Tis not as though we belong to a guild, young man!”

“We really know of no others with such talents beyond our own family,” Cafell explained gently. At Robin’s crestfallen expression, she patted him again. “Now, don’t despair. We shall think of something!”

The two women exchanged glances, then Cafell frowned pensively. Finally, she said, “Well, there is Cousin Anfri.”

“A complete charlatan!” Armes sniffed.

“How about Mali?”

“Dead,” Armes replied. “The l’Estranges are not blessed with many progeny.”

Robin wondered if the union with Stephen would change that, but Cafell suddenly yelped, startling him. “What about Vala?” she said.

“Oh, poor Vala, she was quite the beauty, and so gifted,” Armes said.

“Didn’t she marry one of the Welsh princes?” Cafell asked.

“Yes,” Armes replied. “What was his name?”

“Owain ap Ednyfed?”

“I believe so,” Armes said with a nod. “But I understood that she died not long afterwards.”

“Did she? I was of the opinion that was not certain, but it is possible,” Cafell said. “So much fighting over there through the years, you understand, one prince against another or Llewelyn himself, and, of course, against the king. We were lucky to be well away from it all.” She paused. “But I thought there was a daughter.”

Armes frowned. “I don’t recall. That was a long time ago, and there was only hearsay—”

“Perhaps, Lord Robin could go and see!” Cafell suggested. She leaned forward, whispering confidentially, once more. “Vala was very gifted.”

Robin perked up at this news. “Where would I find her?” he asked.

“Why, in Wales, of course. That’s where most of the l’Estranges are, except us, of course.”

Robin stared at the two women, who were smiling benignly, and stifled a groan. Stephen and his bride had returned from Wales with rumors of war at their heels, the Welsh princes seizing lands and rousing the people against Edward. Were these two gentlewomen trying to get him killed? Having no intention of marching into a country in the midst of battle, Robin eyed them askance.

The l’Estranges seemed to be oblivious to such danger, however, and they waited expectantly for his answer, so he choked out a polite thank you and excused himself with a nod. As he walked away, Robin realized he had reached an impasse in his efforts to lift the curse.

But his lack of success was hard to accept, for if he did nothing, then surely he would find himself wed. And soon.

Robin watched his host raise a cup in salute to the de Burghs and wondered, not for the first time, what on earth he was doing on the Marches while unrest was abroad in the land. Whether prompted by concern for his way of life or drunk on too much wine or just eager to escape the press of people at Campion, he had left his family home in search of the mysterious Vala, against all tenets of good sense.

Arriving unannounced, he had nonetheless been welcomed by the lord and lady, who proceeded to hold a feast in his honor, a celebration with which Robin was vaguely uncomfortable. From the veiled hints, he gathered that they thought his unexpected arrival, coming so soon after Stephen’s, meant that he and his brothers were engaged in some sort of covert mission for the crown. Robin would have laughed aloud, if it were not for the tense atmosphere that hung thick over the castle.

It wasn’t until late, after he had been regaled with the transgressions of Llewelyn and his brother David and their followers that Robin finally approached the topic that had sent him recklessly to the boundary between England and Wales. He leaned back in a casual pose and tapped the edge of the table.

“So, tell me, do you know anything of a prince named Owain ap Ednyfed or his wife, Vala?” Robin asked.

The lord and lady exchanged glances. “What of them?”

Robin smiled benignly. “Relatives in England were asking about her.”

The lord frowned. “She died long ago.”

Something about his curt reply made Robin alert, and he shook his head as a servant offered him more wine, for he needed his wits about him. “Was there a child?” he asked.

Again, the surreptitious looks were exchanged, and he could feel the lord’s eyes boring into him, probing him for secrets. No doubt, they thought him privy to knowledge of an uprising or the fate of their holdings. Little did they guess that his query had more to do with a dotty 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.