Deborah Simmons - My Lady De Burgh

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.

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 look at her, his mouth stopped working. In fact, for a long, helpless moment, every one of Robin’s bodily functions shut down, and all he could do was stare. At her.

Like the others, she wore a wimple that left little of her face showing, but what he could see was distinctive. Beautiful, in fact. Her forehead was smooth and pale, her brows delicate, tipped at the corners and an intriguing reddish color, like summer sunlight or autumn harvest. They hovered over eyes a lovely shade of blue that fascinated him. Though he could see nothing of her hair, her face was oval, ending in a stubborn little chin topped by lips set, too, in a stubborn manner. Oh, but what lips! Gently curved, they held a hint of color that reminded him of exotic berries or ripe fruit.

And suddenly, he was desperately hungry. Robin felt the world spinning around him as he gaped, rushing from beneath his feet to hurl him headlong into a future for which he was unprepared, but at the very last moment, he gulped, his fingers clinging tenaciously to the life he had known. And in that instant, he recognized her.

She was the One, the female who would destroy his existence as he knew it, enslave his mind, ensnare his body and suck all the fun out of everything. Well, it wasn’t going to happen. Robin felt his mouth begin to work again, and it turned down into a fierce scowl. Curse or no curse, he was not going to marry this woman. Ever. And it was impossible anyway, he realized, as a sudden dizziness claimed him.

Day of God, he was destined for a nun!

“If blood makes you queasy, you had better sit down.” Robin heard the voice, rife with disdain, and realized that she was speaking. Obviously, she no longer deemed him the murderer, but now she thought he might faint at the mere sight of death. Robin wasn’t sure which presumption was more insulting.

He glared at her. “I am not a killer, but neither am I likely to swoon at a little blood,” he said, injecting a healthy dose of contempt into his voice. Then, in a gesture of dismissal, he flicked his gaze to the abbess. “I am Robin de Burgh of Baddersly, where I stand in stead of my brother, Baron of Wessex,” he explained with the innate confidence of his family.

Even if she had no idea who he was, the abbess ought to recognize his name. At the very least, she would be familiar with the surrounding holdings, especially one as large as Baddersly. “I was outside and heard the cries for help and came directly,” Robin added.

“My lord,” the abbess said, inclining her head graciously. “I am the abbess here. We are honored by your presence, though you find us in a quandary, for it appears that one of our fold has met with an accident, or worse.”

“No accident this,” she said, drawing his attention once again. “But murder most foul.”

“Ah. So it was you I heard shrieking,” Robin said. Although he suspected it was the other nun who continued to sniff and moan upon the bench, he could not help mocking this one in return for the taunts she had tendered him.

“Not I!” she answered, her eyes flashing, and Robin smiled smugly, pleased to get back some of his own.

“’Twas Catherine you heard, and we are grateful to her for sending up the alarm,” the abbess said, halting the argument that Robin sensed was forthcoming from the younger woman who eyed him so rebelliously.

“In fact, it appears that her cries served us well since they summoned you, my lord. ’Tis most fortuitous that you were passing by at this moment,” the abbess said, and Robin made no move to contradict her. After what had happened on the Marches, he thought it wise to be more discreet concerning his interest in the former Vala l’Estrange. And this unfortunate business might provide the perfect opportunity to make subtle inquiries without revealing his true purpose.

“Has the coroner been summoned?” he asked.

“Actually, I think he has just arrived,” the abbess replied. When Robin looked around, she smiled slightly. “I believe you are the coroner, my lord. The man who holds Baddersly has always taken that office, though there has been little enough need for him in recent years, thank the Lord.”

“But his sudden appearance here might be no coincidence,” she said, rising to her feet, and Robin’s outrage at her accusation was tempered by curiosity as she stood. She was taller than he had expected, but still the top of her head would barely reach his chin. She appeared slender, yet shapely, allowing Robin’s imagination to wander until he told himself it was most unseemly to speculate on what a nun might look like naked.

“Sybil!” the abbess scolded. “You have no reason to speak so of Lord de Burgh, whose aid will be most welcome.”

So her name was Sybil. Robin rolled it around in his mind, and, again, he felt that fierce sense of recognition. Sybil. Her name spoke of ancient mysteries, oracles and exotic lures tendered to unsuspecting men. Robin frowned. Luckily, he could not be counted among them, for he distrusted her on sight.

“As penance for your speech, you will work with Lord de Burgh on his investigation into the sad death of Elisa, providing him whatever assistance he might require,” the abbess said.

Horrified at her words, Robin opened his mouth to protest, but Sybil was quicker. “But he might be the murderer!” she exclaimed.

Robin felt his face flush. “As well could she be!” he countered. If Sybil was the One, why did he feel like thrashing her? Surely, his brothers had not suffered this odd reaction to their intended spouses!

“I hardly think either one of you is responsible, but you may keep an eye upon each other, if you are so uneasy,” the abbess said. “That is, if you will be gracious enough to aid us, my lord? I could send a message to the bishop, of course, but since you are already here…”

Robin tore his attention away from Sybil and back to the abbess, knowing full well that the older woman had neatly maneuvered him. But it little mattered in this case, for he had his own reasons for agreeing.

“Certainly, Reverend Abbess, I would be most happy to help you in any way I can,” Robin said, firmly ignoring Sybil’s complaints. She made a noise that sounded awfully like a snort of contempt, but stepped back to gesture toward the prone body in invitation, as if daring him to investigate. Did she think he would fall faint at the sight? Robin nearly laughed aloud, for he had been in battle. He was a de Burgh.

“Who found her?” Robin asked as he knelt beside the dead woman.

“Catherine and I,” Sybil answered in a belligerent tone, and Robin pondered what she could possibly have against him. Perhaps she was one of those nuns who held a grudge against men. Or mayhap she simply resented his intrusion into her ordered existence. Still, she seemed too sharp-tongued for a holy woman. And too beautiful. And too shapely.

Robin glanced down at the body, the dead one, in an effort to tear his thoughts away from the live one that was claiming far too much of his interest. “Did you touch her?”

“Of course, we checked to see if she still lived!” Sybil replied, her answer sending the nun Catherine into a new fit of wailing. Robin glanced up at the One sharply in reprimand, and her mutinous expression made him wonder if all that bravado covered up her own fears. Or her own guilt.

Wonderful. Not only was he was destined for a nun, an abomination in itself, but a murdering nun. That made her worse than his brother Geoffrey’s wife, who had killed her first husband defending herself, but at least belonged to no holy order. Nay, Robin told himself, quite firmly, this woman was not meant for him, no matter that she seemed for all the world to be the One. She was a woman of God, and he would do well to remember as much.

Robin shook his head and tried to concentrate upon the matter at hand. “Did you move her or was she exactly like this when you found her?” he asked. The dead woman’s form was twisted, the upper portion lying mostly on her back, while the lower rested on her side. Blood had seeped from a wound to the back of her head, but was no longer fresh. Dark, thick and drying, its condition told Robin that she probably had died during the night, certainly not within the last hour.

“I only turned her slightly,” Sybil said, her voice still ringing with animosity.

Robin ignored it to continue his study of the deceased. Nearby lay a large rock with blood upon its surface that appeared to correspond to the woman’s injury. Indeed, the situation of the body made it appear as if she had fallen and struck her head, though it would take a mighty tumble to do such damage. Robin looked around, his gaze lighting upon the nearby stone wall, and he mentally judged the distance from its top to the ground. If Elisa had been climbing over the top during the night and had slipped, she might well have met her death.

“Perhaps ’tis no murder, after all,” Robin said, “But an unfortunate accident.” Although he didn’t want to speculate on the nun’s reason for clambering over the high stone barrier, Robin knew that she would likely not be the first member of her order to engage in clandestine meetings.