Deborah Simmons - My Lady De Burgh

“As for you, Sybil—” her voice a venomous hiss, the nun turned her bulky figure toward the smaller novice in a vaguely menacing fashion that made Robin half rise from his seat, “I assume that you will find some time to appear in the chapel and pray for the one who has left us, especially since you claimed to be her friend.”

Sybil blanched, and Robin stood, immediately taking exception to this harridan who was harrying his…whatever. He had to struggle against the urge to knock the old woman down, although his brain told him that attacking a nun might not be the best way to begin his duties here. Drawing a deep breath, he launched an entirely different type of offense.

“Thank you for your most gracious assistance,” he said, giving the bully his best de Burgh smile, the one with the dimple. After all, he had not grown up around Stephen without learning a few of his older brother’s tricks. “Would you care to be the first to join us?”

The old woman blinked, the only sign that his wiles had dented her rigid facade, but drew herself up stiffly. “I certainly would not! I have other responsibilities that require my attention, along with religious duties that must be observed, though some of us neglect them!” she added, with a cold glance at Sybil.

“Later, then,” Robin said, bowing slightly in a show of graciousness. But his eyes narrowed as he watched her go, putting her to memory, just in case she did not return. Her attitude, though perhaps normal for her, made him wonder if she were avoiding the questions he was bound to ask in pursing the killer.

Turning back to Sybil, Robin was relieved to note that she had regained her color. “What ails her?” he asked, inclining his head toward the doorway.

Sybil shook her head. “That is Maud. She often gets her tail puffy.”

“Her tail puffy?” Robin echoed, bemused.

“Like one of the cats that prowl the gardens and fields when met with another,” Sybil explained.

“She doesn’t seem overly fond of you,” Robin commented.

Sybil shrugged. “She likes very much to be in charge, and considers herself second only to the abbess. No doubt, she resents my assignment.”

“Ah. She would assist me herself,” Robin said, thoughtfully.

Sybil pursed her lovely lips. “Don’t flatter yourself. Maud would rather draw her own conclusions, without answering to anyone. Right now, she probably is put out because she thinks I have the abbess’s favor, which she is always currying. But she is mistaken, for this assignment is a penance,” Sybil noted, making her disdain for his company very clear.

Why did she dislike him so? Robin swallowed the prick to his pride and studied her, but she swiftly turned her face away. Had she something to hide? He wondered once again if her odd behavior stemmed from guilt, but felt a swift, fierce resistance to that notion. Although he had no intention of marrying her, Robin would not care to see her hang for murder. His protective instincts rose to the fore, but he promptly squashed them, reminding himself that Sybil’s troubles were none of his business. As coroner, he would do his best to see justice done, whether the intriguing novice was involved or not.

Robin’s grim musings were interrupted by a faint knock upon the door. Striding forward, he pulled it open, only to hear a gasp as a slight nun eyed him fearfully. It was Catherine, the screamer, so he drew a deep, steadying breath and put on his best de Burgh manners.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Please come in.” He tried to put the nun at ease, for he needed whatever information these women could provide him. His suspicions about Sybil aside, Robin guessed that the killer was someone known to the deceased, probably a man to strike such a blow, though a strong woman like Maud might do such damage as well. And if she got her tail puffy enough, she just might attack, Robin mused.

Still, Elisa’s killer had most likely been a man and one with whom she had had close, perhaps even intimate, contact. Most murders were the result of too much drink or overwrought passions, and since the nun could hardly have been carousing at an alehouse, that left one probability, Robin thought grimly. He hoped that someone at the nunnery knew the identity of the fellow.

Catherine, however, was not that someone. When questioned, she alternated between moaning, crying and useless babbling about a vengeful God. Since Robin was fairly certain that a more earthly being had been involved, he finally let the nun return to the chapel. Although mindful of her mourning, he nonetheless was relieved to be rid of the weepy woman. He had to admit he preferred Sybil’s contempt; it was better than caterwauling.

Robin’s eyes narrowed. For someone who had given him a running argument earlier, the One was being awfully quiet. He slanted her a glance, wondering what was going on in that lovely little head of hers, but she only returned his curious look with a mutinous expression. Obviously, there was no use in pursuing that line of inquiry. He could only guess that she was not speaking to him now that they were alone.

Robin would have been amused, if he hadn’t been so concerned about his investigation. He’d better have more success with the next nun, or he was going to be here forever. That notion made him glance surreptitiously back at the One even as he tugged at his neckline.

“Is there a problem with your clothing?”

Robin blinked, surprised at the sound of her voice, but not by the scornful tone of it. What was she asking? Something about his clothes? He felt heat surge through him even as he lifted his brows in mute question.

She sent him a pointed look. “It just seems to me that your tunic is too tight since you are always pulling at the neck of it. Or have you some bodily rash that makes you constantly itch and rub yourself?”

For one brief moment, Robin was so stunned by her words that he simply stared, then he threw back his head and burst out laughing. Obviously, her life as a novice had not dulled her wits or her tongue, and Robin couldn’t help but feel a rush of pleasure. There was nothing he liked more in the world than to laugh, well, almost nothing, and in his experience few women had a talent for amusement. Not this one, however. She annoyed him and challenged him, yet did not fail to keep him entertained.

Robin was tempted to tell her that the problem with his clothes lay in the fact that he was wearing too many, but that hardly seemed appropriate banter for these surroundings. Instead, he assumed a sober expression and stepped toward where she sat on the bench watching him warily.

“Indeed, you have guessed it aright, and well I could use some help with a certain itch that needs be scratched,” Robin drawled. He saw her eyes widen and her cheeks grow pink, but his own face betrayed nothing as he turned and pointed behind him. “There’s a spot on my back that I can’t quite reach…. If you wouldn’t mind?”

Robin heard her snort and bit back a grin. “What? Are you not sworn to tend to the ailing and unfortunate?” he asked over his shoulder. “I assure you that it is not contagious, at least I do not think so, though I cannot quite be sure, of course.”

He lifted his brows at Sybil, who, by now, was actually sputtering, and decided that she was not well versed in jests, which made her a perfect foil for him. It was almost if he were young again and tormenting his brothers—only better. He turned around to face her once more.

“Perhaps this spot suits you better?” he asked. “If you could just rub my chest.” Or lower. Robin put a hand over his heart to indicate his need, but his grin faded as wide blue eyes met his own and held. For one, long breathless moment, they stared at each other, aware of an underlying attraction so powerful that it seemed the very air around them conspired to force them together. Indeed, Robin nearly took a step forward, but the door opened, echoing loudly in the silence.

He whirled around, with a combination of irritation and relief, to face the new arrival. She was older and shy and quiet, just the kind of female Robin thought of as suiting her vocation. Glancing at Sybil, he lifted his brows slightly. Now here was someone she ought to emulate. Not surprisingly, she appeared to be in disagreement, for she gave him a mulish frown that made his lips twitch.

Robin couldn’t help it; he was beginning to find her indefatigable scorn amusing. After all, how many women disdained a de Burgh? Of course, this one was a novice, and could be excused on that score, even if she didn’t act a bit like a religious woman. And that probably was just as well, Robin decided, as he began questioning the new arrival, for Sybil was far more interesting.

The decorous nun was just too quiet, shaking her head in answer to every one of his queries. Robin was beginning to wonder if she could speak at all when she finally lifted her head. “Elisa was the treasuress, and I am the sacrist, so we did not have reason for speech,” she said. Privately, Robin revised his original opinion of her, for what kind of woman required a reason to talk to another? Aloud he echoed, “Sacrist?”

“I care for the church fabric and plate,” she said, lowering her head demurely.

“So you don’t have much contact with outsiders or strangers?” Robin asked.

She shook her head.

“What about those within the order? Have there been any quarrels recently?”

She looked horrified, as if he had suggested some kind of sacrilege, and Robin decided that he definitely preferred Sybil’s plain speaking to this female’s delicate sensibilities.

After a few more useless questions, he let the paragon go and leaned back against the wall, brooding, as he once again considered what kind of life these women had. He had known that some orders didn’t encourage conversation, but knowing and seeing for himself were two different things, and the discovery unsettled him.

He had never given much thought to the religious world, none of the de Burghs having the least inclination for that sort of calling. They didn’t have the temperament for it, but then, neither did Sybil. How had she ended up here? Holy houses offered a home for those who were devoted, a haven for those who had not the money or prospects for marriage, and a possible route to power for those without their own. Which had brought Sybil here? Robin was inclined to think the latter, but then, why hadn’t she taken her vows?

She was a curious conundrum, he thought, letting his gaze slide back to her once more, and though he had always been attracted to puzzles, never before had he met the female kind. Evidently intending to rebuff his interest, Sybil gave him a glare that only sparked it further. Robin wondered what had happened to her infamous contempt when they had stared at one another, for he had seen no sign of it then.

Before he could pursue that intriguing line of thought, the next nun appeared. Although not as quiet as the previous member of the order, she appeared to be even more timid. She was older than Sybil, but kept darting glances at the novice, especially when Robin asked about Elisa’s personal life and possible quarrels within the order. Was she loathe to speak in front of Sybil?

“Have you seen any strangers about?” he asked, but the woman only appeared shocked by the idea. And afraid. Her fear struck Robin with new resolve, for holy women should not have to suffer such fright within the very cloister walls. “Very well. Thank you. And I promise you that I shall see to it that no one here is harmed,” he said.

She nodded, a tiny movement of her head, but it was that small motion that made Robin realize she was not just frightened by a nameless murderer, but by himself. And he was taken aback by the discovery. No man had cause to fear the de Burghs except their enemies, and women…well, women had always been thrilled by the presence of his family members and grateful for the protection they offered.