Читать книгу My Lady De Burgh - Deborah Simmons, Deborah Simmons - Страница 10

Although Robin didn’t like spending any more time than necessary with the One, she appeared to be not only his assistant as coroner, but his sole contact within the nunnery—unless he wanted to go chasing after the abbess. Striding away from the orchard after an especially long, unsettling glance at her, Robin had to slow his steps for her to catch up with him, even as he tried to avoid looking upon her. It was a nearly impossible task, but he managed it while barking out a request for a messenger.

After all, he couldn’t remain here indefinitely, when no one at Baddersly knew his exact whereabouts. He had promised the solicitous steward there that he would not hare off without a word, as his brother Simon had done before him. God knows he didn’t want Florian to think he was entangled with a female, as Simon had been. And anyway, he needed some clothes and personal effects, more than the few he had brought with him, for he had no idea how long he would be staying.

That thought made him frown. For the sake of the residents here and his own peace of mind, Robin hoped that he could soon find the murderer, ask about Vala, and be on his way—far away from Sybil. In the meantime, however, he had to suffer her to show him a chamber in the guest house; simply following her into the building was an exercise in both restraint and agitation.

Watching the subtle sway of her hips, Robin gritted his teeth in an effort to control his baser impulses, even while he wondered what the abbess was thinking to put someone like Sybil in charge of tenants. No wonder the old woman thought her destined for the world! A beautiful young novice like his One had no business being anywhere near the guests, let alone taking them to their rooms.

If he were running things, Sybil would find herself cloistered as far as she could be from outsiders. Why, he could just imagine some lecherous old nobleman leering at her, or worse, and the thought wrought havoc with his temper. Although he usually took a lighthearted view of nearly everything, Robin suddenly found himself struggling against a fierce surge of possessiveness.

Sybil ought to be protected instead of flaunted before the eyes of any stray man, whether tenants, clergy, servants or whoever. And Robin certainly didn’t trust the nunnery walls to secure her. Indeed, he was surprised that she wasn’t the one lying dead, murdered by some jealous admirer or unwanted suitor. The thought made him suck in a harsh breath, as if someone had kicked him in the gut, and it was all he could do not to reach out and grab her to him, just to keep her safe.

Robin shook his head, struggling to gather his straying wits. In all probability, if he were to touch her, the One would scream her head off, and then she wouldn’t be the only one suspecting him of murder! Deliberately, he backed away, though his whole body seemed to rebel against such a course. Robin tried to reason with it.

Just because he felt this odd sense of recognition in connection with Sybil did not mean that she was his responsibility. Why should it matter to him what happened to her, if she got herself in some kind of trouble or even was involved somehow in the death of the nun? She was not his concern, Robin told himself. Still, he felt atypically disoriented as she led him through the guest house to a private chamber, as if his mind was at war with the rest of him. And losing.

Robin took a deep breath and looked around. It was a well-appointed room, better than the average wayfarer could expect, and he nodded in approval as he dropped his pack upon a low stool. The bed was larger than he had anticipated, and he stared at it long and hard before his gaze swung back toward Sybil. Although the door remained open, the knowledge that they were alone together sent his blood rushing to nether regions.

Along with the surge of lust, Robin felt that curious sense of familiarity, as if he had known this woman forever, that despite her black looks and tart tongue, they were made for one another. For a long moment, he even had the notion that should he hold out his hand, she would take it, joining him eagerly. But instead of extending his fingers toward her, Robin lifted them to the neck of his tunic, where he tugged hard. Tempted as he was by the sight of that bed, he knew that such urges led to madness, or at least to marriage. And with a groan of panic, he hurried from the premises so swiftly that his companion was forced to run after him.

Once back in the main building, they were met by a grim-looking older nun with a coarse complexion. A forbidding creature, she nodded stiffly at them and without a word, led them down the corridor once more to what she called “the day room of the novices,” a spare chamber with little more than a narrow table and benches.

It hardly seemed a cozy place, and for the first time, Robin wondered what kind of life these nuns, even the novices like Sybil, must have. As a de Burgh born into wealth and privilege, he was well used to his comforts, but what comforts did Sybil have? The question disturbed him, and he sank down onto a bench irritably. What did it matter to him how she lived?

“Although the order is gathering in the chapel to say prayers for the dead, as is only proper, the Reverend Abbess has decreed that each must leave, one at a time, to speak with you,” the old nun said, her fierce expression leaving no doubt of her disapproval.

“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.

Never had he incited anyone to horror, and Robin didn’t like the feeling. He frowned. Was it because he was a man inside the sheltered world of the nunnery, or was something else involved? With a curt word, he excused her, and as she scurried away, he wondered how the devil he was going to find out anything from women like these.

“They are not accustomed to…knights,” Sybil told him, spitting out the last word as if he were some kind of monster. He was tempted to ask her if he would be more acceptable if he were unable to defend himself and them, but he kept his mouth shut as he mulled over this disturbing development.

He was still lost in thought when Sybil stood to greet the woman at the door. This nun was quite elderly, to the point of deafness, so Robin was forced to nearly shout into her ear. He repeated his questions over and over until Sybil saw fit to point out that the old woman had her own room from which she rarely ventured forth, so saw little of others. Upon receipt of that information, Robin ushered the elderly nun out, while casting a dubious glance over his shoulder at his companion. As he suspected, Sybil appeared to be fighting back her amusement at his discomfiture.

With a scowl, Robin turned his attention back to the nun who was leaning on him and called to a servant passing in the corridor. He asked the girl to escort the elderly woman back to the chapel and to fetch him some paper and quill, so that he might better record the names of those he had already seen. His scholarly brother Geoffrey had often made notes when he was studying, and Robin equated this tedious investigation to a learning experience.

When he again entered the room, Sybil was wearing a look of surprise instead of her usual surly glare. “You can write?” she asked.

“Of course, I can write,” Robin said. “My father, the Earl of Campion, sets great store by learning. Can you not?”

“Of course, I can write! I have been schooled by the nuns since I was very young,” Sybil said.

“Too bad they couldn’t teach you better manners,” Robin observed dryly. When she looked as though she was going to make a sharp retort, he spoke again. “I thought you religious women were supposed to be humble,” he added, his expression all innocence. Was that a tic in her cheek? Robin decided that goading her was far better than fighting with her, and that jesting was better than both. “About that itch…” he began, only to whoop in laughter when she threw something at him.

Luckily, he was blessed with quick reflexes and she with poor aim. He ducked, though it proved unnecessary as her toss went wide. As it sailed by him, Robin saw ’twas only a wooden cup that had been abandoned in the corner, and he watched it fall to the floor, where it rolled across the tiles. His blood up, Robin glanced back at his foe, in anticipation of a lively exchange, but the shocked look on her face told him there would be no more missiles, at least not immediately.

Obviously, such outbursts were new to her, as well as frowned upon in the nunnery, but Robin found himself wanting to hand her another cup, to stand before her and egg her on to release some of whatever it was remained pent up inside her. Robin sensed that behind those novice’s clothes lay a passionate woman, stifled by her surroundings. And suddenly, he wanted to release all that tension in quite another manner entirely.

With a grunt of denial, Robin tugged at the neck of his tunic, caught himself and grimaced. He was becoming far too cozy with the One for his own good. It was none of his business what kind of temperament she possessed or what kind of life she led here or anything else about her. He was better off sparring with her than making such speculations or worse, enjoying himself with her. Robin blanched, the arrival of a servant with his quill the only thing that saved him from incipient panic.

He had just mumbled his thanks when another nun arrived, one who, he soon discovered, disapproved of the whole questioning process. Although she gave him no rebuke, she answered him as shortly as possible, until Robin sat back and ran a hand through his hair in exasperation.

“I’m just trying to find out who killed Elisa, so that no further blood is shed,” he said, his patience already tested this day.

“I hardly think anyone else here will meet such an end,” the nun replied, with a sniff. Robin studied her carefully. Was her disapprobation meant for him or the deceased?

“And why do you say that?” he asked. “Was there some reason why Elisa was targeted when others were not?” The question probed as close to his own suppositions as he dared without revealing them outright. Unfortunately, it resulted in a squawk of protest from Sybil and a demure look from the nun. Sending his companion a caustic glance, Robin wondered whether her presence was a help or a hindrance to him.

Definitely a hindrance, he soon decided, for the nun would say nothing further, finally excusing herself huffily. After she left, Robin pointedly closed the door behind her. “Just what are you doing?” he asked, advancing on the One with nothing but menace on his mind.

“What do you mean?” she asked, rising to her feet, in fearless, foolish challenge. Although he had to admire her pluck, he was in no mood for her posturing.

“You know very well what I mean!” Robin said, his voice silky yet threatening. “If you plan to interfere with my work, then I shall have you removed from the room.”

“You cannot!” she answered. “The abbess told me to—”

Robin cut her off. “The abbess told you to assist me, not impede me!”

“I will not let you speak ill of the dead!” she answered, that tiny tic in her cheek the only evidence that she was not as composed as she would have him believe. Nor as brave. Robin felt the bluster seep out of him.

“Sybil,” he said in a gentler tone. Stepping forward once more, he reached for her, but she winced, seemingly as wary of him as he was of her. However, Robin doubted that it was rooted in the same cause, for she gave no indication that she recognized him as anything other than a boorish knight who was disrupting her existence and maligning her friend. With a sigh, Robin dropped his hand and moved back, wondering how he was going to find out who Elisa’s lover was if he was not allowed to allude to the possibility of there being one.

Another puzzle, perhaps unsolvable, Robin thought, before the moment was shattered by the entrance of one of the nuns. Taking a deep breath, he turned away from Sybil and tried to focus on the task ahead. Graciously seating the woman, he poured on the de Burgh charm, while sending a warning glance to his companion.

To her credit, she did not protest again, but neither did he make any headway. The older nuns claimed to have had little contact with Elisa, while the younger ones professed ignorance of her personal life. Surely, within the small confines of this community, someone must have heard something! Although Sybil informed him that gossip was proscribed by the bishop, Robin did not believe that the good women, no matter how devoted, had given it up entirely.

He was so frustrated by the end of the day that he began to wonder if he was going to have to begin the questioning all over again—alone. Obviously, Sybil had been a friend to the deceased, and, as such, put a damper on any revelations the other women might provide about her. With mixed feelings, Robin considered asking the abbess to assign Sybil some other task. It would be better for him, too, if he were rid of her, he thought, quelling an unruly objection somewhere in his body. Presumably, it lodged in his nether regions, yet it seemed to be higher up in his chest, which held his yearning for the family life he had no more.

With a frown, Robin realized that despite her tart tongue and surly behavior, he was going to miss the One, not just immediately, but maybe forever.