Читать книгу My Lady De Burgh - Deborah Simmons, Deborah Simmons - Страница 9

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.

“Nay! Elisa would not have been on the wall,” Sybil said, following his thoughts as easily as if he had spoken them aloud. He glanced up to see that she had crossed her arms in front of her in a stance so belligerent that Robin didn’t know whether to laugh or growl in exasperation. “Besides, ’tis too convenient,” she added. “More likely, the murderer arranged all in a effort to appease the gullible.”

Robin bristled at the insult, but, instead of arguing, he lifted the dead woman’s head, carefully inspecting the wound to see if it matched the marks on the stone. Long ago, he had learned the secret of concentration from his father and his brother Geoffrey, and so he tried to focus solely upon what he was doing, despite the sound of the abbess herding the nuns from the scene.

All of them, that is, except for Sybil. She remained, continuing her complaints, and even though Robin heeded not her words, she definitely was a distraction. How on earth had she come to be a nun? Obviously, this order did not hold to the tenets of silence, Robin decided, even as he heard her voice on the edges of his awareness, tempting him to stop her mouth, preferably with his own.

Loosing a low oath that he hoped might offend a woman of God, or at least make her be quiet, Robin assessed the injury before him. During the studies of his younger years, he had taken an interest in medicine, so the sight did not disturb him. Nor was he likely to faint away as Sybil had suggested. But he did find something interesting.

“You’re right,” he said suddenly, finally putting a stop to the incessant flow of speech from Sybil’s lips. “She was murdered,” he said into the blessed silence. The peace was brief, however.

“What? How do you know?” Sybil asked, and he gently turned Elisa’s upper body onto her side.

“Look here,” he said. When Sybil gamely knelt beside him, Robin tried to ignore the pleasant waft of her scent. She was too near, but there was no help for it. Gritting his teeth, he pointed to a spot on the back of the dead woman’s head. “Another blow.”

Sybil looked at him then, her eyes wide, and he saw that they weren’t just blue, but a light, lovely color surrounded by a rim of darker blue. He felt himself swaying, nearly falling, before he caught himself. Drawing a deep breath, he looked at the dead woman.

“She was struck twice,” he explained in a strained voice. “Obviously, the smaller injury did not kill her, and your murderer was forced to render another blow. If she had simply fallen, she would have been hurt only once.”

“I knew it,” Sybil said beside him, her tone so rife with excitement that it roused an answering clamor within his traitorous body. Against his will, Robin felt alive, as if every humor within him was cavorting and screaming, She’s the One! He had to struggle for breath, taking in a deep draught to steady himself. And although his fingers itched to reach for her, instead he wiped them on the grass and rose to his feet, greeting the returning abbess with no little relief.

“I am sorry, Reverend Abbess, but I fear your worst suspicions were correct. She was killed,” Robin said.

The abbess shook her head sadly, her gaze resting for a long moment upon the dead woman before she returned her attention to Robin. “Then I must trust you to discover who did this foul deed, for we cannot have someone preying upon the good women here.”

Robin nodded his agreement, and the abbess once more inclined her head toward the body. “Now, let us allow the infirmaress to attend Elisa.”

“As you wish,” Robin answered. “I have examined the wounds, but I would like to look around here a bit,” he added, though the garden area was well trampled by those who had come before him. Walking slowly about the body, Robin knelt to inspect the ground several times, and found nothing unusual for his efforts. His keen-eyed brother Dunstan might have been able to make something of the tracks in the grass, but the comings and goings of onlookers had obscured whatever slight impressions might have been here earlier, leaving Robin no trail. Of course, the knowledge that Sybil’s blue gaze followed his every move didn’t help.

Did she feel the attraction between them, or was a nun oblivious to such things? More likely, this one was too shrewish to notice, Robin thought. And he was saddled with her for the duration of his stay here! Suddenly, Robin wondered if he could solve the murder while avoiding Sybil and keeping to his original mission to find out about Vala l’Estrange. It seemed a complex assignment, but Robin was too much of a de Burgh to give in to doubt. He had never failed at anything yet.

Although he had learned nothing in his search, Robin was determined to continue it outside the nearby walls. Rising to his feet, he turned to the abbess. “I would inspect the area on the other side, and I will need to speak with all of the nuns,” he said.

“We will make arrangements to have them meet with you in the hall,” the abbess replied. “And, of course, we will provide you with chambers in the guest house. Sybil can show you to a set of rooms.”

The thought of being alone with the One made Robin’s entire being rouse to alertness again. His gaze immediately transferred to Sybil, though against his will. It was an altogether unsettling sensation. He had always been the master of his fate, but now he sensed an ominous sway in his command. Is this how his brothers had felt, helpless victims of an overpowering something beyond their control? Although seized by lust, more was involved here than mere sex, though how could that be when he hardly knew her, and what he did know of her, he heartily disliked? And yet, he was drawn to her, yearning to discover everything about her, her history, her facets, her secrets.

Robin shook his head to clear it and told himself in a firm, manly, decisive way that this woman held no power over him. But somehow he was still studying her as she hovered over the dead woman, presumably awaiting the approach of the infirmaress and other nuns…other nuns. That knowledge brought Robin a certain comfort, for no matter what her unusual effect upon him, Sybil could not be meant for him.

Obviously, something had gone awry this time, allowing him to escape the curse, for his intended already had answered a higher calling. Safe in that assurance, Robin donned a smug smile as he watched her take charge of the removal of the body, issuing directions that were the province of the infirmaress. Apparently, Sybil made no discrimination, but alienated everyone with whom she came in contact.

Robin might have laughed, if he hadn’t been so exasperated. He turned to the abbess, who now stood beside him. “Rather forceful for a nun, isn’t she?” he commented in a dry tone that did not hide his opinion.

The abbess lifted her brows. “Oh, Sybil is not a member of our order, though she has long dwelt with us. She remains a novice, having never taken her vows. I sometimes fear she is destined for the outside world, with all of its heartaches,” the abbess said, and Robin felt his complacency drop away, along with his grin. Not his world, he thought, with something akin to panic.

Seemingly oblivious to his reaction, the abbess left him to speak with one of the other women, while Robin reached up to tug at the suddenly constricting neck of his tunic. With a scowl, he glared at Sibyl, outraged at what he considered her duplicity. Perhaps she was not a nun, but that didn’t mean he was going to turn around and marry her. It was not as though she could make him, he thought mutinously, for how could she? Hold a knife to his throat? Lure him into a compromising situation? Robin grunted in amusement.

In truth, there was naught she could do, for he was prepared for any tricks. Already, he was one step ahead of his brothers in that he knew what was afoot. Seizing upon that small advantage, Robin felt his innate confidence returning. After all, forewarned was forearmed, and Robin was a master of weapons.

As Sybil stood watching the nuns take away Elise, she clenched her hands at her sides to prevent herself from following. The grief she had set aside momentarily returned, fresh and sharp, making her want to put herself between Elisa and the women who would prepare her for burial, as if she might, by dint of her own fierce will, somehow delay the inevitable or change the events that had transpired.

Swift upon the heels of those thoughts came a shocking rage, directed at a religious existence that somehow had allowed this abomination, at the world in general and, finally, at Sybil herself, where it turned into a gnawing guilt that threatened to eat away at her very being. The words if only, if only, beat so loudly in her head as to drive her mad.

If only she had gone to the abbess when she had first suspected that Elisa had taken an unhealthy interest in someone outside the nunnery walls. If only she had pressed her friend to give up the relationship. But Elisa had never admitted she was seeing anyone, and Sybil, well aware of the punishments awaiting a nun who strayed from her vows, had said nothing. At the time, Sybil had thought she was keeping a confidence. Now, she saw things differently, for banishment or excommunication would have been a better fate for Elisa than death.

If only she had done something! But Sybil had never dreamed that Elisa’s preoccupation had gone so far. She had been behaving strangely, yet who would have thought such an innocent would tryst right within the convent walls? Or that the lover she was meeting would do her in? Sybil shuddered, her intrinsic courage at odds with the frightening reality of the outside.

It was an old conflict. Having abided at Our Lady of All Sorrows since her childhood, Sybil knew no other existence, yet she had always possessed a healthy curiosity about the world. That sense of wonder had tugged at her, keeping her from her vows even when others urged her to take them. Those nuns who had lived outside the walls had impressed upon both she and Elisa the dangers to be found there.

If only Elisa had heeded the warnings. Guilt rose to swamp Sybil again, for hadn’t she, too, been stricken with a restlessness that the nunnery could not satisfy? A harsh, bleak winter had left her eager for spring, anticipating some change in the air instead of the same deadly dull march of days. As had happened often before, she felt stifled, as if she were choking on her very existence, but what else was there for her?

She had no family, no entrée into a venue she knew nothing about. How would she manage, even if she arranged to leave? The Church liked to keep those who had once entered these walls within them always, and Sybil felt the heavy burden of her duty, of promises made to nuns now dead. Then she would try to be pious and worthy, but her unruly nature always was at odds with her good intentions. And eventually, the monotony would begin to slowly constrict her again until she felt she couldn’t breathe, that her life here was no better than bondage.

Then she would turn her head toward the west and wonder what lay beyond the orchard and the fields and even the village itself…. As if through no will of her own, Sybil turned her head, but this time she saw a sight that had never greeted her before: Robin de Burgh.

He looked strange in the little herb garden, though others of his sex had been here before on occasion—servants usually. He was different somehow. Larger, more masculine, he seemed to fill the small space with his strength and his maleness, as out of place as a bull among the delicate early-blooming violets. No, not a bull, with its rage and clumsiness, but something else wholly beyond her experience.

Sybil’s brow furrowed at that puzzle. She didn’t care to be caught at a loss, and her reaction came swiftly and automatically, outrage pushing aside her guilt and pain. How could the abbess ask her to work with this, this man? Not only was he a member of the outside world, but he was a male! He had no business involving himself in the affairs of the nuns. He was an intruder into this sheltered place, a reminder of what existed outside, bold and untamed and unknown.

Sybil seethed. She had taken exception to him the moment he strode into the garden, free and strong and confident, his clothes boldly declaring his station and the set of his wide jaw bespeaking his arrogance. He represented all that she was not, and Sybil was honest enough to admit that she resented his power and his sex. But there was more to her rancor than simple envy.

What she most disliked about Robin de Burgh was the way he made her feel, for he affected her as no one ever had before. It was apparent the instant she laid eyes upon him. She had been kneeling over Elise, shocked and stunned, Catherine’s screams ringing in her ears, when she lifted her head. And there he had been, bigger than life, bigger than anything she had ever seen. She had noticed men before, monks and clerks and laborers from the home farm, even villagers, but never had she seen anyone like Robin de Burgh.

His chest was broad, his shoulders massive, his arms and legs thick with muscle, and yet he moved with a grace that belied his form. A knight, the abbess had called him, which explained the strength of his body, but not the reaction of her own. Sybil felt as though she had taken a blow to the chest, her heart pumping, her lungs struggling for breath, and then she had looked upon his face….

He was beautiful.

Sybil had slipped back upon her heels, dumbstruck that a mere man could exhibit such perfection: thick, dark hair, a comely brow over wide cheeks, tanned and unmarked, and eyes that reminded her of burnt sugar, rich and clear and sweet. As if they weren’t bad enough, then there was his mouth, which made her own feel dry and wanting. Indeed, her entire being seemed seized by unruly desires, and, not one to meekly accept such disturbing sensations, Sybil had spoken, drawing his ire, eager for it, in the hope that his hold over her would be broken.

But it wasn’t. Even now she burned with an odd sort of need for this man, and this man only, a feeling that made her even more resentful of his presence here and the task the abbess had laid before her, to work with him. It was intolerable, Sybil vowed, and would soon be put to an end. He might be coroner, but she would find Elise’s murderer herself and be rid of Robin de Burgh and the havoc he wrought.

Just thinking of him had quickened her heartbeat, and Sybil glared across the small expanse of the garden at him, but that did little to ease her distress. Indeed, her gaze was caught by the shift of his wide shoulders as he began to move, and she trembled like a weakling as her attention drifted down his tall back to the narrow hips that were hidden beneath his mail coat. Cheeks flaming, Sybil drew a deep breath and shook off this unhealthy preoccupation with a male form, quickly transforming her dismay into anger.

“Where are you going?” she demanded even as she hurried after him.

He didn’t bother to stop and acknowledge her, but spoke over one of those massive shoulders of his. “Outside to have a look about the grounds.”

Sybil hesitated a moment, seized by a cowardly urge to quit his company, but it was swiftly overwhelmed by curiosity. And determination. Should this knight find something, she refused to remain ignorant of it. Besides, she was to keep an eye upon him. Although her instincts told her he was not a killer, still she owed it to the abbess to do her duty. And right now her duty was Robin de Burgh.

And so she followed. He did not wait for her, and she cursed his long legs that seemed to eat up the ground as he strode through the passage to the great hall. Oblivious to the stares of those around him, he continued out the main doors and around the building, unerringly heading toward the walls of the herb garden, which looked out over the orchard.

There she found him pacing along the stone barrier, head bent, as if he expected the murderer to have left his mark upon the grass. He paused, here and there, just as he had in the garden, kneeling to inspect the ground, though Sybil could see nothing. Finally, he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes so beautiful that Sybil nearly swallowed her tongue.

“There’s nothing here,” he said, with a grimace.

Sybil could do no more than stare stupidly at him while she tried to control the sudden trembling in her limbs.

“Have there been any strangers about?” he asked.

Sybil shook her head. She found it difficult to concentrate on his words when his mouth moved. She had torn her attention away from his eyes only to find it engaged by his lips. Out here in the vast expanse of the grounds, he seemed more approachable, more real, as the sunlight dappled his features, and somehow the notion made her heart pound erratically.

Then his mouth moved again. “No one unusual?” he prompted, and his questioning look made Sybil wrest control of herself from whatever forces were affecting her.

“No. None that I am aware of beyond the occasional cleric, but I deal mostly with boarders, not travelers. We should check with Elizabeth, who handles lodging for the poor, pilgrims and others seeking but a night’s stay. And the abbess would have more contact with visitors.”

“And the servants knowledge of packmen and the sort,” Robin mused. Rising to his feet in one graceful motion that almost stopped her breath, he glanced toward Sybil again, and she felt his attention clear down to her toes. He seemed to study her with a wary sort of animosity, that had Sybil wondering just what his complaint was before she realized he probably disliked being paired with a woman.

“If you’re to help, then let us be about questioning these people while their memories are fresh,” he snapped, confirming her suspicions.

Well, she didn’t care to be stuck with him either, Sybil thought, lifting her chin, but the abbess had decreed that they must work together, so she would obey. She could only hope that the killer would be found soon, for once the murder was solved, Robin de Burgh would be on his way.

And Sybil would be glad of it.