By Queen's Grace. Shari Anton

eyes. In a generously cut gown of deep blue, having left off her veil and circlet to allow her plaited hair to swing behind her, Ardith waddled toward him.

      “Since the two of you went off hunting and left me here on my own,” she said in a disgruntled tone, “I put the time to use by writing a note to Judith. Corwin, would you do me the favor of delivering it?”

      Corwin hoped his shock didn’t show as he took the note from Ardith’s hand, wanting to say her nay but unable to come up with a good excuse to deny her request. She wouldn’t understand his reluctance to stop at Romsey Abbey. Or to see her friend Judith.

      Only once had Corwin crossed Gerard. Ardith had been desperate to see a midwife-nun at Romsey Abbey and, even while knowing Gerard would be livid, Corwin had taken her. Gerard had been angry, had blustered and handed down assorted punishments. Still, Corwin felt no remorse and would do it all over again if the need arose.

      Unfortunately, at Romsey Abbey he’d also met Judith Canmore, a royal heiress, a niece of both Queen Matilda of England and King Alexander of Scotland. Someday she would leave the cloister to marry, but until then served as companion to Matilda whenever the queen made one of her frequent retreats to Romsey. Judith had been kind to Ardith and the two had become friends. Judith’s favor, however, didn’t extend to him.

      Well, he didn’t have to put the letter into Judith’s hand, just give it to whoever answered his knock on the abbey’s door.

      “‘Twouldbe my pleasure,” Corwin finally answered, forcing a smile.

      Ardith answered his smile with a beaming grin. “When you return, you will have to tell me if Judith has changed. By now, I imagine she has grown into a beautiful young woman.”

      Three years had passed since their meeting and Judith probably had blossomed from a winsome girl to a beautiful woman, but Corwin was loathe to set eyes on her. The last thing he wanted to do was admire Judith’s soft, dove-gray eyes and shiny, sable-brown hair. Wonder what curves hid beneath her concealing robe. Long to taste the adorable bow of her lips, only to have her turn up her pert royal nose at him-again.

      ‘Twas one of the few times his lack of rank had been tossed in his face so forcefully, and it wasn’t an experience he cared to relive.

      Judith rolled up the sleeves of her black robe, preparing to scrub the pots the nuns had used to cook the noon meal. Her punishment could have been worse, but she knew Abbess Christina chose this particular chore knowing how much Judith disliked it.

      The other nuns had finished their after-meal tasks and left the kitchen. All but Sister Mary Margaret, who watched over Judith to ensure a thorough cleansing of the pots.

      “Truly, Sister, you need not stay,” Judith said, smiling at the frown on the nun’s age-wrinkled, kindly face. “I can manage on my own.”

      “And have the abbess learn that I shirked my duty? I think not. She will haveme scrubbing those pots. What did you do this time?”

      Judith slid the first of many pots into the tub of water and began scrubbing, recalling the heated disagreement that had ended with Judith nearly in tears and the abbess red in the face. “I refused the abbess’s entreaty to take the veil.”

      “You have done so before without drawing punishment.”

      True, but she’d never before been so vehement, or used disrespectful language. “Aye, well, I fear I refused a bit too pointedly and loudly this time.”

      “If the queen were here-”

      “But she is not, so cannot intercede for me. So, I scrub pots.”

      Queen Matilda had been called back to London from her latest retreat at Romsey Abbey, to rule the kingdom while King Henry went off to see to some business or another in Normandy. As always, after one of Matilda’s prolonged visits to the abbey, the abbess again tried to convince Judith to take the veil. Again Judith refused.

      Sister Mary Margaret pulled up a stool and eased her short, plump body down on it. “You could do worse than to take the veil, you know. A woman of your rank could move high in the Church.”

      For seven years Judith had lived among the nuns at Romsey Abbey and been content for the most part. These days, however, when she knelt down to pray-which happened often in a nun’s day-she prayed for deliverance from another seven years. She shuddered at the thought. Madness would overtake her long before then.

      Lately, contentment had been elusive. More often her discontent flared over the simplest things, like the black color of her robe or the lack of a particular seasoning in the stew.

      ‘Twas time to make another appeal to her family, remind them she’d long ago reached marriageable age. Prod them into rescuing her from her ordeal. Not to her parents-they would bow to any royal edict. Uncle Alexander would only caution patience, if he took note of her plea at all.

      Best to seek aid from Aunt Matilda, who might listen, who would best understand her wish to be free of Christina’s heavy-handed persuasion to take the veil. Except it could be months before Matilda returned.

      “I have no wish to rise high in the Church,” Judith said, putting the clean pot aside and grabbing the next dirty one. “Christina wants me to take her place as abbess, just as she once tried to convince Matilda to do the same, before Henry came to Matilda’s rescue.”

      A rare, small smile graced the nun’s face. “I remember their disputes well. I have since thought that if Matilda had listened to the abbess and accepted, she might have spared herself much heartache.”

      Heartache, aye. King Henry wasn’t the most attentive or faithful of husbands. Sweet heaven, the man had at least a dozen bastards scattered about the kingdom. Yet Matilda often said that if she had to do it all over again, she’d make the same decisions.

      “Matilda has known heartache, but she dwells on her joys,” Judith said. “Her two children. The king’s trust in her to rule in his stead when he is away. Her ability to fund projects and charitable acts dear to her heart. She enjoys being queen, and I think her a good one. Someday, I should like to do as she does.”

      Sister Mary Margaret huffed. “Then you may as well become an abbess. The queen spends more time here than in London, to escape her faithless husband.”

      Judith couldn’t argue the point. Matilda retreated to Romsey as often as she could. Yet her marriage wasn’t all bad. Henry was fond of his wife, and beyond his fickle ways, treated her with a measure of respect. Matilda, on the other hand, loved her husband with her whole heart.

      Judith never tired of hearing the romantic story of their meeting, of how dashing Prince Henry had visited the abbey with a friend, of how he’d asked to pay his respects to the Saxon princess who resided there. Matilda’s eyes would grow misty when she spoke of Henry’s charm, of how he’d taken her heart with him when he left. Of how he returned, time and again, and finally asked her to be his queen.

      Matilda held no illusions about her marriage. She knew it to be an astute move on Henry’s part, uniting the noble houses of England and Scotland. Judith held no illusions, either. Someday her hand would be granted to a man with whom one of the royal houses wished to solidify an alliance. She could only hope for marriage to a man she could not only like but love, and who might love her in return.

      “Not all husbands are faithless,” Judith finally said.

      “Mayhap not, but most men worthy of a wife of your rank think nothing of keeping a mistress or two. Then the wife becomes unhappy and turns shrewish. Best to avoid the unpleasantness altogether.”

      Not all noble marriages turned sour. She had only to look to her friend Ardith, a Saxon lady who’d married Gerard, a powerful Norman baron, and was happy beyond belief. “Could not a woman find happiness in her children?” she asked, citing the Church’s only acceptable excuse for marriage and consummation.

      Sister Mary Margaret shook her head. “Mayhap. But to have children, one must submit to a man’s base urges and then give birth. I doubt children are