My Lady De Burgh. Deborah Simmons

hopefully.

      Armes sniffed. “’Tis not as though we belong to a guild, young man!”

      “We really know of no others with such talents beyond our own family,” Cafell explained gently. At Robin’s crestfallen expression, she patted him again. “Now, don’t despair. We shall think of something!”

      The two women exchanged glances, then Cafell frowned pensively. Finally, she said, “Well, there is Cousin Anfri.”

      “A complete charlatan!” Armes sniffed.

      “How about Mali?”

      “Dead,” Armes replied. “The l’Estranges are not blessed with many progeny.”

      Robin wondered if the union with Stephen would change that, but Cafell suddenly yelped, startling him. “What about Vala?” she said.

      “Oh, poor Vala, she was quite the beauty, and so gifted,” Armes said.

      “Didn’t she marry one of the Welsh princes?” Cafell asked.

      “Yes,” Armes replied. “What was his name?”

      “Owain ap Ednyfed?”

      “I believe so,” Armes said with a nod. “But I understood that she died not long afterwards.”

      “Did she? I was of the opinion that was not certain, but it is possible,” Cafell said. “So much fighting over there through the years, you understand, one prince against another or Llewelyn himself, and, of course, against the king. We were lucky to be well away from it all.” She paused. “But I thought there was a daughter.”

      Armes frowned. “I don’t recall. That was a long time ago, and there was only hearsay—”

      “Perhaps, Lord Robin could go and see!” Cafell suggested. She leaned forward, whispering confidentially, once more. “Vala was very gifted.”

      Robin perked up at this news. “Where would I find her?” he asked.

      “Why, in Wales, of course. That’s where most of the l’Estranges are, except us, of course.”

      Robin stared at the two women, who were smiling benignly, and stifled a groan. Stephen and his bride had returned from Wales with rumors of war at their heels, the Welsh princes seizing lands and rousing the people against Edward. Were these two gentlewomen trying to get him killed? Having no intention of marching into a country in the midst of battle, Robin eyed them askance.

      The l’Estranges seemed to be oblivious to such danger, however, and they waited expectantly for his answer, so he choked out a polite thank you and excused himself with a nod. As he walked away, Robin realized he had reached an impasse in his efforts to lift the curse.

      But his lack of success was hard to accept, for if he did nothing, then surely he would find himself wed. And soon.

      Robin watched his host raise a cup in salute to the de Burghs and wondered, not for the first time, what on earth he was doing on the Marches while unrest was abroad in the land. Whether prompted by concern for his way of life or drunk on too much wine or just eager to escape the press of people at Campion, he had left his family home in search of the mysterious Vala, against all tenets of good sense.

      Arriving unannounced, he had nonetheless been welcomed by the lord and lady, who proceeded to hold a feast in his honor, a celebration with which Robin was vaguely uncomfortable. From the veiled hints, he gathered that they thought his unexpected arrival, coming so soon after Stephen’s, meant that he and his brothers were engaged in some sort of covert mission for the crown. Robin would have laughed aloud, if it were not for the tense atmosphere that hung thick over the castle.

      It wasn’t until late, after he had been regaled with the transgressions of Llewelyn and his brother David and their followers that Robin finally approached the topic that had sent him recklessly to the boundary between England and Wales. He leaned back in a casual pose and tapped the edge of the table.

      “So, tell me, do you know anything of a prince named Owain ap Ednyfed or his wife, Vala?” Robin asked.

      The lord and lady exchanged glances. “What of them?”

      Robin smiled benignly. “Relatives in England were asking about her.”

      The lord frowned. “She died long ago.”

      Something about his curt reply made Robin alert, and he shook his head as a servant offered him more wine, for he needed his wits about him. “Was there a child?” he asked.

      Again, the surreptitious looks were exchanged, and he could feel the lord’s eyes boring into him, probing him for secrets. No doubt, they thought him privy to knowledge of an uprising or the fate of their holdings. Little did they guess that his query had more to do with a dotty pair of so-called soothsayers than any questions of Welsh independence.

      Somehow Robin didn’t think they would find his quest amusing, and so he gracefully retired early. He was no warmonger like his brother Simon, and this visit had made him determined to turn around and hie himself back to safer ground as soon as possible.

      Unfortunately for the remaining de Burgh bachelors, it appeared that he had met not just an impasse, but the end of his road. Idly, Robin wondered what the lord would say should he ask the direction of a local wise woman, perhaps some ancient Celtic practitioner, and he snorted to himself. The whole idea of finding someone to lift a curse seemed absurd now that he was well away from Campion Castle and the l’Estrange aunts.

      He was too easily swayed. How often had his brothers traded on that trait, especially Stephen, who had sold him plenty of counterfeit religious relics in his youth? And, apparently, age had made him no wiser. Desperate to avoid the same fate as his siblings, he had latched on to the first scheme presented to him, no matter how foolhardy, when he would do better to pursue more traditional avenues.

      A true relic might counteract the curse, Robin mused. Perhaps he should approach a priest or even make a pilgrimage to some shrine, though he had no idea which one. Saint Agnes was the patron saint of purity, but since it wasn’t really purity he craved, Robin dismissed that idea with a grunt.

      The sound, followed swiftly by another, echoed off the castle walls and Robin slowed his steps. Although full of rich food and wine, his de Burgh senses were still as sharp as ever, and as he reached the dark passage before his assigned chamber, he felt the presence of another.

      The local situation being what it was, Robin slipped a hand to the dagger he kept tucked at his waist. Larger and more lethal than the usual dining knife, it could be silent and deadly when wielded with his skill. His fingers closing around it, Robin turned slightly, just in case a cudgel was poised behind him, a distinct possibility considering that everyone here thought him a spy.

      But when he pivoted to glance around, Robin saw that no assassin stood there, only the man who had served him at table. Still, the fellow had a furtive air about him that kept Robin alert. “My lord,” he whispered, looking back over his shoulder as if he would speak in secrecy.

      “Aye?” Robin answered, though he had no wish to be further embroiled in the problems of the Marches.

      “She did not die, but fled,” he said.

      “Who? Vala?” Robin asked.

      The man gave a stealthy nod. “And there was issue, a daughter who lived, though all would deny it now. I saw her myself!”

      Intrigued, Robin stepped closer. “Where are they now?”

      But footsteps rang out in the passageway behind, and the man grew wild-eyed, edging past Robin hurriedly.

      “Wait!” Robin called after him.

      “Look to a refuge for women in your own land, my lord, one for those burdened by sorrows!” he said. Then he disappeared into the darkness, leaving Robin to contemplate the whole curious episode with a jaundiced eye. Just when he thought the road had ended, instead it opened up in all directions.

      But did he care