My Lady De Burgh. Deborah Simmons

destrier and wondered what on earth he was doing poised outside a nunnery. And not just any nunnery, but Our Lady of All Sorrows.

      It had been a long, strange ride. Although he had seen no further sign of the servant who had spoken to him so clandestinely, Robin had bid goodbye to his host, determined to forget all about the woman who had married a Welsh prince. But somehow, once he left the border, Robin had ended up at the nearest abbey, the only place he would deem a refuge for women, and there he had inquired about other such houses. And when he heard the name of Our Lady of All Sorrows, he knew a sudden urge to travel there.

      Robin told himself that simple curiosity drove him, for the conflicting tales of Vala’s fate would interest anyone. And he had always loved a good puzzle. In addition, he might well provide a service for Stephen’s wife’s family, who, no doubt, would be happy to learn their kin still lived. Perhaps even a reunion could be arranged.

      Yet, despite these smug assurances, Robin was aware of some other, deeper compulsion urging him onward. Whether it was concern for his own future or a simple desire to put the matter to rest, he wasn’t sure. But when he discovered that the nunnery lay not far from Baddersly, he returned to his brother’s demesne in good time. There he left behind his men-at-arms, so that he might continue alone on the last stretch of a journey that even he was beginning to view as bizarre.

      And so he found himself on this bright early-spring day looking upon the gatehouse to a small abbey surrounded by groves of tall elms. And faced with his destination at last, Robin felt a twinge of shame at what had brought him here. His selfish desires to avoid marriage, which the Church so encouraged, seemed a blaspheme upon this sacred house.

      Our Lady of All Sorrows obviously was a place of peace, of quiet women, pure of soul and body, devoting their life to worship. And, for a long moment, Robin remained where he was, hesitant to enter the sanctuary that lay within, to disturb the stillness, broken only by the soft call of birds among the branches above him.

      It was while he was considering his course that the cry went up, rising from within the walls to drift upon the wind and reach his ears, faint and frantic. At first, Robin could hardly think he heard aright, but soon the words came to him loud and clear. Although he had never imagined such issuing from a holy house, he could no longer ignore the astonishing plea.

      Robin charged through the gates even as “Help! Murder!” rang in his ears.

      Chapter Two

      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