Lady Rowena's Ruin. Carol Townend

wants Rowena.’

      Lord Faramus sent his wife a pitying look and shook his head. ‘Barbara, you’ve been listening to too many ballads. That boy wants land, this is all about land.’

      Lady Barbara looked at her husband and didn’t reply.

      * * *

      At St Mary’s Convent the next morning, Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe dressed as quickly as she could. ‘Hurry, Berthe,’ Rowena said.

      Outside the sun was shining. Rowena couldn’t bear to be inside a moment longer. She lived for her morning rides or, more precisely, she lived for those few brief moments of each day when she could delude herself that she was in charge of her life. She eyed the door to their cell, as ever she was half-afraid that one of the nuns would appear and ban her from taking her exercise in the open air.

      ‘Very good, my lady.’

      Berthe set about binding her hair into the simplest of plaits and Rowena tried not to fidget. Berthe seemed to take for ever covering her head with the grey veil deemed suitable for a girl who was shortly to take her preliminary vows. She adjusted it and pushed a golden tress out of sight.

      ‘Ma dame, please keep still, I almost stabbed you with a hairpin.’

      ‘Sorry, Berthe, I’m longing to be outside.’

      Berthe gave the veil a final twitch and stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘There. You look lovely, my lady. Fit to face the world.’ Her face fell. ‘Not that it matters, they’ll be confining you inside these walls soon enough. And cutting off all that beautiful hair. It’s a crime, if you ask me, my lady.’

      Rowena gave her a straight look. ‘You don’t like it here, do you?’

      Berthe glanced around the chamber. On account of her mistress’s status it was larger than most of the nuns’ cells, large enough to contain a bed for Lady Rowena and her maid. The walls were roughly plastered and lime-washed. The only ornament was a wooden crucifix on the wall opposite Rowena’s bed.

      Berthe shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter much what I think, does it, my lady? You’re the one who’ll be staying here, not me.’

      Rowena’s throat tightened. ‘That is true.’

      Rowena picked up her riding crop. She wanted to ask Berthe to stay with her at the convent. The difficulty was that Berthe showed no signs of liking convent life, rather the reverse. It was a pity, as Rowena liked Berthe and ladies were allowed maids in this convent, even if they were not called maids as such. But Berthe had shown no sign of a calling. Indeed, Berthe seemed to dislike the place as much as she did...

      Rowena drew a sharp breath. No! What was she thinking? She didn’t dislike it here. It was quiet. Peaceful. It was far more restful living in a convent than in a castle. In convents the person in authority was a woman, and here in St Mary’s Convent Mother Pauline was most definitely in charge. The few men allowed through the gate—a couple of gardeners, the grooms—wouldn’t dream of crossing her. Within these walls, women were most definitely in charge.

      Rowena was pulled two ways. She had told the world she wanted to be a nun; she’d told everyone that she had a calling. Her father was a practical man rather than a religious one and she’d had to cross swords with him to get here. She stared blindly at her riding crop. Soon she would be taking her preliminary vows. The bishop was coming to the abbey to say mass on the morning of the Feast of the Visitation and she would be clothed as a novice afterwards.

      Briefly, she closed her eyes. She did have a calling, of course she did. However, she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t sometimes have doubts. She had made such a fuss to be accepted as a nun, how in the world could she confess that she didn’t fit in as well as she had imagined? The trouble was that her father wanted her to marry. And she could never marry, the wound left by Mathieu’s death was too raw. Poor Mathieu. He’d had such a sweet, loving nature, she’d never forget how they would sit for hours among the daisies in the meadow by the river, talking and making daisy chains for each other.

      ‘My lady, is something amiss?’

      Rowena clenched her riding crop and prayed for a stronger sense of calling. She must make this work. When she had first arrived at the abbey, she had been resigned to the idea of taking the veil. She’d been too busy grieving to face marriage to Lord Gawain and the convent had been her only escape. It had been a rebellion against a world where she had been viewed as a chattel to be married off at her father’s whim. At the beginning, life here had felt satisfying. But now...

      Despite her determination to take the veil, there were doubts. Lord, the days turned so slowly. The quiet, once so pleasantly peaceful, sometimes seemed like the quiet of the grave.

      ‘My lady?’ Berthe caught her by the arm and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Thank the Lord, you’ve realised you weren’t meant to take the veil.’

      ‘No. No.’

      ‘Yes, you have, I can see it in your face. You’ve changed your mind about becoming a nun.’

      Vehemently, Rowena shook her head and reached for the door latch. ‘You’re imagining things.’

      ‘I don’t think so. Look at you, desperate to get beyond the convent walls.’ Berthe gave her a kind smile. ‘It’s no shame, my lady. In truth, it’s better to decide you’re not suited to the convent before you take your vows. That’s why the nuns insist that you spend time with them before becoming a novice. It’s a test of sorts. You want to go home, you want to become Lady Rowena again. Your father won’t be angry, he hates the idea of you mouldering away in here.’

      ‘My father hates the idea of Sir Armand getting hold of his land.’ And he will force me into a marriage I do not want. I will become a nun.

      Rowena opened the door and stepped over the threshold. She understood very well that the months spent at St Mary’s had been some form of a test. But Berthe was wrong if she thought she was eager to return to her former life. Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe would be made to marry at the behest of her father and Rowena refused to marry. She missed Mathieu. ‘You’re wrong, Berthe. Wrong. I can see that you hate it here, but you mustn’t assume that I do too. Life here is better than life in a castle. It might not be as exciting, but it is peaceful. And that is all I ask for. Peace. I want to rest my head in a place where women are in charge.’

      As Rowena hurried down the corridor, Berthe’s voice followed her. ‘They won’t let you ride out at whim once you’ve taken your vows, my lady. They’ll cut off your hair.’

      * * *

      One of the convent grooms had Rowena’s grey mare, Lily, saddled and waiting when she arrived at the stable. ‘Thank, you, Aylmer,’ Rowena said, leading Lily to the mounting block.

      Aylmer swung on to another horse. ‘Where to today, my lady? Do we ride into town?’

      ‘Not today. Today I’ve a mind to ride north.’

      ‘As you wish, my lady.’

      Rowena and Aylmer trotted out through the gates and took the path leading up through the convent orchard. Rowena was discomfited to realise that her spirits weren’t rising as they usually did. Finding herself staring down at Lily’s head, she frowned.

      Novices, like nuns, weren’t allowed any possessions other than their habits, their crosses and their psalters. When Rowena took her vows, Lily would no longer be hers, she would belong to the convent as a whole. Rowena swallowed down a lump in her throat. Lily had been given to Rowena when she was a foal and she was glad they weren’t actually going to be parted. She would miss the rides though. Novices weren’t permitted to roam through the abbey estate as she’d been doing these last weeks.

      Leaning forward, Rowena patted the mare’s neck. ‘Lily, you form part of my dowry to the convent. Soon you will belong to all the nuns in common. I may not be allowed to ride you, but I’ll still be able to see you every day.’

      Lily’s