Chapter One
St. Bartholomew’s Nunnery,
Newcastle-upon-Tyne, England, May 1102
If the sisters knew the truth, they’d abandon me to Satan himself, thought Lady Constance de Bret.
Within the cool embrace of the stone dairy, she plunged the dasher into the churn again and again as she observed the busy nuns. Sister Blanche flattened and folded butter on the central table. Beside her, Sister Petronilla added salt and honey to a bowl of cheese. Sister Elysant poured curds and whey into a large, cloth-lined sieve.
All of them wore the Benedictine habit…all but Constance. She was the only postulant in the room and the lone figure whose brown, braided hair peeked out from beneath a shorter veil. With a heavy heart and an envious eye, she churned butter with a vengeance.
How peaceful they appear. How unencumbered. I would I were so. They believe the façade: the virtuous Norman lady, dowried and devout. They’ve no idea who I really am.
How could they know? No one did. Not her mother, nor her sister. Not even the nuns at the convent in York, where…
No! Focus on the present.
Where…it happened.
The past is past! Here I’m safe. Untouchable. All I need do is keep to my task…which must be done by now.
She brought the dasher to a halt, lifted the churn’s lid, and peered inside. The cream had separated into butter and buttermilk. Not a moment too soon, for her arms and shoulders ached.
She stepped away from the churn. “Sister Blanche, the butter is ready when you are.”
The middle-aged nun, who’d taken a vow of silence, gave Constance a smile and a nod, then turned back to the table. The other sisters concentrated on their work.
Stretching her arms, Constance climbed five steps and exited the dairy. The morning sun blinded her for a moment, but she managed to circumvent the fire pit, above which Sister Nest cooked milk and cream in a large pot.
“Good morrow, Sister Nest.”
“Good morrow.” The elderly nun stirred the top inch of the mixture and smiled at her. “I just added the vinegar. We’ll have another batch of cheese in no time.”
Constance glanced across the cloister courtyard, and her reply died in her throat. It cannot be. The one person in the world I would avoid. Here. Talking with the Mother Prioress.
“I see you’ve noticed our visitor,” Sister Nest murmured.
Sharp memories stabbed Constance’s heart and mind. “Father Dominy.” Her voice seemed to come from far away.
“A mere priest no more.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“He was recently made an archdeacon of York.”
Constance wrinkled her nose. The idea that such a man could rise to prominence was unthinkable. York had archdeacons enough. It didn’t need another, particularly one of Dominy’s ilk.
“Why is he in Newcastle?”
Sister Nest gave the pot another stir. “The Mother Prioress is his kinswoman. He arrived this morning after Terce and intends to stay, from what I gather.”
Constance’s palms began to sweat. “How long?”
“Not long. Perhaps a week.”
A week? It might as well be a year! All assurance drained from Constance as she stared at Archdeacon Dominy.
The viper! Why should he wear white? Black—in which the nuns were clad—was a truer reflection of his soul.
As if sensing her scrutiny, the archdeacon turned and met her gaze. His eyes widened, then narrowed as his mouth curled into a smirk. Without breaking eye contact, he spoke briefly to the prioress and started toward Constance.
Her heart seemed to stop. The world stopped. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. God, help me!
The prioress reached out to him. “One thing more!”
Dominy halted, turned back to the prioress, and hastened toward her.
Constance found her breath and her feet. Now’s my chance!
She bolted across the courtyard, through the gatehouse, and out onto the market street. No! Do not run. Walk quickly.
Her heart pounded as she made her way through the crowd. ’Twas market day, and the streets were lined with stalls and a variety of metalmakers and merchants. Smiths, armorers, leatherworkers, coopers, pepperers, potters, butchers, bakers, and more; if they had something to sell, they were out plying their wares.
There was safety in numbers. Dominy must’ve seen her leave the nunnery. Would he dare follow?
Aye. He would. But did he?
The need to know seized her. Without stopping, she looked back and peered past the throng of townsfolk toward the distant nunnery.
The archdeacon rushed out of the gatehouse. He looked around, spotted her, and continued in her direction.
Honk!
She whipped her head back around to the front as her foot connected with a goose.
“Sorry!” Sidestepping the creature, she looked right, then left.
Not twelve steps away was a table covered in red cloth that hung an inch shy of the ground. Bolts of fabric sat on top, but the clothier was nowhere in sight. ’Twould make the perfect hiding place.
Avoiding the gaggle of geese, she dashed to the table and crouched on the ground beneath it. The red, woolen fabric created the thinnest of barriers, but she was grateful for it. With any luck, Dominy would pass right by and never notice.
Two male voices came within earshot and grew louder as the men paused in front of the table. One sounded younger, belonging to a body of sixteen- or seventeen years; the other voice was seasoned, yet soothing.
The latter spoke. “You have need of new cloth?”
“Aye, sir.”
“I see. You wouldn’t be trying to impress a certain handmaiden, would you?”
The younger man sighed. “Alice. How did you guess?”
“I have eyes, Guy.”
“And a nose like a hound, if I may say so.”
The man addressed as “sir”—a knight, perchance?—chuckled and slid the tip of his boot beneath the red fabric.
Dust swirled and tickled her nostrils. She fought a sneeze, but it exploded three seconds later.
The chuckling ceased. “Did you hear something?”
“Aye, sir. A sneeze. It came from under there.”
The boot retreated. The woolen cloth stirred, then started to rise.
She yanked it down. “No! Prithee leave it be!”
“Why?” ’Twas the older voice.
“I’m in danger.”
The fabric dropped. “What kind of danger?”
“Do you see a clergyman close by? An archdeacon?”
A moment of silence passed. Then came the answer she dreaded. “Aye. He’s headed this way.”
The younger man, Guy, snickered. “If the geese don’t trip him first.”
She wiped her sweaty palms on her tunic. “He mustn’t know I’m here. I beg of you!”
After a slight pause, the elder of the two whispered, “Fear not. We shan’t betray you.”
A number of geese honked in protest. Shuffling footsteps drew closer, then stopped a few yards away.
Dominy’s hateful voice defiled the morning air. “Did a young lady in a gray tunic and short veil pass this way?”
She held her breath.
The older of her conspirators answered. “I saw no one matching that description. Guy?”
“Sir Robert speaks true. We saw no one.”
“You must have! She has long, brown hair and golden eyes. Even with the veil, you’d notice her.”
“I’m afraid we didn’t.” ’Twas the knight again. He sounded downright casual. “She sounds lovely, though. Someone close to you?”
The archdeacon hesitated. “No. Not close. She’s a postulant at St. Bartholomew’s.”
“Ah. Then perhaps you’ll find her there. Good morrow to you, Archdeacon.”
“Good morrow.” Dominy scuffled off. The geese complained, then fell silent.
The red veil lifted, revealing two pairs of dusty, leather boots, one of which sported the gilt spurs of a knight. “He’s gone. You may come out now.”
God be praised! She crawled out from under the table, stood, and met the steel-gray gaze of her savior.
’Twas one thing to be handsome; the knight before her took it entirely too far. He appeared to be in his late twenties and was clean-shaven, with strong features and straight, jaw-length black hair. Tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in blue, he cut a striking figure. Yet something indefinable struck her more. The longer she stared into his eyes, the more familiar he seemed. They’d met before. Shrouded were the details, but a link existed…invisible and ever fixed.
She found her tongue. “Sir Robert, I presume?”
****
Robert gazed into amber eyes that stole his breath. They plunged the depths of his memory and beseeched him to recall another time and place. But when? Where?
Guy cleared his throat with gusto. “Sir, will you not answer?”
Wrenched out of his reverie, Robert glanced at his squire. “What?” He returned his focus to the young woman. “You asked me a question?”
Her smile outshone the sun. “I was fishing for your name.”
“Then you must catch it.” He bowed to her. “Sir Robert le Donjon, at your service.”
“No. In sooth?”
He straightened. “You doubt my word?”
“I doubt my good fortune. You recently served my sister.”
“Your sister…”
“Lady Jocelyn de Bret, as was. Now Lady Nihtscua. You escorted her north from Lincoln. I wasn’t at home then, but my mother wrote to me about it.”
Grinning, he nodded. “Her ladyship mentioned a little sister. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”
“Lady Constance.” She pushed back her shoulders and lifted her chin. “And I’m only a year younger than Jocelyn.”
“Not so little then.” Again, he bowed. “My lady.” Lady Nihtscua’s sister. So that’s the connection.
Or was it? He straightened and studied her delicate features. Suddenly, it hit him. “Would you be so kind as to remove your veil?”
Her brow furrowed. “My veil? Why?”
“Just humor me. Besides, if the archdeacon comes sniffing around again, he’ll expect a veil. Without it—from a distance and from the back—you could be anyone.”
“I suppose you’re right.” With deft fingers, she removed her veil. The sunlight blessed her hair with highlights the color of honey.
His pulse quickened. He had seen her before. Only once. On the darkest night of his life.
“I cannot thank you enough for sending Archdeacon Dominy on his way.” Her obvious relief threaded through her soft voice.
He gave her a single, slow nod. “Why did you hide from him?”
She averted her eyes and fiddled with her veil. “Out of necessity.”
“Necessity? But what—”
“My reasons are my own.” Her gaze claimed his.
“Very well. I didn’t mean to pry.”
She sighed. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful.”
He held up his hands and shook his head. “Don’t fret, my lady. I was happy to help.”
“You were?” She looked askance at him. “Truly?”
He gave her a pointed look. “Our acquaintance is possibly the shortest on record, yet you’ve doubted me twice already.”
She rolled her eyes. “Forgive me. If you were indeed happy, I must trespass on your kindness and beg assistance once more.”
He exchanged glances with Guy, then motioned for her to continue. “Beg away.”
She took a deep breath. “How long are you in Newcastle?”
“No time at all. We’re returning from Seacrest, my eldest brother’s estate, and only stopped here overnight. We leave for Ravenwood within the hour.”
“Northwest. Good. Would you be willing to ride farther?”
He arched an eyebrow. “How much farther?”
“To Nihtscua.”
“As a messenger?”
She glanced around and lowered her voice. “As my escort. If I’m to travel safely, I’ll need one.”
He took a step toward her and stared into her eyes. “Why me?”
She blinked. “Because you’re here.”
“Ha! Take care, or I shall swoon from your flattery.”
She made a face. “I don’t know you well enough to commend or criticize you. But my mother and sister trusted you, so I’m inclined to do the same.”
Guy spoke up. “I say! Brutal honesty. Remind you of anyone, sir?”
Robert regarded him. “I suppose you’re referring to me.”
“I am, sir, and well you know it.”
Constance looked from squire to knight, and her expression softened. “Please, Sir Robert. I must see my sister.”
“Must you also escape the nunnery?”
She regarded the veil in her hands, then returned his gaze. “Not the place so much as…a person.”
“Does that person wear a cross and answer to the name of Dominy?”
“He does.”
“I see.” But he didn’t see…not fully. He might if she confided in him. For some reason, he wanted that confidence more than he’d wanted anything in a long time. “If I agree to this, you’ll have to stay the night at Ravenwood. Then, on the morrow, we’ll carry on. Will that suit you?”
She sighed a second time, and her gratitude was almost palpable. “Aye. I’m in your debt.”
“All debt aside, you should hurry back to the nunnery and pack your things.”
“No. I cannot.”
He frowned. “You’re that frightened?”
The clothier chose that moment to return. He rested his hands on two bolts of fabric and cast a curious look at the three of them. In silent agreement, they moved out of hearing range.
Constance’s gaze darted to and fro. “I can travel without my belongings, but I’ll need a mount.”
Robert nodded. “Guy and I passed the horse market earlier. Mostly pack mules and nervous colts, but I did spot a palfrey among them. Have you means to buy it?”
“Not with me, but—”
“Say no more. I’ll take care of it.”
She bit her lip. “Someone should also notify the Mother Prioress.”
“I’ll take care of that too.”
Her smile rewarded him. “Sir, you are generosity itself.”
Grinning, he puffed out his chest. “I am, aren’t I?” Helping her felt good. Great, in fact. He turned to his squire. “Buy your cloth, Guy, and stay close to her ladyship. I’ll return anon.”
He hastened to the nunnery and easily gained an audience with the prioress in the courtyard.
She accepted his tidings with a furrowed brow but more civility than he’d expected. “How long will she be away?”
He shrugged. “Her ladyship didn’t say, but I wouldn’t anticipate a long absence.”
“And you make for Ravenwood immediately?”
“Aye, Your Reverence.” A sudden movement caught his eye, and he looked left.
Close enough to eavesdrop, Archdeacon Dominy peered out from behind a stone pillar. He stared hard at the knight, then sank back into the shadows of the cloister.
A warning seized the pit of Robert’s stomach. The archdeacon was trouble. What hold had he over Lady Constance? Her fear was not unfounded. Of that, he was certain.
“Thank you for informing me of her plans,” the prioress said, oblivious to the snake in her garden. “God go with her.”
Robert clenched his fists. I don’t know about God. But I’ll be there.