Claudia Dain (50 page)

Authors: The Fall

BOOK: Claudia Dain

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Shame swelled to wash over her unnatural desires. Shame retreated. Her desires remained.

"Saint Stephen, I am a sinner, as black of heart as Judas, betraying my lord Hubert with thoughts of another. In your mercy, give me the strength to..."

To go to Hubert? She did not dare pray for that for fear that it would be given. She did not want the strength to leave Richard. Stephen had endured a stoning, dying as the first martyr of Christendom; she refused to prayerfully ask for the strength of will to excise Richard from her heart. She was a poor sort of Christian.

"Give me... give me Richard, if it may be," she burst out, ashamed and exhilarated at once.

The monks ceased their chant in that moment, and the silence that followed was fuller for the void. In such silence, her prayer seemed to fill the room, expanding until the weight of it seemed to crush her soul.

"But only in Your will," she added quickly into the silence, her voice small and constricted. Nothing at all like the voice in which she had demanded Richard of the Most High God.

She was, in truth, a very poor sort of Christian and most in need of repentance.

A knock, definite yet delicate, and then Abbot Godric entered. She was still on her knees. He would think her pious when she was merely desperate. But perhaps he would tell Richard he had seen her on her knees in prayer and Richard would think her pious. That would please Richard, if he believed. Richard knew her very well and, most like, would not believe.

She rose to her feet quickly and bowed before the abbot.

Thank you, Abbot Godric, for showing me the hospitality of your house."

"You are always welcome, Lady Isabel, but Brother Anselm said you came seeking sanctuary. What is amiss at Dornei?"

Isabel turned her eyes to the floor, studying the thick hem of his robe as she spoke. "All is amiss at Dornei. My father died this day. He bade me find a place of safety, for I am now a woman of great worth and much would be risked to gain what I hold."

She could feel the prick of tears and blinked them away, raising her eyes to look into the sympathetic gaze of the man before her. He was of Saxon blood, yet it did not speak against him. There was a power in him that few men possessed. She supposed it was the power of the Spirit of God, since Saxon power was a thing long past. His eyes were warmest brown and his hair chestnut lined with white, and he looked to have a care only for others, his own woes seen to by his Savior and Lord. Isabel knew she did not have the same look, since her woes were the result of a rebellious spirit and a stubborn heart.

"Poor child. But why did your father direct you here? We will surely protect you, with God's provision, but would you not have been better served to make for Hubert? He will surely be your most certain protection."

"He did not direct me here," she said with all truth, "yet your house was the closest sanctuary and I needed the comfort of that, if nothing else."

She did not mention Richard.

"Nothing else? Do not tell me that you did not seek the comfort of communal prayer for your father. You know that he will be prayed for by all here and with great heart. He shall be missed."

"Thank you," she said softly. It was a great gift; their prayers would hasten his soul to heaven.

"A message will be sent to Hubert, telling him of your need. I will write it myself and see it sent within the hour. You shall be married here, if it suits your betrothed, and then all will be settled again. I know that God will not find it amiss to have you married quickly, even on the cusp of your father's death. You must be protected from men who would steal what they cannot lawfully claim."

Godric laid a hand upon her arm but briefly, in comfort, and then turned to go. Edmund stood in the open doorway, his expression open and reposed, as was his way. There had been nothing untoward in Godric's touch; the door to the guest house had been left open to prevent just such speculation, and Edmund's calm witness showed the wisdom of the practice.

"Edmund, it is good to see you. And good to see that you have done your duty by your lady. She was well served in choosing you as her escort to our house."

"Thank you. Abbot Godric," Edmund answered. "We had safe journey."

"God be praised for that. He watches most diligently after the widows and orphans of this world. But I have news of your brother, Peter."

"He is well?" Edmund asked eagerly.

"Most assuredly. He has been knighted by Baron Thomas and has pledged his fealty. I am told he walks well in his spurs."

"He should; he practiced often enough while yet a boy," Edmund laughed. "It is good news. I would that you could tell him of my own dubbing, when a messenger passes through the abbey, but it must wait apace. I am close. He shall not outstrip me. You may pass that on if the occasion suits."

Isabel dropped her head in sudden shame. Edmund was past due for his spurs; her father should have seen it done, but he had fallen into a weakened state so quickly that much was left undone, her own wedding the surest proof of that. He had pressed for her to marry for months, yet she had always had a ready and compelling reason why they should delay. First, because she was newly home from her fostering and wanted to enjoy Dornei before becoming the bride of Warefeld, then because her father's wife, Ida, had fallen ill and needed the care only a daughter could give. Then because Ida had died and she would not leave her father alone in his grief. Finally, because her father had taken ill himself and there was none to push her from his side. And so now. She had never mentioned Richard as the cause of her continued delay, but did not God see her heart and was she not guilty of disobedience? She was not married, certain proof of her silent rebellion.

Still, Edmund must win his spurs, and only his lord could see it done. If she had gone to Hubert... but she had not gone to Hubert. She had run to Richard, and Richard could confer the buffet on no one. Richard had cast aside his own spurs, the symbol of his knighthood, in favor of a cowl.

"I shall," Abbot Godric answered Edmund. "Your day will come," he assured.

Yea, when Hubert came to the abbey to fetch her... nay, he would come to marry her. Edmund would win his spurs, and she would win a husband she did not want. Unless God answered her impossible prayer, but God did not answer prayers rooted in disobedience and willfulness, no matter how heartfelt.

"Father Abbot!" Brother Anselm said, entering the room in a flurry of black Wool. "Father! A message most urgent."

"Hold, Brother Anselm," Godric soothed. "A message can wait until we are alone."

"But, Abbot Godric," Anselm said, trying for control, "the message concerns the Lady Isabel."

"Speak then, Brother," Godric said.

"Lord Robert sends word that Lord Hubert, the lady's betrothed, is dead."

He said more; she could hear the buzzing of his voice calling for Brother John, but she could not stay to hear the rest. She had prayed to be released from Hubert, and, as effortlessly as watching a petal fall to earth, Hubert had died. Such was the fruit of her careless and selfish prayer. In a gray and dim rush, Isabel fell in a swoon to lie heavily upon the cold stone floor.