Spring 1155

Her dark hair flew out behind her as she rode, a heavy weight of glossy mane that the wind lifted easily in her wild ride. She would have enjoyed it, the freedom, the speed, the wildness of it; she would have enjoyed it, if not for the death that had precipitated it.

The road was muddy, thrown and broken by the horse she rode as swiftly as she could. The trees embracing the road were dark with recent rain and bright with the shrill green of new growth. The world shouted its life after a long, frozen sleep and she could savor none of it. She had to ride. She had to find refuge in a spring world suddenly thrown back into the death of winter.

Her father was dead. She was alone and unprotected in a world that tolerated vulnerablity not at all. She searched for safety.

“Are we pursued?” she shouted forward to Edmund, her voice almost lost against the wind.

“Nay, not yet,” he said over his shoulder.

She wanted to rest in his assurance, to find even a moment of safety, but she could not. Edmund was young, only a squire. He could not talk her into a place of refuge, she could only ride there, as on wings.

“Should we not ride for town, Lady? The abbey—”

“Nay, we ride for the abbey,” she shouted, the wind cold in her throat, stinging her eyes to tears.

She would find safety in the abbey. The monks, though no warriors, would bar the gates and keep the world away from her. None would take her from the abbey.

Richard was at the abbey.

She ducked her head against the wind and sniffed away her guilt. Aye, guilt; she could admit it to herself. She rode hard for the abbey in a world gone swifty hostile so that she could find refuge in the place that harbored Richard.

She was not doing as her father had instructed.

Dying, his voice a whisper against the echoes of eternity, he had told her to flee. Flee the home she cherished, flee to her betrothed, to safety, to a marriage that should have taken place long years since.

Her betrothed was not at the abbey. Richard was at the abbey.

And within her own walls were knights who would eagerly pluck a maid unprotected and claim her as their own, claiming her lands as they laid hold of her body.

Crying, she had listened and understood the danger she now faced. An orphan with property and income was not safe in the world; she needed a protector, either father or husband. She had neither as of an hour ago. She had buried her face against her father’s chest and felt his last breath shudder out of him; Father Langfrid had prayed for her father’s soul as it began its ascent to heaven, urging her to flee, promising to make the burial arrangements and to handle all until she could return, married and safe. She had walked calmly from her father’s chamber to the stable and ridden out of Dornei with all the serenity of death, her panic cloaked as close about her as armor. Edmund she trusted, though he was a man. Edmund accompanied her. In an unsafe world, a woman was a fool who rode alone.

She was no fool, though she did not ride to her betrothed. She rode to the man she trusted above all others, to the man whom she knew better than her prayers, to the man who had ridden away from her and not once come back.

Richard was at the abbey.

Like an answered prayer, the abbey walls rose tall and grey against the soft afternoon sky. Alone in a field, far from the town, the abbey of Saint Stephen and Saint Paul was a refuge of stone in a green, growing world. Monks worked in the fields and walked in shuffling steps within the high walls that sheltered them from the cares of the outside world. She wanted to be sheltered in just the same fashion. The bells rang just as Edmund announced them to the porter. He had to let them in before the afternoon prayers of None; she could not wait here, in the open, so plainly seen and so easily taken.

Edmund was firm, but he was young. The porter hesitated.

“Please, Brother Porter,” she said, “It is refuge I seek. Will you not grant me sanctuary?”

His dark eyes widened at the word and he opened the gate, admitting them. Isabel rushed in ahead of Edmund and only let out her stilled breath when the bar was closed against the heavy wooden gate.

She had mentioned sanctuary; she had not mentioned Richard.

What would a monk understand of reckless and unlawful love?

“My thanks, Brother,” she said softly, not allowing her eyes to search the courtyard for Richard.

“Is it sanctuary you seek, Lady?” Brother Porter asked.

“Yea, Brother—?”

“Anselm, I am called,” he answered.

“Yea, Brother Anselm, I seek sanctuary within your walls, if you will have me.”

“Father Abbot alone may grant sanctuary,” he said calmly, “but you are welcome until he may speak with you. It is now None. Perhaps you will be comfortable in the guest house until the good father can come to you?”

“Thank you, Brother Anselm,” she answered, head bowed as he led the way to the small stone guest house. Edmund led the horses to the stable with a quick nod in her direction. She smiled his release. They were safe now. At least for the time. Let Edmund go his way.

The guest house was simple and secure, the floors dry and clean, the door snug; Isabel smiled in contentment until the sound of the men at their prayers drifted to her on the clean, spring air. Could she hear, in that melange of male voices, the deep notes of Richard at his prayers?

“Your pardon, Lady Isabel, I must attend,” Brother Anselm said, backing out with a shy smile and closing the door behind him. She nodded his dismissal as she had Edmund’s. Alone, she listened to the rising voices, deep and resonant, voicing their prayers to God.

Which was what she should be doing instead of listening for the voice of a man forbidden to her.

Isabel dropped to her knees, glad for the cold, uneven stone floor, glad for the chill that encased her damp feet, glad for the distraction from the voices raised in holy anthem just within the courtyard. God must be met within the bounds of sacred prayer with a whole and undivided heart and with a soul yearning for perfection. She had neither. Yet, she prayed. Perhaps God would hear the prayer of a cold and beleagured orphan, even as He would not heed the prayer of a disobedient and wayward woman.

For such she was, to love a man not her betrothed.

To love a man who had betrothed himself to God.

Richard.

Why could it not be Richard who had been chosen for her while she lay within her swaddling? The answer was clear as spring rain; Richard was not the eldest. Her father, and his, would not have made such a bargain. And, as much as she yearned for Richard, neither would she. She was the sole heir to Dornei, Wiselei, and Turvestone. Her dower lands were Braccan and Hilesdun. She was a woman well-propertied. Her earthly function was to marry well and produce heirs who would strengthen and increase what had already been achieved. Richard would inherit nothing. He was third born and destined to make his own way. He had made it in a monastery.

It had not been expected. He had done well in his knightly training, excelling at all to which he laid his hand with effortless ease; he could have achieved something on his own, by his own hand and with his own sword. He had cast all down and walked into the Abbey of Saint Stephen and Saint Paul without looking back. Without coming back.

It should not matter. She was betrothed to Hubert. She was beyond ripe for marriage. But she had not ridden to Hubert. She had ridden to Richard.

She was unnatural in her desires, this she knew. She needed to repent, this she also knew. But instead of repentance and tears, there was the knowledge that Richard was near. Richard was close. She might see him if she went in to worship. Isabel kept her knees firmly on the uneven floor. She needed repentance more than she needed Richard, none needed to tell her that, yet Richard was her hunger.

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 in 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 very 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 felt 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 warm 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 bore 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, Bernard, 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 the 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 his own spurs, the symbol of his knighthood, aside in favor of a cowl.

“I shall,” answered Abbot Godric. “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 somewhere beyond her comprehension, 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 grey and dim rush, Isabel fell in a swoon to lay heavily upon the cold stone floor.

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