Beside William had stood Rhodri, a lad barely into his facial hair. He’d striven to follow William’s stern example, and failed, which endeared him to her instantly. Unfortunately, by the end of her visit, Rhodri no longer found her childhood whims amusing.
Nicole opened the receiving chamber’s door to behold the gangly youth of her memories, now grown into his full, magnificent manhood.
Sweet Jesu! The years had been most benevolent to Rhodri ap Dafydd.
Tall, wide across the shoulders, and narrow in the hip, Rhodri didn’t need the sword belted at his trim waist to declare this bard was also a warrior—a
bardd teulu.
Garbed in the deep brown of a stately, solid oak, his imposing presence dominated the small chamber.
Long, raven-black hair skimmed his rough-woven long-sleeved tunic. His dark brown, amber-flecked eyes were deep set; his nose had been broken a time or two. His lips were firm and lush, and all the more beguiling when a slow, potent smile softened his squared, bold jaw.
She realized how thoroughly she inspected Rhodri when he returned the appraisal in kind, setting delicious sparks to tingling along his gaze’s path, these becoming particularly unsettling where he lingered overlong.
Though she was garbed in a robe designed to conceal every womanly curve, she felt sure he’d taken the measure of each one. And liked what he saw.
Sweet heaven above, she tingled from hair to toenails at Rhodri’s bold assessment.
Which only served to prove what she had known for many a year about her own nature. She thoroughly appreciated a handsome, solidly formed male far too much ever to be faithful to vows of chastity.
Not that every nun within Bledloe Abbey held to that particular vow. Only look at the number of births recorded in the infirmary each year, and how Sister Amelia disappeared for hours and hours every time a certain visiting bishop occupied the priest’s hut.
“A princess in nuns’ robes is still a princess,” Rhodri said, his Norman French delicately flavored with the lilt of his native language. “Did I not know otherwise, I might mistake you for Gwendolyn.”
A favorable comparison. Her sister was counted among the most beautiful women in the realm. Delight with the flattery battled briefly with the humility the nuns had toiled long hours to instill in her. Humility had never been one of her strongest virtues, either.
Nicole returned his smile. “Greetings, Rhodri. It gladdens my heart to hear your gallantry has not suffered.”
He tilted his head. “I was not sure you would remember me. Many years have passed since we last met, and you were very young.”
Thirteen years had passed, if she remembered aright.
“I was old enough to retain memories of Glenvair, and my uncle Connor, and you. Those were happy times for me.” Except the last two days of her visit hadn’t been pleasurable at all. But surely Rhodri hadn’t come to take her to task for childhood mistakes. “How fares Connor?”
“He is well and sends his love and greetings. He also instructs me to invite you to seek refuge at Glenvair.”
Shocked at the bittersweet invitation, Nicole wished Connor had tendered the offer immediately after her father’s death, when she might have been able to accept. How much nicer to have been allowed to spend the past eight years at Glenvair instead of being banished to Bledloe Abbey! Sweet yearnings battered at her common sense, bringing her close to tears.
Useless tears.
Nicole sat on the bench beside where Rhodri had tossed his hooded brown cloak. Atop the cloak lay an oddly shaped sack made of soft, deep green wool. She touched the sack and felt the curve of his harp’s wood frame beneath the wool.
“Your harp,” she said, giving the instrument due reverence. “I remember you playing at supper at Glenvair.”
“Do you?”
“Quite well. I always thought the music enhanced the magical feel of my uncle’s holding. Gwendolyn told me you finished your training and are now
bardd teulu
of Glenvair.”
He nodded, his rugged chin dipping in a manner worthy of a court poet as well as a warrior. “I am. Connor kindly allows me a place at his manor until I am able to compete for my chair.”
“I wish you good fortune in your ambition, Rhodri ap Dafydd. Not all bards are skilled enough to become a
pencerdd.
”
“My thanks, but I did not come to talk about my future, but yours. Connor’s invitation is not an idle one, nor a whim. He is in earnest.”
Nicole withdrew her hand from the harp, still a bit incredulous at the offer. “You truly came all this way to invite me to Glenvair?”
“Aye.”
The men had surely lost their wits!
Not sure if she was more annoyed with Rhodri or Connor, Nicole rose from the bench, her ire growing at her uncle’s desire for her to accept the impossible offer.
“Then you have come far for naught. King Stephen has twice denied my sisters’ petitions for me to return home to Camelen, even for a short visit. If the king will not allow me to go home, he will certainly not permit me to visit Wales! I thank my uncle for his kindness but must refuse.”
“I fail to see why King Stephen’s wishes should affect your decision.”
Nicole tossed a frustrated hand in the air. “I am the king’s ward! I have no choice but to do his bidding!”
“I hear the Norman in you speaking. What says the Welsh?” His amber-flecked eyes narrowed. “Or have you abandoned the better half of your heritage? You are of
Pendragon,
Nicole, and yet you bow to the wishes of an English king. I should think your lineage sets you far above his whims.”
How dare Rhodri reproach her for disregarding a lineage that had not earned her or her sisters a dram of sympathy or regard?
“When my father was killed, the king gave Camelen to Alberic of Chester, who forced Gwendolyn to marry him. Also on the king’s order, Emma was sent to court and forced to marry Darian of Bruges. I was sent here to await my fate, which will also be decided by the English king! What good is the Pendragon blood if no one gives it reverence?”
“I do,” he said softly, sincerely, bursting her bubble of anger over how heartlessly she and her sisters had been treated after her father’s death.
In Rhodri’s expression she saw respect for her Pendragon lineage, a thing she’d never witnessed from any other person save one—Rhys, also a Welsh bard, who resided at Camelen.
’Twas Rhys the bard who’d honored Nicole’s mother’s wishes by singing the ancient tales, telling stories of valiant kings and honorable knights, of King Arthur, keeping their Welsh heritage alive for all the de Leon children.
Naturally, Rhodri had heard those same tales from his father, then learned to relate them to others from a revered
pencerdd.
Still, his respect for her lineage did her no good.
“I cannot leave Bledloe Abbey. Were I to take refuge in Wales, my sisters’ families might suffer for my audacity. I will not bring the mallet of royal ire down on their heads.”
He huffed. “Right now Stephen can barely lift a mallet, much less wield it. Have you heard of his heir’s death?” At Nicole’s nod, he continued. “Stephen is far more concerned with keeping hold of his crown and throne than with the whereabouts of one Nicole de Leon. Nor, I believe, would your sisters suffer. From what I have heard of Alberic and Darian, I dare say both would make powerful adversaries, and Stephen is needful of all the good will and allies he can convince to remain his supporters.” He stepped forward, a hand outstretched, palm up in an offer of succor. “Think on it, Nicole. The time for you to escape is now, when your absence will barely be noticed. By the time King Stephen is aware you are gone, you will be safely in Wales.”
The door swung open and Sister Claire burst into the chamber, her eyes wide with concern. “I heard shouting! Nicole, have you been harmed?”
With Rhodri’s reasoning swirling in her head, Nicole absently shook her head at the distressed nun. “I beg pardon for my outburst, Sister Claire. I did not mean to disturb you or the vigil.”
Sister Claire took a calming breath. “Well, then, if you are finished, you may again take your place at vigil and I will accompany your visitor to the door.”
Except Nicole didn’t want Rhodri to leave just yet.
Could he be right? Could she leave Bledloe Abbey without worrying over what the king might do to her or her family? Could she escape a marriage that might not be to her liking?
Dare she take the risk?
She needed more time to further ponder her uncle’s unexpected and wickedly tempting offer of refuge. Nor could she abandon Mother Abbess in these last hours before her death.
But how to keep Sister Claire from banishing Rhodri from the abbey until she could further ponder Connor’s offer?
The answer to Nicole’s dilemma popped forth and rolled off her tongue before she could question its wisdom.
“Sister Claire, Rhodri ap Dafydd is a bard. Might he be allowed to play his harp for Mother Abbess?” She spun to again face Rhodri, not caring if he saw through her ploy to gain more time. “Mother Abbess weakens hourly, and I doubt that in all of her life she has heard an accomplished bard play the harp. Would you do us the honor, Rhodri?”
His answer was immediate, his graciousness genuine. “I would be most pleased to play for all who care to listen.”
The nun chewed on her lip in indecision. “This is a most uncommon request, Nicole. Men are not allowed within the depths of the abbey.”
“For the past sennight we have allowed men into the infirmary to visit Mother Abbess.”
“Two priests and a bishop who came to give comfort and say final prayers. One can hardly compare the circumstances!”
“Rhodri’s music can also give comfort,” Nicole countered. “I know my request is unusual, but consider the joy you could give Mother Abbess in her final hours. I beg of thee, Sister, give her this one last gift.”
Nicole held her breath while Sister Claire hesitated before relenting.
“You must leave your sword behind,” she ordered Rhodri before leaving the chamber, no doubt headed for the infirmary to warn the other nuns that she’d broken one of the abbey’s rules.
Delighted, Nicole let loose her breath.
Rhodri laid his sword and scabbard on the bench and unsheathed the beautiful harp. The silver strings caught bits of light and flung them throughout the room, like tiny stars whirling brightly in the night sky. The harp’s music would sparkle as brightly. Oh, how she’d missed a harp’s music!
“Sister Claire must have been very near the door if she heard you shouting at me,” Rhodri commented.
Nicole couldn’t remember
ever
shouting since entering Bledloe Abbey. Embarrassed at her lapse of good manners, she explained, “Loud sounds carry far down stone passageways. Surely she heard me from the infirmary.”
“Or she hovered outside the door to spy on you.”
The very idea that Sister Claire had lingered outside the door apurpose, to overhear Nicole’s conversation with Rhodri, was preposterous.
“Sister Claire is to be the next abbess. Never would she do such a thing.”
“So you say.”
“You have a most suspicious nature, Rhodri ap Dafydd.”
He smiled without a hint of humor. “Then that is to my advantage. A good trait in a warrior, is it not?”
Nicole conceded the point. “Then I should be suspicious of your purpose, should I not?”
Now he laughed. “Be assured, my lady. Had not Connor sent me to convey his offer, I would not have stepped foot on English soil, much less journeyed so far into enemy lands.”
That she could believe. He’d risked his neck by playing messenger for Connor. Did that make Rhodri brave, or a fool?
Brave, she decided. Welsh bards weren’t fools.
Rhodri had never before played his harp for a group of nuns, one of whom lay prone on a narrow cot, beads in her frail hands.
He sat on a stool near the head of the cot, delighted the merry melody he’d chosen to play brought a soft smile to the abbess’s thin lips.
The power of music, whether to calm an upset child or stir men into battle frenzy, had always intrigued Rhodri. As a boy, he’d sat at his father’s feet, watched those nimble fingers pluck at the strings, and felt the force of each song played.
He’d craved that power and learned his craft well. When playing the harp he’d inherited from his father, Rhodri was confident in his ability to stir whatever emotion he chose to draw forth in whatever audience he played for.
Today was no different. As he intended, Mother Abbess smiled, and the nuns kneeling on the floor had given up their praying and listened, enthralled, to the music.
Except Nicole de Leon.
She stood on the other side of the cot, paying him utterly no heed, her gaze steadfastly fixed on Mother Abbess. Rhodri doubted Nicole heard a note but blamed her lack of enchantment on her concern for the abbess and her familiarity with harp music. Unlike the other women, whom he now held in thrall, Nicole had spent her childhood in a household blessed with its own bard, so the music wasn’t new to her.
He hoped she also pondered his suggestion that she should take refuge in Wales. Nicole had declared the offer impossible to accept, but while still in the receiving chamber, he’d sensed her plea for a bit more time to decide.
And now, in the infirmary, Rhodri saw who truly bound Nicole to Bledloe Abbey. Mother Abbess. No royal command, nor religious conviction, could bind her as thoroughly as her devotion to the dying nun. Nicole would balk at leaving the abbey while Mother Abbess yet breathed.
Nicole’s loyalty might be commendable, but he hoped the abbess wouldn’t take much longer in her dying. A day’s delay in removing Nicole from the abbey he could countenance. But longer?
Rhodri plucked the song’s final note, allowing it to fade before beginning a gentler, softer tune. His heart beat a little faster when Nicole turned her head slightly to reward him with an approving smile. The glint in her large brown eyes confirmed that he played a favorite song.
A man could become entranced by those lovely eyes, lose all sense of time and whereabouts. They’d fascinated him as a youth and held no less appeal for him now.