Madam Potter handed Nicole the sleeping infant before also struggling to her feet. “They are here, somewhere.”
Somewhere? Upon further inspection of the chapel, Nicole realized that not only had the potter’s children disappeared, but not one small body capable of walking remained within.
Sweet mercy, had all of the children left the chapel? She nearly groaned aloud, aware of the mayhem a group of untended children could cause. The abbey could very well be in shambles!
Since Madam Potter seemed in no hurry to reclaim her babe, Nicole carried the small, warm bundle out of the chapel, with the mother close on her heels.
“I wonder where they are?” she asked, more of herself than of Madam Potter.
“My eldest, he left the chapel to take a pee, then came back for the others. Said not to worry over them.”
Madam Potter’s eldest was a male of no more than ten summers. The children’s mother might not have been worried, but Nicole certainly was. Then she heard the faint sound of silver strings, and her worry waned as she headed toward the source of the music.
Seated on a bench in the garden, surrounded by enthralled children, Rhodri ap Dafydd smiled broadly when he spotted her under one of the arches.
She handed the infant back to Madam Potter, who absently took the babe while gaping at the children, every one of them sitting still, entranced.
“Saints be praised! What magic is this?” the woman asked, only half in jest.
“No magic, merely a Welsh bard. I have witnessed the power of his harp on grown men. These wee ones were likely no challenge.”
Charming the nuns of Bledloe Abbey yesterday had presented no difficulty for Rhodri. Lightening her grief and weariness now was easily accomplished. Rhodri performed no magic, just wielded a harp with great skill.
How long had Rhodri entertained the children? She’d not seen him since he’d retired to the priest’s hut last night after supper. When had he returned and watched over the bored little ones?
Not that he seemed to consider the task a hardship. His wide smile attested to his pleasure, as well as a decided hint of triumph.
“I do not suppose he intends to settle in our village,” Madam Potter said on a wishful sigh.
“Rhodri returns to Wales on the morrow.”
“A pity. We mothers would welcome a man with such a way with the children. Faith, he is not hard to look on, either. Some village maiden should set her claim to him right quick!”
Aye, Nicole knew of at least two maidens who would take one look at Rhodri’s handsome visage and broad shoulders and swoon straightaway into his bed. Even Sister Gertrude, at whom the visiting priests’ sermons on fornication had no effect, had gazed lustfully on Rhodri while he’d played his harp for Mother Abbess.
Nay, he’d not lack for female adoration wherever he went.
Who could blame the women? Not her, not when her woman’s places stirred with wanton curiosity whenever she looked on Rhodri overlong.
With a discordant note, Rhodri put aside his harp. Softly he told the children, “Your elders seek you out. Pray go quietly. Remember this is a house in mourning.”
Madam Potter shook her head in disbelief as the children rose to obey his command. “’Tis nigh unbelievable,” she muttered, wiggling her fingers to beckon her young ones. “Ye have a care today, my lady, and give our thanks to Sister Claire.”
With that, Madam Potter herded her children down the passageway, and Nicole made her way across the garden to where Rhodri stood, his smile now soft but no less exultant.
Irritated by the wanton thoughts he could evoke, she said accusingly, “You look pleased with yourself.”
“My father once said that when he could no longer hold the attention of the children, he would give up his harp. They are a difficult crowd to please.”
He’d enticed the children for selfish reasons, not to be of service. But wasn’t that the way of men, seeking always to gain some satisfaction or reward from their actions? Not bothering to hide her disapproval, she waved a hand at the archway.
“You will have a new crowd on which to test your skills shortly. I believe the clergy have arrived.”
“Lead on, my lady.”
She briskly led him through the now full passageway and into the chapel. Indeed, Father Gregory from St. George’s-in-the-Castle, and Prior Robert from St. Frideswide’s had arrived, along with Lord William de Chesney, the castellan of Oxford Castle. Nicole also recognized many of the town’s merchants, including the apothecary and the wine merchant. Monks mingled with several town officials. The chapel was nigh on as full as it had been last night.
Nicole followed Rhodri to where Sister Claire waved him to a stool placed below the north window, where the Virgin Mother and infant Jesus reigned in stained-glass glory.
“No drinking songs,” Nicole warned Rhodri.
He settled on the stool and set the harp on his thigh. “So now the princess commands the bard on what songs he may play?”
“Certes not, but be forewarned that Father Gregory lacks Mother Abbess’s sense of humor.”
Rhodri set the harp strings to singing softly in a sweet melody, one she didn’t recognize, lulling all to silence. When the last note faded into the chapel’s rafters, Father Gregory and Prior Robert stepped up to the altar and began the Mass.
The Latin chants were familiar. The priests sprinkled Mother Abbess’s body with holy water and, to the irritation of Nicole’s eyes, wrapped them all in a cloud of incense.
Father Gregory was about to begin the homily when a rustle from the back of the room narrowed his eyes, then fully widened them. The crowd parted, like the Red Sea for Moses, to allow a tall, burly, handsome young man to swagger to the front.
“My lord,” William de Chesney said with a slight bow. “I did not realize you were coming to Oxford. Had we been aware of your intent to so honor Mother Abbess, we would have waited for you.”
Rhodri leaned in close and whispered, “Who?”
“Aubrey de Vere, the earl of Oxford.”
“Truly?” he asked, clearly impressed.
As well he should be. De Vere, one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom, was both a powerful ally and close advisor to King Stephen. Few men were his match.
“The earl’s father founded Bledloe Abbey, and Aubrey continues the de Vere family’s patronage. Without his financial support, Bledloe Abbey would not long survive.”
The earl stepped up to the bier and gazed down at Mother Abbess, his visage reflecting his sorrow. The earl and the abbess had been great friends, despite their differences in age and temperaments. The formidable earl truly mourned.
De Vere stepped back to stand between de Chesney and Sister Claire. “I arrived in Oxford after you left and was most aggrieved to hear the reason for your departure.” De Vere waved a long-fingered hand the priest’s way. “Proceed, Father.”
Nicole heard nary a word of the priest’s continued rambling, disquieted by the earl’s presence in the abbey’s chapel.
Sometimes called Aubrey the Grim, de Vere spent most of his days either at his grand castle of Hedingham in Essex or in King Stephen’s entourage. How odd that the earl should visit Oxford at any time other than a fortnight or so before Michaelmas. There could be any number of reasons for his visit, she supposed, but his sudden and unannounced appearance hinted at urgency.
What pressing business required the attention of an earl? Most likely it concerned the war, a very quiet war of late. But Prince Eustace’s death might have sparked intrigues on both sides. Oxford might be threatened. Chiding her imagination for taking flight without good reason, Nicole forced her attention back to where it belonged.
The remainder of the Mass passed without interruption, and when it ended, Sister Claire and Sister Mary stepped to either side of the bier. With great reverence, they gathered up the white linen that draped the bier and folded it over the woman who lay upon it. Two more nuns joined them, large needles and heavy thread in hand.
Nicole had seen shrouds sewn shut before, but not since her father’s and brother’s burial had the sight caused such sharp heartache. Mother Abbess had lived a long, full life. Her spirit had joyfully departed. Nicole wanted to rejoice, but overwhelming grief made it impossible.
Her throat closed up. Her eyes burned. Cursing her weakness, she crossed her arms tightly over her middle, pressing back threatening sobs. As Sister Claire tied off the last stitch, Rhodri’s hand touched Nicole’s shoulder and her composure crumbled.
Nicole spun and hid her vulnerability in Rhodri’s chest.
Rhodri realized he shouldn’t have touched Nicole, but ’twas too late now to undo his mistake. With his arm resting atop her shoulders, she tucked perfectly into his side, her face buried in his woolen tunic. She was pressed so close he could feel her inhale great gulps of air, hold her breath, then exhale in a rush before repeating the actions.
To his chagrin, he also caught her scent. Delicate, yet as captivating as a bouquet of roses. He breathed her in and savored the heady aroma, scolding himself for taking sensual pleasure in her nearness when all she sought was comfort.
Nicole made no sound as several men lifted Mother Abbess from the bier and lowered the revered nun into her final resting place in front of the altar.
Indeed, no one noticed Nicole’s distress, their attention too fixed on the proceedings.
Rhodri felt her rally, her breathing no longer as labored. Still Nicole remained warm against him, her arms wrapped tight around her middle to contain her grief. Only now and again a slight hitch of breath revealed the depths of her upset.
Father Gregory broke the silence with a final blessing while Prior Robert swung the incense burner over the grave. With a sniff so indelicate Rhodri had to smile, Nicole turned her head to the side to observe the ceremony.
She’d always possessed the ability to amuse him. Even as a child she’d known she was a princess and, as the youngest of the de Leon children, had been doted upon. While Nicole had delighted in getting her own way, she’d also been earthy, not as aloof as she could have been. Nice to know that in some ways she hadn’t changed too much.
’Twas then he noticed that Nicole’s upset was no longer private. The earl, his eyes narrowed and head tilted, frowned on Nicole’s failure to control her emotions. His ire pricked, Rhodri tightened his hold on Nicole, as if that small action could shield her from the earl’s disapproval, knowing damn well that the earl was right—Nicole shouldn’t be pressed up against him in so intimate a fashion.
However, what Aubrey de Vere thought of Nicole didn’t matter to Rhodri as long as the man kept his displeasure to himself, not adding embarrassment to Nicole’s grief by taking her to task for a momentary lapse of proper behavior.
When de Vere finally looked away, Rhodri’s own breathing eased.
Nicole hadn’t moved so much as a hair, and he felt a measure of satisfaction knowing she was comfortable turning to him when distraught. Clearly she trusted him somewhat. A good omen.
He would need her to trust him fully in the days ahead. There were dangers on the road between Bledloe Abbey and Wales, and their survival might depend upon her willingness to trust him and take orders.
She glanced up at him with a wobbly smile. “I believe your part in the service has come,” she whispered and stepped out of his embrace, taking all her lovely warmth and scent with her.
Rhodri sank onto the stool and plied his harp, as Sister Claire expected of him. Since his fingers knew the strings intimately, he allowed them their freedom and observed the relaxing crowd. Most of the people would soon depart for the refectory, where the nuns had prepared a light repast to fortify all for their journey home.
The earl and the highest ranking of the clergy and the city officials should have been the first to leave. For some reason the earl refused to budge, keeping Sister Claire, the clergy, and Lord de Chesney with him. De Vere still frowned, and whatever he was saying was directed at Sister Claire.
Rhodri suppressed a chuckle. Poor Sister Claire must be aghast at how many males had invaded the abbey’s depths in recent days. The nuns would surely be pleased to reclaim their feminine sanctuary, though right now most of them would be delighted just to catch a few hours of sleep.
For all he believed the English bishops too rich, and the Church laws too strict and unyielding, he had to admit Bledloe Abbey a fine place. The abbey itself wasn’t ostentatious, built of timber in clean, unadorned lines. Spacious, yet cozy. Though the stained-glass window was an expensive ornamentation, and the jewel-encrusted gold chalice evidence of wealth, for the most part these nuns lived without excess comforts—or so he judged from what he’d seen.
Nicole still stood close by, weariness slumping her shoulders, exhaustion and the aftermath of weeping dulling her usually sparkling eyes.
Rhodri silenced the harp, intending to escort Nicole out of the chapel and into the refectory for a meal. Soon afterward they’d leave Bledloe Abbey and head swiftly westward. The sooner away, the better.
His intention was thwarted by the earl’s order. “Lady Nicole, pray attend us.”
After a sigh audible only to him, Nicole crossed the chapel. Having nothing better to do, or so he told himself, Rhodri followed close on her heels, deepening the earl’s frown.
Here was arrogance.
Rhodri knew much about England’s Marcher earls but little of the others whom the Welsh didn’t consider a threat. Such a one was Aubrey de Vere. He struck Rhodri as too damn overbearing for a man of so few years. The earl could be no more than twenty and five yet believed it his right to order about everyone within the sound of his voice.
Perhaps that was what happened to a man when handed so much wealth and power at so young an age, and the conceit of it proved irritating.
Nicole dipped into a deep curtsy. “My lord de Vere. Mother Abbess would have been pleased to know you attend her burial.”
The earl held out a hand, helping Nicole to rise. “My condolences, Lady Nicole. I know how much you loved Mother Abbess.”
“As did you, my lord. She always enjoyed your visits. We shall both miss her mightily, may she rest with the Lord.”