Magic in His Kiss (2 page)

She recognized the voice from beyond the grave that woke her, startled over this unexpected contact. Her brother usually spoke to her only once a year, to rail and rage at her.
Never
had William spoken to her in so calm a manner.

She’d done her brother’s bidding only once—the first time William had spoken to her—mere hours after his burial.

Every day, Nicole thanked the Lord she hadn’t possessed the skill or strength to murder her now brother-by-marriage. Since then, she’d learned how to deal with William’s yearly demand that she avenge his death.

But this time was different. William wasn’t ordering her to do murder, just to leave the abbey. True, he’d arrogantly given an order, but he wasn’t battering her with it. How unusual—and foreboding.

Warily, Nicole lowered the defenses she instinctively raised whenever she heard her brother’s voice, trying not to hope that William’s spirit was finally ready to converse with her, not merely give her orders she loathed to obey.

Why must I leave?
she silently asked.

He didn’t answer.

William?

Silence.

Confused by William’s unusual intrusion into her thoughts, Nicole deeply breathed in the familiar scents of woolen robes hanging on their pegs and of the burning night candle near the doorway. A glance over the cots revealed she hadn’t disturbed the nuns, who would soon rise for matins to begin yet another day of prayer, meditation, and service in God’s name.

For eight years Bledloe Abbey had been her home, these nuns her gentle companions and patient teachers. William wanted her to leave them behind. To go where? To do what? Not that she dared to escape the convent even if she wished to.

William, let me help you. Speak to me.

Silence reigned.

Angry at his abandonment during the one time she truly wished he’d speak again, Nicole tossed back the woolen blanket and silently rose, feeling the chill against her bare skin. She slipped on the white linen chemise that protected her skin from the black robe of prickly wool. When decently clad, with her bedding straightened and hose and boots in hand, she padded her way to the infirmary, where she knew Mother Abbess would be awake.

Mother Abbess rarely slept these days, too aware the heavenly reward she’d spent her life working toward was about to become reality.

Soon now, dear, soon!

This sweet, gentle voice, too, came from beyond the grave. Sister Enid’s excited greeting made Nicole smile as she entered the herb-scented, tranquil infirmary.

Sister Enid had left mortal life behind a few days after Beltane. In life, the nun had considered the care of Mother Abbess her life’s work, and so her spirit lingered to see her duty completed. The two old and dear friends would pass through the veil between this life and the next together.

Nicole swallowed the lump of grief that swelled in her throat. She knew it useless to pray for a miracle, to hope the woman who’d been both mentor and mother to her wouldn’t die.

“What brings you to my side so early?” Mother Abbess asked, the clarity of her voice belying both her advanced age and failing health.

The abbess looked no different this morn than she had last eve—frail and withered, her thin hair as white as fresh snow. In her gnarled hands she held prayer beads worn from years of use. Her green eyes, however, still often saw too much.

To hide both her confusion over William’s unusual intrusion and sorrow over Mother Abbess’s impending death, Nicole plopped down onto the stool beside the cot and bent over to put on her short hose and boots.

“I woke and could no longer sleep. I did not wish to disturb the others, so I came to see how you fare.”

“Harrumph. We must usually pry you from your cot of a morn. What spoiled your slumber?”

Nicole smiled. “Perhaps I have at long last become accustomed to waking before the bell is rung.”

Mother Abbess chuckled at the lie. “When sheep take wing.” Then she sobered. “What ails you, child?”

Nicole grappled for something troublesome the nun might accept as a truthful answer and easily found one disturbing event that had floated in and out of her thoughts for several days now.

“Prince Eustace’s death, and how his loss will affect King Stephen and the war.”

Mother Abbess’s fingers slid from one bead to the next, seeking solace and wisdom in the prayer that had sustained her all her life.

“You mean you fear King Stephen may now remember you are of an age to marry and can be of use to him.”

Bluntly put, and all too true.

Nicole didn’t care if the war went badly for Stephen, whether he eventually lost his throne or not. But as his ward, she cared very much whether or not he would use her in an attempt to gain a desired alliance.

“I cannot say I am of a mind to marry as yet.”

“You have always known the day might come. You also know how to avoid the king’s machinations.”

Nicole fingered the ends of her brown, waist-length braid. She could cut her hair short, cover it with a veil, and utter vows. She recoiled, as she always did, when she considered becoming a nun and spending her entire life in Bledloe Abbey.

“You well know I have no calling to the Lord’s service, that I do not reside in Bledloe Abbey by any wish of mine own. ’Twould be no less than I deserved if God struck me deaf and blind the moment I uttered insincere vows. Nay, Mother Abbess, I have no wish to take clerical vows merely to escape marriage.”

“Other women have done so.”

Several of whom resided at Bledloe. One could tell the difference between the nuns who had taken vows because of a true calling from those who had done so for more selfish reasons.

“I will not. My fate lies in the world, not in the cloister. Whatever that fate may be.”

“Then perhaps you should consult your sisters. They would come if you summoned them.”

Emma and Gwendolyn would certainly make every effort to answer a summons, but they had husbands, children, and estates to care for. Too, Gwendolyn was in no condition to travel, awaiting the birth of her third child. Emma was at Camelen with Gwen, to assist at the birth.

And certes, at the age of ten and eight, Nicole was reluctant to burden her beloved sisters if she could manage her problems on her own.

Truly, no problem yet existed. King Stephen hadn’t decreed whom she should marry. And certes, if her only choices were to become a nun or marry a Welsh noble, well, there was no need to consult with her sisters. She’d accept the marriage rather than take vows.

Nicole wasn’t opposed to the idea of marriage, even an arranged one. With the right man, marriage could be wonderful and joyous. Just look at how happy her sisters were with their husbands. She worried, however, that she might not be so fortunate in King Stephen’s choice for her.

For now, worrying over the future would do her no good, and Nicole wanted no distractions from what she saw as her immediate and more important task: caring for Mother Abbess until the bittersweet end.

“I will consult Emma and Gwendolyn when the proper time comes,” she said, more to ease the furrows on the abbess’s brow than to quell her own misgivings. “Are you in pain? Need you a potion?”

“These old bones ache from disuse, but the pain reminds me there is life inside me yet. Go ready for prayer. The bell will ring soon.”

Though Nicole preferred to remain in the infirmary, brewing potions and mixing unguents, she would attend morning prayers, if only out of love for Mother Abbess.

Nicole rose from the stool and kissed her friend and mentor’s thin-skinned forehead, wondering if she should tell the abbess of the joyous reunion with Sister Enid awaiting her on the other side of life.

She would, she decided, but not until the very end, when the abbess had no time for questions or lectures.

Sister Enid, Nicole was sure, would let her know when that time was upon them.

“I will bring your morning repast after matins. Is there aught particular you would like?”

Another shift of fingers, another bead to hold between thumb and forefinger. Another prayer offered up to some good purpose.

“Nay. My hunger now is not for victuals. Ask the sisters to pray that I might see our Lord’s face sooner than late.”

The abbess had thoroughly accepted, even welcomed, her impending death. Nicole might have accepted, but she wasn’t in any hurry for the event.

Nor was it in her nature to become morose, and Mother Abbess would be aghast if Nicole slipped into despondency.

She pulled a face of mock horror. “I will do no such thing! Our Lord will take you when He wills and not a moment before. Have pity on those of us you leave behind, dearest Abbess! We shall be like lost ships in a storm-tossed sea without you to guide us home.”

The nun chuckled, as Nicole intended. “Oh, life will continue without me, and each of you will find your way.”

“Rudderless, wind-deprived, becalmed ships, I tell you!”

Mother Abbess’s hand rose, and Nicole took the hand that had gently but firmly guided a willful, brash, selfish girl into temperate, more peaceful womanhood.

At least Nicole hoped she’d grown up. She no longer ran through the passageways or giggled at inappropriate times. She no longer made unreasonable demands in a voice that echoed against the stone walls.

But, betimes, ’twas hard to be unselfish. Like now, when she would rather King Stephen didn’t remember her name or where she resided. When she wanted Mother Abbess to live.

Mother Abbess squeezed her hand. “The way is never easy, my dear. Remember this. When times seem the most confusing, point your bow to either sunrise or sunset and follow your heart.”

Appealing images—in opposite directions.

And neither course guaranteed a welcoming shoreline or safe harbor.

Chapter Two

M
idday sun streamed through the infirmary’s open shutters, somehow brightening the prayers the nuns murmured at Mother Abbess’s bedside. Kneeling on the plank floor, Nicole knew the perpetual vigil and the earnest invocations for God’s mercy would do nothing to halt Mother Abbess’s death. But since the Latin chants comforted the dying nun, Nicole strove to concentrate.

Unsuccessfully.

Chanting appeals to God, Christ, Blessed Mary, and every saint she’d ever heard of couldn’t halt Nicole’s restlessness.

Shifting on knees gone sore on the hard plank floor, Nicole remembered the day she’d first entered the infirmary. It was on the day of her arrival at Bledloe Abbey, her despair acute and her belly aching. Sister Enid, a short, plump woman with kindly eyes, had smiled at the distraught little girl of ten and given her a mint leaf to suck on. Ever after, Nicole had felt more at home in the infirmary than anywhere else in the abbey.

Immediately she’d been fascinated by the hanging bunches of dried herbs, the mixing of unguents, and the brewing of potions. Over the years she’d tended the sick, held the hands of the dying, assisted at the birth of babes, and learned herb lore.

Unfortunately, nothing in the sacks of mixed herbs, little pots of scented unguents, or sparkling bottles of potions could cure Mother Abbess. Still, Nicole agonized over whether there was something more she might have done to slow the nun’s decline.

Nicole struggled with the guilt even though she knew Mother Abbess was old, her earthly body worn out, as Sister Enid had been near her death. Though Sister Enid hadn’t spoken to her in over a sennight, Nicole was aware the nun’s spirit hovered nearby, waiting for Mother Abbess. Too soon both women would fully depart, and for their absence in her life, Nicole mourned.

A light hand landed on Nicole’s shoulder, startling her. Sister Claire, who would become Bledloe Abbey’s next abbess, bent down and whispered, “Come.”

Nicole dutifully rose and followed the thin, sharply angled woman into the passageway, where Sister Claire stopped a few feet beyond the infirmary’s door.

“You have a visitor,” Sister Claire announced.

Despite Nicole’s grief, excitement bubbled up. “One of my sisters?”

Sister Claire’s mouth thinned. “Nay. A Welshman by the name of Rhodri ap Dafydd. Do you know him?”

Taken aback, Nicole swiftly sorted through memories of her only visit to Glenvair, her Welsh uncle’s holding. When she remembered Rhodri—whom Gwendolyn had also mentioned in her letters a time or two over these past years—Nicole’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment.

Their last encounter hadn’t gone well. True, she’d been very young, but she’d also behaved very badly, and ’twas Rhodri who’d suffered the punishment for her show of childish, imprudent temper.

“I know him.” Then her heart sank, fearful of the most likely reason why a Welshman would risk a dangerous journey so far into England. “Did he say why he came? Has aught dreadful befallen my uncle Connor?”

Sister Claire crossed her arms, her hands disappearing up into the wide sleeves of her black robes, her mouth twisting with ire. “He said only that he brings greetings. I shall take your place at vigil while you send him on his way. Be quick, Nicole.”

Still apprehensive, Nicole rushed to the small receiving chamber near the abbey’s main entry. Even if Rhodri hadn’t come to tell her of Connor’s illness or death, he surely brought news of grave import. A Welshman would not travel this deep into England merely to convey greetings, not even a bard, who might be afforded greater respect than his countrymen.

She felt a sweet pang for happier days, well before she’d been fully aware of the war that had taken her father’s and brother’s lives. She’d been all of five when Father had taken his children to visit their deceased mother’s brother, Connor.

To a little girl accustomed to residing at Camelen—her father’s intimidating stone keep, surrounded by a high curtain wall, efficiently guarded by gruff soldiers—Connor’s manor at Glenvair had seemed a magical place of unobstructed freedom.

Barefooted, she’d chased butterflies in long, cool grass in the shade of towering trees along the banks of a bubbling stream. With a small smile she also remembered her brother William—then beloved, and golden, and recently knighted—who’d come upon her and the group of children she played with, sternly scolding her for setting aside her boots.