Courtly Love (43 page)

* * *

Sister Anne remained silent, but a joyous warmth suffused her mind and heart. What a generous gesture for the tall lord to have made! The children would have new clothes; shoes for the cold winter so their feet would not have to endure the icy floors of the cloister; the roof of the orphanage could be repaired, there would be no further need to place wooden buckets beneath the cracks in the ceiling to catch the water that seeped into the building when it rained or snowed.

"Why would he do such a thing, this Norman lord?" Sister Anne questioned the abbess abruptly. "When he first saw the children he appeared angry."

"Out of kindness, Sister." The abbess smiled. "And as for appearing angry, the young man who accompanied Lord Gyles informed me that he is grieving over the recent loss of his wife. Lord Gyles has asked that after the orphanage has been seen to, a monument be raised to the memory of his wife."

A wave of sympathy swept over Sister Anne. "How sad—Lord Gyles must have loved his wife very much.

Do you think—could we perhaps pray for him, Reverend Mother? Perhaps God would grant him a measure of peace."

"An excellent thought, Sister." The pleasure the abbess felt at Sister Anne's new interest in others she did not reveal, but inwardly she thanked heaven her prayers had been answered. "And I think you should pray for him since you retire to the chapel so frequently." The abbess rose to leave, but halted, a puzzled frown drawing her brows together. "How did you learn Lord Gyles was a Norman?"

"I—I do not know," Sister Anne stammered, her face coloring slightly in her confusion. A dull throb began in her head and she pressed her fingertips to her temples. "He just . . . looked as if he were a conqueror. I... he was so arrogant, so . . ."

"Do not trouble yourself." The abbess drew Sister Anne's hands from her temples. "Now go to the chapel and pray for the Norman lord."

* * *

Within the week the items the abbess had listed began flowing into the cloister. Yard after yard, bolt after bolt of materials were carried into the sewing room to be stacked neatly on the open shelves while the children were also brought in to have their measurements taken and recorded. To everyone's shock—her own not least of all—Sister Anne discovered she could read and write, so she was delegated the task of recording the children's sizes as they were paraded before her.

This accomplished, the sisters set their hands to the task of fashioning clothing and new linens. The children were delighted with their new clothing, exclaiming over the rich yet durable fabrics until the sisters had to take them firmly in hand and calm their excitement to a more acceptable level.

Sister Anne reveled in the children's happiness, laughing with them and at them whenever her duty took her to the orphanage. She taught the little girls simple embroidery, delighting in their uncertain stitches and praising their efforts. She worked tirelessly in the laundry, scrubbed the stone floors of the chapel until they glistened and she prayed nightly into the small hours of the morning. Sister Anne's dreams were no longer ghastly, but they still tormented her because the face of Gyles of Camden intruded upon her.
Why should I dream of him,
she asked herself fiercely.
I do not know him, indeed I have never met that good lord. So why do I think of him, dream of him—why do I imagine his face as it looks when he smiles? Why do I see his eyes turn cloudy green when I think he is angered? I must ask the Reverend Mother to have one of the other sisters pray for this man, he touches me too deeply
.

But she did not. Instead, Sister Anne found herself thinking more about the man she had seen but once, and her prayers for him became more intense. And the more she prayed the more she thought and dreamed of Lord Gyles, and Sister Anne found herself eagerly awaiting his next visit so that she might find out for certain if his eyes were really green. Sister Anne did not have long to wait.

* * *

Three weeks after his first visit Gyles returned to the cloister of Our Lady of Sorrow, bringing with him the promised stonemasons and carpenters. Gyles groaned inwardly as he saw the abbess walking toward him. What had possessed him to lend support to a convent? Priests, nuns, monks, the Church—Gyles had little use for any of them. He was a man born and raised in the harsh realities of life, not sheltered from the cruelty by high walls and Masses. What was he doing here amid a group of withered, sanctimonious old women? There would be a tourney at Camden in a fortnight; Gyles should be home making preparations for the event. But his heart was not in it as it had been nearly two years ago, Gyles mused. A mental image of Serena strutting across the field of combat cut into Gyles like the dull blade of a dagger. Serena. Their time spent together had been less than a year if he took the time to count the days. And of that short time too many days, nay weeks, had been wasted in arguing
. Why does it still hurt,
Gyles sighed as he dismounted.
Why can I not close my eyes and see blackness rather than her face?

"Welcome, Lord Gyles." The abbess smiled as he bowed slightly. "As you requested, we have readied a cottage for you. But the workmen must stay outside our walls."

"Of course." Gyles nodded. "I understand. But my plans have altered, I shall remain only for the night" If I could leave right now I would be happier, Gyles added to himself, but aloud he said, "I hope I have not caused you any inconvenience."

"Nay, mlord," the abbess quickly assured him. "For all you have done for our cloister we are deeply grateful. In fact, we are offering up prayers for you daily. But come, would you like to see the children before the evening meal? They, too, would like to thank you for your generosity."

* * *

Sister Anne saw the knight and abbess approach the orphanage as she gave a final adjustment to the gown of the small girl in front of her.

"Now then, quickly, little one, into line with the others. You remember what to say to Lord Gyles?" The little girl nodded vigorously. "Good. Remember, give him your prettiest smile and do not forget to curtsy. Now go."

Retreating into the nearby shadows, Sister Anne watched as Gyles received the solemn gratitude of the children, his stern features twisting into a smile when the girl she had so recently dressed forgot the words of her speech.

"Sister Anne!" The small girl wailed and burst into tears, then turned and ran to where Sister Anne was standing.

Sister Anne knelt in front of the small girl, placing herself between the Norman lord and the child. A few whispered words as she quickly dried the girl's eyes and Sister Anne stepped back and the ceremony continued without mishap.
How tall Lord Gyles was
, Sister Anne thought as she watched him. His features proud, yet when she looked closely, Sister Anne detected a sadness in his brilliant green eyes, and she felt an urgent desire to go to him and cradle his head against her breast as she did so often with the children. How deeply he must have loved his wife, Sister Anne thought with a sudden pang. At least she had died knowing who she was and where she belonged while I know neither. The dull throb in her temples which had begun when she first set eyes upon Lord Gyles increased in intensity until she felt her head would burst.
I must get away from here!
Sister Anne gathered the skirt of her habit in her hands and ran from the courtyard to the chapel.

"
D
earest love, how I have missed you!" Strong, gentle hands traveled along the woman's unclad body as her lips met the man's above her and each tasted the other's sweetness. "We have been parted so long ... so long. My darling, why did I not find you sooner?"

The man lowered himself onto the woman and in a convulsive movement she arched upward to meet him, a small cry escaping her parted lips. The massive, postered bed, its curtains partially drawn, stood squarely in the center of a huge chamber, the only light coming from a fire blazing in the hearth. Lush tapestries decorated the walls, rich fur pelts were carelessly strewn upon the floor, beside the bed stood a table upon which rested wine and two silver goblets. The entwined couple moved slowly as if savoring each other's closeness; the man whispering soft endearments against the woman's gold-touched hair

Sister Anne came awake with a jolt, blue eyes staring fearfully at the ceiling while she strived to calm the wild beating of her heart. She struggled from the narrow rope cot to the washstand where she splashed water onto her burning cheeks and pounding temples.

Lord, forgive me my unclean thoughts, Sister Anne prayed as she returned to her pallet and hid her face in her hands. She recognized all too clearly the figures in her dream—herself and Lord Gyles. Sister Anne shivered in the early morning coolness and hurriedly retreated to the warmth of her bed before continuing her musings.

Lord Gyles had been a frequent visitor to the convent during the past three months and each time Sister Anne had learned of his impending visit, her dreams of him became as impassioned as no nun's dreams should. She had long ago given up trying to force him from her waking thoughts and dreams, for to do so only meant that his image plagued her more intensely. And her dreams left Sister Anne with a warm glow tempered with a sharp pang of loss. She confided to no one the course of her thoughts, though at times Sister Anne felt certain the Reverend Mother knew the visions that flashed through her mind.

The man was a magnet and Sister Anne was inexorably drawn to him. During his visits to the cloister Sister Anne followed Lord Gyles about the grounds like a puppy trailing its master. How badly she desired to speak with him, to gaze fully upon that handsome yet arrogantly closed face, to look deeply into the green eyes that had haunted her from the first. But she hadn't—Oh! She had been tempted, without a doubt. Lord Gyles often strolled to the river on hot afternoons and Sister Anne had followed, secreting herself among the trees while Lord Gyles knelt by the river and thoughtfully trailed his fingers through the cool water. He had also taken to haunting the chapel when the sisters were finished with Offices and Sister Anne—secluded once again by the shadows of the chapel—observed with a mixture of pity and surprise the stark anguish that twisted Lord Gyles's features. Poor man, Sister Anne had thought sadly, you poor unhappy, lonely man! She had begun to weep silently and had fled before a sound could betray her.

Bits and pieces of what Sister Anne believed to be her past began to flare during Lord Gyles's visits—always just enough to tantalize her before eluding her grasp completely, scenes of rooms, castles, even a tournament, but rarely any recognizable faces save that of Lord Gyles.

And when he left, the brief flashes would lessen in intensity so that Sister Anne despaired of ever remembering her past. She considered directly confronting Lord Gyles—since he occupied her thoughts in the extreme it was quite possible that they had known each other in what Sister Anne privately referred to as her "other life." But the abbess's warning, given so long ago, stilled Sister Anne's impulse. What if in the past she had been a threat to Lord Gyles or the younger man who had accompanied him on that first visit? Judging from his haughty bearing and cold gaze, Sister Anne was certain Lord Gyles would have no qualms over removing anyone or anything that thwarted him.

In all, Sister Anne was confused; alternately torn between fearing the tall, grim knight and desiring to be held in those strong arms, she felt caught up in a whirlpool of questions that threatened to drown her sanity in its roiling fury. As her anxiety increased, Sister Anne's appetite decreased in direct proportion until dear Sister Judith was frustrated beyond belief. Sister Judith plied the young girl with tempting morsels from the convent's kitchen to no avail, so that now Sister Judith had to be content with assuring herself that Sister Anne did not succumb to any illness.

Sister Anne roused herself from her thoughts and slipped out of bed to dress. Her mind had already flown to the day ahead, to the arrival of Lord Gyles. Today he was coming to inspect the repair of the orphanage and consult the abbess on the matter of his dead wife's memorial—Sister Anne would be able to observe him for the greater part of the day. Once again, she had turned from fearing Lord Gyles to caring, caring so deeply that she prayed the anguish that unfailing overwhelmed Gyles during his stay in the chapel would be absent this time.

* * *

Gyles pushed the trencher containing the remnants of his morning meal away with an exasperated oath. What a time for the abbess to take ill! He had arrived at the convent shortly after noon yesterday, hoping to conclude his visit swiftly and depart on the morrow, only to find that the abbess was indisposed and would not be able to receive him. Mayhap in a day or two, the sour-faced Sister Marcella had told him. So now he had to delay his departure indefinitely.

With a curse, Gyles lowered his aching head to his hands. He had slept poorly the night before, falling asleep only to be wakened by the chapel bell during the night, and what rest he had found had been exhausted by dreams of Serena. God! What he would give for a flagon of hearty ale. Of late Gyles had taken to indulging in late-night drinking bouts that commonly ended with Edward dragging his overlord from the great hall and up to his bed. If Edward had been puzzled over the sudden change in Gyles's behavior, the situation was clarified by an indignant Nellwyn. Lord Gyles, it appeared, was being pressured by the king to remarry—his bride was an orphan of sixteen and as such the king was her guardian until she was wed. Gyles, widowed with two small children, was an ideal prospect as a husband.

When the royal messenger had delivered the king's note some six weeks ago, Gyles had immediately declined the match, stating as cause his still unfinished period of mourning. This William had deemed unacceptable and a fortnight later had instructed Gyles to think more on the matter—unless he had a different bride in mind for himself? Gyles knew further protests to be futile and had gone to inspect his future wife. Gyles had come away from the meeting filled with loathing, for his bride had watched him with limpid brown eyes as if she expected to be violated by him at any time. She had not spoken unless Gyles addressed her directly and spent her entire day in her solar embroidering or working on tapestries. On the last night, Gyles's bride-to-be, Lady Margaret, had at last spoken her mind. She had no wish to marry, she quietly informed Gyles, but to enter a convent, for she felt she had a true vocation. But she would agree to the marriage if Gyles agreed not to consummate the vows. Also she wished to bring her priest to Camden and have a private chapel installed in her new solar so she could have Mass said daily.

Gyles had been ready to agree to all Lady Margaret's requests—he would have readily agreed to anything in order to escape from Margaret's presence—when she stated her final demand. Under no circumstances were his children to come near her. For the first time Lady Margaret's eyes gleamed with a fanatical light; she wanted no bastard's spawn to soil her pure soul and perhaps ruin her chances for salvation. Gyles had coldly turned his back on Lady Margaret and proceeded to his chamber. He did not speak to her again save to inform her before departing that he would send a messenger when the king decided upon a wedding date.

Gyles's lips twisted into a travesty of a smile as he gazed derisively around the cottage. His future wife wanted to become a nun and he was the one in the convent! What irony! It was upon his return to Camden that Gyles had begun to drink to excess; the stony silence he had retreated into after Serena's death gave way to brutal surliness and a vicious temper that lashed out at everyone save his sons. Even Nellwyn and Edward felt the sting of his tongue when they were unfortunate enough to do something that offended Gyles.

Gyles thrust himself away from the table and walked to the open doorway of the one room cottage he occupied; his green eyes narrowed into slits as the glaring sunlight slanted across his face. He would have to urge the workmen to finish the repairs to the orphanage quickly. Gyles wanted them back at Camden by harvest, and he hoped to finalize the arrangement for Serena's memorial with the abbess during this stay. Gyles could not tolerate more than one last visit to this place.

The courtyard, Gyles noticed, was deserted at this hour. The bell had rung for Sext as his meal had been delivered, which meant the nuns would be about their duties until the bell tolled at mid-afternoon for Nones. Gyles braced his hands against the door post above his head—if the abbess had recovered, word would have been sent to him, so it appeared he must endure yet another day and night at the cloister. Gyles groaned despondently and stepped into the sunlight.

As Gyles strode toward the river a slight figure in the gray robe of a novice stepped out of the shadows by the cottage and rapidly followed in his wake. Gyles knelt at the bank and splashed the cool water over his face and arms. Then, thinking better of such a brief ablution, Gyles stripped off his tunic and plunged into the river. Secluded on the bank, Sister Anne watched unashamedly as the Norman lord swam easily to the center of the stream. Blue eyes sparkled appreciatively as Gyles circled aimlessly, pausing occasionally to dive beneath the surface or float lazily on his back, the bronzed skin of his back and shoulders rippling with each stroke of his powerful arms.

"
Am I so ugly, Serena?"

"Oh! nay, Gyles, I never knew a man to be so magnificent!"

Sister Anne blinked rapidly and searched the water for the woman whose voice she heard. Save for Lord Gyles the river's surface was unbroken and Sister Anne knew none of the order had followed her from the abbey, so then who ...

"I am a selfish man, Serena. Do not leave me."

"Never, Gyles! I shall stay with you always. Where else do I belong? You are my husband."

The words beat at Sister Anne's temples and she pressed her hands over her ears to still the voices.

"Four weeks, Gyles! 'Tis so long a time for me to wait!"

"Regain your strength quickly, Serena love. We have been parted overlong."

Fear and confusion overwhelmed Sister Anne and she cried out against the taunting voices. The soft cry floated over the water to where Gyles was lazily floating and he turned quickly to the bank, his eyes probing the trees and undergrowth.

"Who goes there?" Gyles called. "Show yourself!"

Sister Anne shrank against the tree trunk, the sound of Gyles's command driving the voices from her mind, leaving her dizzy and half-fainting from fear of discovery. While Gyles studied the shore line Sister Anne remained motionless, scarcely daring to breathe. Only when Gyles struck out for the bank did Sister Anne turn and flee back to the abbey where she sought comfort in the flickering light of the chapel.

Gyles gained the shore and hurriedly donned his clothing, his eyes alertly flicking to his right and left as he cursed inwardly at his carelessness in leaving his sword and dagger at the cottage
. Yet what had he to fear?
Gyles chided himself. He was in a cloister, not a battlefield, and none of the sisters could possibly wish him harm. Twas probably some poor novice who had come to collect water for the abbey and having stumbled upon his bath, had run to say a penance for having seen a nude man. Gyles's lip curled in contempt as he strode through the still deserted courtyard
. Nuns! A bunch of females unable to accept the fact of their own womanhood who preferred withering in a convent to ripening in a man's arms
. By the chapel door Gyles paused—his guest cottage would be unbearably hot by now, whereas the chapel was always cool and restful.

The heavy leather soles of Gyles's boots slapping against the stone floor announced his presence in the chapel but the novice saying her rosary at the altar did not move. The prayer rail groaned under Gyles's weight and he stared balefully at the cross behind the altar. Prayers—what good had they ever done him? The merciful God these demented women worshipped had destroyed the sweetest creature ever to grace the earth. When Serena was lost Gyles had been praying for the happy day not a fortnight hence when they would be reunited. Even through the agonizing months of that fruitless search Gyles had prayed; during the weary hours spent riding through rain and snow he had beseeched God to help him find his wife. All had come to naught—Serena was dead and he would soon be bonded to another in a fashion that made a mockery of the sacred vows. For the first time in a long while Gyles felt the urge to weep and he buried his face in his hands.