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  A corner of her mouth turned down. “Of course they are.”

  “He has not received word from you in so long that—”

  “You may tell His Excellency that the priory’s farms prosper and that the churches tithe steadily. Have you more trivial nonsense for me, Father Gregory?”

  He had the grace to blush as he adjusted his cowl. “I am again to remind you that boarders are no longer allowed here. His Excellency deems such contact with the world damaging to the virtue of the gentle souls gathered in this nunnery.”

  “When His Excellency provides the rent money our boarders bring in, I shall consider his request.”

  “Madame, it was more than a request.”

  She tipped her face up to kiss him. “Yes, I know. And if you were not so fair a messenger, I would plant a solid kick on your rump and bid you pass it to the bishop with my regards. You have dutifully delivered your message. Think no more of it.”

  Gregory winced. Think no more of it. He wished the bishop would choose another envoy for missives to Saint Etheldreda. He disliked any situation in which he and Alys could not be allied. Ah, well. At least the accounts and daily manipulations of the priory allowed ample opportunity for visits. For this he was grateful.

  Alys walked to the narrow window of her chamber and pushed aside the white gauze scrim that blocked it. Since the tribulation of the Black Death twelve years ago, most villagers shrouded their windows with heavy black cloth. The practice surely banished illness from the hearth. Unfortunately, it banished light as well, and Alys abhorred darkness. She found even the white scrim an unwelcome barrier to the outside and endured it simply because it kept out the incessant bugs of early summer.

  “They are late,” she said.

  Gregory drew close behind her. “Who?”

  “I sent dames Joan, Catherine, and Margaret to aid the novices in haymaking. They will all be late for Vespers.”

  “But of course they will.” It was Corpus Christi week. The air carried the scent of summer to come, beguiling the mind and teasing the senses. Dame Margaret was much older than Alys and, left alone, would have been reliable. Dame Joan, however, was only seventeen, scarcely older than the two novices in the priory’s charge. And Dame Catherine was a silly young woman who would squawk like a chicken through the streets of Lincoln if someone suggested it. Gregory had no doubt they’d been seduced by the day and would not return to the priory until the sun hung low in the western sky. Furthermore, he suspected that Alys had known this long before dispatching them.

  “They can be no better than what they are,” she often said.

  He wondered briefly what the bishop would think. Then, as a soft breeze drifted into the chamber, he no longer cared.

  They quietly studied the landscape together. Alys’s chamber, tucked away in a turret of the chapter house, offered a view of rippling golden wheat and green grass. The land was flat, good for raising the sheep whose wool the nuns spun into yarn. The towers of Lincoln Cathedral, some fifteen miles away, dominated the landscape. Lincoln itself sat atop a hill, at the end of a road left behind by the Romans long ago.

  Alys’s hand stole into his. “You’re thinking of the sea again,” she said, and he smiled. His homeland was south of the Wash, where marshy patches of land poked from the sea one moment, only to entirely disappear the next. Seldom did a day pass that he did not long for the water.

  He squeezed her hand. “Fortunately, I have found respite here.”

  The sound of horses’ hooves drew their gazes to the dirt road that led through the gates and into the courtyard of Saint Etheldreda’s.

  “You were mistaken,” Gregory said. “The sisters are back in good time.”

  “No. Hear the wheels? This cart is far heavier than ours. We have visitors.”

  His heart thudded to his toes. “Alys, please. No more boarders. The bishop—”

  “The bishop needn’t know.”

  The travelers emerged from behind a wall of wheat. Alys squinted, then took a startled step backward. Her hand flew to her throat.

  Gregory stared at her. “What is it?”

  Her eyes remained fixed on the travelers as they passed the small guesthouse and trotted through the priory gate. “It is a plague I do not deserve,” she said, and swept from the room.

  Careful not to be seen in the prioress’s window, Gregory peered into the courtyard.

  She was right. There, mounted on a fine chestnut horse, wheezing as though he’d run instead of ridden, sat Lord Richard de Clairmont.

  “Corpus bones,” Gregory muttered, quickly following Alys through the door and down the stone steps.

  Her father had more wealth than taste, so it did not surprise Alys to see Sir Richard so badly attired. She planted herself before him, arms crossed against her chest as he huffed and puffed his great bulk off his horse. His scarlet tunic nearly matched the color of his jowls. His soft leather girdle, failing in its quest for a waistline, sagged beneath a straining, sweat-stained belly. Alys took a determined step backward. The half moons of sweat rimming Sir Richard’s underarms indicated that he and his horse would smell alarmingly alike.

  Gregory’s soft footsteps halted behind her. She raised her chin and waited for her father to break the silence.

  She had not seen him in five summers, but boarders and tradesmen carried news that wafted through Saint Etheldreda’s gates. She therefore knew that he’d married again last autumn.

  Though her mother had died years ago, each of Sir Richard’s subsequent marriages had pricked Alys’s heart. His second wife, Eleanor of Kent, had been a rich widow twenty-six years his senior. She’d doddered through the manor house, painfully aware that she’d been married purely for her fortune. She’d been expected to die within a year or two after the wedding, and with the help of the Black Death, she’d obliged.

  Even Alys had to admit that her father had genuinely liked his third wife. Alys herself might also have learned to like Matilda had the young woman ever mastered the art of chewing with her mouth closed, or had she occasionally washed. But Matilda had lasted only a year, dying in childbed and taking Sir Richard’s newborn son with her.

  Now there was Elizabeth, whose fourteen-year-old body held the promise of many sons.

  Alys could not understand why her father sought additional heirs. Her own mother had given him two sons and four daughters, more than enough to secure his bloodlines. But Sir Richard was wealthy enough to follow any whim he chose.

  And on this point Alys could agree: Elizabeth, with her whinnying giggle and vacant stare, could only be called a whim.

  She watched as he finally turned to face her. Sand-colored hair flowed from beneath an indigo cap. The cap was festooned with peacock feathers, which dipped into his eyes. A golden mantle, trimmed with ermine, flapped awkwardly as the breeze slipped beneath its hem.

  Sir Richard hesitated. Then he pulled the cap off his head and swept into a deep bow.

  “Madame.” His tone dripped with sweetness.

  Alys knew at once that he wanted a favor.

  “It has been too long since last we met.” He took a tentative step forward. His fingers flexed as if promising a hug, yet not sure how to deliver one.

  Alys did not hold out her arms. Her gaze traveled past her father to the ox-drawn cart behind his horse. Its cargo was covered with burlap, but she could see a bedpost poking through, along with a sack that trailed meal. She recognized faithful John tending the oxen. He and her old nurse were the only members of her father’s household she actually missed. Years ago, the sight of either of them would have been enough to start a stream of tears down her cheeks. Now she simply turned away.

  There, sitting atop the cart, was a girl Alys had never seen before. White-blond tendrils of hair escaped from a long, straggly braid. Pale blue eyes met the prioress’s scrutiny.

  Vacant as a doorpost. Was this, then, the imbecilic Elizabeth? How dare her father bring that girl here!

  “What is it you want, sir?” Alys dem
anded in a hard voice.

  Sir Richard’s reaching arms dropped to his sides. He wiped the sweat from his florid face with an open palm.

  “This is how it’s to be, then,” he said irritably. “Mind you, Alys. You may be prioress here, but you still owe me the respect due a father.”

  “I think not,” Alys said. “I am dead to the world, remember? I am unable to inherit a speck of your land. I may not even lay claim to any remembrance of my mother. You kindly pointed this out when you left me here so many years ago.”

  His face grew redder still, until she feared he might suffer a fit at her feet.

  “You are here through your own doing, madame. If you’d followed my bidding like a good daughter—”

  “The man you’d have sold me to was repulsive.”

  “Not a sale, Alys, a marriage. And with his lands in my possession, I could have—”

  “He was a sixty-year-old monster with a taste for the lascivious.”

  “An apt match, daughter! An apt match!”

  Alys clenched her teeth. “That would never do for me, sir. I have not the nature of your new wife, Elizabeth!”

  With a growl, her father lumbered toward her. Gregory intercepted, quickly grabbing the wrist of Sir Richard’s raised hand. Sir Richard took a step backward, then spat on the ground near the priest’s feet.

  Gregory spoke quietly. “You must curb your tongue, sir. She is not your dairymaid.”

  “That she isn’t, Father Gregory.” Sir Richard nailed him with a narrow-eyed glare. “She’s your mistress. Or do you actually suppose that no one in the village knows why the priest and the prioress get along so famously?”

  The color drained from Gregory’s face. Alys spoke before he could say more than her father needed to know. Sir Richard was incapable of any thought beyond the base. The shot was pure conjecture, and she preferred that it stay that way.

  “Who is this?” she asked abruptly, pointing toward the girl atop the cart. “Could it be the new lady of the manor? You must forgive my ignorance, my lord, but there have been so many that I simply cannot keep them all straight.”

  Her father looked blank. “Lady of the manor?” He followed his daughter’s gaze back to the cart, then started to chuckle. “Oh, no, no, no. The lady Elizabeth is unable to travel. She is with child, daughter. With God’s blessing, I shall have a new son by Michaelmas.”

  With his chest puffed out like that and the crepey folds of his neck, he reminded Alys of a barnyard cock. She would have liked to pray for the birth of a daughter. It would serve him right, the boastful bastard. But she couldn’t in good conscience entrust another daughter to his care. She knew too well how foul a fate that was. Better Sir Richard have a sturdy, pugnacious son, the kind who would grow up quickly and seize his father’s property.

  “Then who is this?” she asked again, examining the girl.

  Sir Richard turned to wave the girl down. “Come.”

  The girl stared past him as if she hadn’t heard.

  He raised his voice. “Isobel, come here!”

  “Is she deaf?” In spite of herself, Alys stepped closer to her father.

  “Deaf? No, madame, she hears well enough. Isobel!”

  Alys watched as Isobel slowly slid from her perch. She moved like a cat, her lithe, fluid motions belying the emptiness of her expression. She wasn’t very tall, but the ripeness of her body marked her more woman than girl.

  Sir Richard waited until she’d drawn near, then closed a hand around her upper arm to pull her to his side. “Isobel, this is your aunt Alys, prioress of Saint Etheldreda.”

  Aunt Alys? Alys’s mind traveled through the years. Of course. This would be her brother Geoffrey’s daughter, the one born shortly after she’d taken her vows.

  What in creation’s name was she doing here?

  Her eyes darted suspiciously to the bed in the cart. “What’s wrong with her?” she demanded.

  Sir Richard’s fingers fanned innocently across his chest. “Wrong, madame?”

  “You clearly plan to leave her here. What’s wrong with her?”

  “She has professed a deepest desire to serve God.”

  Alys turned to Isobel. “Have you?”

  The girl stared back silently. Alys gently touched her shoulder. Isobel remained passive.

  “Sir,” Alys started, “I doubt that this child professes anything, let alone a vocation. Can she talk?”

  Sir Richard’s shoulders sagged. “No.”

  “Is she dim-witted?”

  “How do I know, if she won’t talk?”

  Alys turned and strode back to Gregory. “I won’t keep her.”

  A strangled yelp escaped from Sir Richard. He hopped behind her, all pretense of dignity gone.

  “You must keep her, Alys! You cannot turn her away! Tell her, Father Gregory! Make her do it!”

  Alys stopped so suddenly that her father nearly plowed into her. She swung around, a rosebud of scarlet dotting each pale cheek. “And what do I tell the sisters here? That we have become a refuge for the feebleminded? That they must now make room for the addled in their midst?”

  “Tell them that she is deeply devoted to God!”

  Both turned as one to stare at Isobel. Her gaze rested somewhere over Gregory’s shoulder, focused on nothing in particular. It did not inspire thoughts of devotion.

  Sir Richard grabbed his daughter’s hand. “Alys, please. I have brought all you require. Here is her bed. More furniture will arrive in a day or two. She has a new habit to wear, and I have included provisions for the priory.”

  The prioress pointedly removed her hand from his grip. He squirmed. A new stream of sweat trickled down the side of his face. Then he squared his shoulders and set his jaw, once again a man in full control of the situation.

  It was too late. Alys had noted his desperation.

  “I remember my brother Geoffrey’s ways,” she said. “He is so very much like you, sir, able to catch the whiff of profit wherever it might lurk. Why have you not traded this girl in marriage? Surely you can gain something valuable in return.”

  Sir Richard averted his eyes. “None will have her.”

  “Why not? She’s comely enough, and I would think a mute wife might be well prized in the circles you frequent. Well?”

  Her father mumbled at his feet. “Things happen when she’s about.”

  “ ‘Things’?” Gregory asked.

  Sir Richard glared at him, but there was no way to avoid an explanation. “There are those who claim she possesses an evil eye.”

  “Is she a witch?” The priest’s eyebrows rose.

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that. Just…things happen.”

  Alys’s head swiveled toward Isobel. The girl looked dirty, young, and daft, but little else appeared amiss.

  Sir Richard jumped to fill the silence. “I think it’s nothing, mind you. Pure coincidence, every incident.”

  “Suppose you relate the incidents and let us decide.” Gregory said mildly.

  Sir Richard shifted his great weight from one foot to the other. “Little things. Nonsense things. Cream curdles in a manor house where she is a guest. Crockery breaks as she passes through a scullery. Horses go lame.”

  Alys nearly rolled her eyes. Was this what was meant by the evil eye? Why, this was no more than mere superstition. This was simply the way people chose to explain away a mute. It was no better than the belief that hunger pangs were caused by a worm in the stomach.

  Yet here stood her father, looking nervous and frightened despite his labored attempt at nonchalance.

  “You know how tongues wag…” His voice trailed into the air.

  Alys knew all too well.

  She glanced again at Isobel. The girl was examining her dirty fingernails, mouth pursed in concentration as if this were a most difficult task.

  It was not the priory’s responsibility to take in the shire’s unwanted ones. Isobel would survive if sent home. Surely she would be clothed, fed, and given a place to sleep. Sir
Richard was vain and stupid, but he wasn’t barbarous.

  Was he?

  Alys hazarded a glance at her father. A touch of arsenic in the food had a way of making difficult situations disappear.

  She shook the thought away. Isobel would be left alone, sure to inherit her fortune eventually. Then she’d be too attractive a prize to ignore. A husband could overlook the peculiarities of a rich wife.

  Hadn’t that been the fate of Sir Richard’s second wife, Eleanor? Traded like a pig simply because she possessed a fortune and then treated with enough disdain to let her know it.

  “I will give you whatever you want,” her father said. “What does Saint Etheldreda need, daughter? I will send salted herring by the barrel. Chickens. Cheese.”

  Saint Etheldreda always needed something. Alys recognized the expression that flashed across Gregory’s face. It clearly said, “No more boarders!”

  “Ale?” her father added hopefully. “Do you need ale?”

  Resigned, Alys once again searched out Isobel’s eyes. To her surprise, the girl smiled, a broad, white smile that made her actually seem beautiful.

  And, in that smile, Alys caught a glimpse of her own dear mother.

  At least the girl’s teeth were good. And her body seemed healthy, despite her addled mind. Perhaps she could be taught to spin, or even to embroider altar cloths.

  “Money,” Sir Richard said. “On Isobel’s feast day, daughter, I will make a substantial offering.”

  She could fight all but her own emotions. With a sigh, the prioress surrendered. “Oh, very well. She may stay.”

  Sir Richard’s obvious relief made her long to reconsider.

  “Good!” he said heartily. “Good! I will rest the night in your guesthouse, then depart in the morning. Is supper—”

  The priory bell began to toll, a timely call to Vespers. Alys brushed away his tiresome voice with a wave of her hand. She turned on her heel toward the chapel, leaving her father, his entourage, Isobel, and even Gregory behind to do as they chose.

  She could pray, eat her supper, even retire for the evening. She could travel the wide earth, and the problem would still be waiting whenever she chose to face it.