When the riders were almost within the ambush, the man at their head raised a hand and sharply reined back his horse, alerted by some sign of danger. Immediately the attackers sprung the trap, spurring their mounts into the road.
The two groups clashed and exploded into a wild melee. Three of the ambushed riders went down in the first onslaught and Meriel feared there would be a massacre, for the attackers had greater numbers as well as surprise on their side.
Her fingers gripped the bark of the tree that sheltered her as she watched helplessly. She had seen squires and knights in their ceaseless training, but never before had she seen the deadly results. There was an eerie horror in watching the distant figures hacking and stabbing in near-total silence, though occasionally the wind brought the sounds of particularly violent blows, and the anguished screams of men and horses.
But even as the attackers struck, the leader of the riders began to rally his men, pulling them together to protect each other's backs, then taking the offensive with lethal skill. The leader was everywhere, a demon of ferocity, striking down attackers, shoring up a weak spot in his group, and there was an unholy beauty in his wild courage.
As the riders recovered from their first shock, the balance of power shifted. Several of the attackers were unhorsed, and suddenly the whole group withdrew, turning to flee north along the road.
Meriel waited to see no more. The track to Lambourn Priory branched from the road a mile to the north and there was a chance the fleeing soldiers might choose that route for their escape. If so, they might decide that the walled priory would be a good place to withdraw and take a stand.
With a silent apology to Rouge, she wrapped the kestrel in her veil and tucked it inside the folds of her habit where it would be safe. Then she lifted her skirts and raced down the hill toward the priory. The mile-long journey seemed to take forever. Twigs tore her habit and once she tripped and fell to the ground, scraping her palms and knees painfully as she protected the kestrel from injury.
As Meriel neared the priory, pain stitched her side and she had to slow, gasping for breath. The bell was tolling for vespers as she entered the gates. With the last of her strength she darted across the yard to intercept the prioress, who was emerging from her lodging to go to the church. "Mother Rohese!"
The prioress turned, her surprise turning to amusement when she recognized the figure racing across the yard. "Yes, child?"
Meriel skidded to a stop and ducked a quick curtsy as she gasped, "Two bands of knights just fought on the far side of the hill. One group is fleeing north, the others may pursue them."
The prioress's amusement vanished. Raising her voice, she summoned one of the passing sisters. "Tell the porter to ring the bell to summon our people from the fields and the village!"
Turning to Meriel, she ordered,"Tell me all that you saw."
Meriel described the ambush, the size of the two bands, and the extent of the fighting. When she was done, Mother Rohese asked, "Do you remember any of the knights' emblems?"
Meriel closed her eyes, trying to recall what she had seen during those chaotic minutes. "I think the leader of the attackers carried the device of a wild boar, in blue." She had a sudden, vivid image of the flashing, upraised shield of the man who had kept his troop from destruction, "The leader of the ambushed group bore a hawk, in silver." Opening her eyes, she asked, "Does that help?"
"The blue boar belongs to Guy of Burgoigne, I think. The silver hawk might be Adrian of Warfield," the prioress said, her brow furrowed. Her attention returned to her novice and a lighter note entered her voice. "I assume that is Rouge under your habit. Perhaps you should set the poor bird free."
Meriel glanced down and saw the upper part of her habit heaving indignantly. Suddenly aware of her dishevelment, she extracted the kestrel, then tried unsuccessfully to put her veil on with her free hand.
"I'm sorry, Mother," she said, blushing as she pushed back her wind-tangled black hair. "I should not have lingered on my way back from the grange."
"Perhaps it was God's will, for if you had returned promptly you would not have seen the fighting," the prioress said. "But go now and make yourself presentable. If you hurry, you won't miss the beginning of vespers."
Accurately interpreting the doubtful look on her novice's face, Mother Rohese added with gentle admonition, "Of course services will continue. Can you think of a better time to pray than when danger threatens?"
* * *
Adrian was in the high, wild state where fighting was a pure and deadly madness, where he sensed his enemies' blows before they fell, where he blocked and struck back from infallible instinct. He had lost count of how many men he had engaged, though he had killed at least one of the attackers, possibly more.
With a powerful blow of his sword, he unhorsed another opponent, who went crashing to the ground to lie stunned on his back. As Adrian set the tip of his blade on the man's throat, Sir Walter's shouted "Adrian!" pierced his lethal concentration.
The compelling note in the captain's voice caused Adrian to hold back the killing stroke. Withdrawing his weapon, he realized that his quarry was not a knight but a terrified squire, a boy scarcely old enough to carry a blade, certainly not a danger to an experienced knight.
The skirmish was ending, most of the ambushers fleeing up the road, those remaining no longer a threat. His breath coming in great gasps from exertion, Adrian told the squire, "Stand and surrender your sword."
Trembling, his face greenish-white, the squire obeyed and offered the hilt of his weapon to his captor. As he accepted it, Adrian felt the wave of reaction that always followed battle.
His stomach churned at the thought of how close he had come to needlessly killing the boy. Though he'd killed more than his share of men in battle, he tried to avoid unnecessary slaughter. Thank God Sir Walter had stopped him in time.
Speaking brusquely to conceal his emotions, Adrian ascertained that his captive was a nephew of the Earl of Sussex. As he placed the lad in Sir Walter's charge, Adrian thought wryly that God was rewarding mercy, for the squire alive would be worth a pretty penny in ransom. Such ransoms had rebuilt Warfield.
Turning to more urgent matters, he dismounted and made a quick survey of the damage they'd sustained. Two of his men were seriously injured, four more had taken wounds that needed attention. The attackers had suffered heavier casualties, with three dead, two mortally wounded, and three more injured but likely to survive.
A Warfield man-at-arms who'd grown up in this part of Wiltshire supplied the welcome information that they were near Lambourn Priory. Not only was it a blessing that the casualties could be nursed by the nuns, it also meant that the Warfield troop could resume its journey with little delay.
With the efficiency of long practice, the wounded were crudely bandaged, the dead lashed to horses, and the journey resumed. During the slow trip, Sir Walter dropped back to ride beside his lord. "They were Burgoigne's men, weren't they?"
"Aye. Lord Guy himself was with them. I had a clear sight of him before he ran off. He's vastly skilled at protecting his precious hide." Adrian's voice turned lethally dry. "After abandoning King Stephen at Wilton, Burgoigne must have decided this was a perfect opportunity for an ambush. We were lucky. If one of his horses hadn't neighed and given us a moment's warning, he might have finally managed to kill me."
"Where you're involved, lad, luck isn't needed." Sir Walter rubbed his thigh where he had taken a bruising blow during the skirmish. For all his advanced age, he had given a good account of himself. "I've lost count of the times Burgoigne and Warfield have clashed over the years. Since you hold land he covets, it will not end till one of you is dead."
"And that one will be Burgoigne," Adrian said grimly. He had not forgotten his vow to destroy the man who had murdered his family, but there had been other priorities and challenges to meet in the years since he had inherited Warfield. Within twenty-four hours of leaving Fontevaile, he had fought his first battle, killed his first man, and take
n his first wound. In the next twenty-four hours, he'd had his first woman.
After that chaotic reintroduction to the world, Adrian had concentrated his strength and will first on holding the barony together, then on increasing Warfield's strength. In the midst of civil war, there had been neither time nor resources for a lengthy siege of Guy's stronghold.
But someday Guy's hour would come, and when it did, he would be a dead man.
* * *
Mother Rohese forwent vespers to supervise the ingathering of all the priory's tenants, and not a few of their most valuable beasts. After sending out the best poacher in the parish to see what he could learn, there was nothing to do but wait and see if danger materialized, or if the priory would escape unnoticed. The serene face of the prioress showed none of her concern as she sat quietly in the courtyard, her rosary twined around her left hand and a village infant drowsing on her lap.
Vespers were long past when the serf keeping watch on the wall shouted that visitors had arrived, his voice cautious but not fearful. Rohese handed the sleeping infant to his older sister, then made her unhurried way across the court.
As she reached the main gate, a single knight was admitted while her bailiff and his men watched him with armed vigilance. A silver hawk was embroidered on the knight's blue surcoat. Warfield, as she'd guessed. A dark gold growth of beard dusted his face and he looked as if he had been in the saddle for a week, but fatigue was not allowed to soften his erect carriage.
Seeing Rohese, the knight approached her and bowed, the links of his hauberk jangling faintly. "I am Adrian of Warfield," he said. "We were ambushed nearby, and I beg the assistance of Lambourn Priory in caring for the wounded."
"I have heard of you, Adrian of Warfield. You have the reputation of a man who respects the Church." The prioress inclined her head. "All godly men are welcome here."
She studied her visitor curiously. He was not what she would have expected in a knight of such fierce renown. Beneath whiskers and exhaustion were the sensitive, fine-drawn features of a scholar. Moreover, he was scarcely more than a boy.
It was a sign of her own advancing years that she was surprised, she realized ruefully. Warfield's cool gray eyes were a reminder that warriors came of age early, or not at all. "How many are injured?"
"Eleven, two of them mortally. Besides the wounded, I would also leave three men-at-arms to guard our prisoners."
Correctly interpreting Mother Rohese's expression, the baron said, "Don't worry, those I leave can be trusted to behave themselves in a nunnery."
"You are sure?" She gave him a peaceable smile. "Forgive my caution, Lord Adrian, but in these times, even the threat of God's wrath is not always enough to protect his servants."
"I promise you there will be no trouble," he said with dry humor. "My men may doubt the sureness of God's wrath, but they know better than to doubt mine."
"Very well, my lord." The prioress's eyes twinkled at his assurance. This was a very forceful young man, and she decided that his followers would behave as they ought. Lifting her hand, she gestured for her bailiff to open the gate.
As the task of settling the injured men in the infirmary began, Mother Rohese said to her visitor, a faint question in her voice, "Rumor says there was a battle to the south."
"Aye," Warfield confirmed, "outside Wilton. Stephen left the town to avoid being trapped in the castle, and Robert of Gloucester put him to rout. Had not the king's steward, William Martel, put up a stout defense, Stephen would have been captured again. Martel was taken prisoner."
"The king will pay a high price to get him back," the prioress said thoughtfully, assessing the implications, "You fought with Earl Robert?"
"Yes. My brother and most of my knights are still with him, aiding in the pursuit." Lord Adrian's eye was sardonic. Doubtless he knew that Stephen's Queen Maud was a patron of Lambourn Priory, but by tacit consent the baron and the prioress avoided declaring political loyalties.
Mother Rohese sighed. "So another battle was fought, more men have died, and England is no closer to a resolution."
"Too many men profit by chaos," Warfield observed cynically. "As long as the king and the empress are deadlocked, there are rich pickings for vultures, so men change their loyalties like weathercocks."
Many men did, but the prioress knew that Warfield had held steadfast to the empress through the years of civil war. Though Matilda had a reputation for arrogance, she must also have some finer qualities or she could not have held the loyalty of men like Robert of Gloucester and Adrian of Warfield.
After giving Rohese his news and a generous recompense for the priory's aid, Warfield signaled for his horse, impatient to be off. Surprised, the prioress asked, "You do not spend the night? It is dusk and your men look very tired."
"There is a good moon tonight, reverend mother. We'll not halt for another few hours yet." The baron swung onto his mount.
"Very well. God keep you, Adrian of Warfield." The prioress inclined her head with grave respect, then turned away.
Adrian scanned the milling group of men-at-arms, and under his stern eye they began forming up to leave. During the baron's discussion with Mother Rohese, the nuns had been moving among the visitors with food and wine, and now one approached Adrian.
It was not true that all nuns looked the same in their habits, for he had noticed this particular sister earlier. The shadows of the courtyard had eliminated details, making her an abstraction of pure grace as she walked from man to man, her step light and her black skirts swaying about her. As he talked with the prioress, his gaze had followed her with absent pleasure, the same pleasure he would have found in a flower or a sunset.
Stopping by his stirrup, the little nun carefully filled a goblet from her wineskin, then lifted it to him. She was very young. "Will you take some wine, my lord?"
"Thank you, madame," Adrian said, using the courtesy title accorded all religious sisters. He emptied the vessel in one long swallow, noting that the Benedictine sisters kept a better cellar than the Cistercians of Fontevaile, then handed the cup back.
"I was on the hill above the road when you were ambushed, and I saw the whole fight." She reached into her pouch for bread and cheese, then handed them to him. "It was a cowardly attack, but you and your men fought them off with splendid bravery."
In the dusk her upturned face was a small pale oval, the veil covering her forehead almost to the dark brows. It was not a beautiful face, but her expression had a sweet guilelessness that moved Adrian in spite of his fatigue. "There is no splendor in fighting," he said brusquely as he accepted the food. "You were a fool to wander outside the priory."
Startled by his harshness, she gazed at him with wide blue eyes as he continued, "All over England abbeys and churches have been despoiled when it has suited one side or the other. Bands of dispossessed men rove the country like wolves, and your habit will not protect you from danger."
Her light laughter held the same sweetness as her face. "If even Lambourn's walls are no sure protection, why should I stay always within them?"
Her amusement faded under his hard gaze. "It is good of you to be concerned, my lord," she said contritely. "Pray forgive my levity. In truth, very seldom does an errand take me from the priory, and I never venture far."
"Take more care in the future, madame." Adrian raised his arm to signal his men, then turned and led his troop out the gate.
As they trotted through the woods to the main road, he chewed the bread and cheese absently while he wondered why he had been so rude to the little nun. She had been a sweet little thing, and so graceful...
Uneasily he realized that she had aroused not just his protectiveness, but his desire. Realization was accompanied by a surge of self-disgust. He had left Fontevaile knowing that chastity would be impossible in the world. In time he had come to believe that the pleasures of the flesh were one of God's gifts to suffering mankind and that it was no sin for men and women to find comfort and satisfaction together.
Bu
t lusting after a holy sister was a kind of adultery. Worse than adultery.
Behind him, one of his men said to another, "Did you see the little sister with the great blue eyes? Pity that one is wasted as a bride of Christ."
"Aye," the second said. "She should be warming a mortal man's bed."
Both laughed, then stopped abruptly when their lord's cold gaze swept over them. He was known as a man with more piety than most, one who lived almost as simply as a monk and who brooked no blasphemy within his hearing. Wise men did not anger him without good cause.
As they rode north under a waxing moon, it did not improve Adrian's mood to know that in his heart he was as guilty of profane thoughts as his men.
* * *
Two months later
Meriel's lips moved as she read the elaborate script, translating the well-loved words from Latin in a soft whisper. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
She wasn't entirely sure what the phrase meant, but to her it had always symbolized the mystery and joy of faith. Tonight, less than forty-eight hours before the ceremony that would forever separate her from the world, she needed to find that joy again.
She sat cross-legged on her pallet, the heavy volume in her lap, and absently traced the illuminated border with her forefinger. The design was composed of woodland creatures, with a luminous blue kingfisher twined into the initial capital. The artistry of the work awed her, but even such beauty could not lighten her heavy heart.
At Lambourn Priory, a novice about to take the veil spent three nights in a private cell and was excused from all duties except singing the divine offices. The time was to be spent in prayer and purification, much as squires did before the ceremony of knighthood. Meriel had the use of one of the priory's precious gospels and candles to read it by. She even had her kestrel, and Rouge now slept on a perch in the corner.
When Meriel began the purification, Mother Rohese had urged her to look deeply within herself for guidance. Doubtless the prioress, who knew everything from the least transgression of the newest student to the great political questions of the day, also knew that her novice was divided in heart.