Magic in His Kiss

by Shari Anton

  “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

  Midday 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.

  Beside William had stood Rhodri, a lad barely into his facial hair. He’d striven to follow William’s stern example, and failed, which endeared him to her instantly. Unfortunately, by the end of her visit, Rhodri no longer found her childhood whims amusing.

  Nicole opened the receiving chamber’s door to behold the gangly youth of her memories, now grown into his full, magnificent manhood.

  Sweet Jesu! The years had been most benevolent to Rhodri ap Dafydd.

  Tall, wide across the shoulders, and narrow in the hip, Rhodri didn’t need the sword belted at his trim waist to declare this bard was also a warrior—a bardd teulu. Garbed in the deep brown of a stately, solid oak, his imposing presence dominated the small chamber.

  Long, raven-black hair skimmed his rough-woven lo
ng-sleeved tunic. His dark brown, amber-flecked eyes were deep set; his nose had been broken a time or two. His lips were firm and lush, and all the more beguiling when a slow, potent smile softened his squared, bold jaw.

  She realized how thoroughly she inspected Rhodri when he returned the appraisal in kind, setting delicious sparks to tingling along his gaze’s path, these becoming particularly unsettling where he lingered overlong.

  Though she was garbed in a robe designed to conceal every womanly curve, she felt sure he’d taken the measure of each one. And liked what he saw.

  Sweet heaven above, she tingled from hair to toenails at Rhodri’s bold assessment.

  Which only served to prove what she had known for many a year about her own nature. She thoroughly appreciated a handsome, solidly formed male far too much ever to be faithful to vows of chastity.

  Not that every nun within Bledloe Abbey held to that particular vow. Only look at the number of births recorded in the infirmary each year, and how Sister Amelia disappeared for hours and hours every time a certain visiting bishop occupied the priest’s hut.

  “A princess in nuns’ robes is still a princess,” Rhodri said, his Norman French delicately flavored with the lilt of his native language. “Did I not know otherwise, I might mistake you for Gwendolyn.”

  A favorable comparison. Her sister was counted among the most beautiful women in the realm. Delight with the flattery battled briefly with the humility the nuns had toiled long hours to instill in her. Humility had never been one of her strongest virtues, either.

  Nicole returned his smile. “Greetings, Rhodri. It gladdens my heart to hear your gallantry has not suffered.”

  He tilted his head. “I was not sure you would remember me. Many years have passed since we last met, and you were very young.”

  Thirteen years had passed, if she remembered aright.

  “I was old enough to retain memories of Glenvair, and my uncle Connor, and you. Those were happy times for me.” Except the last two days of her visit hadn’t been pleasurable at all. But surely Rhodri hadn’t come to take her to task for childhood mistakes. “How fares Connor?”

  “He is well and sends his love and greetings. He also instructs me to invite you to seek refuge at Glenvair.”

  Shocked at the bittersweet invitation, Nicole wished Connor had tendered the offer immediately after her father’s death, when she might have been able to accept. How much nicer to have been allowed to spend the past eight years at Glenvair instead of being banished to Bledloe Abbey! Sweet yearnings battered at her common sense, bringing her close to tears.

  Useless tears.

  Nicole sat on the bench beside where Rhodri had tossed his hooded brown cloak. Atop the cloak lay an oddly shaped sack made of soft, deep green wool. She touched the sack and felt the curve of his harp’s wood frame beneath the wool.

  “Your harp,” she said, giving the instrument due reverence. “I remember you playing at supper at Glenvair.”

  “Do you?”

  “Quite well. I always thought the music enhanced the magical feel of my uncle’s holding. Gwendolyn told me you finished your training and are now bardd teulu of Glenvair.”

  He nodded, his rugged chin dipping in a manner worthy of a court poet as well as a warrior. “I am. Connor kindly allows me a place at his manor until I am able to compete for my chair.”

  “I wish you good fortune in your ambition, Rhodri ap Dafydd. Not all bards are skilled enough to become a pencerdd.”

  “My thanks, but I did not come to talk about my future, but yours. Connor’s invitation is not an idle one, nor a whim. He is in earnest.”

  Nicole withdrew her hand from the harp, still a bit incredulous at the offer. “You truly came all this way to invite me to Glenvair?”

  “Aye.”

  The men had surely lost their wits!

  Not sure if she was more annoyed with Rhodri or Connor, Nicole rose from the bench, her ire growing at her uncle’s desire for her to accept the impossible offer.

  “Then you have come far for naught. King Stephen has twice denied my sisters’ petitions for me to return home to Camelen, even for a short visit. If the king will not allow me to go home, he will certainly not permit me to visit Wales! I thank my uncle for his kindness but must refuse.”

  “I fail to see why King Stephen’s wishes should affect your decision.”

  Nicole tossed a frustrated hand in the air. “I am the king’s ward! I have no choice but to do his bidding!”

  “I hear the Norman in you speaking. What says the Welsh?” His amber-flecked eyes narrowed. “Or have you abandoned the better half of your heritage? You are of Pendragon, Nicole, and yet you bow to the wishes of an English king. I should think your lineage sets you far above his whims.”

  How dare Rhodri reproach her for disregarding a lineage that had not earned her or her sisters a dram of sympathy or regard?

  “When my father was killed, the king gave Camelen to Alberic of Chester, who forced Gwendolyn to marry him. Also on the king’s order, Emma was sent to court and forced to marry Darian of Bruges. I was sent here to await my fate, which will also be decided by the English king! What good is the Pendragon blood if no one gives it reverence?”

  “I do,” he said softly, sincerely, bursting her bubble of anger over how heartlessly she and her sisters had been treated after her father’s death.

  In Rhodri’s expression she saw respect for her Pendragon lineage, a thing she’d never witnessed from any other person save one—Rhys, also a Welsh bard, who resided at Camelen.

  ’Twas Rhys the bard who’d honored Nicole’s mother’s wishes by singing the ancient tales, telling stories of valiant kings and honorable knights, of King Arthur, keeping their Welsh heritage alive for all the de Leon children.

  Naturally, Rhodri had heard those same tales from his father, then learned to relate them to others from a revered pencerdd.

  Still, his respect for her lineage did her no good.

  “I cannot leave Bledloe Abbey. Were I to take refuge in Wales, my sisters’ families might suffer for my audacity. I will not bring the mallet of royal ire down on their heads.”

  He huffed. “Right now Stephen can barely lift a mallet, much less wield it. Have you heard of his heir’s death?” At Nicole’s nod, he continued. “Stephen is far more concerned with keeping hold of his crown and throne than with the whereabouts of one Nicole de Leon. Nor, I believe, would your sisters suffer. From what I have heard of Alberic and Darian, I dare say both would make powerful adversaries, and Stephen is needful of all the good will and allies he can convince to remain his supporters.” He stepped forward, a hand outstretched, palm up in an offer of succor. “Think on it, Nicole. The time for you to escape is now, when your absence will barely be noticed. By the time King Stephen is aware you are gone, you will be safely in Wales.”

  The door swung open and Sister Claire burst into the chamber, her eyes wide with concern. “I heard shouting! Nicole, have you been harmed?”

  With Rhodri’s reasoning swirling in her head, Nicole absently shook her head at the distressed nun. “I beg pardon for my outburst, Sister Claire. I did not mean to disturb you or the vigil.”

  Sister Claire took a calming breath. “Well, then, if you are finished, you may again take your place at vigil and I will accompany your visitor to the door.”

  Except Nicole didn’t want Rhodri to leave just yet.

  Could he be right? Could she leave Bledloe Abbey without worrying over what the king might do to her or her family? Could she escape a marriage that might not be to her liking?

  Dare she take the risk?

  She needed more time to further ponder her uncle’s unexpected and wickedly tempting offer of refuge. Nor could she abandon Mother Abbess in these last hours before her death.

  But how to keep Sister Claire from banishing Rhodri from the abbey until she could further ponder Connor’s offer?

  The answer to Nicole’s dilemma popped forth and rolled off her tongue before
she could question its wisdom.

  “Sister Claire, Rhodri ap Dafydd is a bard. Might he be allowed to play his harp for Mother Abbess?” She spun to again face Rhodri, not caring if he saw through her ploy to gain more time. “Mother Abbess weakens hourly, and I doubt that in all of her life she has heard an accomplished bard play the harp. Would you do us the honor, Rhodri?”

  His answer was immediate, his graciousness genuine. “I would be most pleased to play for all who care to listen.”

  The nun chewed on her lip in indecision. “This is a most uncommon request, Nicole. Men are not allowed within the depths of the abbey.”

  “For the past sennight we have allowed men into the infirmary to visit Mother Abbess.”

  “Two priests and a bishop who came to give comfort and say final prayers. One can hardly compare the circumstances!”

  “Rhodri’s music can also give comfort,” Nicole countered. “I know my request is unusual, but consider the joy you could give Mother Abbess in her final hours. I beg of thee, Sister, give her this one last gift.”

  Nicole held her breath while Sister Claire hesitated before relenting.

  “You must leave your sword behind,” she ordered Rhodri before leaving the chamber, no doubt headed for the infirmary to warn the other nuns that she’d broken one of the abbey’s rules.

  Delighted, Nicole let loose her breath.

  Rhodri laid his sword and scabbard on the bench and unsheathed the beautiful harp. The silver strings caught bits of light and flung them throughout the room, like tiny stars whirling brightly in the night sky. The harp’s music would sparkle as brightly. Oh, how she’d missed a harp’s music!

  “Sister Claire must have been very near the door if she heard you shouting at me,” Rhodri commented.

  Nicole couldn’t remember ever shouting since entering Bledloe Abbey. Embarrassed at her lapse of good manners, she explained, “Loud sounds carry far down stone passageways. Surely she heard me from the infirmary.”

  “Or she hovered outside the door to spy on you.”