Unfortunately, it was true. Lady Seonaid did seem particularly accident-prone, so Sister Blanche tried a different approach. "She has a good heart, Mother. 'Tis just she is so uncomely tall, and not very comfortable with it, and having grown up in the company of her father and brother she is unsure in a female environment."
"I swear by my faith in the holy God, Blanche, you would have a kind word and a pint of sympathy for a viper," she muttered, then glared at the woman. "You have my instructions, Sister. When the Englishman is seen to be approaching, you will send the workers from the gardens. Once everyone is indoors, you are to unbar the gate."
"But--"
"Do not 'but' me, Blanche! I have given you your orders and you shall carry them out, else I will send you back to England in disgrace."
Blanche went still. She too was an Englishwoman, though she had joined the order on a calling, not simply to escape an unpleasant marriage. As the daughter of a lesser baron, she had not been given a choice of where to serve her Lord. She had been sent to Scotland because it was where she had been needed. Blanche had served her Lord and the people here as well as she was able. Unlike the abbess, she found the Scots colorful and brave and had made many friends among the other sisters, most of whom were Scottish. She had no wish to return to her family in England in disgrace. However, neither did she wish to betray Lady Seonaid. Despite the woman's rough ways and clumsiness, Blanche found she liked her. In her opinion, there was a certain feistiness and honor about Seonaid Dunbar she found admirable. The Scottish maiden also had a rough charm and good sense of humor.
Perhaps there was a way to do as she was ordered without betraying the woman.
"Diya hear that?"
Aeldra paused and cocked her head. "Someone's aweepin'."
"Hmmm." Moving forward, Seonaid followed the soft sobs until she reached the chapel door. She paused briefly, hesitant to intrude, but found she couldn't just ignore the heartrending sounds. Heaving a sigh, she opened the door.
The chapel was where all the nuns and lay sisters met to recite Matins and Lauds, which Seonaid had sat through dutifully for two weeks. Five hours a day of prayer in this huge cave of a room lit only by an array of candles on the altar and along the side walls. The amount of candles used would have lit up the average chamber to the brightness of daylight, but only ever seemed to give the chapel a soft glow.
'Twas probably a good thing, Seonaid thought, averting her eyes from the walls as she had since the first time she had entered and dared to glance at them in the dim light. From the brief perusal, she knew she would not wish for better lighting to look at the tapestries. They were all religious in nature, depictions of Christ and several saints. Unfortunately, they seemed to portray the more gruesome aspects of their lives or, more to the point, their deaths. There was the crucifixion of Jesus, the beheading of Saint Barbara, the massacre of Saint Ursula along with 11,000 virgins, and a portrayal of Saint Catherine being broken on the wheel.
The making of the tapestries was what the sisters occupied themselves with while not praying. Seonaid knew they were presently working on a piece depicting the stoning of Saint Stephen. Finished with the most gruesome martyrings of the female saints, it seemed they were moving on to the men.
Ah, well, 'twas not her concern, she supposed; then her eyes widened in surprise as she finally spied the woman kneeling before the altar. She had expected it to be one of the sisters, weeping over a punishment by the abbess, but instead it was the only other woman presently seeking sanctuary besides Aeldra and herself. Lady Helen. The woman was English and had arrived just the evening before. Seonaid had heard little about her. No one had told her why Lady Helen sought sanctuary, but she suspected it was something to do with a nasty, overbearing husband or some such thing. Had it just been an untenable marriage she was avoiding, the woman surely would have sought sanctuary in an English abbey rather than run all the way up here to the middle of Scotland.
A nudge from behind told Seonaid she had tarried too long in the door and Aeldra was becoming impatient to see what was about. Seonaid stepped into the chapel, aware that the smaller woman followed as she walked up the center aisle toward the altar and the woman kneeling there.
"How do you plan to get her out of the abbey?"
Blake gave a shrug of unconcern. "The moment she sees me she will come out."
"She will?" Rolfe sounded dubious.
"Certainly."
"I see." He pondered the idea briefly. "Then why ever did she flee to the abbey in the first place?"
"She had yet to see me and had no idea what I looked like," Blake responded promptly.
"Ah." Rolfe nodded. "So, as soon as she sees your fair visage--"
"She shall drop to the ground like a ripe plum and prostrate herself at my feet."
"Of course, she will," Rolfe agreed with amusement.
"Women have always reacted with favor to my looks."
"So I have heard."
" 'Tis a curse, really."
"Hmm. You have my sympathies," Rolfe said dryly, then added, "There is just one thing that concerns me."
"What?"
"How is she going to see your fair visage and be overcome? She will be within the abbey walls, and we without. Only holy men are allowed past the gate."
Blake scowled. "I do not yet know. I have been thinking on it since leaving Dunbar Castle, but--" He shrugged before glancing at the man riding beside him. " 'Tisn't really my problem anyway. You are the one who was supposed to arrange everything. I was simply to travel to Dunbar for the execution."
Rolfe's lips turned up in amusement. "An execution, is it?"
"It might as well be."
" 'Tis sure I am Amaury thought 'twas something similar he was traveling to as well," Rolfe said with a shrug. "Yet look how happy he and Emma are now."
A reminiscent smile claimed Blake's mouth as he thought of his friend, Amaury de Aneford, his little wife, Emmalene, and their fond farewell to him. "Aye, 'tis happy enough he is. He was sure Emma would be a hag. Did you know?"
"Nay."
"Aye. He swore her first husband killed himself rather than go home and perform his duty."
"Really?"
Rolfe sounded irritated. Glancing at him sharply, Blake noted the tightness around his lips and reminded himself the man was little Emma's cousin. "Of course, that was afore he set eyes on her. Once he saw how pretty she was, he was fair relieved. Howbeit, that was Amaury and Emma, Lady Seonaid is hardly the same tankard of ale."
Rolfe rolled his eyes. "You have not yet even met her."
Blake shrugged. "She is a Scot. And a Dunbar," he added tightly. " 'Tis all I need to know."
Gaze curious, Rolfe asked, "What caused the falling out your father had with Angus Dunbar? I understand they were as close as brothers at one time."
Blake was silent for a moment, then admitted, "I am not sure. Father would never speak on it. Howbeit, it must have been a fair filthy deal, for he has, as far back as I can recall, called the man horrid names and slighted him at every turn."
"Hmm." Rolfe stared at the trees they passed through, then shrugged his curiosity aside. "As to gaining your bride from the abbey, mayhap Bishop Wykeham could be of some assistance there."
"What was that, my son?"
Catching mention of his name, the bishop urged his mount up between the two men and peered from one to the other expectantly.
"Blake and I were just discussing how to get the girl out of the abbey. I thought mayhap you could aid in the endeavor?"
"Hmmm." Bishop Wykeham's gentle face turned thoughtful as he considered the problem, then his bushy gray eyebrows rose and a wry smile came to his face, tugging upward at the wrinkles residing there. " 'Tis true that as a man of God, they would allow me in where the gates 'twould be barred to you. I suppose I could talk to the chit, but 'tis all I can do," he warned. "I cannot force her from her sanctuary."
"Thank you, Bishop," Blake said, and wondered if he might yet escape the marriage. If he did, he would owe the little Scottish wench his thanks. Mayhap he could send her some bonbons, or a bolt of fabric.
"There 'tis."
Blake glanced up at Rolfe's announcement as they rode out of the trees. They were only about fifty yards from the stone wall surrounding the abbey. Tensing in the saddle, he nudged his horse and urged him forward. In the next few minutes he would either gain his bride or fail and continue to be a happy man. It was time to determine his future.
Reaching the gate, Blake dismounted and moved swiftly to the bell pull. He was about to give it a tug when a crack between the door and the wall caught his attention. Frowning, he reached up and gave the wooden door a tentative nudge. It gave a squeal of protest but slid an inch open. Blake stilled, little currents of unease running up the back of his neck. This was not right, and it brought a grim frown to his face as he reached for his sword. "The door is unbarred."
"What?" Rolfe dismounted to join him.
"Nay." The bishop shook his head. "You must be mistaken, Blake. The gate is always barred. There are too many who seek sanctuary within to--" His words came to an abrupt halt when a gentle push from Rolfe sent the door sliding open a little farther. The prelate stared in amazement, then muttered with disgruntlement, "Well! That is not very secure."
Blake pushed the door the rest of the way open. His gaze ran over the empty flower and herb gardens before turning to the building beyond. "Nay. 'Tis not safe at all."
"Damn me!" The bishop scrambled off his own horse and joined the other two men peering through the opening.
"What think you?" Rolfe asked. They all stared at the lush and flowering vegetation revealed.