The Heart of the Phoenix (3 page)

She didn’t anticipate a problem. Of course, the travelers might well be holy brothers. On pilgrimage, perhaps. She’d be safe with them, although they avoided female company. But surely they would agree if they understood her urgent mission.

What mission? Ah. Well, that problem would resolve itself when—if—it arose. Evie was nothing if not resourceful. How difficult could it be? The lack of a maid might pose a dilemma, but she’d be perfectly chaperoned with the young squire. Besides, with luck, another lady would be among the travelers. And if not, she had faith an answer would present itself.

She swallowed hard. If only her courage matched her words. But this was her chance. The Lord wouldn’t send such an opportunity otherwise.

Her heart thudded as she paced to the window and unlatched the shutter. Never before had she disobeyed her brother. Except for episodes in childhood, of course, such as the day she sneaked from her room to trail Henry and Stephen to a tryst with the miller’s daughters.

How angry the two boys had been when they discovered her lurking behind a bush.

A sharp pang halted the memory. Stephen. She clinched her eyes shut and willed away another twinge. She’d allow nothing to interfere with her moment of excitement, least of all an old dream from which she awakened long ago.

She concentrated on her approaching bid for independence. The plan must work. Anticipation began a slow tingle through her veins. She ought to tremble in trepidation. Instead, she felt she could leap through the narrow window and soar into the sky. No fright. Just freedom.

A tinge of new grass and flowers drifted on the mild May evening air, a reminder of spring nights in England. Soon she’d be at Chauvere. Imagine everyone’s surprise when she rode in. Her lips parted in a smile as she raced to the small trunk, open in the middle of the floor. She stuffed down the gowns of blue and saffron and rust, then slammed shut the lid.

Time to go home.

Evie swallowed a moan and leaned forward in the saddle. How odd that a numb backside felt pain. Wiggling a little, she settled back and straightened her shoulders.

A whimper came from the maid bouncing along on a pony at Evie’s side. “Are we near, milady? We left Rosemont at dawn, but we ride and ride.”

Evie sympathized with the girl’s complaint. The party had halted only once, outside a village for a brief meal at midday, and still the journey continued. Not surprising when the five guards traveled at a slug’s pace.

“Could we ride faster, captain?” she called to the grizzled old knight who led the escort. He’d probably dismiss the request, as he had a similar one earlier in the day when he’d grumbled they must avoid the attention a rapidly moving party might attract.

From whom? They’d met no travelers on the road, and villagers ignored them.

Evie opened her mouth to repeat the question, when the captain turned. “No need, milady. St. Anselm sits just there, over that rise.”

He nodded to the slight hill ahead, visible through a break in the forest lining each side of the road. Undergrowth clumped around the tree trunks, except for a wide flattened patch near a narrow trail into the woods. Her gaze sharpened. It looked like the work of a good many horses. Perhaps the captain’s concern was valid. Perhaps bandits, or rogue mercenaries, roamed the countryside. But she wouldn’t fear such possibilities, not with safety within reach.

“At last, milady,” came a familiar whimper. “I am so tired of this beast I could weep.”

Evie glanced at the girl Mimi insisted accompany her. Evie’s own maid remained behind, wed not a fortnight earlier to a promising young smithy at Rosemont. Evie saw no reason to take a castle servant from duties for such a short time, but her ears still rang with Mimi’s horrified shriek.

“Oh, my dear, you simply cannot travel alone,” her cousin had shrilled. “What would your dear brother say?”

Evie preferred not to think about Henry’s reaction.

So Marie, who eagerly volunteered for the journey, had been hoisted atop the fattest slug of a mount Evie ever beheld. Not a league into the journey, the maid decided she didn’t like riding. “I am sore from bumping on the horse.” She was at last pacified with the pledge of a quick return and a coin in reward.

But at the back of Evie’s mind hovered the problem of a maid on the longer journey to come. Perhaps the group bound for home contained other ladies, in which case Evie need not worry.

It seemed possible, however, that it might contain pilgrims intent on paying homage at a shrine in England. Travelers on such missions had stopped at Sir Stephen’s home in the past, for Henry frequently met with them.

But occasionally nuns and other female penitents made up parties to holy shrines, didn’t they? Perhaps this was one such.

Oh, why must she always be reminded of Stephen? Back from the dead. Bitter and hard—and tempting as sin. She’d determined to put him from her mind long ago.

The night on a snowy roof might never have happened, for all he occupied her thoughts now. Only occasionally did his haunted eyes and snow-streaked hair plague her dreams. Seldom did memory of his cool lips prompt her tongue to flick her mouth in wonder. At last she had put to rest the childish fantasy of Sir Stephen of Rively.

About time, now that her betrothal loomed. Still, Stephen’s cruel words that night on the roof had stung. Evie’s chin bobbed up. It no longer mattered. She muffled a “Ha.”

“I’m sorry, milady. Don’t be angry with me.” The maid ducked her head.

Evie flinched. She need only think of Stephen, and her reaction frightened the servants. She attempted a smile, only to find her lips a tight line against her teeth.

“I’m not angry with you, Marie. I’m simply considering the days ahead.”

“Truly, milady, they might carry danger. But if you can’t be safe with the blessed brothers, you can’t be safe with anyone.”

The girl had the right of it. Evie had to trust her own decision. She’d come too far now; nothing would persuade her to turn back. Envision the outcome desired, and it would happen. Her stomach jumped. Sweet Mary, let it be so.

The maid whimpered again, her small face scrunched. “We’ll be there soon, won’t we, milady? I’ve never traveled such a distance before.”

“I shall tell you a secret.” Evie leaned toward the girl. “Until this trip to Normandy, neither had I traveled so far. I’ll be happy to see home.”

“And…your betrothed, milady?”

Evie tightened the reins, sending her mount dancing aside. Did the maid know Evie’s secret? She met Marie’s round, curious eyes. No subterfuge there, just innocent inquiry.

“Why do you think I have a betrothed?”

Marie’s bottom lip rounded out in a frightened pout. “I meant no harm, my lady. We all thought you must, else why would you refuse such as Sir Neville?”

Evie’s tension lessened. She wasn’t surprised that even the servants knew of his offer and her rejection. The maids idolized the arrogant knight.

The entire issue of her betrothal was a mystery to Evie. She tried not to worry, yet she didn’t understand why Henry had withheld the name of the man she was to marry. Her reluctance over the years to wed formed the only point of contention with her brother, although she hadn’t quite understood her own hesitation. Now any resistance was useless.

When King Richard spoke, Henry obeyed his close friend. It always had been that way; the king’s death changed nothing. She accepted the decree with good grace. That, if aught else, should diffuse Henry’s anger when he discovered she’d disobeyed his orders.

She urged her mare into a canter as they topped the hill. Ahead, the road fell away to reveal a modest spire reared over a clutch of roofs visible above a surrounding wall. So this was St. Anselm Monastery. From Henry’s tales, she’d expected a towering edifice lording over a veritable town. Instead, the earth-brown stone walls blended into the surrounding woods like a coney hunched in underbrush. The place looked as humble as the brothers it sheltered.

The captain dismounted and strode to a door set at the side of the large gate, where he pounded his mailed fist. Time dragged past, more than enough for even an ancient monk to creep across the courtyard to answer. Nothing. Another resounding summons echoed. It, too, went unanswered, and Evie’s unease grew. Something was wrong inside.

Mutters passed among the guards as their horses danced in response to the mounting tension. Her mare whickered. Evie reached forward to pat its warm neck.

Finally the old knight stalked back a few paces and shouted toward the wall’s top. “Open in the name of Sir Constant of Rosemont.”

After what seemed hours, the small wooden door beside the gate swung open to reveal a figure clad in a brown robe, cowl pulled forward to shade the eyes. The captain gestured toward Evie. “By order of the lord of Rosemont, we’ve brought this lady to join her traveling party.”

The cowl-covered head bobbed. “I’m sorry, but we’ve illness here. We cannot admit strangers. I fear the lady must press onward. God’s blessings on you, my children.”

Panic hit Evie as the door began to swing shut. No. She’d not come this far to be turned away.

“Wait,” she called. The man paused, the edge of the door resting against a shoulder. She flicked her feet from the stirrups and slid to the ground.

“I do not require special treatment,” she insisted, striding forward, reins looped over her left arm. Her voice rang strong, but her insides quaked. What if the monks denied entrance? What if Davy had left already? Her heartbeat tripped, then raced. Nothing must stop her.

She forced herself to calm. “My brother ordered me here for my protection, to join pilgrims traveling to England. I believe you know him—Lord Henry of Chauvere?”

Evie vowed she heard an exclamation rise behind the wall. Someone listened. Sickness, indeed.

The man’s mouth sagged for an instant before it snapped shut. “I’m sorry my lady, but we’ve had no word from Lord Henry.” His voice hardened. “If you are who you say, why would he not send someone to accompany you? He’d never allow his sister to travel alone, even with his own troop.”

Evie had anticipated such a question. “His wife has suffered an unexpected…illness.” Her voice lowered on the word ‘illness,’ as if she were reluctant to disclose the nature of the affliction. But a lift of brows and a slight nod implied a woman’s ailment. The Lord knew she’d experienced such problems with Mimi, poor thing.

“The squire who delivered me the news said he’d come ahead to wait. Perhaps he’s here?” Her brows rose at a scuffling sound, but the noise ended abruptly.

After a glance over his shoulder, the cowled figure nodded once. “I’ll fetch Father Joseph.”

Another period of silence ensued. Evie clasped her hands in a pretense of calm assurance, but her knuckles bled white. What an unusual reception. Holy houses were known for hospitality, unless the visitors posed a threat. Perhaps the monks feared her armed guards? The captain must have thought the same, for he signaled the men. They dismounted, although their hands hovered near sword hilts, ready to defend against any unknown threat.

And still they waited. Evie slanted a glance at the older man, who stood unmoving. No sign he found the situation odd. Still, his arms poised, loose at his sides. Ready.

Rays from the afternoon sun beat at her sturdy traveling wimple. If only a breeze might pop up to relieve the gathering heat. She longed to fan her hand before her face to create a bit of air movement. A pox on rules for ladies. With a sigh, Evie tried for serenity.

Finally, the large gate creaked, then groaned open as if it hadn’t moved in a score of years. Evie swept through before the reluctant brother changed his mind. As she cleared the still-moving gate, a figure loomed before her, and she stumbled to a halt.

It couldn’t be. She must be mistaken.

Stephen.

He stepped forward, his mouth twisted in a chilling smile. “Greetings, little shadow.”

Breath knotted in her chest. His wide shoulders blotted the sun, but its rays cast a halo around him, shadowing his face. Not that she needed to see. Memory called up those mocking, amber-touched eyes, that square jaw, and jutting chin. The hard lips that turned soft and warm at a touch.

With a gasp and shiver, Evie staggered back a step. His hand shot out to catch her, but she batted it away, still unable to summon words.

God could not be so cruel to fling him in her path like this. Just when she’d congratulated herself on a successful plan. Just when—

What was he doing at St. Anselm?

****

What in Satan’s own hell was she doing here? Stephen’s eyes narrowed.

Lady Evelynn of Chauvere.

Hadn’t she plagued his dreams throughout last night as he slept off the healing decoction Brother Gerald forced on him? Perhaps the delirium still gripped his mind. God knew the dagger hole in his leg pained enough.

“How come you to be here?” he growled as he stalked close, ignoring the pull of the half-closed wound. “Your brother told me you were safe with your cousin at Rosemont.”

He recognized that flicker of guilt before she bit her lip and notched up her chin. It reminded him of her expression as a child when he and Henry caught her in pranks. “What trick did you play to escape your cousin’s protection?”

Her sudden, innocent expression confirmed his suspicion. “I have Henry’s permission to return. Davy brought me the message yesterday.”

She nodded toward the young squire who had turned up last night to deliver Stephen’s message from Henry. Was it possible she’d been summoned home, as well? His letter hadn’t mentioned it, only that his father lay gravely ill again.

He beckoned to the leader of the troop. “Captain, under whose orders do you travel?”

Clearly uncomfortable, the old knight stepped up. “My Lady Marguerite directed me to escort Lady Evelynn here. Said I was to see the lady delivered and return home by nightfall.”

“Running late, are you not?” Stephen knew the distance between Rosemont and St. Anselm; the party should have reached here by midday. It was possible the men who attacked him last night had menaced others. But these guards carried no trace of battle.