Lady Robyn (War of the Roses) by Garcia y Robertson R

Author:Garcia y Robertson, R.
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2004-07-18T04:00:00+00:00

7

Somerset

Until she had the ring in her hand, she did not realize how much she had hoped to get it. Giving it to Edward as they parted had been practically a plea to call her back. And now the time had come when Edward needed her. What other explanation was there? Excited and scared at the same time, she asked the novice, “Where did you get this?”

“In the herb garden.” Nodding toward the far side of the hedge, the novice tried to show where she had gotten the ring.

“But how?” Medievals often took you too seriously.

“It was given to me, m’lady. Is it yours.…”

“Yes.” She clutched it tighter, asking, “Who gave it to you?”

“M’lady, it was a woman.” Cistercians were more strict than most, and a novice would not be seeing much of men. Not alone in the herb garden.

“What sort of woman?” That baffled her a bit—what woman would Edward give her ring to?

Shaking her head, the novice could not say. “Her face was veiled, and she spoke in a hush, but I could tell by her manners she was a gentlewoman. And young.”

Really? Robyn did not know what to make of this veiled mystery lady. Was this witchcraft at work? What young gentlewoman would Edward send? “This woman told you to give the ring to me?”

“Yes, to Lady Robyn Stafford of Pontefract.” Nodding enthusiastically, the novice added, “And she gave me a message to go with it.”

“What message?” She had been so piqued by this faceless young “lady” she had forgotten to ask if anything came with the ring.

Closing her eyes to concentrate, the novice repeated the message from memory, “Go south of Farmcote, past the long barrow, to where a small stream winds along a wooded lane. Follow the lane through Guiting Wood, until you come to a ford by a spring—there a boy you know will be waiting to show you the way.”

Clear enough, Farmcote was only a couple of miles off—but dusk was on its way, and things were suitably vague after the boy at the ford, that “you will know.” Did that mean Edward? She hoped so, all this hide-and-seek made her nervous—the last time she let go of caution was Halloween, and look where that landed her. Robyn realized the novice was fingering her gold-and-scarlet riding gown while clinging to her free hand, the one without the ring, holding it tightly and telling her, “Good luck, m’lady Stafford.”

She looked into the girl’s eyes, which were big, shining, and wide open with concern. Medievals treated love and romance as life-or-death matters—more so, really, since they touched your immortal soul. Gently, Robyn leaned forward, giving the novice a kiss and a blessing, saying, “Good luck to you. And if ever you have need of aid, seek out Lady Robyn Stafford.”

Robyn meant it. Whatever happened to her, this poor girl faced a strict future behind stone walls, and she was thrilled by this small glimpse at the life of a lady in silks, who got silver

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