Catherine drew in a sharp breath. “It is Lord FitzAlan.”
A half-dozen men on horses accompanied FitzAlan, but Catherine could look at none but him. The courtyard seemed to reverberate with his presence as he circled, his horse prancing and tossing its head. He was hatless. The late morning sun showed the hard planes of his face and glinted on the sun-lightened streaks of his bronze hair.
William must have sensed them watching, for he looked up then with an expression so fierce Catherine gripped the abbess’s arm for support. He kept his eyes fixed on her as he dismounted, threw his reins at one of his men, and strode purposefully toward the entry below.
A high-pitched sound came from the back of her throat. Frantically, she looked about the room for a means of escape.
“This way.” The abbess stepped briskly to the opposite wall and opened a narrow door hidden by the paneling. “Wait in the chapel until I send for you,” she said, motioning for Catherine to hurry. “Pray that God grants you the strength to do your duty—and the wisdom to be thankful for his blessings.”
As soon as Catherine had made her escape, FitzAlan burst in through the other door. He looked sharply around the room before bringing his gaze to rest on the abbess.
A nun stepped around him, giving him wide berth. “My Lady Abbess, I tried to stop him and ask his business here, but—”
“It is all right, Sister Matilde,” the abbess said, staring down the tall, well-muscled man filling her doorway. “If this is Lord FitzAlan, I have been expecting his visit.”
Belatedly recalling his manners, FitzAlan made a low bow. “M’lady Abbess, I am Lord William Neville FitzAlan. I hope you will forgive me for interrupting you.”
Ignoring him for the moment, the abbess sent a second trembling nun for honey cakes and more sweet wine. Since propriety did not permit her to be left alone with a man, she directed Sister Matilde to take a seat at the far end of the room, where the nun could not easily overhear their conversation.
Only then did she gesture to FitzAlan to sit in one of the ornately carved chairs she had brought to the abbey from her home. She permitted herself some minor comforts here in her private parlor, where she received guests from the outside world.
The abbess took more than a little satisfaction in knowing that her black robes intimidated even the most powerful men. FitzAlan was no exception. He looked distinctly uncomfortable—and not just because the chair was far too small for his frame.
She suppressed a smile. Now that he had blustered his way in, it was apparent FitzAlan had no notion what to do next. He kept clasping his hands, as if about to speak. The gesture was familiar to her. Her husband had also been a man who found action easier than words.
She let him suffer, enjoying it to a degree that would require penance later. When a servant arrived with the wine and honey cakes, she took her time pouring.
“You’ve had a hard ride this morning,” she said at last, her voice dripping with false sympathy. She offered him the plate of honey cakes. “I thought perhaps you did not take time for breakfast.”
He rubbed his neck in growing discomfort. She was pleased to see he understood she was chastising him for stampeding through her gates and breaking the peace of the abbey.
“The cakes are warm,” she said, encouraging him to eat. She watched him choke down two, from either politeness or extreme hunger, and wash them down with the wine. She really must assign the baking to someone other than Sister Katrina.
Seeing no reason to delay any longer, she asked, “Did you know your wife came here asking to take vows and remain with us permanently?”
“The housekeeper said as much,” FitzAlan conceded.
His face colored in a most appealing way. She found herself beginning to like the man. Of course, she had noticed how handsome he was as soon as she laid eyes on him. Taking vows did not affect her eyesight.
“That an annulment could even be considered now suggests”—she paused deliberately—“relations are not as they should be between you.”
The young man choked and appeared to be trying to speak, but she held up her hand. “Of course, Catherine’s coming here in the middle of the night with only an elderly man as escort was quite sufficient to tell me that.”
FitzAlan looked mortified, another hopeful sign. By now, he probably realized his wife had related more of his behavior the night before than he would wish.
“I know I frightened her,” he confessed readily enough. “But I swear to you, I would never harm her.”
“I do not speak plainly to embarrass you, Lord FitzAlan.” It was only a partial falsehood. As it was in service of a worthy purpose, God would forgive her. “I have known Lady Catherine since she was a babe. Perhaps I can help you understand her.”
“I would be most appreciative, Lady Abbess,” FitzAlan said with a touch of desperation in his eyes.
“I understand you have been patient with Catherine.” Giving him a pointed look, she added, “For the most part.” It would not be wise to be too soft on the young man.
“I am not sure how much you know of her marriage to Rayburn.” She could barely say that horrid man’s name without spitting. “If Catherine’s mother had been alive, she would have been able to guide Catherine’s father and the king in choosing a better man to serve their purposes. Without her good influence, they chose a perfectly loathsome man who mistreated Catherine horribly.
“I, for one, was not surprised when Rayburn turned against the king.” The abbess hoped she did not sound as if she thought the king deserved to suffer for his bad choice, though she did.
“Catherine got her loveliness from her mother.” She sighed. “Before Rayburn, she had something more—a radiance about her, a light in her eyes. He took that from her.”