* * *
Rather than follow Robin and John back to camp, Mary and Eleanor went with their mother on an errand. She led them confidently around the church, past the abbey, and to a set of timber-frame buildings clustered together behind their own wall. One could see the high stone bell tower of a chapel beyond, and the thatched roofs of houses and outbuildings. Mary gave her mother a confused look. Eleanor’s look was even more confused, growing apprehensive, and she held back. There had been some talk of Eleanor taking vows, but nothing serious, and Mary didn’t think their mother would simply . . . deposit her at a convent without discussion.
“Don’t worry,” Marian told them with a happy smile. Open and honest, unlike her circumspect, diplomatic manner. “I’m visiting an old friend.”
An ironbound door marked the entrance. Marian knocked, and a coifed and veiled woman answered. “I’m here to see Mother Ursula, please. It’s Lady Marian.”
“Yes, my lady, please come in.”
The door opened, and the three of them entered the grounds.
The convent’s front yard was a place of refuge and charity, filled with the poor and crippled and struggling, gaunt of face and dressed in rags, crutches tucked under arms. Eyes bandaged, limbs missing. Suffering. Mary’s first response was to draw back, look away. Eleanor took her hand and squeezed. It was helplessness, not disgust, that made her want to turn away. At Locksley, they could take in their own people, help them as they needed. But here in town, so close to London, there were so many . . .
A bustling woman, plump and energetic, wearing a nun’s dark habit, wooden cross swinging on her chest, came into the yard. With all the fabric around her face, judging her age was difficult, but Mary guessed that Mother Ursula was close to Marian’s age.
“Mother Abbess,” Marian said warmly, holding out her hands, which the abbess clasped.
“Marian, how wonderful to see you!”
They embraced. Yes, old friends.
“You don’t look a bit older, do you?” the abbess said.
“I certainly feel older. I’ve brought a small offering. Just a bit to help.” She drew a pouch from her sleeve, pressed it into Ursula’s hands.
“Bless you, my dear. We will put this to good use and say prayers for you and yours.” Her gaze turned to study the girls. “These are your daughters?”
“Mary and Eleanor. I have a boy in the middle. He’s with his father.”
“His father,” she said wryly, with a lift in her brow that told just what she thought of their father. Mary hid a smile. “And what mischief is Lord Robin about these days?”
“None at all,” Marian declared with perhaps too much force. “There has been too much trouble these last few years. We are hoping for calm.”
Ursula said, “With a boy king and so many men of power hunting around him like foxes?” She shook her head with apparent disgust. “He is a poor king, at present. We will see what he does to get money, and how much like his father he is. Though I hear that he is pious, at least.”
Mary’s heart went out to the young king. That one could never hear of him without hearing of his father, to grow up under a famous shadow . . . She understood this. Robin, at least, was not so universally hated as King John had been.
Ursula waved off the serious discussion. “You are fine-looking girls, aren’t you? Oh, Marian, how far we’ve all come!”
Mother Ursula showed them what parts of the convent she could. The chapel, of which she was very proud, and the gardens, which were bright and full of budding spring flowers. She and Marian chatted the whole time, gossiping about people Mary had never heard of. The abbey was much quieter than the town—the wall setting it apart made a difference, but it was more than that. Everyone seemed to move slower here. Even Eleanor seemed calmer.
“Are you married yet, child?” Mother Ursula asked over her shoulder at the girls.
How Mary hated that question. “Not yet, Mother,” Mary said, trying to mirror Marian’s easy, proper manners.
“Soon, perhaps,” Marian said smoothly, diplomatically. “We’ve got our eye on someone.”
Bloody William de Ros, why couldn’t he simply show himself?
She turned back to Marian. “If either of your girls decides that their paths lie with God, I hope you’ll send them to me.”
“Of course,” Marian said. Eleanor wrinkled her nose. Mother Ursula laughed.
On leaving, Marian and Ursula embraced again, clasped hands, and made promises not to wait so long between visits. The abbess kissed Mary and Eleanor on their cheeks, said a blessing over them, and then they were back to the world of noise and chaos and sin.
Marian explained, as they walked on. “We were at court together when we were young. She’s the daughter of an earl and didn’t much care for the idea of being married off as a political maneuver. Since she had plenty of sisters, she went to the convent instead. It suits her. It may not seem like a large realm, but she has power over it. She’s doing good work here, and that was all she wanted, to be able to do some good in the world, and not be a pawn.” Did Marian sound wistful?
“Did you ever think of the convent?” Mary asked.
“I did, but only when it was an alternative to marrying someone loathsome. Then your father came along.” Her gaze held a merry glint.
One of their father’s men, who had been an outlaw with him years before, had been waiting outside and fell into step behind them. He had been watching them unobtrusively the whole errand, right up to the convent doors. Just in case.
“All is well, Dav?” Marian asked.
“It is, my lady. No trouble.”
“It’s when we don’t expect it that trouble comes along, hm?” she observed, and Dav merely smiled. “So today, at least, all is well.”
Eleanor clasped Mary’s arm, and Mary kissed her little sister’s head. All was well, at least for now.
* * *
The king called his barons and knights to swear fealty before the week was out. John half-expected his father to change his mind, to deal with the young king himself. But he didn’t, so he, Mary, and Eleanor arrived at the grand hall where Henry held court, dressed in their best and attempting to behave like they knew what they were doing. The place was crowded, thick with the smell of candles and sweat, and everyone looking over everyone else in a calculating way that made John’s spine twitch. Who was in favor, who wasn’t, and how the balance of power would shift in the years to come. How did one ever learn to read it all?
John was now very glad that their mother had been so insistent that they learn French. It was the only language anyone spoke here, except for the occasional Latin. He already felt at a disadvantage, not knowing anyone. But at least he understood what they were saying.
Mary was also studying the assemblage with a narrowed gaze and thoughtful frown.
“Are you still looking for William de Ros?” John asked.
She winced unhappily. “Is he here, do you think?”
“I don’t know why you bother when you don’t even know what he looks like.”
“His family arms are red with water bags on it. Maybe he’s wearing his arms.”
John’s brow furrowed. “Heraldic water bags? What does that even look like? No lions or leaping stags or—”