“What!” Henry’s roar drew their attention.

“I believe he just learned,” Aric muttered. Turning, he found Henry a sight to see. The king’s face bore a furious scowl and was so red as to seem almost purple. Even his hair seemed to have picked up some of the fire of his temper and shone more red than gray. He stormed angrily toward them, hands and teeth clenched.

His daughter was hard on his heels, a startled and somewhat bewildered expression on her face. “I thought you knew, Papa. I thought you had received my message and come to witness—­” Her words came to an abrupt halt when her father paused in his stride and turned on her in a fury.

“It shall not happen! Do you hear me? You are not, I repeat, not going to be a nun.”

“But—­”

“Your mother—­God rest her soul—­insisted on the same thing ere she died, and I could do naught about it. But I can and will do something now. I am your father, and I will not allow you to throw your life away by becoming a nun.”

Rosamunde looked briefly stunned at those words; then, seeing the stiff expression on the abbess’s face at the insult in her father’s words, she allowed her temper free rein. “It is not throwing my life away! ’Tis perfectly acceptable to become a bride of God! I—­”

“Will God see you blessed with children?” Henry snarled, interrupting her curt words.

She looked taken aback briefly at that, then regained herself to snap, “Mayhap. He saw Mary blessed with Jesus.”

“Jesus?” For a moment it looked as though he might explode, or drop dead. His face was purple with rage.

It was the bishop who intervened, drawing the king’s attention with the gentle words, “Your majesty, it is a great honor to become a bride of God. If Rosamunde truly has a calling, it is not well done to force her to—­”

“You!” Henry turned on the man. “I will not hear your religious drivel. Thanks to your dillydallying, we nearly did not arrive here in time. If I hadn’t chanced to hear of Aric’s broken betrothal and saved a day’s riding by choosing him as groom instead of Rosshuen, we would have been too late!” Whirling on the abbess, he roared, “Why was I not informed of these plans?”

The abbess blinked at him, taken aback. “We . . . I thought you knew, my liege. It was Rosamunde’s mother’s wish that she follow in her footsteps and become a nun. She said so on her deathbed. As you had not arranged a betrothal, I thought you agreed.”

“I do not agree,” he snapped, then added, “And I have been making arrangements. But what I meant was, why was I not informed of the imminent ceremony?”

“Well . . . I do not know, Your Majesty. I did send word. Some time ago, in fact. It should have reached you in plenty of time for you to attend. We hoped you might.”

The king turned on Shrewsbury again at that news, eyes narrowed and accusing, but the bishop flushed helplessly and murmured, “We have been moving around quite a bit, my liege. Le Mans, then Chinon . . . Mayhap it arrived after we left. I shall, of course, look into it the moment we return.”

Henry glared at him briefly, then turned on his daughter. “You are not taking the veil. You will marry. You are the only child of mine who has not turned against me. I will see grandchildren from you.”

“John has never turned against you.”

“He has joined with my enemies.”

“That is just gossip,” she argued with disdain.

“And if ’tis true?”

Rosamunde’s mouth thinned at the possibility. Truly, no man in history had suffered so from betrayal as her father. Every one of his legitimate sons, her half brothers, had come to turn on him under the influence of their mother, Queen Eleanor. “There are still William and Geoffrey,” she whispered, mentioning Henry’s other two bastard children.

His expression turned solemn at that, and he reached out to clasp her by the shoulders. “But they were not born of my fair Rosamunde. The love of my life. I am a selfish old man, child. I would see the fruit of out love grow and bloom and cast its seeds across the land, not be stifled and die here in this convent. I would see you marry.”

Rosamunde sighed at that, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “And so I shall. Who is to be my groom?”

Aric stiffened as the king suddenly turned toward him.

“Burkhart.” The king gestured for him to step forward, and Aric unconsciously straightened his shoulders as he did so. “My daughter, Rosamunde. Daughter, your husband, Aric of Burkhart”

“How do you do, my lord?” she murmured politely, extending her hand. Then, grimacing apologetically as she saw its less than pristine condition—­it was stained with residue from her recent work with the foaling—­she retracted it and dropped into a quick curtsy instead. “I regret my apparel, but we were not expecting company today.”

Before Aric could even murmur a polite response, the king announced, “You should change.”

Her head whipped around. “Change?”

“Aye. You will not wish to be wed looking so.”

“The wedding is to take place now?” Dismay was the only word to describe her reaction, and Aric could actually sympathize. It was all a bit dismaying to him as well.

“As soon as you are changed. I must return to Chinon.”

“But—­”

“See her properly dressed,” the king ordered Sister Eustice, then snatched up Adela’s arm and urged her out of the building. “I would have a word with the abbess.”

Rosamunde gaped after them, then glanced at Eustice with a start when the sister took her arm and urged her to follow. “I am to be married.”

“Aye.” Eustice glanced worriedly at the girl as they stepped out of the stables. The child was unnaturally pale.

“I thought I was going to be a nun like you.”

“Everything will be fine,” Eustice murmured reassuringly, directing her through the convent doors and down the hallway to the left. King Henry and Adela were already out of sight.

“Aye,” Rosamunde agreed, drawing herself up slightly. “All will be well.” Then her shoulders slumped, and she whispered bewilderedly, “But I was to be a nun.”

“It would seem you were never truly meant to take the veil.”

“Oh, but I was,” Rosamunde assured her. “My mother wished it so. She told the abbess. And my father never arranged a betrothal. I was born to be a nun.”

“It would seem not,” Eustice corrected gently.

“But what if the Lord wants me to take the veil? What if he is angered that I am not to be one?”

“ ’Tis more likely the good Lord has his own plans for you, Rosamunde. Else He would have stopped your father from arriving until after it was done. Would He not?”

Frowning, Rosamunde tilted her head to consider that. Sister Eustice continued, “It seems to me that it must have been God Himself who led your father here in time to prevent the ceremony. Were your father even a day later in arriving, the ceremony would have been done by now.”

“Aye,” Rosamunde murmured uncertainly. “But why would God wish me to marry when there is so much good I might do as a nun?”

“Mayhap He has something more important for you to do as a wife.”

“Mayhap,” she murmured, but it was obvious by her tone that she was having trouble fathoming that possibility.

Sighing to herself, Eustice urged her into moving along the hall again, managing to get her to the small cell that had been Rosamunde’s room since childhood. Ushering the bemused girl inside, Eustice urged her to sit on the side of her tiny, hard bed, then turned to search through the girl’s small clothes chest for the dress Rosamunde had made to wear while taking the veil the next day. Coming up empty-­handed, she whirled to frown at Rosamunde. “Where is your white gown?”

Rosamunde glanced up distractedly. “White gown? Oh, Sister Margaret offered to hang it for me, to let out any wrinkles.”

“Ah.” Nodding, Eustice turned toward the door. “Wait here. I shall return directly.”