Silence
by Lyndsay
copyright©2002

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His vantage point on the hill commanded a clear view over the convent walls. Anxiously, he scanned the faces of the novitiates and postulants who strolled, unaware of his scrutiny, in the warm spring sunshine. And then he saw her.

His heart swelled with love and longing. "Rosalind," he breathed. "At last." For a long moment he savoured the sight of her lovely face framed in the white veil, then he spurred his horse forward towards the gates.

He hesitated before knocking on the heavy wooden gates which protected the Sisters of Mercy from the outside world. For five long years he had sought her ... five years during which he had sometimes despaired of ever finding her alive ... and now that the moment had come, he was inexplicably afraid. Suppose she did not know him? Perhaps the terrible things she had seen had taken her wits from her. Or ... suppose she did not want him? Maybe she blamed him for not being there to take care of her and her family on the day the marauders had come ... maybe ... but there was no point in speculating. Squaring his shoulders, her rapped loudly.

A little hatch opened in the gate, revealing an iron grille. Through this peered the face of an elderly nun, face like a wizened apple, eyes bright and inquisitive. "Can we help you, Sir? If you seek shelter, then perhaps you’d like to try the village. It’s only two miles north of here and you’ll find a nice little Inn there. At least I’ve been told it’s nice .. not that I’ve ever been there myself, you understand, since we Sisters are ..."

He held up his hand to stop the flow. Good grief! Weren’t nuns supposed to take Vows of Silence or something? This one seemed to have taken a Vow of Perpetual Chattering! As politely as possible, he interrupted. "No, Sister, I do not need shelter. I’ve come on a different matter entirely. You have here a Lady ... a Lady by the name of Rosalind de Montford ... it is she that I seek."

"Oh!" The good Sister looked agitated. "I ... I do not think ... I mean ... it’s not usual for gentlemen to come calling on our ladies. I’m sure it’s not allowed, Sir ... though it’s never happened before, so I don’t really know ..."

Sir Roger Fitzwilliam sighed, and resorted to his secret weapon. He smiled. This tactic had never yet failed with a woman, and it did not fail him now. The little nun stopped talking, blushed under his twinkling gaze, and scurried off.

In a few minutes she was back, breathless and flustered. "You’re to come in, Sir ... Reverend Mother will see you at once. Now if I can just get this gate open ... it’s some time since we’ve had a visitor, you see ... and the bolts are so stiff, and ..." As she burbled on, Roger could hear the scrape of metal and the clank of chains, and at last the gate creaked open on its rusty hinges.

Roger entered and followed the loquacious Sister through the neat, well-kept grounds, his eyes straining for a sight of Rosalind, his ears attempting to tune out the woman’s incessant chatter as she pointed out the vegetable plots, the herb gardens, the orchards and the various buildings which made up the convent. Eventually he was led into the cool, dim interior, through stone-flagged corridors smelling faintly of lavender. They stopped outside a sturdy oak door.

His escort tapped gently and entered at a softly-spoken reply from within. Her voice lessened in volume if not in verbosity as she addressed the tall, spare figure of the Mother Superior, who had risen to greet them. "This is the gentleman, Reverend Mother," she said. "He ... oh ... I forgot to ask your name, Sir. How silly of me ... really, I’d forget my head if the Good Lord hadn’t ... he’s come about Rosalind ... I did tell him that it wasn’t usual for gentlemen to come visiting ... but ..."

Mother Mary Frances hid a smile. "Thank you, Sister Agnes ... that will be all for the moment." She turned to Roger and gave him an appraising look. Nodding as though satisfied with what she saw, she indicated a chair and bade him sit. "I wondered," she said, almost to herself, "when someone would come looking for that poor child."

"Is she well?" asked Roger bluntly.

The Mother Superior seated herself behind her desk and gazed at him thoughtfully. "Rosalind is ... in good physical health," she said carefully.

He nodded, almost afraid to voice his thoughts. "Is she ... is her mind ..."

"Before we go any further, Sir," interrupted the nun, "I would know your name and your business with Rosalind. She has sought peace here, and an escape from those things which trouble her."

A momentary flash of anger hardened his handsome features. How dare she presume to question him or his motives? But almost at once, his innate courtesy to a lady ... and a Holy Sister at that ... took over. "Of course, Reverend Mother," he replied. "I am Sir Roger Fitzwilliam of Harkshire, Lord of the estate which borders that of the late Sir Edmund de Montford, Rosalind’s father. I am ..." He faltered a little. "I was betrothed to Rosalind."

"You were betrothed? She rejected you?"

He shook his head. "No ... she did not reject me, or at least I do not believe so. His voice took on a yearning quality as he recounted the events of the last day he has seen his beloved ...

"No, Rosalind, you cannot accompany me to town today. I have business in the Tavern, and it is no place for a Lady, let alone one of your tender years." Roger looked down fondly at his pretty little fiancée. "But I shall bring you something pretty to wear for the Ball next week."

Sixteen-year-old Rosalind stamped her foot. "I do not want something pretty to wear! I want to go with you ... and I shall!" She tossed her pretty head defiantly.

"Rosalind!" Roger’s voice took on a warning tone. "Do not show your temper to me ... you know where that will get you."

She did know ... it would get her right over his knee being soundly spanked for her insolence ... but today that knowledge did not stop her. Hands on hips, she faced up to him. "I don’t care! I want to go and I’m going! If you won’t take me I shall ride out alone!"

That was all it took. Without a word, he grabbed her, and, placing his foot up on a handy chair, bent her over his muscled thigh. He still didn’t speak, saving his breath for the somewhat strenuous task of applying his hand to her covered rear.

She squirmed; he hoisted her further over his leg so that her red-gold hair almost touched the floor. She squealed; he flipped up her skirt and spanked her over her petticoats. She kicked; he tightened his grasp on her waist. She began to sob; and he stopped.

"Now, young lady," he said grimly, setting her on her feet and holding her by the shoulders, "what do you have to say for yourself?"

Rosalind sniffled miserably. "I’m sorry, Roger ... I mean, Sir," she murmured. "I just ... I just wanted to be with you .. and ... and ..."

"I know, my love," he said gently. "But you know the roads are unsafe just now, and I would not put you in danger for all the world. Now dry your eyes and I shall see you very soon."

She brightened. "Will you still bring me something pretty?" she asked hopefully. "Even though I was naughty?"

His rich laughter rang out, and he pulled her close to place a kiss on her sweet lips. "Yes, darling ... you know I will. Even although you were naughty and don’t deserve it!" With a final kiss and a little swat to her bottom, he was gone ...

"... and that was the last time I saw her ... until today," Roger finished.

Mother Mary Frances had listened without interruption. "Tell me," she said simply.

Sir Roger drew a deep breath. "I was gone five, perhaps six hours. When I returned ..." His voice broke. "When I returned, the house was burning ... Sir Edmund lay dead upon the ground, his Lady Eleanor by his side, and the younger children were ... their throats had been slit." He closed his eyes as though to shut out the memory. "Of Rosalind I could find no trace."

"And what led you here, sir?" asked the Reverend Mother.

"A servant .. one of the few to remain alive ... had seen her slip away into the woods. He had tried to follow her, but was too badly injured. At least I knew she had not been taken off by those bast ... I beg your pardon, Reverend Mother ... those bandits."

Mother Mary Frances nodded her acknowledgement of the apology.

"And then," he continued, "began five years of asking questions, paying for information, always being one day too late ... until today."

Mother Mary Frances fingered her rosary thoughtfully. "Rosalind was brought to us four and a half years ago," she began. "She had been found near the village, almost dead from cold and starvation. We took her in, of course, and nursed her, but though her physical health improved, it seemed that she was mute, for she never uttered a word to anyone. When she was well enough, I questioned her. She was clearly a Lady of some rank, for she was schooled in writing ..." Here the Mother Superior opened a drawer and drew out a folded parchment. "This is the only information she gave to us."

Roger took the paper and opened it. There, in Rosalind’s well-formed hand, was the legend, The Good Lord in his wisdom blessed me with the gift of speech. I misused that gift and caused the deaths of all I held dear. I will never speak again. It was signed, Rosalind de Montford.

When he looked up, his eyes were blurred with tears. "I don’t understand," he said at last. "Does she blame herself for what happened to her family? She was little more than a child ... how could it possibly have been her fault?"

Reverend Mother shrugged. "I do not know. Until today I had no knowledge of her past. We tried, naturally, to elicit more information from her, but she remained ... stubborn."

He allowed himself a slight smile. "Ah yes ... stubborn describes Rosalind perfectly," he said. "It was never easy to persuade her to do anything she did not wish to do. Has she ..." He hesitated, almost afraid to ask the question. "Has she taken ... final vows?"

"No," was the welcome reply. "She is a novitiate still. In six months ... if nothing happens to change her mind ... then she will be accepted into our Order."

Rising abruptly, Sir Roger Fitzwilliam spoke. "I wish to see her ... and by God something will happen to make her change her mind!"

In response, Mother Mary Frances reached out and rang a little silver bell which lay on her desk. A moment later, Sister Agnes entered. "Can I help you, Reverend Mother? Some refreshment perhaps? Sister Teresa has just brewed some delightful camomile tea ... she is so proud of her herb garden ... though Pride is a sin and perhaps she should not ... but the tea is so refreshing and she does do such a good ..."

"No Sister ... thank you," interrupted the Superior. "If you would just fetch Rosalind here, please."

"Oh! Oh yes ... of course Reverend Mother ... sir ... I think she is in the orchard ... at least that was where I last saw her ... though she may be in Chapel now ... or perhaps ..." Still chattering, the little nun bowed her way out of the office and set off in search of Rosalind.

"Sometimes," sighed Mother Mary Frances, "I wish Sister Agnes would take a leaf out of Rosalind’s book and make a vow of silence."

And Roger, despite his worries, laughed.

In just a few moments, Sister Agnes’ voice came floating along the corridor. "Now Rosalind .. just straighten your veil, dear ... Reverend Mother will not let any harm come to you ... so don’t look so nervous ... and the gentleman is ever so handsome ... though of course I should not say such a thing ... but really, his smile is so ... and he is so tall ... but I mustn’t think of such things ..."

Still chattering, Sister Agnes ushered her charge into the Mother Superior’s office. "Here she is, Reverend Mother ... I found her quite quickly ... she had just left the orchard and I was so fortunate to meet her just as she was crossing the lawn on her way to ..."

And suddenly, even that most talkative of nuns was silenced by the little drama now being played out in front of her. Rosalind’s eyes, downcast as was proper as she made her obeisance to her Superior, had strayed to the tall, unfamiliar visitor. She flushed ... then paled, till her face was as white as the robes she wore. She swayed, and put a hand on the desk to steady herself, fearing she might faint at the sight of the man who had haunted her dreams these five long years.

Roger, for his part, had stood silent, drinking in the loveliness of the woman he adored ... all his love and longing showing in the gaze he bestowed upon her. He took a step towards her ... and she opened her mouth as if to speak. Recovering herself, she made a mute appeal to Mother Mary Frances to be permitted to leave, casting anguished eyes towards the door.

But that august lady shook her head and laid a gentle hand on Rosalind’s shoulder. "No, my dear," she said softly. "It is time for you to face whatever it is that you have been hiding from all these years. Come, Sister Agnes ...." And drawing the uncharacteristically quiet nun with her, she left the room.

Rosalind half turned to follow, but the habit of obedience to her Superior was so ingrained that she could not do so. Instead she fixed her gaze resolutely on the floor, only the nervous clasping and unclasping of her hands betraying her anxiety.

Roger’s voice was husky, thick with emotion. "Rosalind ... my darling ..." He stepped closer and made as if to embrace her, drawing back when she stiffened. He dropped his arms to his sides, then reached out, lifting her chin with one finger, forcing her to look up at him. "Why, my love? Why didn’t you come back to me?"

Her grey eyes brimmed with tears. She shook her head and put her hand up over her lips to signify that she would not answer. Frustrated, he turned to the Mother Superior’s desk and found a piece of paper. Thrusting a pen into the ink-well, he handed it to Rosalind.

She hesitated only a moment, then wrote ... It was my fault.

Roger ran his hands through his hair in exasperation. "For God’s sake, Rosalind! How could it have been your fault? No-one could have foreseen what was going to happen. We had no idea the bandits were so close, or that they would attack women and children. There was nothing you could have done!"

Tears began to trickle down her cheeks, and she bit her lip. Irritated now beyond measure, he took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. "Talk to me!" he shouted, but her only response was to lower her head and try to pull away from him.

All at once the years of loneliness and fear, of worry and desperation, closed in on him, and he did what he would never have considered doing to a woman in the habit of a nun. Seating himself on a corner of the desk, and placing one foot on a chair, he pulled Rosalind close and flipped her over his left thigh.

To Be Continued...