after dragons to slay. No wonder Ranulf’s grasp of the real world is so tenuous!”
“You might do well,” Sybil murmured, “to follow in Ranulf’s footsteps. You see, women find ‘heroic impulses’ very alluring, indeed…even irresistible.”
Ancel’s smile flickered. For a fleeting moment he wondered if she could be making fun of him, but almost at once, he dismissed the suspicion as preposterous. Women were invariably charmed by him; the older ones mothered him and the younger ones flirted with him. Why should this Bankside harlot be any different? “Women already find me irresistible,” he joked. “So…what say you, Sybil, my sweet? Shall we pick a nun’s name for you? How about Sister Mary Magdalene?”
Sybil saw no humor in the jest; it was too obvious, too heavy-handed. But Ancel and Gilbert thought it was hilarious. She waited patiently until they were done laughing, and then said blandly, “Alas, I shall have to decline the honour.”
They were dumbfounded by her refusal, began to bombard her with perplexed queries and protests. “It is not that I am not tempted,” she admitted when they finally gave her a chance to respond, “for I am. But the danger is too great. What if this scheme went awry? How could Ranulf protect me from Baldric’s wrath? If he is kin to an earl-”
She stopped, then, for both boys were grinning widely. They exchanged knowing looks and nudges before Ancel said, with just a trace of smugness, “Ranulf’s protection would shield you from the malice of a hundred Baldrics. He is much more than a squire to Earl Robert. They are brothers.”
Sybil’s mouth dropped open, and she twisted around to stare at Ranulf, who was making a gallant attempt to comfort the sobbing Eve. “Ranulf is one of the old king’s bastards?”
Ancel nodded proudly. “King Henry has sired so many he needs a tally stick to keep count of them all! Ranulf is the youngest but one, born to a Welsh lass the king fancied. None would deny the king is a hard man, but none would deny, too, that he tends to his own. Ranulf grew up at his court, has wanted for nothing. His mother died when he was just a lad, and after Count Stephen wed the Lady Matilda, Ranulf was sent into his household as a page. Then, when he turned fourteen, Earl Robert took on his training as a squire. The king is right fond of him, would be willing to find him an heiress when he’s of an age to wed, but Ranulf and my sister have been mad for each other as far back as I can remember, and Ranulf appears content to settle for whatever marriage portion my father can provide. No one could ever fault his courage, but his judgment leaves much to be desired!”
“Especially in my choice of friends,” Ranulf jeered, reclaiming his seat, and Sybil saw that this barbed banter was their normal form of discourse. “Are you done blabbing all my family secrets, Ancel? If so, I’d like to get back to the matter at hand. This is what we had in mind, Sybil. We’ll lure Baldric to some secluded spot, mayhap out by Holywell, near the nunnery, where you will be waiting. You entreat his aid-we’ll think of a plausible story for you-and then you need only give him a few lingering looks. The privacy and your beauty and his own vile nature will do the rest. Just in time we’ll happen by with a few witnesses, possibly a priest or two. Of course we’ll have to wait till the weather warms up, for not even Baldric would be keen for futtering out in the mud and rain! How would-what? You see a weakness in our plan?”
Sybil shook her head. “Nay, you have thought of everything…or almost everything.”
“Ah, of course!” Ranulf smiled at her as if they were old and intimate friends, while spilling coins out onto the table. “This seems a fair sum to me.”
Sybil’s eyes widened, for he’d casually offered three times what she might expect to earn for a night’s work. And in that moment, she no longer doubted, sure that Ranulf had spoken only the truth, for who but a king’s son would be so lavish with his money?
“This is most fair,” she agreed, returning Ranulf’s smile. “That was not what I meant, though. I fear we have a problem that wants solving. I cannot hope to convince Baldric unless I well and truly look the part. But wherever are we going to find a nun’s wimple and habit?”
Ranulf and his friends left the city through Bishopsgate, headed north along the Ermine Way. It was usually a well-traveled road, the chief route to York. But most wayfarers had already sought a night’s lodging, for dusk was encroaching from the west. Just moments before, the sky had been veined with coppery-gold streaks; it was now smudging with smoke-colored shadows. They passed few houses, as most people felt safer dwelling within the city walls. Before the light had faded, the countryside had been pleasant to look upon, the fields and meadows green and lush in the first flowering of spring. But the boys turned a blind eye to the pastoral beauty around them, and welcomed the sun’s demise, for theirs was an undertaking that needed darkness. They rode in silence for the most part, not reining in until they saw the priory walls looming up through the deepening twilight. It was cloaked in quiet, stretching from the road back toward the River Walbrook-the Augustinian nunnery of St John the Baptist at Holywell.
Gilbert stared morosely at those moss-green walls. “I cannot believe we are actually going to do this,” he muttered, not for the first time that evening, and the other two glared at him. “It is not too late to reconsider,” he insisted. “Stealing from a nunnery is-”
“We are not thieves!” Ranulf snapped. “We are merely going to borrow a nun’s habit for a few days. We will return it undamaged, and with a goodly sum to aid in their alms-giving. What harm in that?”
“But what if something goes wrong? If-”
“What could go wrong?” Ancel demanded. “Our plan is too simple to miscarry. It is not as if we’re tying to sneak into the dorter and snatch a habit from a sleeping nun! We know the priory has spare habits on hand. We need only find where they are kept, most likely in the undercroft below the dorter, where the chambress stores her linens and beddings. The nuns will be asleep; they go to bed as soon as Compline is rung. Now I ask you, Gilbert, what have we to fear from a convent full of sleeping nuns?”
Gilbert grinned reluctantly at that, and Ranulf leaned over, punching him playfully on the arm. “What a comfort you are to us, Gib. If I looked at life the dour way you do, I’d not dare get out of bed in the morn! Why is it that you always expect the worst to happen?”
“Most likely because the two of you keep concocting lunatic schemes like this!” But Gilbert raised no more objections, and once it was fully dark, he hitched their horses in a nearby grove of trees, settled down to keep a wary watch as his friends disappeared into the shadows surrounding the priory.
It proved to be as easy as Ancel had predicted. They had no difficulty in scaling the wall, and detected no signs of life as they crept stealthily toward the church. It was deserted, and they moved swiftly through the nave, out into the silent cloisters. Ancel was to be the lookout, and took up position in one of the sheltered carrels as Ranulf started along the east walkway. He had no warning; suddenly the dorter’s door swung open. He froze as a woman appeared in the doorway. What was she doing out here? And then she gave a low whistle and Ranulf swore softly. A dog, sweet Lady Mary, she had a dog! The Church forbade pets, but the prohibition was more ignored than obeyed, and cats and small dogs were common occupants of English convents. Why had he not remembered that? It was too late now, for the nun’s dog was shooting through the air, swerving toward him in midstride, barking shrilly.
Ranulf kept his head, spun around and ran for the slype, the narrow passage that offered the cloister’s only escape. The dog was at his heels, nipping at his boots, and the nun had begun to scream. He caught a blurred movement off to his left, and spared a second or so to hope it was Ancel, retreating back into the church. Shutters were banging, the dorter windows flung open. But he was almost there-just another few feet and he’d be on his way to safety.
It was then, though, that Ranulf learned one of life’s uglier lessons: that when luck starts to sour, anything that can possibly go wrong, does. As he darted past the Chapter House, the door flew open and he collided with the priory chaplain, who should have been abed in his own lodgings at such an hour. The impact sent them both sprawling. Before Ranulf could get his breath back, the nun’s lapdog landed on his chest, sinking needle-sharp teeth into his forearm. But he was still sure he could get away, for he was younger and far more fit than the priest. Kicking at the dog, he rolled over and lurched to his feet, just as the priory’s porter came plunging through the slype, cudgel raised to strike.
Ranulf’s shoulders slumped, and he sagged back against the Chapter House door. He was well and truly caught, by God, might as well accept it with good grace. He looked about at the chaos he’d unleashed upon the cloistered quiet of this small, peaceful priory, looked at the snarling little dog and shrieking mistress, the fearful faces peering down from the dorter windows, the bewildered priest, still scrabbling about on his hands and knees in the grass, the hulking porter, flushed and panting-and he suddenly started to laugh, for this was lunacy beyond even
