And Dickon had changed. He was distracted, and had eyes only for his wife. They had not stayed long, and Elf had had no contact with them since but for a letter from her brother that came each year on her birthday. This year, however, there had been no letter.

The abbess’s voice cut into Elf’s thoughts. "Go now, my daughter, and prepare for your journey. Sir Saer will await you outside the gates of the convent. When you are ready, take yourself to Sister Joseph, who will see that you have a proper mount. Go with God, my daughter."

Elf bowed to Reverend Mother Eunice, turned, and hurried out.

"The demoiselle Eleanore is of good family," the abbess said to her guest, "and of gentle disposition. She came to us when she was five, and has not left the environs of St. Frideswide’s since. Be certain you treat her gently and with respect. Above all, do not speak harshly to her. She is not used to men as you will surely understand. Father Anselm is the only man she knows."

"Of course, Reverend Mother," Saer de Bude answered the abbess. "My cousin would be angered with me if I were thoughtless of the demoiselle." He bowed to the nun. " I shall take my leave of you, then, my lady abbess, and await the demoiselle outside your gates." He turned quickly to go.

"A moment, sir," Mother Eunice said sharply. "What is Richard de Montfort’s true condition? I shall not tell Eleanore."

"He is dying," Saer de Bude replied sanguinely.

The abbess merely nodded. Then, after a long pause, she said, "You may go." She had been certain that nothing short of impending death would have elicited a call for Eleanore de Montfort. She well remembered Isleen de Warenne. A proud, selfish girl with little care for anyone but herself. And Isleen was childless after nine years of marriage.