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uncle wished her to do, she couldn’t leave Bledloe Abbey without the king’s consent. To do so meant putting her sisters in an untenable situation and probably angering both of her brothers-by-marriage.
    Rhodri might be right about Alberic and Darian being well able to take care of themselves and her sisters, but Nicole saw no good reason to put them at risk over her uncle Connor’s whim.
    And especially not over William’s. Her brother had said no more to her after giving her the ominous order to leave. She had yet to discern the precise reason for his order, other than to decide he’d done so to somehow further his quest for revenge against Alberic. She would
not
be used again in such fashion.
    So she dared not leave the abbey, no matter how much running barefooted through long grass to chase butterflies appealed. When the burial was over, she would thank Rhodri ap Dafydd for playing his harp for Mother Abbess and send him back to Wales, to give her thanks and regrets to Connor.
    A stirring near the chapel’s door snapped Nicole from the musings she’d wrestled with for too many hours. A few of the nuns were urging the villagers and tenant farmers to their feet and shooing them out the door, which likely meant the clergy from Oxford had arrived. Soon they’d be lowering Mother Abbess’s body into that cold, dark hole.
    Nicole shivered and struggled to her feet, intending to help with clearing the chapel and, ’twas to be hoped, sneak a breath of rose-scented air from the cloister garden. She touched the shoulder of the woman who’d knelt beside her most of the night, the potter’s wife, who held an infant, the youngest of her six children. The woman looked up, seeming to come out of a trance.
    “Madam Potter, time to leave,” Nicole said quietly and looked about for five small bodies, which were nowhere to be found. Puzzled, she asked, “Where are the other children?”
    Madam Potter handed Nicole the sleeping infant before also struggling to her feet. “They are here, somewhere.”
    Somewhere? Upon further inspection of the chapel, Nicole realized that not only had the potter’s children disappeared, but not one small body capable of walking remained within.
    Sweet mercy, had all of the children left the chapel? She nearly groaned aloud, aware of the mayhem a group of untended children could cause. The abbey could very well be in shambles!
    Since Madam Potter seemed in no hurry to reclaim her babe, Nicole carried the small, warm bundle out of the chapel, with the mother close on her heels.
    “I wonder where they are?” she asked, more of herself than of Madam Potter.
    “My eldest, he left the chapel to take a pee, then came back for the others. Said not to worry over them.”
    Madam Potter’s eldest was a male of no more than ten summers. The children’s mother might not have been worried, but Nicole certainly was. Then she heard the faint sound of silver strings, and her worry waned as she headed toward the source of the music.
    Seated on a bench in the garden, surrounded by enthralled children, Rhodri ap Dafydd smiled broadly when he spotted her under one of the arches.
    She handed the infant back to Madam Potter, who absently took the babe while gaping at the children, every one of them sitting still, entranced.
    “Saints be praised! What magic is this?” the woman asked, only half in jest.
    “No magic, merely a Welsh bard. I have witnessed the power of his harp on grown men. These wee ones were likely no challenge.”
    Charming the nuns of Bledloe Abbey yesterday had presented no difficulty for Rhodri. Lightening her grief and weariness now was easily accomplished. Rhodri performed no magic, just wielded a harp with great skill.
    How long had Rhodri entertained the children? She’d not seen him since he’d retired to the priest’s hut last night after supper. When had he returned and watched over the bored little ones?
    Not that he seemed to consider the task a hardship. His wide smile