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of Oxford.”
    “Truly?” he asked, clearly impressed.
    As well he should be. De Vere, one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom, was both a powerful ally and close advisor to King Stephen. Few men were his match.
    “The earl’s father founded Bledloe Abbey, and Aubrey continues the de Vere family’s patronage. Without his financial support, Bledloe Abbey would not long survive.”
    The earl stepped up to the bier and gazed down at Mother Abbess, his visage reflecting his sorrow. The earl and the abbess had been great friends, despite their differences in age and temperaments. The formidable earl truly mourned.
    De Vere stepped back to stand between de Chesney and Sister Claire. “I arrived in Oxford after you left and was most aggrieved to hear the reason for your departure.” De Vere waved a long-fingered hand the priest’s way. “Proceed, Father.”
    Nicole heard nary a word of the priest’s continued rambling, disquieted by the earl’s presence in the abbey’s chapel.
    Sometimes called Aubrey the Grim, de Vere spent most of his days either at his grand castle of Hedingham in Essex or in King Stephen’s entourage. How odd that the earl should visit Oxford at any time other than a fortnight or so before Michaelmas. There could be any number of reasons for his visit, she supposed, but his sudden and unannounced appearance hinted at urgency.
    What pressing business required the attention of an earl? Most likely it concerned the war, a very quiet war of late. But Prince Eustace’s death might have sparked intrigues on both sides. Oxford might be threatened. Chiding her imagination for taking flight without good reason, Nicole forced her attention back to where it belonged.
    The remainder of the Mass passed without interruption, and when it ended, Sister Claire and Sister Mary stepped to either side of the bier. With great reverence, they gathered up the white linen that draped the bier and folded it over the woman who lay upon it. Two more nuns joined them, large needles and heavy thread in hand.
    Nicole had seen shrouds sewn shut before, but not since her father’s and brother’s burial had the sight caused such sharp heartache. Mother Abbess had lived a long, full life. Her spirit had joyfully departed. Nicole wanted to rejoice, but overwhelming grief made it impossible.
    Her throat closed up. Her eyes burned. Cursing her weakness, she crossed her arms tightly over her middle, pressing back threatening sobs. As Sister Claire tied off the last stitch, Rhodri’s hand touched Nicole’s shoulder and her composure crumbled.
    Nicole spun and hid her vulnerability in Rhodri’s chest.
    Rhodri realized he shouldn’t have touched Nicole, but ’twas too late now to undo his mistake. With his arm resting atop her shoulders, she tucked perfectly into his side, her face buried in his woolen tunic. She was pressed so close he could feel her inhale great gulps of air, hold her breath, then exhale in a rush before repeating the actions.
    To his chagrin, he also caught her scent. Delicate, yet as captivating as a bouquet of roses. He breathed her in and savored the heady aroma, scolding himself for taking sensual pleasure in her nearness when all she sought was comfort.
    Nicole made no sound as several men lifted Mother Abbess from the bier and lowered the revered nun into her final resting place in front of the altar.
    Indeed, no one noticed Nicole’s distress, their attention too fixed on the proceedings.
    Rhodri felt her rally, her breathing no longer as labored. Still Nicole remained warm against him, her arms wrapped tight around her middle to contain her grief. Only now and again a slight hitch of breath revealed the depths of her upset.
    Father Gregory broke the silence with a final blessing while Prior Robert swung the incense burner over the grave. With a sniff so indelicate Rhodri had to smile, Nicole turned her head to the side to observe the ceremony.
    She’d always possessed the ability to amuse him. Even as