Adela blinked, then realized that she had picked up the pitcher of milk and held on to it, thoughtlessly, as she worried about the missing women.
Passing the pitcher to Sister Margaret, the abbess gestured to the others to continue with their meal, then rose and moved to the door. She had barely stepped into the hall when she spotted Sister Clarice hurrying down the corridor, a slightly guilty flush on her face. Unable to speak during mealtime, Lady Adela once again arched an eyebrow, demanding an explanation of the woman’s tardiness.
Sighing, Clarice raised her hand and propped two fingers upward until they were inserted in her nostrils, somehow managing an apologetic look as she did so.
The action was a pantomime to announce that she had forgotten to provide incense for mass—as Adela had suspected. Shaking her head, the abbess gestured for Clarice to continue on to her meal; then she made her way out to the stables.
The building was silent but for the faint rustle of hay as various animals shifted and glanced curiously toward her as Adela entered. Gathering the hem of her skirt close to avoid trailing it through anything unpleasant, she made her way down the rows of stalls until she reached the last one. There, Sister Eustice and Lady Rosamunde were kneeling by a panting mare. She stood for a moment, peering affectionately at their bent backs as they toiled over the laboring beast; then her mouth dropped with dismay as Sis Eustice shifted and she could see exactly how Lady Rosamunde was toiling.
“What in God’s name are you doing?”
Rosamunde stiffened at that horrified exclamation from behind, her head whipping briefly around to see the abbess gaping at her with dismay. Then she swiftly whirled back to soothe the mare as the animal whinnied, its muscles shifting around her hands.
Leaping to her feet, Eustice ushered the horrified Adela a few steps away, babbling explanations as they moved. “The mare was having difficulty. She labored for hours before we realized that the foal was backward. Lady Rosamunde is trying to help.”
“She has her hands inside the mare!” Adela pointed out with horror.
“She is trying to turn the foal,” Eustice explained quickly.
“But—”
“Is it not the nooning hour?” Rosamunde whispered with exasperation, removing the hand she had been holding the foal’s feet with to pat the mare’s rump soothingly. The animal was becoming distressed by the tone of voice the abbess was using.
“This is an emergency. God will forgive our breaking silence during mealtime if ’tis an emergency,” Adela responded promptly.
“Aye, well, let us hope our mare does,” Rosamunde muttered, shifting swiftly out of the way as the horse began kicking its legs in a panicked attempt to regain its feet.
Sister Eustice moved at once, hurrying to the horse’s head and grabbing it to hold the mare still. She murmured soothing coos at the frightened animal.
Worry almost overcame her, but Adela managed to contain herself as Rosamunde dropped back on to her knees at the rear of the reclining horse. Unlike Sister Eustice, who was garbed in the plain habit of a nun, the girl was decked out in a stable boy’s pants and overlarge top, its billowing sleeves rolled back to leave her arms bare. It was the costume the girl usually wore when working in the stables. Rosamunde felt it much more appropriate than a gown, and Adela, despite her better judgment, had done little to sway her from wearing the scandalous garb. She had always been fond of the girl, and there was no one of import around to disapprove anyway. However, she had already explained to the child that she would have to shed the stable-boy clothes for good—along with many other things—once she took the veil and became a nun.
Adela’s thoughts fled, her face twisting into a half grimace, half wince as Rosamunde once again eased her hands into the horse, reaching to grasp its foal and try to ease its way into the world.
“Thank the good Lord’s graces that your father, the king, is not here to see this,” Adela murmured, remembering to keep her voice calm. She did not wish to frighten the horse again.
“To see what?”
All three women stiffened at that deep baritone. Eustice’s eyes widened in horror as she peered past the abbess toward the entrance to the stables. Her expression was enough to tell Adela that she had correctly recognized that voice. The Lord, it seemed, was not feeling particularly gracious today. The king had come to see what his daughter had gotten up to under her care.
Straightening her shoulders, Adela turned resignedly toward Henry, hardly noticing the men with him as she forced a smile of greeting to her face. “King Henry. Welcome.”
The monarch nodded at the abbess, but his attention was on his daughter. She glanced over her shoulder at him, a bright smile replacing the anxiety on her face.
“Papa!”
Henry started to smile, but ceased as he took in the sight of her. “What the devil are you doing in the stables, girl? And all dressed up like a boy, too.” He glared at Adela. “Do I not pay you people enough to hire a stable boy? Do you spite me by putting my daughter to work with the animals?”
“Oh, Papa.” Rosamunde laughed, unconcerned by his apparent temper. “You know that it is my choice. We must all work at something—and I prefer the stables to scrubbing the convent floors.” The last of her statement was a distracted mutter. She turned back to what she was doing.
Henry’s curiosity drew him forward. “What are you doing?”
Rosamunde glanced up, a scowl of anxiety on her face. “This mare has been in labor for more than a day now. She is losing strength. I fear she shall die if we do not help her along, but I cannot get the foal out.”
His brows drawn together, Henry peered at where her arms disappeared into the mare at the elbows. Horror covered his face. “Why, you—What—You—”
Sighing at his dismayed stammer, Rosamunde calmly explained. “The foal is backward. I am trying to turn it, but I cannot find its head.”
Henry’s brows rose at that. “Will it not hurt the mare having you dig about inside her like that?”
“I do not know,” she said pragmatically, reaching farther into the animal. “But both mother and foal shall surely die if something is not done.”
“Aye . . . well . . .” Frowning at her back, Henry said, “Leave that for . . . er . . .” He peered toward the nun now moving back toward Rosamunde and the horse.
“Sister Eustice,” Lady Adela supplied helpfully.
“Aye. Sister Eustice. Leave it for the sister to deal with, daughter. I do not have long here and—”
“Oh, I could not do that, Papa. It would ruin the sleeves of Sister Eustice’s gown. This will not take long, I am sure, and then—”
“I do not give a damn about the sister’s sleeves,” Henry snapped, starting forward to drag her away bodily if need be, but a pleading glance from his daughter made him halt. She did so look like her mother. Henry had found it impossible to refuse the mother anything. Why should their daughter be different?
Sighing, he removed his cloak and handed it to Eustice, then shrugged out of his short surcoat and handed that over as well.
“Who taught you to do this?” he asked gruffly, bending to kneel beside her in the straw.
“No one,” she admitted, flashing him a smile that warmed his heart. It immediately made him let go of his impatience and anger. “It just seemed to be the thing to do when I saw the problem. She will die otherwise.”
Nodding, he shifted as close to her as he could get and reached his hands inside the mare to help. “It is the head you cannot find?”
Rosamunde nodded. “I have the rear legs, but I cannot—”
“Aha! I have it. It is caught on something.” He paused. “There we go.”
Rosamunde felt the back legs slip from her grip and shift away. She just managed to tug her hands free of the mare as her father turned the animal within its mother until its head was at the right angle.