Free My Beloved by Karen Ranney Page A

order to beg forgiveness for him. Cursing was a terrible thing to do in a place consecrated to God.
    She might yearn to be a woman of fearless courage, but the sad truth was that she failed abysmally at the role. She stepped back as if to press herself into the wall.
    A soft sound escaped her. A sigh, perhaps her own prayer. It was not loud enough to be heard, especially by Sebastian, ardent as he was with his own pleas to heaven. Yet, it must have been, because he stopped speaking. A pause in time, in which nothing moved, no words were said. All sound simply ceased, everything but the beat of her own heart and her own barely felt breaths.
    Her fingers trembled at the edge of her lips. The silence grew upon itself, one moment maturing into two, then three.
    Sebastian stood. He turned, slowly, as if wishing her gone before he looked. As he did so, he pulled the cowl to cover his face again. Not soon enough. Not nearly soon enough. She had viewed him clearly by the light of the candles.
    Once, she’d seen a Roman sculpture, found when a farmer was plowing his field. The villagers had brought it to the convent, in hopes that the abbess would be able to tell them if such a thing was valuable or if they should destroy it. The statue, nearly life-size, was of a young man attired in nothing more than a winged helmet. He stood with one leg in front of the other, a hand resting on a thrust-out hip, the other hand behind his back, holding a small orb. The face had been strong, almost insolent. The lips curved and full, the nose proud, the brow broad. High cheekbones descended to a chin softened from sharpness by the hint of cleft. It was the face of a man who, despite his youth, was well aware of his power.
    A face not unlike that of Sebastian of Langlinais.
    She had prepared herself otherwise, had thoughthim wounded or somehow deformed or scarred. She’d not thought him to be beautiful.
    They stood staring at each other in silence.
    He’d promised her Langlinais, but he’d given her confusion. She was left with endless questions without answers. And now he stood before her unmarked. Another mystery, another riddle.
    â€œGo away, Juliana,” he said softly, his voice strangely kind. “Now.”

Chapter 10
    E very moment of Juliana’s life at Sisters of Charity had been precisely regimented. There were bells to mark the hours and the occupations therein, there was the soft entreaty of a sister in charge of a certain duty, the rhythmic chant of Latin as a call to worship.
    She was expected to adhere to the rules of the community, even though she was only fostered at the convent while awaiting the summons from her husband. She was watched as closely as any novitiate. All such characteristics of form and self that hinted at waywardness were to be modified or expunged. She was not, for example, allowed beyond the convent gates for any reason. Nor was she allowed in the garden simply to appreciate the scent of growing flowers. Her hour there was set aside for weeding, not for idleness. She had known such regulation of her life that it was odd, if not a bit discomfiting, to experience the sudden freedom of her position as the Lady of Langlinais.
    â€œI feel like walking,” she announced to Grazide that afternoon. Instead of protesting, the other woman simply nodded, never ceasing her conversation with the other attendants. Juliana stood therein the great hall, disconcerted. She had marshaled her arguments for her privacy only to have them be unnecessary.
    She removed her toque, left her hair in its braid. Her surcoat was light enough that she would not swelter in the heat. The afternoon was bright and still, the drone of a bee was the only sound she heard as she left the great hall. The Terne flowed in a swift movement below the south wall, the gentle breeze rippled the water and cooled the air. From where she stood, she could see the expanse of Langlinais as it curved in a half-moon shape, its walls