BOUNDLESS: A Medieval Romance (AGE OF CONQUEST Book 6)

by Tamara Leigh

  Thus, Marguerite was grateful Malcolm’s betrothed asked her mother and sister to withdraw to allow her visitor privacy in which to complete her ablutions. Also of relief was the dismissal of the princess’s maid who had begun to flutter around Marguerite. But then the one who insisted on being called Meg to avoid confusion in informal situations, began aiding one of far less import than she.

  “You have lovely hair,” she said.

  Marguerite looked from her own reflection in the mirror on the dressing table to that of the woman who stood behind loosely braiding this lady’s brown tresses. “I thank you, Princess, but I must confess envy. Only upon you have I seen hair as flaxen and thick from crown to ends.”

  “You are kind.”

  “Is it kindness when it is truth without question?”

  A smile moved her mouth. “You sound like my Malcolm.”

  My Malcolm. “ Heart warming, Marguerite said, “Now you sound like him.”

  She laughed. “Aye, he and I are fond of laying claim to each other as if already we are wed.”

  “I am glad. The princess I first met was not light of heart.”

  “That was a lady in exile who believed her desire to do God’s work from inside the walls of an abbey was to be further delayed. This is a lady who shall willingly do God’s work in a different manner and place.”

  “Do you love my king?”

  The princess’s brow grooved. “In the beginning, he seemed so uncivilized I did not think I could care for him in any great measure, but once I uncovered his heart…” She nodded. “I name it love, though I have told him it is not as great as what he feels for me and shall never be. I will be his wife and, God willing, mother of his children, but ever the Lord shall have first claim on me.”

  “You sound determined.”

  She paused, put her head to the side. “It is not determination. ’Tis truth of the state of my heart as it should be for all—love of the Lord above others and possessions.”

  Though Marguerite was less gullible than once she had been, she was inclined to believe this woman who made no attempt to ply her with professions of overwhelming love for Malcolm. “You make me ashamed.”

  “’Tis not my intent,” the princess said. “I but tell how it is with me. Aye, it should be thus with you, and one day it shall be if you aspire to it, but I know you have not the advantage with which I was blessed.” When Marguerite looked up, she continued, “The greatest portion of my education was received at the feet of the saintly King Edward who loved the Lord as no other I have known. Thus, so long I have breathed in God that He is and shall ever be my first and last breath no matter what—or who—comes in between.”

  Oh, to be so devoted, Marguerite thought. Surely then one can face the ills of the world without closing eyes and ears and mouth.

  “You are not to be ashamed,” the princess asserted and resumed work on the braid.

  Marguerite smiled. “I am glad marriage is not being pressed on you, and that for all your love of the Lord, still you have some for the king. A love match is a rare thing.”

  “So speaks the child of one.”

  Mention of Marguerite’s parents brought to mind the graveyard where she must go to honor them, as well as Cannie and the escort felled by her kin. But not yet. She cleared her throat. “I am thinking during my absence King Malcolm told tales of Diarmad the Mad who became Diarmad the Shield.”

  “He did, but as they are among his favorites, I knew some ere you departed Dunfermline, it being Malcolm’s means of reciprocating for my readings to him from the Gospels.”

  Marguerite was struck by remembrance of the evening past when she had traded answers with Theriot. “You bartered?”

  The princess wrinkled her nose. “Though he who shall take me to wife may consider it that, never would I require payment for sharing and discussing the Lord’s word.” She chuckled. “Though I must admit had I sought payment, I would have been satisfied. Much Malcolm loved Diarmad and esteemed your parents—so much he tells his love for me is as great as your sire’s for your mother, and he aspires to grow my love for him as great as your mother’s for your sire.”

  “They were very special,” Marguerite said. “Though not without their difficulties and griefs, they shared them and grew closer and stronger.”

  “So I understand. As for the tales told me following your departure, those were mostly an unburdening of Malcolm’s grief over your mother’s demise and what he believed yours. He has healed these months, but not as much as he did upon your return. I am glad you came home to us.”

  To us. Marguerite savored the words.

  The princess did not speak again until she secured the braid with a ribbon. Then she came around. “You are well bathed and prettily groomed, even if few shall look upon you.”

  Certainly not Theriot, Marguerite thought. But he will know my scent.

  “I thank you for your aid, Princess.”

  “Meg is what I would be to you, dear lady.”

  “Meg,” Marguerite corrected.

  Of a sudden, the princess dropped to her knees. “There is something of which we should speak.”

  Marguerite blinked. “Sir Theriot?”

  She shook her head. “I believe I have told all I know of his family, and I can tell naught specific about the youngest brother. I would talk of your mother.”

  Marguerite caught her breath.

  The princess grasped her hands. “As I am sure you wish to visit her grave alongside your sire’s, I would offer to accompany you.”

  Marguerite knew where to find her mother’s resting place—the sanctified ground of the small church on the side of the glen opposite the palace, near enough the river for the rippling and rushing water to be heard but not so near there was danger of flooding. “I shall visit, but not this day—when it is warmer so I may linger.” She nodded. “I will think on your offer.”

  “As you wish. May I pray for you?”

  Marguerite stared at this one of royalty kneeling so humbly before her it seemed wrong she herself remained seated.

  “I believe I have God’s ear,” the princess prompted. “Allow me to bend it toward you.”

  Marguerite slid off the stool onto her knees.

  Meg closed her eyes. “Lord Almighty, the Maker and Keeper of all, the Breath in our nostrils, Light in our eyes, and Voice in our ears and hearts, your servant speaks unto You. Here, my friend of much sorrow and loss, uncertainty and questioning. I beseech You, comfort and strengthen Lady Marguerite so she accepts all behind to better embrace the good and withstand the ill of all ahead. Keep this lady wise and safe as she does her tender work with Sir Theriot, and give her the confidence to be honest about the loss of his sight and the part she played.”

  Marguerite opened her eyes. On the day she returned to Dunfermline and was granted an audience with the king, she had revealed the necessity of keeping her identity hidden from the chevalier and felt the princess’s disapproval, and even greater that disapproval when Malcolm agreed it was for the best. Now here it was again. It was not ill-founded, but Theriot would reject her aid if he knew the truth.

  “And Lord,” the princess continued, “just as Marguerite wishes the chevalier’s swift healing and restoration of his sight, I add my prayers to hers. If ’tis Your will he see the world again as before, return form and color to his eyes.” She drew breath. “As for the guilt burdening this lady over the death of her escort and the injury done Hendrie and Sir Theriot, I pray You ease it by encouraging others to show her grace and her to accept it.”

  Emotion shot up Marguerite’s throat, the sob she swallowed hurting all the way back down.

  Meg squeezed her hands. “We bow before You, Heavenly Father. Amen.” She sat back.

  “Much gratitude,” Marguerite finally found her voice. “I know what I did was not sinful, but I hurt for what I wrought.”

  “None of us are perfect,” the princess said. “We can only hope others show us grace as we should show them.”

/>   Marguerite’s thoughts went to Theriot. “Still, how is it you pray so sincerely for the chevalier though the brother you love wishes the opposite—and worse?”

  She sighed. “Because of what Edgar wants, ’tis more imperative I pray for Sir Theriot—and my brother who is much changed from the sweet boy I carried on my hip. Great my sorrow he who should be king is not and may never be. Great my understanding that though my marriage benefits him, it pinches I who should never be queen shall sit alongside a king.”

  “His losses and disappointments are many,” Marguerite acceded, “but he is yet young.”

  “Barely nine and ten, and even with Malcolm’s aid, I fear Edgar’s hope for the crown is only that. Methinks he fears it as well, and for that is bitter.” She stood and, as she assisted Marguerite to her feet, said, “We must place our hope in God that all will come as right as possible for Edgar, England, and Scotland.”

  “When might that be?” Marguerite asked.

  “If God chooses, it could happen this moment, a month hence, a year, even a thousand or more. But as it is His timing alone, we cannot know what He will do above with what we do below. And we must accept that is as it should be lest we live only as far as the eye and heart can reach.”

  I could come to love her, Marguerite thought. I believe Malcolm is right—we shall become good friends.

  “I am grateful for our time together, Meg. Now I ought to return to my patient.”

  The princess touched Marguerite’s arm. “Lady, pray on setting aright the deception worked on him. Not only is it the godly thing to do, but worse it will be if he learns the truth from another.”

  Marguerite did fear someone would reveal she had led the chevalier into the trap. Though Malcolm had ordered that none speak of it, she might be revealed, whether by a tongue loosened with drink or one stiff with spite.

  “I will pray on it.”

  The princess inclined her head. “Do I not see you at supper, I will see you on the morrow when once more you make use of my chamber.”

  Marguerite knew she should attend one of the meals, but for now preferred the company of Theriot D’Argent. “On the morrow,” she said.

  “One more thing, Lady Marguerite. When my family and I arrived at Dunfermline and your king asked you to perform, I did not adequately express appreciation for your willingness to share the gift the Lord gave you. Pray, know I could not have been better welcomed to this foreign country than to have Malcolm’s sparrow sing me into it.”

  “As it was an honor to perform for a princess of England, it shall be an honor to perform for the Queen of Scotland,” Marguerite said and, moments later, began her descent of stone steps which Princess Cristina proclaimed were too rough to grace the inside of a palace. Not only did the burred edges and surfaces snag the lady’s dainty slippers but the hems of her fine gowns.

  The steps could not be set aright, interlocked and mortared as they were in the space between the tower’s inner and outer walls, but during Marguerite’s absence much had been done to accommodate Malcolm’s royal guests. If not for the king’s love of the princess, all would have been as when Marguerite left—or worse—regardless of whose senses were offended.

  As evidenced by the royal chambers and interiors of other rooms she glimpsed during each spiraling ascent and descent, the accommodations had been improved with new and repaired furnishings and fresh paint.

  Never before had the hall she stepped into been so presentable, the tables, benches, tapestries, and wall sconces either repaired or replaced. The usually sparse, heavily fouled rushes were fresh, thickly strewn, and herb-scented, and the fire pit was regularly tended rather than left to burn and smoke at will.

  “Lady Marguerite!”

  Having thought she passed through unnoticed by servants at work and retainers at ease, she swung around. “I did not hear you,” she said in the same Anglo-Saxon with which Colban addressed her.

  He halted. “Forgive me. As I have been in conversation with Princess Cristina, your appearance was too good an opportunity to let pass.”

  Then this the reason he did not speak in his native Gaelic. Marguerite looked beyond him to the young woman who stood outside an alcove watching them. “Too good to let pass?”

  “Though the lass professes to dislike our rough countrymen, at times I feel hunted.”

  “Perhaps she has decided to eschew holy vows the same as her sister.”

  He harrumphed. “Best she eschew them for someone else.”

  “You do not think to wed again?”

  “I do,” he reverted to Gaelic and ran his gaze down Marguerite. “And to choose better this time.”

  He referred to his first wife wed four years past when Malcolm brought the physician down out of the Highlands. The woman had been unfaithful while pregnant with their first child, the blood of whom surely he would have questioned had the babe survived its birthing as its mother had not.

  Feeling hunted herself, she said, “I am sure you shall. You will visit our Norman patient this day?”

  Annoyance rumpled his brow. “As I doubt much has changed, I shall come again on the morrow or after that.”

  Deciding delivery of his opinion to Theriot regarding recovery of his sight was best delayed, she was disappointed in his answer only because it seemed retaliation. “I shall see you then,” she said.

  Feeling watched out of sight, she departed the tower and was surprised Dubh awaited her on the steps, having bounded from her side when they exited the hut the sooner to join other dogs roaming the bailey.

  “Good, Dubh,” she said. Upon reaching the bottom of the steps, she paused to look close on the palace as she had not done since her return home.

  The outside was as altered as the inside, the tower whitewashed and shutters that had barely clung to window frames now supplanted by new ones capable of subduing light, cold, and heat. The clutter within the bailey and stacked against the tower’s base had been cleared and organized, and the scattered buildings servicing the palace—including the kitchen and wash house—were repaired and all but the stable given new roofs.

  “A far better fit for a king,” Marguerite murmured.

  As she moved her gaze from the sizable structure that was kept better than other buildings for the valuable horses it housed, she caught movement. Returning her regard to the stable, she saw Edgar duck inside. Had he been watching her? Of greater concern, had he been observing the hut inside which Theriot was bound?

  Grateful for the Scotsmen guarding the king’s prisoner, Marguerite turned her attention to meeting the chevalier’s immediate needs, beginning with the keeper of the linens and ending with the cook.

  Chapter Nine

  The men had grumbled, but when Marguerite and Dubh returned two hours following their departure, it appeared all was done as directed.

  As evidenced by Theriot who wore clean garments where he sat with his back to her on a bench beside a generous fire, he had tended to his ablutions with the basins of water, soap, towels, tunic, and chausses delivered this morn.

  The bed had been moved close to the pit, but not so close if overturned again he would find himself amid ashes or flames. On the near side of the bed, a metal loop had been fixed into the rail through which one end of the rope was threaded and drawn beneath the mattress to the opposite rail and its loop.

  Henceforth, when he must be bound, his arms would be out to the sides, allowing for the cover of blankets and loose enough to permit him to turn side to side without reaching for what he ought not reach, nor drawing his hands together to make greater weapons of them.

  Marguerite could not own to that cleverness, having learned it from her sire who was forced to secure his wife following the loss of their third son days after his birth, her grief so great it was feared too much movement would tear the stitches holding her together.

  Recalling when she hugged the doorframe as her father knelt like a gentle monk beside the bed and wiped away his wife’s tears, spoke words of love, and sung son
gs of Scotland’s fierce beauty he said was matched only by hers, Marguerite thought, Would that I could have a love like theirs, my heart in another’s, another’s heart in mine.

  As if she had spoken aloud, Theriot’s head came around. Beneath recently washed hair drying on his brow, his ravaged eyes settled on hers as if clearly he saw her where she stood in the doorway.

  I hope you do, she thought, and gasped when the hound pushed past. If not that Dubh had taken a liking to the prisoner, Marguerite would have snatched hold of her collar. As she and the guards on the opposite side of the fire watched, the hound passed near enough Theriot its tail brushed him. Then it came around and, just out of reach, lowered to its haunches as if to converse with the prisoner.

  Wishing it was less accepting of him in the presence of guards who might alert the king this precaution appeared ineffective, Marguerite sidestepped and motioned forward a girl bearing viands better suited to feeding a hungry warrior than the bread and cheese with which he had broken his fast. Behind her came a boy with fur blankets.

  Acquiring one fur from the keeper of the linens had not been difficult, but not so a second for the Norman who had wounded Hendrie. The usually kind woman having insisted winter was on the wane, only when Marguerite told she herself could endure and was grateful her patient would not suffer was she given another fur.

  “The platter on the bedside table, furs on the bed,” she directed as she stepped past Theriot. Turning alongside Dubh to face the chevalier, she saw his garments fit poorly. The tunic’s seams strained and the hems of the chausses rose up his lower calves, but they would do until his own were laundered.

  When Marguerite had inquired about the garments earlier delivered to the wash house, the head laundress, also averse to making Malcolm’s prisoner comfortable, had said, The morrow, the morrow after, or the morrow next.

  The morrow, Marguerite had insisted and scooped up the pile and given them to a younger woman with instructions they go in the tub immediately.