by Tamara Leigh
“I told my betrothed it was an opportunity to pray with you, Sir Theriot,” she said.
Here proof her faith was as deep as reported? Theriot wondered. “That is kind, but I am poor company and expect I shall be for a long while. If you will leave the cloth on the stool, I will take no more of your time.”
No kinder could he be in seeking their departure, which was far kinder than he would have been a half hour earlier. Still, the shift in the air revealed Malcolm was offended with Theriot’s rejection of the princess praying for him in his presence.
But before the king could rebuke him, the woman said, “Since you wish such a frayed piece returned, Lady Marguerite believes the cloth is of import.”
She probed, if not to satisfy her curiosity, then that of the woman he did not wish to come again. “Once it was of import, now I but wish what belongs to me.”
Her shadow parted from her betrothed, and when she rejoined Malcolm, she said, “The laundered cloth is on the stool.”
Though he should have expected it was cleaned the same as his garments to remove the residue of salve, he had not.
“Is there anything else I may do for you?” the princess asked.
“There is something. As you must know, some of the items that make this place habitable no longer exist. If you will have them replaced, I give my word they will not share the fate of the others.” When she did not immediately respond, he added, “A pitcher for water and basins for my ablutions.”
“They shall be delivered this day.”
“I thank you.” He moved his eyes to the left. “There is something I would ask of you, King Malcolm.”
“Though I doubt I shall be as accommodating, you may respectfully petition me.”
“I am sure an escort will be required to ensure the safety of your people”—he knew that sounded derision, and it was—“but I request time outside these confines.”
“Easily arranged,” he said as if the matter was already decided. “And do you prove capable of good behavior now you come to terms with your injury, after a time I shall afford this prisoner of high rank the honor of sitting at table with me.”
Beyond the offense of believing Theriot accepted the limitations of a world of dark given crude form only in the presence of light, a surprise. Despite how barbaric Theriot’s own king was in subduing rebellion, William was mostly civil in dealing with nobles who threatened his rule. For that, the Aetheling and his family had been treated well enough they were able to escape and seek sanctuary in Scotland. It seemed the supposed savage who ruled this country was of a like mind.
Though Theriot had no desire to sit in Malcolm’s great hall and blindly feed himself beneath the regard of his enemies, he said, “Henceforth, I shall strive to behave as fitting an unwilling guest of the King of Scots.”
A chuckle sounded. “See, My Pearl, ye smooth my barbed places.”
When the one likely responsible for the concessions murmured her approval, Theriot acknowledged the power of women to alter the nature of men—in a godly way where there was love such as what his parents and older brothers, Guarin and Cyr, knew. He had expected one day it would alter him as well should he find a woman who engaged both mind and heart and he could provide well for her and their children, but now…
Malcolm cleared his throat. “We shall leave you.”
“Peace be with you,” the princess said.
Following their departure, Theriot crossed the room. Before he reached the stool and felt a hand toward the cloth, he caught a scent more potent in the absence of other scents now it was clean. It could be that of the princess who delivered it, but when he raised it, he was certain it was of Marguerite. As if…
He drew another breath. The scent of lavender met with her scent penetrated the cloth as if not merely handled but worn—further proof his efforts to make an ally of her caused her to feel much for him.
He grunted. Now her truth was revealed, it did not matter. As for the cloth worn to remind him of Hastings when God’s favor most greatly shone on him…
He considered tossing it on the fire as done the walking stick, but surely that would signify acceptance of the physician’s diagnosis. And he did not accept it. Not yet. But neither could he once more fasten the cloth around his neck.
Theriot measured his steps to the bed, lifted the mattress, and set the cloth atop shards of clay pitcher. Between now and deciding the fate of that which had long been his companion, it would serve as one more layer between prying eyes and the only keen weapons available to him.
He dropped the mattress and touched his thigh where he had secured the strongest and sharpest shard with a strip torn from the waistband of the poor fitting chausses. Then he stretched out on the bed and turned his thoughts to what he would do with the bit of freedom Malcolm granted him.
As he would not have his family pay for his release, whether by ransom or risk to their lives, somehow he must make a way out of here.
For the first time since his injury, a sightless Saxon woman came to mind—she whose granddaughter had married one of Theriot’s brothers. Unless one caught sight of her milky eyes, her debility was not obvious. With confidence and few missteps, Bernia had moved about her village with no stick going before her.
Hope in that. Or was there? After all, since it was age that stole her sight, her adjustment had been gradual. Too, she had only to better learn the boundaries of a village already known to her. Far more would be required of Theriot.
Though escape seemed impossible without aid and having only light and shadows to guide him, he would seek to make it possible—and despite growing doubt, continue to embrace his sire’s belief in God’s willingness to intercede over his uncle’s belief God was merely an observer.
After what seemed hours of praying for full recovery of his sight as well as his extra sense, it was natural to raise his lids. Or had been.
Thinking how wrong it was that, though he could no longer see, still his eyes moistened as if he were a little boy who needed someone to hold his hand to keep him upright and lead him about, he squeezed his eyes closed. And found some comfort amid darkness that was rightfully impenetrable regardless of the state of his vision.
Chapter Fourteen
Mid-Spring, 1070
A month, and still she resided at the palace. Regret.
A month, and still she had not ventured to the graveyard. Regret.
A month, and still she saw Theriot only from afar when he was escorted outside the hut. No regret.
Nay, much regret. Despite how they had parted, and though in the end it would make her hurt more, she longed to speak with him, even if only to barter one curiosity answered for another, to look upon him, to touch—
Marguerite gasped. The needle having stuck her finger, she snatched her hand from beneath the material, pressed a thumb against the welling blood, and searched for crimson near the dark green leaves she had been embroidering around the edge of the veil Meg would wear for her nuptials.
“Do tell your wandering thoughts have not ruined it!” Princess Cristina entreated.
Marguerite looked up over the cloth at the young woman sitting opposite in light come through the unshuttered window. As ever, this princess of less height than her sister and of brown rather than golden hair was mostly tense, and still she could not speak one kind thing without speaking an unkind thing by way of complaint or criticism.
The sisters’ mother was not as vocal, but she had a similar air, and her glower spoke what her tongue usually withheld—though not now. “Well, Lady Marguerite?” Agatha prompted in an accent of her native country of Hungary rather than her adopted country of England. “Have you ruined it?”
“Of course she has not ruined it, Mama,” Meg said where she sat beside Marguerite with whom she continued to share her sleeping quarters. “But had she bled onto it, the stain could be got out.”
“Got out?” Cristina exclaimed. “That which covers your hair must be as pure as she who will be queen. The work would
have to start again and—”
“Sister, ’tis not what covers me that concerns the Lord but that which is never covered to Him.”
Cristina gave a huff. “Ever this Scottish lady is half outside her mind, especially while at prayer.” Her eyes shot back to Marguerite. “You ought to be praying over that cloth as you ply needle, not thinking on that Norman who sought to deliver our brother into the hands of the evil one.”
Tempted to speak what she ought not, Marguerite stood, draped the veil over the back of her chair, and started for the door.
“Ah, Cristina!” Meg chided, then followed her friend from the small sitting room where hours were given to needle and thread nearly every day.
As the princess closed the door behind her, Dubh rose from where she stretched in the corridor.
“Forgive me, Meg,” Marguerite beseeched. “Your sister is right in saying my mind is not where it ought to be. I…” She sighed. “’Tis not only Sir Theriot, though he is often the cause. It is that I have not done what I should have a month past.”
The princess set a hand on Marguerite’s arm. “I would be pleased to accompany you across the glen.”
It was not only visiting her family’s graves that needed doing but returning to her own home. This day the former, she decided, soon the latter.
Though there would be some comfort having her friend with her, greater the comfort of being alone with those she had lost. “I thank you, but this I do myself.”
“I understand, my friend. When you are down in the glen, ere you cross the water and go from sight, look up and you shall see me at the window entreating the Lord to breathe peace upon you.”
“You bless me,” Marguerite said, then trailed by Dubh, descended to the hall where servants arranged and prepared tables for the nooning meal.
Stepping into the shade outside the great doors, she considered returning abovestairs for her mantle to ward off the cool of a spring day, but since it would be warmer in the sun and the exercise of traversing the glen would shake off the chill, she descended the steps to the sound of men practicing arms beyond the wall.
As she and Dubh crossed the bailey toward the iron door in the outer wall that accessed the glen, she looked to Theriot’s hut and was disappointed at catching no sight of him.
He had not recovered his vision, as reported by the physician who often sat with her during meals, but he was whole of body. Permitted to walk the bailey in early morning and late afternoon, likely he was acquainted with most of it, and at supper last eve, Colban had said the prisoner had sent word to Malcolm he would like to venture outside the wall.
Marguerite had nearly entreated the king to allow it. However, she had feared it would have the opposite effect since he would not like that she continued to concern herself over Theriot, especially as Malcolm believed she should be looking nearer upon the physician.
“Lady, is it to the glen ye go?” asked the man given watch over the iron door.
“It is.”
He opened the door. “Then you may pass.”
Of course she could. With the rare exception of when Dunfermline was under threat of attack, ever she moved about her home when she wished and as she wished. She nearly asked for an explanation, but realizing his concern was likely for her turning right rather than left, she commanded Dubh to stay behind to better ensure she was unseen when she did what she ought not.
Though the dog growled, it made no attempt to follow when she slipped past and went to the left as expected.
Since ever she had been welcome to watch the warriors at training and this day was not, the moment the door closed, she went right.
She followed the wall to its turning and, staying close, rounded the corner. It was a sight little different from others witnessed—three score warriors, some inside the fenced area trading blows, others outside it shouting encouragement and taunts.
The one who first captured her attention was Malcolm whose build several men aspired to match but could not. The second to catch her regard was the Aetheling with whom the king traded blows and shouted instruction. The third who should have been the first come to notice was Theriot, the sun at his back lighting the silver in his hair.
For this, the man-at-arms had confirmed the glen was her destination. Since likely the king had not anticipated the need to ensure Marguerite did not appear, to this situation the man had applied whatever order he and others were given that she remain distant from the prisoner.
Though she knew she should slip away before she drew attention, she stared at Theriot who stood outside the fence, a guard on either side. As ever, the walking stick she had given him was not present, whether because still he rejected it or he had destroyed it as done the wash basins and water pitcher. Likely both, she acceded for the dozenth time and moved her gaze to his eyes.
He was too distant for her to determine if they remained clouded, but the whites no longer appeared red and she could see the flesh around them was neither bruised nor abraded.
His hair was slightly longer, the ends brushing his neck, but greater change was in the lengthening and thickening of mustache and beard, the latter noticeably marked by silver. Wearing his fine belted tunic, chausses, and boots, he stood with arms crossed and legs apart, appearing a man watching a contest between a king and future king.
Was he watching? Though fairly certain a month past he could see no more than he told, it was possible he had recovered his vision and now feigned blindness.
“I pray it,” she whispered, “that you have only to shift your eyes to see me, even if you hate this woman who never wished to make an enemy of you.”
A shout of anger returning her attention to the king, she saw Edgar land on his rear near his fallen sword.
As if the others had half-heartedly engaged in their own contests to attend to this one, they ceased trading blows to look nearer upon what must have been a lesson. But not a planned one, she was certain.
The opponents were not garbed in the clothing of arms practice but what their high stations afforded as they moved among their lessers. Not that Malcolm dressed as extravagantly as the Aetheling, but there was nothing disposable about the king’s tunic, chausses, and boots.
“That, Edgar, is how not to use anger to swing a sword.” The king halted over the young man. “Now get up and make what you demanded of me a request, and forget not you are my guest.”
The Aetheling thrust upright. “No mere guest—soon to be your kin, Malcolm.”
Marguerite startled. Her king was free with his given name among intimates and even those less intimate during informal discussions, but these circumstances boasting an audience of liegemen did not qualify. Edgar was disrespectful, and still Malcolm exercised control, though likely not for much longer.
“Ask it of me, Edgar,” he boomed, and Marguerite saw saliva fly in the light between their faces.
The young man should be frightened, but arrogance, self-righteous anger, and the confidence of being the Aetheling as well as brother to a woman greatly desired by the king, continued to make a fool of him.
Edgar turned his head to the side, raised his weaponless hand, and pointed at Theriot who stood as before though with more expression—eyes narrowed and lips curved as if this was of more interest than practice at arms. “It is ill enough my enemy is not chained and rotting in a cell, but that you allow him the reach of the bailey and now the training yard! What next, Malcolm? Am I to suffer that foul Norman at table?” He stepped nearer the king and looked smaller for being forced to tip his head further back. “Much that one’s presence offends this royal person who can as easily withdraw his permission to wed a Saxon princess as grant it.”
Lest Marguerite witness the landing of the king’s fist, she nearly closed her eyes, but instead Malcolm’s great hand gathered up the neck of Edgar’s tunic and lifted him to his toes. “The betrothal will not be undone! And already much you have benefitted, though thus far you lay waste to all opportunities given you. I am king, your sister
will be my queen, and I shall continue to aid in your quest to take the throne denied you—if you show respect and become worthy of that throne.”
The Aetheling dangled, his boots brushing the dirt, mouth gaping, eyes squeezed shut as if in anticipation of worse.
Then Malcolm thrust him away. “Ask it of me, Edgar!”
The prince regained his balance and held up a hand. “I need a moment.” As he tried to put order to his tunic, his gaze flicked over those who watched, even touching on Marguerite. She expected his eyes to sweep back, alerting Malcolm to her presence, but they did not, and she guessed his encounter with the king so rattled she was of no consequence.
She had little liking for him, but having spent a month in close company with his sister who had revealed much of his long, painful journey from a youth who should be king to a young man who was not, better she understood him.
He breathed deep. “Your Grace, as I would not have you grant such freedom to the Norman who ought to be dead for the trouble he brought down on me and my men, I request his removal from my presence.”
Malcolm inclined his head. “Spoken like a prince who, in time, may make a good king. Now I shall give answer like a king who has earned his kingdom as ye must. Having given much thought to Sir Theriot and the circumstances of his captivity, I have determined he is of no threat to me or mine. Hence, until I decide whether to return him to his family or make use of him in negotiations with the conqueror, he will not be caged like an animal—”
“What? You intend to return him to his family?”
“Edgar! A prince does not interrupt a king. Listen! As long as the chevalier has a guard on him, he may go where he wishes. Within reason.”
“I thank you,” Marguerite whispered.
Edgar’s throat convulsed as if he wanted to argue further, but he said, “As Your Grace wishes, though I believe you will regret it.” Then he retrieved his sword and shoved it in its scabbard.
