by Tamara Leigh
Margaret…Marguerite, he mulled.
He had aided the mute woman in mounting a horse and, strangely drawn to one unseen, had sought to make her seen. It had been dark and her hood caused shadows to shift across her face as he peered up at her, but his sharp gaze had permitted him to see much of that lovely visage.
Was it possible he had looked upon Marguerite of Dunfermline? That he did know her face? That she was the one who looked back as she departed camp, moving him to raise a hand to let her know he looked upon her as well?
It would be a stretch he might not consider if not that weeks later Dougray had returned to William’s service at York and revealed to Theriot he found a physician for Em at the castle of Stavestone. There, for the first time, he had met his sire, Michel Roche, whose indiscretion had made a misbegotten child on their mother.
Many the trials Dougray had faced to save Em from her pursuers. All were of great interest, and yet—strangely—Theriot had been nearly as interested in the mute healer’s fate. His brother’s expression evidencing he thought it strange as well, he had told it was necessary to leave the one called Margaret in Roche’s care to sooner deliver Em to Wulfen in the hope of sending her across the channel where slavery was outlawed.
Margaret…Marguerite, Theriot considered again. It would explain how she knew Theriot by sight in that burning village and the reason what he had glimpsed of her there seemed familiar. But what of Marguerite playing a mute? He frowned. For that had hoarseness said to be a malady of the throat been only prolonged disuse?
“As told, in my time, not yours,” Malcolm said sharply. “Now go. And have Colban tend your hand, Judd. A dog’s bite is a dangerous thing.” As four figures moved toward the door, the king called, “Do not defy me, Edgar. Seek my betrothed for a prayer vigil.”
When they went into the night, Hendrie said, “I should return the chevalier to his hut?”
As Theriot tensed again, causing Dubh to press more heavily against his leg, Malcolm said, “May I further trust you not to stick my man again, Chevalier?”
Let not vengeance persuade you what is wrong is right, my son, Theriot once more heard and cleared his throat. “If you trust Hendrie not to further injure me, you may trust my dagger will remain sheathed.”
“Done.” The king turned and took with him those who had accompanied Hendrie.
Thus, it was the man Theriot had nearly slain to whom he put his question when they departed the stable. “How long was Lady Marguerite gone from Dunfermline?”
Silence, but when they came around the hut whose eaves dripped rain, Hendrie said, “End of summer last, she departed to retrieve her mother from her family’s Norman lands.”
This Marguerite had told Theriot and that not only had she discovered her mother had passed but her escort was slain and prey made of her. What befell her afterward he did not know since Malcolm’s arrival had interrupted the tale, but he had assumed she escaped back across the border.
“When she did not return, we feared her dead though we did not find her among her murdered escort. Then months later we happened on her in that village.”
Since she had been in England all that time, she could have been the one who accompanied Em following the Battle of Stafford, Theriot considered again.
“Her accursed grandfather deserved what was done him,” Hendrie growled. “Ever he hated Diarmad for loving his daughter. For it, he lost all and is dead.” He halted. “Here your door.”
Curiosity over Marguerite’s sire once more roused, Theriot said, “Diarmad the Mad was your friend?”
“He was. And ere you ask, it was not jest nor taunting that he was mad.”
“You say he was not right of mind?”
“Not when those he loved were threatened. But neither was he of two minds as said some who could not reconcile the berserker with one of great intellect and faith who, outside of battle, was fair and kind—firmly, rather than cruelly, correcting those who offended.”
“Then you believe he was but moved by bloodlust.”
“Bloodlust such as you have never seen. But though there were times I thought he might be ill of mind, methinks he was merely able to leave what needed leaving behind when threats were past—enjoying and praising the good out from beneath the dark of what had been. He knew to watch for danger, but he did not live backward. He lived forward.”
“I thank you for enlightening me,” Theriot said and opened the door.
“I do not understand why you did not slay Edgar,” Hendrie gave him pause. “It would serve as well as delivering him to your king.”
“Since William does not wish the death of so noble an enemy, it would not serve as well as ensuring Edgar lives out his days in such a way he no longer threatens my liege’s rule. As you saw this eve, the prince but requires subduing.”
“This eve, but a third attempt could prove your death.”
“If it is necessary to preserve my life, I shall finish him, but only then.”
“Ye are not like other Normans.”
Theriot hesitated at the realization they conversed as if one had not twice put a blade in the other and the other had not blinded this one. “That sounds a compliment, one I would like better if it did not reflect poorly on those of my countrymen who have caused untold suffering.”
Hendrie grunted. “Caused and continue to cause, but Normans are not alone in sowing pain.” In answer to Theriot’s frown, he said, “There is a difference between surrender and doing what is best for all, and I believe English acceptance of Norman rule will do more good than bad.” He sighed. “Edgar and those who believe he can do what he cannot must abandon hope.”
“Your king supports his bid for the throne,” Theriot reminded him.
“So it appears.”
Emphasis on that last further confirmed Malcolm did what needed doing to ensure he gained the wife he wanted.
“Untold suffering,” Hendrie mused. “We are hopeful beings, believing once we are past this current upheaval our world will find its center again—as if ever it had a center to return to. Unfortunately, it is but relative calm between the waves.”
“You surprise,” Theriot said.
“When you have far more years behind you than ahead, D’Argent, more you will accept what we suffer in this life is but a different version of what others endured before us and others shall endure when we are gone.”
Theriot narrowed his lids and more clearly saw the colors of the plaid draping the man’s brown tunic, as well as long hair and beard of deep red. “Had I not suffered much at your hands, I might think you a priest, Hendrie.”
The Scotsman chuckled. “Better I like the company of fellow soldiers and swing of blades than the ranks of priests and recitation of scripture. And revelry…”
Also a weakness of Theriot, though since crossing the channel, his responsibilities had been too great to indulge as often as once he had.
Realizing the desire for vengeance against this man lessened, Theriot guessed for this his sire had said, Know your enemy. His uncle had said it as well but assigned the words a different meaning. Whereas Hugh taught his pupils the necessity of learning as much as possible about one’s opponent to more easily defeat him in battle, Godfroi had impressed on his sons and nephew the possibility of averting battle if they sought to know their opponent first as a man whose motivations might prove the same as their own.
“Chevalier,” the Scotsman said, “I did what I had to do to live.”
Was that an apology for the damage done eyes that had yet to recover sight though Hendrie had recovered from the blade dealt him? It sounded one.
“As did I,” Theriot said and closed the door.
Frenzied knocking brought Marguerite to sitting. The candles left burning for Meg’s return from the chapel continuing to light the chamber, she saw the door shudder as knocks sounded again.
“Margaret!”
She sprang off her pallet, donned her robe, and opened the door.
Edgar pushed past
her. “Where is my sister?”
“At prayer in the chapel. Is something amiss?”
He halted before the bed and stood unmoving as if certain Meg would appear there. Then his shoulders slumped and chin dropped so suddenly Marguerite was struck by the morbid thought if William of Normandy removed the threat of this young man by beheading, it would be as quickly as that.
“All is amiss!” he groaned and wrapped his arms around his head.
She stepped forward. “Sit while I go for your sister.”
He dropped his arms, turned to her. “I am lost, Lady. Just as all fail me, I fail myself, again and again earning the scorn of my lessers—worse, my enemies.”
She gestured at the chair. “I will not be long—”
“I weary of my sister’s prayers. They go nowhere! And I am sick unto death of Malcolm who thinks himself my sire.” His voice cracked, then he began to weep.
Marguerite took his arm and drew him to a chair near the brazier. Elbows atop knees, head in hands, brokenly he revealed exactly what was amiss.
Fearing Theriot might have been injured since Dubh had not been allowed to aid him, Marguerite dropped to her knees beside him, but before she could demand assurance the chevalier was well, he said bitterly, “Bested by a blind man who is still a better warrior than I. And further Malcolm punishes me by returning the D’Argent dagger to that Norman.”
She gasped. “The king allows him a weapon?”
He jerked his chin. “You see! He who is to become my brother—not my father!—treats me even less his equal.”
Because he was nowhere near Malcolm’s equal, Marguerite thought, and he would not be even if all aligned to place England’s crown on his head.
“Oh, Lady, I tire of this life! Sometimes I think better I was not born, other times it occurs there is a solution to that.”
It took her a moment to accept that was what it sounded, then fearing Edgar would take his life, she set a hand atop the one on his knee. “That is no solution. You have far more courage than that. Had you not, you would not have escaped William to deliver your mother and sisters to Scotland, and likely all those who remain of your line would be locked away until death. Now your sister is much loved, will soon be queen, and should the Lord bless her and Malcolm with children, they will have a claim to the English throne. All because of you.”
His moist eyes searched hers as if to confirm she spoke true. And mostly she did. Though he gave her little reason to defend him, she could not refuse what he needed in this moment. Doubtless, it had been more in his interest than any other’s he had approached Malcolm for aid, but it had presented greater risk to bring his womenfolk with him.
“Even if you cannot take back what was stolen, Prince Edgar, you have made it possible for future generations to right the wrong done your family.”
His breath stirred the air between them. “I am grateful for your kindness, especially since I have given you little cause to grant such.”
Hopeful she had moved him away from the ungodly and irreversible solution to his misery, she said, “As I am certain the Lord would like you to draw near Him, I think you ought to seek your sister in the chapel.”
The sorrow in his eyes was a beautiful thing compared to the usual anger and bitterness, but something else entered there, and more fully when he lowered his gaze to her mouth.
Abruptly, Marguerite stood and crossed to the door.
He followed. “Were I that Norman, would I have been permitted to kiss you, Lady Marguerite?”
Though tempted to deny she would allow Theriot that intimacy, she turned and said, “Were you that chevalier, very possible.”
His jaw convulsed. “He should have slain me.”
“And would have were he not honorable.”
He nodded slowly. “A rare thing for a Norman.”
And a prince, she longed to say of one who had sought to steal upon a blind man. “Methinks no more rare than for a Scotsman or Englishman,” she said, then before he could take offense, added, “I believe a friend made of Sir Theriot would better serve than an enemy.”
His jaw convulsed. “Were it so, ’tis too late now.”
“Perhaps not. If you—”
Footsteps on the stairs quieted her and quickly moved him onto the landing.
No sooner did Malcolm appear than he halted. “Why are you not at prayer with your sister, Edgar?”
“I go to her now,” the Aetheling said and squeezed past.
When he was gone, Malcolm continued forward. “The price I pay for My Pearl,” he grumbled. “Edgar is fortunate no price is too high.”
Marguerite’s heart swelled over how happy Meg made one who deserved something pure and beautiful.
“I had hoped you still awake so I might tell what transpired this eve,” he said when he halted before her.
“Edgar confessed.”
His eyebrows rose. “Unexpected.”
“’Tis. Now tell me how Sir Theriot fares. And is it true you returned his dagger?”
“He is without injury, having once more proven his superior training and conducted himself better than I would have had Edgar played that deadly game with me. And, aye, as he took the dagger from the prince and did not retaliate as few would fault him for doing, I allowed him to keep it.” He sighed. “It is the least owed one whose protection I can ensure only if I put him under lock and key.”
“I believe him worthy of your trust.”
“Better than many a man.” He frowned. “Including Baron Roche’s men. Did Edgar tell they kept watch for him?”
She gasped. “If he did, I could not know it for how broken his words once he fell to weeping.”
Malcolm’s head bobbed. “He wept?”
“He did. Though he is mostly unlikable, as you know, it is hard to fall from a life of great privilege and the expectation of greater privilege—and more so for having been little more than a boy when circumstances required a man challenge the one who toppled him.”
“I do know, and how long, arduous, and bloody the climb back up. But if Edgar is to have a good future now he no longer has the excuse of being a boy, either he must yield to wise counsel or adjust his expectations.”
She nodded.
“Ye ought know, Marguerite, not only did Roche’s men aid Edgar, but their excuse for doing so—the wish to return to their liege and revenge for the one Sir Theriot slew—led to the revelation it was that baron who returned you to Scotland. Certes, Sir Theriot knew the name.”
Wishing she had made a greater effort to reveal the rest of her tale that would explain how she had recognized Theriot and inform him of events regarding his family, Marguerite determined that on the morrow she would reveal whatever he had not unearthed.
“I know you care for Sir Theriot, but of what depth are your feelings?” Malcolm asked.
She blinked. “Of a depth I wish they were not.”
“For that, you reject Colban.”
“A year past, I believe I would have been satisfied to be his wife, but it seems very wrong to accept him whilst feelings for another are so present.”
“Mayhap you just need more time, Sparrow.”
Deciding to move the conversation elsewhere, she said, “I think you must return Baron Roche’s men.”
“I agree. Once I determine what to do with Sir Theriot—and I will soon—I shall send them back across the border.” He kissed her brow. “Return to yer rest.”
They parted, and when she resettled on her pallet, she began rehearsing what she would tell Theriot.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The only thing normal about this day was functional restoration of his vision remained elusive. Still, it was a better day, even if only for the return of the D’Argent dagger.
Answering King Malcolm’s invitation to join him at the training yard, Theriot lengthened his stride as he moved toward the iron door, morning’s light allowing him to make sense of shapes and colors and Dubh at his side occasionally nudging him to aid in avoidin
g the unseen.
“Sir Theriot!”
He turned.
The shape of the woman was immediately apparent for the color of her gown. “Princess Cristina,” he said when she halted before him.
Since there had been no rebuke in her voice, he guessed either she was unaware of the encounter with her brother last eve, or her need for attention outweighed what otherwise would be deemed an affront.
“I came to pray with you,” she said.
Narrowing his lids, he was pleased her blue gown sharpened further and he could make some sense of a face more round than oval. “Your brother is well with that?”
She made a sound of distress. “He does not know, though I understand you give him more cause to disapprove.”
“I but defended myself.”
“So my sister says, though our mother… Well, Edgar is her favorite, is he not?”
It did not surprise. Most often an aged parent’s fate rested in the hands of sons who were better able to govern their lives compared to females dependent on the good graces of male kin.
“Sir Theriot!” she exclaimed. “What happened to your hand?”
He flexed what should have blistered but had not. Though it pained less than last eve, he had rewrapped it this morn. “Miscalculating the placement of a lit lantern, I took hold of its panes. Now as I am for the training yard, perhaps we can pray later.”
“Oh,” she breathed, then said, “Though gently born, I confess to curiosity over a warrior’s training. If you give your word you will not reveal me to my mother, I shall join you.”
As Dubh pressed her head up beneath Theriot’s hand as if to ease his tension, he said, “Then come.”
Shortly, he settled his arms on the top rail of the training yard’s fence and, turning his face from the woman whose accompaniment had set many to murmuring, made a count of those preparing to practice at arms. A score at least.
“It seems,” Malcolm said low on Theriot’s other side, “my betrothed’s sister is even less keen on entering the Church than on the day past. Might you consider a bride of royal blood, Chevalier?”
Lest this unwelcome exchange was overheard by Cristina, Theriot did not scorn the suggestion but said, “My path is different from yours, Your Grace.”
