by Tamara Leigh
Though Maël believed his own reward was secure, he would decline and return to Normandy. Or so he planned, unaware his efforts in the riotous hours ahead would see many of those who started the fires and looting drop to their knees before a wrathful William. And Maël elevated not to the lordship he refused after Theriot accepted lands for his brother, but to something of greater benefit to England’s new king.
A position fit for one who had betrayed his family by not keeping his word and forgetting where his loyalties lay.
A position requiring he ensure no murderous Saxon, Norman, or otherwise thwart his liege’s plan to bring England fully under the conqueror’s control.
A position that could render him bereft of family and friends, though already that was earned.
But God help him did he become as heartless as the king he served.
His face. Beneath dark hair streaked with silver that did not belong on a man less than two and three score aged, she had thought it so handsome as to be nearly beautiful—until long strides carried him fully into torchlight to which she and her grandmother had turned their backs upon realizing there was no time to retreat.
For a moment, Mercia had thought herself afforded a glimpse of evil disguised as a thing of beauty to seduce women otherwise destined for heaven, but his mask had not slipped—was no mask at all, merely a ruined face.
Considering how fresh the scar scoring the left side of his brow and grossly ridging the right down past his eye and across his cheek to his ear, she guessed it dealt two months past during the clash now known as the Battle of Hastings though it had been fought upon the meadow of Senlac.
Might one of her grandmother’s fallen sons have been the warrior who disfigured a Norman unworthy of such a face? Might it have been Mercia’s own sire? Unlikely and never to be known, not even when the old woman made good her promise to answer a question that was not to be asked of her again.
“There!” that one said, voice coarse and brittle less from age than the smoke of precious things devoured by fire. She pointed at the inn on the opposite side of the street where the rendezvous had been set in the event her men drew the attention of Normans. And so they had, forced to depart the stables where earlier they had aided the women in dismounting.
“Praise the Lord,” Mercia gasped.
The escape from Westminster had been frightening. Amid smoke and great heat, screaming, shouting, cursing, even laughter, they had run street to street, turning back here, turning aside there. And once they were forced to crawl to escape the notice of Normans whose stuffed sacks had begun moving their victims from fear to anger, as evidenced by Saxons making weapons of whatever they brought to hand.
“Halt!” her grandmother commanded.
“For what?” Mercia exclaimed. “The inn is ahead.” And as far as she could see, the only people about were few and Saxon. As evidenced by the many her grandmother and she had passed and those who fled ahead of them, the foolishly curious were drawn to the commotion surrounding the abbey, the wisely fearful quick to distance themselves.
“Here!” The old woman turned into an alley between buildings.
Mercia followed and was unprepared when her grandmother swung around and backhanded her.
She cried out, stumbled sideways into the building, and slid down wooden slats onto her knees.
“You dare!”
Quelling the impulse to raise an arm to shield her lest the attack had only begun, berating herself for not expecting it ahead of forgiveness for what instinct had demanded she do to keep them safe, Mercia pressed a palm against lips bleeding onto her tongue.
She had known her grandmother’s ire was not all for the chevalier, having been subjected to it when jabbed with an elbow, struck in the back, and her hand slapped away. But as there was no further show of aggression during their flight, she had believed that the worst of it.
So was this the end or just the beginning? If the latter, she would suffer without protest.
The hem of the old woman’s soiled, embroidered skirt sweeping the dirt, she stepped near. “Never are you to name me grandmother, neither in private nor public, and yet you did so before our enemy.”
Mercia’s thoughts returned to the Norman as done often throughout their flight, but this time they cast further back—rather, deeper—and she acknowledged how greatly he had disturbed beyond fear of the enemy. What was it about him that tugged at her? On such short and near disastrous acquaintance, it was impossible to know, but something sorrowfully empty in him had made her long to fill that emptiness with what little she possessed that he did not.
Foolish! she silently rebuked. Were your grandmother to reveal that never has she been kin to you, here much proof. You must cease being fanciful, Mercia.
“Have you naught to say?” demanded the old woman.
“I spoke as I did to calm the Norman’s impatience and rouse his sympathy in the hope he would let us go,” Mercia rasped. “And so he did.”
“What if that barbarian had instead dragged us before others and I was recognized, hmm? All I have done to keep you safe would be for naught were it known you are of my son’s blood.”
Which son? wondered the one named for the place of her birth.
“And then for you to speak to that knave of my great loss and beseech his mercy!” She spat on the ground, snatched up her granddaughter’s chin. “Show me.”
Lowering her bloodied hand, curling fingers into the slick warmth, Mercia watched the aged eyes move over her mouth.
“Regrettable.” It was said with what sounded sincerity. “But deserved for speaking of me as if I am helpless and senseless—worse, acknowledging Le Bâtard as king.”
“Gran—” She nearly named her that again as if the title of kinship were more familiar than that by which ever she addressed her. The old woman’s teeth beginning to bare, Mercia said, “Forgive me, Countess. I could think of no other way to deliver us, but we are here now and soon shall be safe in Exeter.”
Her grandmother’s gaze wavered, then she released Mercia. “Safe for how long? Le Bâtard will set his army at that city’s walls as well…will not be content until all of England bends the knee.”
“We shall beat him and his kind back across the sea,” Mercia said. “That is as you told, and that Harold’s son will take back the throne.”
As if the old woman needed to hear that, her shoulders and back straightened. “Aye, Harold’s son will sit the throne, and higher it will be raised upon the bones of the usurper. Ere I breathe my last, I shall see it done.”
Would she? Mercia wondered and startled when her grandmother extended a hand. Though no frail thing, it was not for a lady of years to bear the weight of one of many fewer years. However, lest she offend, Mercia placed one hand in her grandmother’s, pressed her other bloodied hand to the ground, and pushed upright.
“Mercia,” the old woman bemoaned as she looked closer on the damage. “Your lip is cut and begins to swell. I…” She swallowed.
“’Twas deserved,” Mercia sought to console her though her heart was not in it. She had been disrespectful as never before, but she was certain the humbling of one of two Saxons had moved the chevalier to allow them to depart unmolested.
Raised and educated in letters and numbers at a convent that aspired to shape her into a woman fearful of displeasing the Lord, next tutored in the ways of the nobility whilst tending the lady of a great house that would have become greater had King Harold been victorious at Hastings, Mercia had begun learning the art of reading women and men and flattering and being flattered.
Having sensed the chevalier on the balcony was not given to the behavior of fellow Normans who threatened to ruin Le Bâtard’s coronation, she had trampled pride nearly to the point of scraping and bowing. And for it, this. But she would not have her grandmother know how strong her resentment. Blessedly, it would ease, the countess’s loss of loved ones so great she must be excused for grief-induced rage. It was her due as it was not Mercia’s whose own loss
remained uncertain and could never be that of a loved one.
Blinking away tears, her grandmother said, “Aye, deserved, but I am glad for the disrespect shown me.”
“I do not understand.”
“Though I know you are of fine demeanor and sharp intelligence, I was not aware you could be so wily.”
“Wily?”
“A kind word for deceitful,” her grandmother misinterpreted the question, and as Mercia struggled against revealing how much it offended, continued, “Of good benefit to our cause.” She arched pale eyebrows. “You will not accompany me to Exeter.”
Mercia caught her breath. “My punishment is to be parted from you?”
“Not punishment. Reward. A pity I took you from the convent ere your profession was made, but you were raised well enough to play the part so none will discover your true purpose.”
Mercia frowned. “What part and what purpose?”
“I am sending you to Wulfenshire.”
“For what?”
“’Tis where you are needed, and since God has made a place for you there, it is His will.”
Heart pounding, Mercia clamped her teeth lest she spill words that would see her dealt another blow.
“Mercia,” her grandmother murmured as if to herself. “Though few know what you are to me, that name could prove your undoing in the midst of our enemies. You must take another, and methinks a biblical one best serves where you go.”
Somewhere upon Wulfenshire, far northeast of the city of Exeter where her grandmother would journey without her.
“Have you a name to mind, Mercia?”
“I must think on it.”
“Best one similar to your own so you not forget to answer to it.”
Fearful of the pressure in her chest evidencing screams circled there, Mercia lowered stinging eyes.
An aged hand settled on her arm. “Look at me, Granddaughter.”
Never named that, neither in private nor public, Mercia flew her gaze to rheumy eyes darkened by vengeful sorrow and resolve.
“Other than the danger which names present in the face of our enemies, they are no longer of great import. Who you are inside is all you must be.” She stepped nearer. Skirts brushing Mercia’s, she cupped the younger woman’s jaw. “Never forget—ever embrace—you are Saxon. Strong of mind, body, and spirit. True to the blood, the bone, the marrow.”
Mercia shivered over words with which her grandmother had rallied thousands of noble and common Saxons since the flower of England were slain upon that meadow, many of whom were now dead as well.
Thus, it mattered not the exact role she would play. It was enough to know that just as she had been no mere companion to the lady she served less than a year, no mere companion would she be upon Wulfenshire. This, however, would be dangerous. Like it or nay, Mercia of Mercia’s aid in overthrowing the usurper would make of her an enemy to Normans.
A rebel.
Chapter One
Northern England
Late Winter, 1070
William smiled. Non, smirked. He was not happy—could not be under these circumstances—but he was pleased. And in the way of one satisfied with himself, it appeared.
If not that he and his guard had become separated from the great host struggling across vast, snow-swept mountains to reach Cheshire that was once more astir with rebellion, those among William’s warriors who had recently threatened to desert would surely make sport of the conqueror, suggesting the satisfaction he exuded was due to the reason he entered the cave alone.
They would snigger, though only amongst themselves lest they incur greater wrath than already gained in speaking out against the march in frigid weather and the loss of horses that saw many accustomed to riding now trudging alongside foot soldiers.
Before all, the king had named the first deserters cowards and idle weaklings and those who had yet to desert sniveling boys, then delivered a threat of his own should they turn back—no matter the service given thus far, their greatest chance of survival would be to keep going until they reached France with woefully limp purses.
Though that quieted most, William had further punished the disaffected, few of whom were his own Normans, by pushing his army harder and commanding them to follow his example. And so they had until the snowstorm.
As the captain of the king’s guard, Maël had urged William to wait out the weather. Instead, the king quickened the pace and the six chevaliers tasked with protecting him remained at his side—all the more imperative when the army fell so far behind they became as unheard as they were unseen, rendering William and his guard vulnerable to any of the resistance who had survived extermination these past months.
Not until the storm began to abate had William halted. The hood draping his head coated in crusted snow, he had turned sharply in the saddle and looked between the warriors who shivered as much as he.
“You live!” he had snarled as if in response to an accusation of recklessness, then settled his gaze on Maël.
Having learned the king’s anger, whether it burned within or without, was as dangerous as unbridled drink—and deadly when the two made allies of themselves—Maël had stayed in the cold place inside himself and stared back.
With a grunt of disgust, William had looked back the way they had come. Had he expected his army to emerge from swirling snow that had begun to drift, he was disappointed.
Certain those left behind had taken shelter and it would be hours before they appeared, Maël had suggested they make camp and rest the horses.
For answer, the king had thrust the frozen hood off his head and urged his mount onward. As if to more greatly shame his army for lacking endurance, they had ridden another hour and might have continued on if not for the needs of the body.
Maël had advised against the craggy, sparsely wooded area the king set his sights on, there being enough cover to conceal a dozen vengeful Saxons, but William ignored him, then scorned him when he sought to confirm the state of the cave his liege intended to enter.
Now, having been ordered to keep watch at a distance while the others under his command scouted the area and relieved themselves, Maël eased his weapon-ready stance as the king neared.
Just as ten minutes earlier he had likened William’s boots fouling the pristine snow to the heinous solution to the northern rebellion, Maël did so again. Just as done often since accepting the position of captain of the guard vacated by the warrior deemed responsible for the spectacle made of the coronation, once more he questioned why still he served this man. Just as never the answer kept him waiting, neither did it now.
Because you sought to drown anger and hurt in drink, thinking of yourself and your feelings ahead of those it was your honor and duty to fight alongside and protect as they would have protected you. Non, you are not as monstrously heartless as William, but worthier of keeping company with the conqueror than the family D’Argent who, if they knew how greatly you broke faith, would have every right to do worse than strip you of that dagger. And your mother…
As Maël had done often in the three and a half years since Lady Chanson was widowed, he pushed that fine woman from his thoughts—and easier it was now she had wed again despite his objection to the one who replaced his sire.
Satisfaction more evident, the king halted. But something else was visible in the lines of his face and stiff of his bearing—anger that had been less easily roused since the beginning of the year when success after success in ending the rebellion lightened his mood. However, this was not anger like that provoked by those who had threatened to desert. If Maël read him right, and he was fairly adept at such, this anger was directed inward.
“All is well, Your Majesty?”
Beyond satisfaction and anger was glimpsed the relief of one rarely given to that emotion for how accomplished and fierce a warrior he was. “I live, do I not, Sir Maël?”
It sounded sarcasm, as if he sought to school the unlearned in his prowess, evidence of which was provided by his emergence fr
om the cave unscathed. But though the king could be petty, there was something more to this mood, and Maël guessed relief played a greater role than its brief sighting revealed.
Knowing William would tell it in his own time, Maël said, “Forgive me. Whether mountain or plain, these northern lands are treacherous, and I would be answerable to God did I not do all in my power to protect you from the hidden things as well as the visible.”
No lie. He had little liking for the conqueror before the harrying and none now that thousands of non-combatant Saxons, including women and children, paid for the resistance’s exploits, but he had given his oath in the sight of God to protect William with his life and would not fail him—providing duty to his king did not require him to fail his family again as he had at Hastings.
First, in between, and in the end, you are a D’Argent, his father and uncle had said. Unworthy though he was, he would not neglect that again.
“Steadfast and cool as ever,” the king commended his captain of the guard.
“As I strive to be, Your Majesty.”
William nodded a head which, whitened by snow before he entered the cave, was now darkly damp. “So you do, though sometimes your king thwarts you, eh?”
“I trust you know what is best—”
“You do not!”
Though mostly William presented as calm and self-assured, Maël had witnessed enough royal aggression—on occasion directed at him—to maintain a passive expression.
The king breathed deep. “Treacherous lands, these. More, treacherous Saxons. I should have heeded you, Chevalier.”
“Your Majesty?”
He jerked his head toward the cave. “The Goliath thinks himself David.”
Raised alongside cousins whose father was God-fearing, unlike his own sire who had trained them into men of the sword, Maël was familiar with biblical tales, especially those of great warriors. Though among those tales was that of the future King David who slew the giant, Goliath, he could make no sense of William. Had the long, cold ride skewed the king’s mind?
