by Tamara Leigh
She had ignored the question, and though she assured herself he had not seen enough of her that Christmas Day to place her as one of the women he aided, it was false assurance. As he had peered up at her, something had returned him to that balcony in the chapel though he might not realize it was there he had gone.
Was it her voice? Unlikely. Since arriving at Lillefarne, she had put much effort into projecting strength and authority when she spoke as she had not at Westminster while buildings all around burned.
How peculiar Mary Sarah had felt when Aelfled departed with Maël D’Argent—both afeared for the young woman and relieved to see the chevalier’s back. Surprisingly, concern for her charge had been unwarranted, the young woman gaining the protection of Cyr D’Argent and shortly thereafter wedding the Norman.
The same as all happenings of import upon Wulfenshire, Abbess Mary Sarah had sent word of their union to Gytha by way of the wine merchant who paused at Lillefarne twice a month to receive and, less often, deliver a missive.
Her grandmother had raged over tidings that Saxons upon Wulfenshire were making peace with Normans through marriage. As commanded, Mary Sarah had burned that missive as she did all of Gytha’s correspondence, but she remembered its contents and, most painfully, the final words.
To save an old woman of no use to our cause, you whored away a Saxon of much use. Tell, you who are unworthy of my blood, of what value placing you at Lillefarne if you cannot prevent something so easily prevented? Time and again you neglect to prove yourself strong of mind, body, and spirit and true to the blood, the bone, the marrow. If that you cannot do, shed the habit and ever remain ignorant of the one who sired you.
Mary Sarah breathed deep, mused bitterly, “Still I am ignorant.” She had tried to make it right, but little of import came into her hands, and ever Gytha demanded more than could be given since her granddaughter lacked great influence on this Norman-controlled shire.
She was a woman confined to a habit and the walls of an abbey, not a lady like Hawisa whose warrior skills, lineage, and reputation permitted her the reach of many a man. And even if now Mary Sarah found a way to aid in restoring England to Saxons, there was naught she could do with it. For the past six months, all she knew of Gytha were the same rumors bending the ears of all—most recently that King Harold’s mother had fled to the court of her kinsman, King Sweyn of Denmark.
Had she truly exiled herself, abandoning all hope of placing a grandson on the throne? Or was it a ruse to catch the Normans unawares? Three and a half years had passed since Harold and two of his brothers lost their lives on that bloody meadow. Three and a half years, and the conqueror’s grip on England continued to tighten. And the harrying…
That savagery seemed the slamming of a lid on the coffin of Saxon-ruled England.
Abruptly, Mary Sarah sat up and turned onto her knees before the cross. “We have lost, have we not, Lord? ’Tis over, and we but shame ourselves in believing otherwise.”
Another sob trying to force its way up her throat, she swallowed hard. Regardless were she the daughter of a king or an earl, she would not yield to tears of less use than spit on a muddied shoe.
“I am born of a son of Godwine,” she rasped. “I am more than the refuse grandmother believes she left behind.” She raised her arms, and when her sleeves fell back, laced her fingers and pressed her hands against her mouth. “Lord, if You wish me here, show me how to make right my deception. If You would have me go elsewhere, send me there, whether on my hands and knees or toes and heels. I…” Her voice caught. “I know You are here. Pray, remove this dark from my eyes and weight from my heart.”
She stared at the cross, imagined her savior nailed there, then sank onto her heels.
And heard the flap of wings when only ever she heard the flutter.
As she dropped her head back to search out the bird in flight, she realized the sound came from behind and twisted around. The winged one was not a bird but a young woman whose mantle flapped as she hastened toward the door left ajar for the trapped bird.
Heart thudding so hard she felt it in her wrists, Mary Sarah leapt to her feet. “Lady Nicola!” she called to the youngest D’Argent sibling whose black hair shot with silver easily identified the Norman who had blundered in on a one-sided conversation that boded ill for the Abbess of Lillefarne.
Nicola squeaked, something to which she was given whether joyously surprised or horribly shocked. “Abbess!” She came around, clasped and unclasped her hands, then spread her arms as if in apology. “I did not mean to listen. Truly, I did not.” She made a face. “I did mean to, but I thought… Well, I believed it just the prayers of a holy woman who would not mind me learning how to be nearer God. And as well you know from the words that sometimes pass these lips and how I chafe at authority and…” She shrugged. “…exaggerate or tell not the entire truth, I am in need of godly guidance. Certes, ’tis as my aunt tells as well as her husband who…” Her eyes widened further. “I like him—I do!—but he makes few allowances for me being a D’Argent. Time and again, I tell him I am made this way by four brothers—five do you count my cousin, and Maël ought to be counted since ever he has been in my life.”
Mention of that D’Argent caused Mary Sarah to falter in her advance.
“I do try to be better,” Nicola continued, “but ’tis never enough for Father Fulbert. Methinks the only thing of which he will approve is if I don the habit. And you know what grave misfortune that would be for a community of holy women.” She frowned. “You do, do you not?”
Mary Sarah halted before her, and as ever lightened by the younger woman, smiled though fairly certain Nicola D’Argent had heard and deciphered prayers meant for heaven alone. “I know, just as I know that if you give your word what I spoke to the Lord will remain between the three of us, I will rest well this eve.”
Exaggeration, the same as Nicola was given to. Sleep would be hard-won, not only over worry of what was learned of her this day, but how best to aid the refugee children.
The young lady breathed deep, replenishing air expended on that river of words. “The three of us.” She gave a nod, stepped nearer, and said low as if others were present, “I do not understand all of what I heard, but enough I am pleased to know you better than before and have more questions. Might you tell—?”
“I will not,” Mary Sarah said. “As is necessary, more and more I accept my past is of no consequence.”
“Of no consequence? But what of your future? You are of the House of Godwine.”
Hoping her secret would be easier kept were it revealed her parentage was of less account, Mary Sarah said, “I am misbegotten.”
“Oh,” Nicola mouthed, then shrugged. “Still…”
“It changes naught, Nicola. Thus, I fear my future is set at Lillefarne.”
“Fear, Abbess?”
Abbess. Blessedly, she had not given the young woman cause to question that. “I misspoke, Lady Nicola.”
“I do not think so. Had I to guess, I would say you are as unhappy giving your life to the Church as I would be.”
Mary Sarah straightened her head covering. “I thank you for coming—and so soon. I thought I would not see you for several days.” This Thursday, to be exact, as the young woman had said it was then she would return to aid those taking refuge at the abbey. And a far better day it would have been than this considering who was in the abbess’s apartment.
The young woman grimaced like a girl told she must cease playing with her doll to gain her rest. But in the next instant, she was all smiles. “Of good fortune, I found myself with an accommodating escort and decided I would come early.” She swung away. “Come meet him.”
Accommodating, Mary Sarah mulled as she followed Nicola from the chapel into sunlight and a cool breeze she wished for the little bird. Did the young lady refer to her last escort, a chevalier caught staring at a lovely convent resident who tried not to be caught staring at him?
It must be that one, though Mary Sarah could see
no reason for a formal introduction—unless he sought permission to court one whom he would not be allowed near, the lady’s family having sent her to Lillefarne to keep her out of reach of Normans lest they plunder her the same as England. With firm words, the abbess would set him aright.
However, before the two women came within sight of the great doors alongside which one of Nicola’s escort was permitted to await her while the others remained outside the walls, the lady gasped, “Mercy, I err!”
Mary Sarah looked sidelong at her and marveled over sunlit silver strands amid raven tresses.
Nicola grimaced. Though the expression contorted her features, still she was lovely. “Already you have met my escort.”
Only if Mary Sarah’s eye contact ladened with disapproval qualified as meeting another.
“What was it? A year and a half past?” Nicola nodded. “It was then my brother, Cyr, sent him to retrieve Aelfled. You recall Sir Maël, do you not?”
Chapter Three
Undone for having so recently revisited memories of the man once denied entrance to the abbey, and more undone by who else had entered earlier this morn, Mary Sarah stumbled. “Old slippers,” she blurted as Nicola steadied her. “I must see them fit with new soles.”
No suspicion about her green eyes, Nicola said, “And soon!”
Hoping she truly was unaware of how affected the abbess was at learning Maël D'Argent was inside her walls, Mary Sarah said, “I do remember your cousin, but why is he here when he should be keeping watch over—?” As ever, it was difficult to name that tyrant a king, but Nicola spared her.
“Le Bâtard.” The young woman gave a huff of disgust. “And I mean that in all ways beyond the circumstances of his birth. Of course, never can it be spoken in the hearing of any but those worthy of trust, hmm?”
As Mary Sarah was to believe she could trust Nicola not to reveal the circumstances of her own birth. “Never,” she agreed.
Nicola grinned. “Though I know not the details, weeks past Maël's liege relieved him of his duty as captain of the guard and sent him and a contingent on a mission of great import.”
Mary Sarah moistened her lips. “One that delivered him to Wulfenshire. That is…curious.”
“Though he told he paused at Stern only to visit his mother, I think it more. As I was hunting rabbit when he arrived, I know not what he revealed to Aunt Chanson and her husband. Whatever it was, the joy of a mother reunited with a son over whom she worried during the harrying should have been greater. And now that he has delivered me here, he is to continue on to Wulfen to tell Guarin and Lady Hawisa what he believes unfit for these ears.”
So tense was Mary Sarah over her impending meeting with Maël D’Argent, it required much effort to attend to Nicola’s chatter.
“But I talk too much, Abbess. Come renew your acquaintance with my cousin. Perhaps he will tell you something you can tell me.”
“Hardly an acquaintance,” Mary Sarah corrected as she was drawn forward. “I met him only once when he forced Aelfled to leave here, and great distance there was between us since I was upon the wall and he was mounted and coifed below.”
Too much protest, she silently warned. It sounds the lie it is.
“Well then, this day you shall look nearer upon my cousin and see how handsome he is regardless of that cruel scar.”
As if it mattered what Mary Sarah thought of him. Such was for ladies with whom Nicola hoped to see him matched, not her.
“I must warn he is a brood-y one, though only since…” Nicola made a sound of distress. “Forgive me, there is no light to be made of that ungodly battle, and I know it sounds as though I do. Our family’s losses do not compare to those of your people, but ever the D’Argents will carry those wounds. I just wish you to make allowances for Maël who once was ten-fold more charming than the man now given to glowering and few words.”
Though tempted to further delay their meeting, Mary Sarah knew it was unworthy of a Saxon who must be strong of mind, body, and spirit. “Allowances will be made, Nicola.” Confirming her veil permitted no glimpse of hair, including that which peaked on her brow, she continued forward, acknowledging Lillefarne’s residents with nods.
When the two women rounded the stables, Mary Sarah saw Maël D’Argent before he saw her. Though memories of the chevalier at Westminster struck her with the longing to linger over him, she averted her gaze from the nearly unspoiled side of his face. Unfortunately, only so much interest could one believably feign over ground pocked by last eve’s rain.
Out of the corner of her eye seeing him peer across his shoulder where he stood before his destrier as if conversing with it, she raised her chin higher and met his gaze.
No falter in her step. No flutter of lashes. No forced smile to disguise unease. And much gratitude Nicola had prepared her.
“Maël D’Argent!” she called in the commanding voice adopted when one too young to earn the position of abbess was disrespected by the older nuns—and was still disrespected by some, though more because she had yet to permit novices to make their profession, none aware the false of her lacked the authority to elevate them. “At last, you find a way inside my walls.”
His eyebrows rose, the arch of the right broken by the upper end of the scar which had been more unsightly when first she looked upon him. It had healed much these past years, but not enough to balance the whole of his visage, which seemed all the more tragic for how handsome one side remained.
As she halted three strides distant and Nicola did the same, he lowered his hand from the horse’s muzzle and, absent the ring of chain mail, turned. “I am pleased entering here proved less difficult than expected, Abbess.” Though his accent was nearly as pronounced as the last time they spoke, his Anglo-Saxon was clearer, the words better ordered and nearly without falter.
“And you have me to thank for that, Cousin,” Nicola said.
A corner of his mouth creased. “Lacking desire and the need to enter here, that is so.”
It was a threat worthy of regard. Doubtless, he was as capable of stealing inside Lillefarne as his cousin, Cyr, had done the night he captured Lady Hawisa’s rebels whom the young abbess was not to have known Aelfled hid inside the outer wall. Of course she had not been ignorant, as was her duty to Gytha.
Returning his regard to Mary Sarah, Sir Maël scrutinized her.
Do not see Mercia, she silently appealed as this time he looked down his nose at her.
“I am glad we meet again under better circumstances, Abbess,” he finally spoke.
That was the wrong thing to say, but she was glad since his words set her aright. He was no longer the Norman at Westminster who had drawn her to his emptiness when he aided two Saxons who were where they ought not be. This man had become more than a vassal to the detestable William. He was the captain of the king’s guard, at the tyrant’s side throughout all the ill worked upon her people.
Mercia tried to hold her tongue. And failed. “Better circumstances?” Disbelief pitched her voice above the range of one in command of her emotions, but though she saw surprise in the chevalier’s eyes and heard the catch of Nicola’s breath, her tongue would not be quieted. “Forgive me for believing you were privy to the terrorizing of innocents by your king. I was unaware you were out of the country.”
Color rose in his face. “You know I speak of what goes between this one Norman and this one Saxon—what is required of each of us regardless of our wishes.”
“Nay, what I know is that still refugees come, and this day little ones—fatherless and motherless, and so starved we can feed them only spoonfuls at a time lest they sicken further and die.”
His breath on her face, more than the greater sight and scent of him, alerted her a woman of God aggressed so brazenly his shadow covered her. And yet she could not retreat. Though she was to love even were she not playing this part, she wanted to hate him for not being a D’Argent like the others. More, for continuing to aid Le Bâtard.
“Hence,” she continu
ed, “these circumstances are far worse than when first we met, Chevalier.”
His green eyes bored into hers, a gleam in their depths that should have prepared her for his response. “When exactly was that, Abbess Mary Sarah?”
As if he felt the suspension of her breath on his jaw, he smiled, grim though that curve of the lips. Would he now confront her over being an uninvited guest at his king's coronation? If not, because still he was unable to place that first encounter? Or because he liked such games?
Anger over the latter restored her breath, but once more she ill used it. “When first did we meet? Sometime between the atrocities you committed at Hastings upon Saxon warriors who sought to defend their people and your more recent barbarism in the North.”
His smile lowered, and she was so pleased she did not heed the inner voice warning her to clutch victory close and hasten away. “You know what you and your kind are? You are mons—” She snapped her teeth on a word surely as offensive to him as Le Bâtard was to his liege. But too late, as told by a muscle jerking in his jaw and a whimper at her back that reminded her they were not alone.
“You are not the first to name me a monster, Abbess.”
“I refer not to your face!”
Once more, the broken eyebrow rose. “Now you do. But again, you are not the first nor will you be the last—just as you will be neither first nor last to say it is my due. And on that I agree more than I do not.” Noting her surprise, he added, “Aye, monster, but there are more dangerous monsters than I.”
Though she knew she ought to retreat, she could only stare.
“Heavenly Father!” Nicola exclaimed. “It is like watching a dog circling a cat—or is it a cat circling a dog?—knowing any moment one shall spring upon the other and naught can be done but wait to see who emerges the least bloodied.”
Her words dropped Mary Sarah onto her heels, and though she balked at further retreat, she stepped back until no longer covered by the chevalier’s shadow. And was thankful his eyes upon her did not reflect satisfaction. Still, something flickered there which, oddly, appeared relief.
