by Tamara Leigh
If I give him children, Mary Sarah thought. Since next she would be twenty and seven, she was not beyond childbearing, but more so than his lover. And considering the offense dealt the Lord in playing a holy woman, He might not bless her with babes.
“Worry not, my lady,” Canute said, “my love and the children made with her will be kept elsewhere.”
“Generous,” she said with sarcasm of a strength sure to offend.
He shrugged. “What it is, it is,” he said, then strode from beneath the canopy and called, “Bjorn, once we settle to our rest, see your lady's ankles are bound the same as her wrists.”
Moments later, the Danes released Nicola's arms and she sprang toward Mary Sarah.
“I shall bring water and cloths to tend your head, Lady Nicola,” Bjorn said.
She held her back to him, and when Ingvar and he departed, muttered, “Vile, grasping invaders.” Trembling with the strain of trying to part her roped hands, she continued, “They come and take what they want, having no care for the wrong of it in the sight of man and God. Then they—”
“Attend, Nicola!” Mary Sarah gasped. “Though the Norman is all about your voice, your words are the same spoken by Saxons against your people for near on four years.”
She ceased abusing wrists dotted with blood drawn by the coarse rope, then said with desperation, “Do you think ever it has been and ever it will be this way, Abbess? The conquerors conquered, the oppressors oppressed, no peace for those who but wish to live and love so their children may do the same?”
The answer making Mary Sarah’s heart ache, she said, “I fear so, that more than anything, envy is evil’s greatest weapon against good.” She breathed deep. “And as now you know, the title with which you honor me has never been mine in truth. My given name is Mercia, and that is how you should call me.”
Nicola nodded. “This Canute does not know you are misbegotten, that you are no lady?”
Mary Sarah glanced at where the man who might one day wear a crown lifted his packs from his horse. “He said my grandmother warned I might claim illegitimacy to gain my release, then suggested what I believe of my birth is a lie and said he will reveal all when we reach the Humber where King Sweyn is to join the earl.”
“He but seeks to control you!”
“This I know, and yet I believe he is entrusted with knowledge long denied me. Aye, it may be falsely spun by Gytha, but…”
“What, Abb—er, Mercia?”
“Ever I have longed to know which of her sons made me and who birthed me.”
“Then given an opportunity to escape wedding that man, you would remain with the Danes?”
She would. Still, she tensed over the disbelief—possibly condemnation—in the younger woman’s voice. “It is not for one legitimately born, loved, and raised by both parents to ask that of me nor sit in judgment. Ever you have known who you are, Nicola D’Argent, and if you will not try to understand this hole in me, think of your half brother, Dougray, who has finally found his own blood father and been blessed with healing. No matter which of Gytha’s departed sons gave me life and that he is forever lost to me, still I wish to know. And if my mother yet lives, I would be reunited with her.”
Nicola was silent a time, then stepped alongside Mary Sarah and considered their captors. “I am sorry, but I must question the price you may pay for knowledge that could prove a lie.” She narrowed her eyes at Canute. “He would have struck me, and nearly he dealt you a blow.”
“This I know.”
“My sire says except in extreme circumstances, such as the need to protect a woman from herself or others she endangers, never should a man raise a hand to her—that it makes him less than an animal which, at least, has the excuse of base instincts and little wit.”
“Canute apologized—admitted he has a temper.” The moment the words left Mary Sarah, she hated that her defense of him made her feel a young woman to an older, wiser one.
“Then all is well!” Nicola’s derision was sharp. “A fine and godly husband he will make—when he is in a good temper.”
Mary Sarah caught her breath. “Much you overstep in matters that do not concern you.”
Nicola raised her chin. “You are wrong, Mercia of Mercia. This became my concern when my bid to aid you ended in my abduction.”
Her words dumped Mary Sarah back to earth. Regardless of what came of Gytha’s plan for her granddaughter, it did concern this Norman lady. “I wish you had run, Nicola—that you did not suffer for me—but here we are until I find a way to return you to your family. And I will. No matter what is required of me, you will gain your release.”
Nicola raised her bound hands and touched Mary Sarah’s arm. “We shall both be freed. Do not think my thwarted attempt to escape out the back of the wagon was for naught. Certes, word has been sent to my family and they come for us.”
Including Sir Maël and his men? Mary Sarah wondered, then pushed the chevalier to the back of her mind.
After attending to Nicola’s injury that had begun to scab across a sizable lump, the two ate a meal of biscuits and dried fish washed down with wine. As a guard was being set around the camp, Mary Sarah and Nicola settled on the pallet Bjorn fashioned for them from blankets tucked around grass and leaves.
Though he had been instructed to secure Nicola’s feet as well, instead he bound Mary Sarah’s wrists and joined them to the younger woman’s, surely more effective since one could go nowhere without the other and they would have to do so with bodies turned toward each other. Lacking speed, stealth—and a miracle—escape would be impossible.
As Bjorn straightened from draping a blanket over them, Nicola snapped her chin around. “Knave!”
He wagged a finger. “But honorable as your brother told after he bore witness at York that never Bjorn force himself on a woman.”
She gasped. “At York, you say—following that city’s fall to Saxons and Danes?”
He nodded vigorously. “Great our victory over Normans, possible only because Danes are the most fearsome warriors.”
“So you say, but I will not argue that again. I ask because methinks the woman you did not force yourself upon is the same now wed to Dougray.”
His eyebrows jumped, then he slapped a thigh. “The rebel, Em! For that the chevalier so protective of her. He liked her, too.”
“He loves her, as she loves him.”
“So the Lord make all right by giving me the sister of the man who took my woman.”
A growl erupted from her. “The Lord did not give me to you! And never will I be your woman.”
“Fear not, my lady. Until you come to love me, no relations shall we enjoy.”
“Then never will you know me beyond that of an enemy who must be bound to remain at your side.”
“You will think different soon. I am very charming. And honorable.”
Whatever shone from Nicola’s eyes appeared to have no effect on him. He exaggerated a bow, pivoted, and whistled as he strode to the canopy beneath which his cousin and he would sleep until patrol of the camp passed to them.
Nicola turned her face to Mary Sarah who was surprised by the lady’s bright smile. “He is charming, but not enough man for me.”
“Nicola!”
Her smile flashed more teeth amid the dim. “I begin to enjoy this. Far more interesting and challenging than spinning wool and needling cloth.”
“And more dangerous!”
“True, but all the sweeter it shall be when we escape. Hopefully, we can do so ere my family overtakes us. No helpless women are we, hmm? And if I can make good use of the skills taught me by my brother and his wife, all the better.”
Mary Sarah knew she should scold her further, but that was for an abbess to do, not a woman of deception. Too, Nicola’s attitude gave her some small hope.
Seeing a tress of silvered dark hair slip into the lady’s eyes, she reached to sweep it back—and took the young woman’s hands with her own.
Nicola giggled, Mary Sarah
grimaced, and together they cleared the hair from her brow.
“Your hair is a mess, too,” Nicola said, “but still more lovely out from beneath the veil than I would have imagined.”
“Vanity—time and effort spent on myself that was owed my charges and those to whom we minister.” Mary Sarah sighed. “Ever my hair has been the most remarkable thing about me, causing many a man to look twice where otherwise they would not look at all.”
“Then blind they would be. Even though fit with veil and habit, ever I knew you to be lovely, Abbess—as did my cousin who, I vow, looked upon you as I have seen him look upon no other woman since before Hastings.”
Refusing to dwell on how he might have looked at her for how much it disturbed, even if only because of her hair, Mary Sarah said, “As told, no longer abbess. I am Mercia.”
“Mercia,” Nicola repeated. “My sister-in-law has wondered over you—said there is something untrue about the Abbess of Lillefarne.”
This did not surprise since oft Lady Hawisa’s mistrust and wariness were felt.
“Oh!” Nicola gasped. “You know what occurs? As you are not truly of the Church, mayhap you can save Maël.”
Mary Sarah frowned. “Save him?”
“Heal him the same as Em healed Dougray—and he healed her.”
Realizing she spoke of this Godwine matching her life to a heartless Norman, Mary Sarah said, “Cease such talk, Nicola. As the morrow’s ride will be long and arduous to ensure our captors stay ahead of your family, best our time spent falling to prayer and sleep.”
The young woman blew breath up her face. “I do not know I can sleep, but I shall pray.”
A quarter hour later, she slept.
Mary Sarah’s own prayers at an end, she eased onto her back. Left arm straining across her chest, that hand and the other bound to Nicola’s, she stared at the canopy and wished she were not beneath it despite rain pecking at it. Though clouds obscured the night sky, she longed to see past the canvas since ever she felt nearer the Lord when she looked upon His heavens.
“Foolish Mary Sarah,” she whispered, then grunted. As Lillefarne was lost to her no matter what came of Gytha’s plotting, she was Mercia of Mercia again.
“I must think myself that, answer to that,” she breathed. “Mercia of Mercia henceforth and…”
Not evermore. If she did what was required of her, whether out of loyalty to a family who had little care for her or to keep her promise to return Nicola to the D’Argents, Mercia would become Mercia, wife of Canute. And perhaps one day she would be Mercia, wife of King Canute. A queen raised above legitimately born Godwines.
She tried to find satisfaction in that, but it was not what she wanted which was…
“To be where I wish to be, to live as I wish to live,” she whispered, “to be with whom I wish to be, to be loved as I wish to love.”
Poor Gytha, she thought, you put me in a position of authority and influence and left me there too long. Once I learn what Canute and his sire know, I will do all I can to escape marriage to a man I want less than he wants me. Do I succeed, one of your beloved granddaughters will have to be sacrificed. Not Mercia of Mercia, even if she is Mercia, daughter of King Harold.
Chapter Eight
Of those under Maël’s command, surely few believed he pursued the Danes foremost to do his duty to William. The majority were right. More than apprehending the rebel leader, he sought to recover his cousin and the abbess. If that delivered Vitalis into his hands, all the better, but it was secondary.
Not surprisingly, it appeared four of his men sought to profit should their leader’s priorities cause him to stumble. They might think Maël oblivious to the narrow-eyed regard of those who conversed among themselves, but observance had been pounded into him. Though as a boy and youth, he had not appreciated how great a weapon it was alongside blades capable of severing lives, well before he followed William to England, he discovered it was, indeed, powerful both offensively and defensively.
The one who stirred his men was the least trusted—Aiken who had been present at William’s coronation and among the first English thanes to embrace the conqueror and be greatly rewarded for betrayal of his own. The man had coin aplenty and was among William’s military advisors due to extensive knowledge of the land and its people, but elevation to the status of companion to the King of England yet eluded.
That William held out of reach and likely would forever, even if the Saxon was the one to deliver the leader of the Rebels of the Pale. Aiken’s son, who numbered among the four disaffected men, also aspired to something beyond his reach. As told by Sir Guy who overheard Daryl’s drunken boasting months past, he would be captain of the king’s guard—and soon, he had assured the ale woman perched on his lap.
William could be indiscriminate in rewarding those who served him, but not where his safety was concerned. Though Daryl was well versed in arms, having received his training at Wulfen before the conquest—thereby acquainted with Vitalis—he was too given to drink as once Maël had been. But of greater detriment, if ever William had been receptive to elevating the conquered to positions of great influence, years of rebellion had changed that. Time and again, Saxons pledged to him returned to the other side when it appeared the English resistance would prevail. Thus, when finally Maël was released from William’s service, a Norman would replace him, likely Sir Guy.
And when I am no longer duty and oath bound to the king, when there is naught to hold me to this troubled land? he mulled as he and several of his men awaited the return of others gone to the wood to water their mounts. Shall I return to Normandy? Seek my fortune in Paris? Mayhap Flanders?
He grunted. Where did not matter as much as when. God willing, once he secured that scrap of cloth, gratitude for preserving the king’s dignity would see him released.
Moving from the hopeful future to the unsettled present, Maël returned to a matter of greater import. Since mid-morning, his men and he had been on the trail of a half dozen riders heading north across Lincolnshire, of note since Saxons working the land reported two of the horses carried women in addition to men. Both had been dark of hair, but none could say if one was silvered.
Since Nicola was of too few years for those glinting strands to be of such quantity they defied distance and speed, Maël assured himself the riders were Danes, just as he had been certain the camp whose fire yet smoked was where those men passed the night. And likely Nicola and the abbess had slept beneath one of the canopies whose poles left deep holes in the ground.
He prayed it so, that neither suffered the attentions of men given to the belief whatever they laid hands upon became their possession.
“There!” The middle-aged Norman at his side jutted his chin at where something fleeting also caught his leader’s regard.
“What do you make of it?” Maël asked.
“A single rider, if not very well fed then well-muscled, and of no great height.”
Also Maël’s impression. It could not have been Vitalis, but perhaps one of his men—better, a Dane fallen behind or scouting ahead.
“Await the others,” Maël said and moments later rode the edge of a wood whose sparse growth allowed him to delve its depths.
Near where he had glimpsed the rider, he turned his mount inward. Moving diagonally, he searched ahead and to the sides and saw little of note beyond scurrying and flitting woodland creatures. Then once more, great movement that as quickly disappeared as it appeared. Now the direction was confirmed, and providing the sound of the prey’s flight masked the pursuer’s, an increase in speed would see him intercepted.
Shortly, Maël sighted the man again. Seeing he had a sword on his belt and another fixed to his saddle, he drew his own blade.
As if his prey sensed steel come into light, he snapped his head around. It was the rebel Maël had last seen after the Saxons’ defeat at Stafford when the formidably stout man accompanied Vitalis to the D’Argents’ camp to give the injured Em into Dougray’s care.
/> Certain Zedekiah’s presence in the wood was proof Lady Hawisa’s man was near, Maël shouted in Anglo-Saxon, “Halt, Zedekiah!”
The rebel spurred his mount faster, but when it proved no match for Maël’s, drew his sword, came around, and charged. “Out! Out!” he gave the Saxon cry that had resounded across the meadow during the great battle.
Thrice the warriors charged and crossed swords. Though the rebel’s greatest strength was the jarring power behind his swings, his weakness was quickly apparent. Not only did his muscular bulk slow him, it reduced the range of his swings. Too, he was unprepared for Maël to change tact.
During their next charge, the king’s man did not strike center of their raised blades but used his greater height to land his sword near the tip of Zedekiah’s. It unbalanced the rebel, and his refusal to release the hilt tipped him sideways out of the saddle.
Were he lighter and had he landed on muddied ground rather than packed earth, the breath would not have been knocked from him and he might have gained his feet before his opponent reached his side. Instead, Maël brought his boot down on the wrist of Zedekiah’s sword arm and set his blade at his neck. “It does not go well for you, Zedekiah.”
After much effort to feed his lungs, the rebel rumbled, “No matter the end, no dishonor in…refusing to lie down for a Norman.”
“As I would have done the same, I feel something of a kinship with you,” Maël said. “However, now we have established the victor of this contest, I am eager to engage my next opponent. Where might I find him?”
Zedekiah laughed, wheezed, gulped. “Do you speak of the mighty Vitalis, I cannot aid. As you know, the Rebels of the Pale mostly disbanded after Stafford, and those who remained have now gone their own way.”
“If you speak true, I wager the final dismantling was after your leader met with mine in a mountain cave following a snowstorm.”
The big man’s grin showed yellowed teeth. “Met? Is that the word Le Bâtard used to describe their encounter?” He snorted. “I suppose I would myself were I, of fierce and cruel bent, utterly humiliated by a Saxon ill of body.”
