by Tamara Leigh
“Indeed. So of what import are you to the Danes?”
She hesitated, and when her gaze shifted to the ruin made of one side of his face, he resented the heat rising up his neck. “Though Nicola gave her word she would hold close my secret, Sir Maël, methinks she will tell if you reveal knowledge of the name by which longest I am known.”
“As you are known by the old woman at Westminster?”
Her lashes fluttered. “I feared you drew near that truth.”
“Truth not only hidden behind veil and habit but spoken and unspoken lies.”
She swallowed. “Just as you serve a man you do not wish to serve, I serve a family out of obligation and…” She shook her head. “Obligation only.”
More deception, but Maël said, “Which family?”
“That Nicola also knows, and it is best you not at this time.”
Might she be of Godwine, a daughter of the fallen King Harold? Non, those young women were accounted for, as were the sisters of Edgar the Aetheling, a young man who had more right to the throne than had Harold and had once more fled toward Scotland when his alliance with the Danes failed. It must be another prominent Saxon family to whom she was obligated, but of those not yet divested of all, did any possess power enough to threaten the king?
“Your real name?” he asked.
Her tongue clicked off a dry palate. “Mercia of Mercia.”
“Your sire’s name?” he pressed again.
Smile sorrowful, she whispered, “Unknown to me, the same as that of my mother.”
“Baseborn, then.”
“I am.” It was said with what he might have believed pride if not for brighter eyes and flared nostrils.
“And yet of great value, it seems,” he said.
“I question that, but I am assured all will be explained.”
Once more, he considered her head to toe. “You do not belong in a habit, do you, Mercia of Mercia?”
Her cheeks spotted. Though he preferred to believe it the heat of anger or hatred, this seemed shame. And it should be. “As you see me now, gowned and unveiled, is as ever I should have been.”
The only surprise was she owned to it. “If the Church learns the truth of you, your punishment could be grave.”
“Certes, and more so now England’s houses of God are under the fist of Bishop Odo.”
It was true. William’s brother was a man more ungodly than godly, making his power painfully felt amongst the Saxon clergy—and beyond. “I wager you are more guilty of aiding rebels than Aelfled was,” Maël submitted.
Amid her hesitation, Canute called, “You keep me waiting!”
Maël looked around. “I but assure the abbess her charges will not be long without a godly woman’s guidance.”
He snorted. “You lie. Let us finish this.”
Maël looked back at Mercia. “Did we not meet again, I would count it a blessing. Unfortunately, as I am not done with Vitalis, I am not done with those who aid him.”
She stepped near and with urgency said, “As told, Nicola has the piece of William’s mantle—”
“We keep Canute waiting.” Maël took her arm and led her forward.
As they advanced on the middle ground, he met his cousin’s wide-eyed gaze above the gag. Anger bounded from her, but also pleading. Knowing her well enough to translate that last into concern for the false abbess, he shifted his attention to Vitalis.
There was nothing smug nor triumphant about him. What he exuded was the confidence of a man accustomed to prevailing against his opponents.
“I thank you as I could not earlier,” Mercia said low.
“For?” Maël rasped.
“What you did for my grandmother and me at Westminster. It was a great risk to use that passage, but she would not be dissuaded. She wished to see it for herself.”
“Your enemy’s coronation.”
She jerked her chin. “A painful day for my people, one of many come before, after, and yet to come.”
Though not of a mood to reassure her, he said, “God willing, once the last of the rebellion is stamped out, England will heal.”
Her eyes widened. “Heal? If this island kingdom is now and forever your king’s, England is dead to Saxons. As you must know, what is dead cannot heal. It rots, falls to pieces, becomes dust under the boots of those who slew it.”
Her ache was so genuine, he felt what was cold within him warm further. Thus, he was glad their exchange ended when he halted alongside Zedekiah where the rebel stood ten feet distant from Vitalis and Nicola and several times that from Canute.
The red-headed warrior who met Maël’s gaze was formidable as ever, but there was a cast about his face evidencing he was not entirely healed from what had caused him to linger at Lillefarne.
“I have watched for you, Maël D’Argent,” he said loud.
“I have watched for you, Vitalis!”
“Alas, for naught. Though you and yours steal my country, never will you know it as we do—its hills, plains, marshes, rivers, mountains, and forget not caves which are particularly useful under the right conditions. Thus, a wise king would learn them as best he could else avoid them altogether.”
Maël inclined his head. “You may be right.”
“I am, and I believe Le Bâtard would agree.”
“Enough!” Canute snapped. “Fight by blade not tongue, else be done.”
As Maël led Mercia forward and Zedekiah followed, he expected Vitalis to smack the rump of Nicola’s mount, but the Saxon urged both horses ahead. When the parties neared, he raised the reins, indicating he would pass them to Maël.
Unnecessary, as if he but wished to draw nearer. For what? If not that his sword remained sheathed, Maël might think he meant to work ill on the one tasked with delivering him to William. Still, Maël kept his own sword at the ready.
“Go, Mercia.” He released her. “Go, Zedekiah.” As the two moved past, he held his gaze to Vitalis. When the rebel leader halted both mounts and extended the reins, Maël adjusted his grip on his sword and stepped forward.
“That is Bjorn’s horse,” Canute called as Maël accepted the reins. “See it returned to him.”
Nicola growled against her gag and, eyes bulging, jerked at wrists bound to the saddle.
“I would wait on loosing your little cousin,” Vitalis said low, causing her to whip her head around and struggle to work her tongue past the bulky cloth dampened by saliva. “Though the vixen is safe now, we must needs keep her so.”
Maël needed no one to tell him it was best to remove her from the immediate area. The trade was made, but still armed enemy faced armed enemy, neither of which had all they wanted—Bjorn desiring Nicola, the king’s men desiring Vitalis.
“Sir Anselm!” Maël called and, when the chevalier came alongside, passed the reins to him. “Once you are well distanced, aid in my cousin’s dismount and send the horse back. But leave the gag.”
Nicola’s scream of frustration would be piercing were her mouth not stuffed.
As the chevalier led her away, Canute called, “She is trouble, your cousin, more than this one.”
Maël looked past Zedekiah who had mounted his horse and accepted the sword Vitalis passed to him. The abbess—rather, Mercia—appeared to hold her breath where she stood alongside Canute. And when the Dane pulled her against his side and kissed her hard atop the head, Maël was tempted to once more engage him at swords.
“Ill timing,” Vitalis murmured, and Maël resented him for thinking this Norman was rashly moved to aid that Saxon. “Do you have a care for her, Sir Maël, be assured—”
“You wily like your grandmother, my love,” Canute laid claim to one who was baseborn the same as he. But there was more to those words. Though it had seemed unlikely Mercia was of those born of Godwine, the pieces came together when Maël recalled the old woman at Westminster. She had been imperious, callous toward the younger woman, and of an age to be the mother of King Harold and all his brothers now buried.
It had to have been the rebellious Gytha, and as Mercia’s illegitimacy made her of little account to such a family, it made sense she was unknown to most. However, were she acknowledged for her Godwine blood, she could be of use to King Sweyn should he seek England’s throne in earnest. Wed to Canute, it was possible the beaten Saxons would rally again, adding their strength to the Danes.
“But I shall be patient in teaching respect,” Canute continued, causing his men to laugh, though not Bjorn whose gaze was fixed past Maël on the woman denied him.
“Ill timing, Chevalier,” Vitalis rumbled again, and Maël felt his hand on his hilt. “And all the more ill for the dissension in your ranks. Not only that of Daryl, but his sire who surely watches. He longs to take me, likely as much for ending his son’s training at Wulfen as to win your king’s favor. Had he bow and arrow, he might put a shaft through my chain mail, perhaps even set a stray arrow upon you.”
Maël narrowed his lids. “You make it sound we are allies. We are not.”
“Not yesterday nor all the days before, but this day and perhaps the morrow.”
Before Maël could look close on that, Canute called, “Make haste, Vitalis! We ride!”
Maël nearly smiled. The Dane believed they continued to posture, trading insults and threats. Was it as Vitalis wished? For this had he taunted Maël and drawn nearer? “What do you propose?” Maël asked.
“The son of King Sweyn believes this hunted man, bereft of country, wishes to make Denmark his home,” he confirmed Canute’s identity. “It was a consideration but methinks not possible after this day.” He opened his mouth to say more, scowled. “Pray, Sir Maël, buy me another minute by cursing and threatening me.”
It was not in Maël’s nature to spew emotion he did not feel, nor was he comfortable acting a part as Mercia of Mercia had done at Lillefarne. However, he raised his voice as well as his sword. “Coward! I shall deliver your head to King William!”
Vitalis laughed. “You will try, king’s man. You will fail.” Then as if to further the insult, once more he leaned forward. “Since I but joined the Danes on the day past after Bjorn vouched for me, I am not trusted enough to be privy to their plans. However, as Sweyn’s son has come, methinks the father will follow with an army to add to the earl’s that is anchored in the Humber. As must be obvious, there is an advantage to Prince Canute taking to wife the abbess who I begin to think no abbess at all. Thus, at the first opportunity, Zedekiah and I will gain her release and return her to Wulfenshire.
Before Maël could respond, movement behind and to the sides drew his regard to the impatient Canute who signaled his men to withdraw. Keeping watch on the Normans, all but Bjorn moved toward the horses and Danes farther down the road.
Maël looked to Vitalis. “Surely you do not think I will stand aside, not only allowing the one I hunt to escape but yielding a woman who can further Sweyn’s ambitions?”
“You will have to trust me in this, Sir Maël. You have your cousin back, do you not?” Vitalis looked toward the inn, and the smile hitching his mouth made Maël glance around.
Nicola should be out of the saddle to allow the horse to be sent back, but she remained astride—and angrier as evidenced by high color as she glared at Sir Anselm who raised a hand as if to calm her.
“Out of hearing of Bjorn,” Vitalis continued, “I persuaded Canute to trade her for Mary Sarah should stealth fail to catch the king’s men unawares—saving lives both sides. If that advice has earned me some trust, it will be easier to take Mary Sarah from Canute, especially now I have Zedekiah at my side.”
Maël had no intention of waiting for him to prove himself something of an ally, but before he could reject the proposal, the one lurking in the wood determined withdrawal of the Danes made it safe to wreak vengeance and better his lot.
“Vitalis!” Aiken cried and ran forward with sword aloft.
Canute might have left the rebel leader to his fate had not three of Maël’s men, including Daryl, surged forward as if to pursue the Danes. And then there was Bjorn who wavered between retreat and reclaiming the horse yet to be returned to him—likely, more the lady astride. The nephew of King Sweyn would not be left behind.
Except for Canute who dragged Mercia toward the horses, the Danes on foot turned back. With resounding shouts, they ran forward, causing the Normans yet answerable to their commander to meet aggression with aggression.
Reaching Aiken ahead of Vitalis and Zedekiah, Maël beat back the sword meant to slay the one who had humiliated King William. “Ride, Vitalis!” he shouted, hopeful if he fled and Bjorn was quickly recovered, the Danes would fully withdraw with no lives lost. But now Daryl and the two other faithless Normans swung blades at the mounted rebels who drove them back with sword stroke after sword stroke.
Continuing to fight off Aiken who was strong and fast despite little finesse, Maël snarled, “Cease, else greater your king’s wrath.”
For answer, the Saxon arced his sword up, forcing Maël back to keep the blade from his unarmored belly. Retaliation tightening the muscles of his sword arm, he started his swing—and faltered upon glimpsing a horse speeding past.
The mistake made in taking his eyes off his opponent to assure himself it was not Nicola sharing the saddle with a Dane nearly cost Maël his life, that glance behind at where his cousin no longer was and Sir Anselm now lay on the ground displacing the air beneath his jaw.
Giving over to anger at Aiken’s betrayal that had lost Nicola, Maël lurched back to gain space in which to land his next blow. Whether or not it would have been enough he would never know.
Spurring his horse forward, Vitalis leaned hard to the side, swung his sword, and landed its edge to Aiken’s back, ensuring the one who sought his death did not complete his next swing.
The traitorous Saxon shouted as the rebel leader continued past, then toppled. Unarmored the same as Maël, the slice to his back would be the end of him.
His son who had borne witness where he and his one remaining ally danced around Zedekiah’s horse, tried to run to his sire, but the big rebel used the distraction to land a blow to Daryl’s arm that sent him stumbling back and dropped him.
“This changes all!” Vitalis shouted as he brought his horse around.
Maël adjusted his stance lest his prey sought to do to him what he had done to Aiken. “Bjorn has my cousin,” he said. “I will not wait on you.”
Vitalis inclined his head. “As told, all changes.” Then neither trusting Maël, he spurred wide around him, and with Zedekiah following, rode after Bjorn and Nicola who had gone through the wood rather than by way of the road. And there the Danes’ cue to end the contest. Leaving behind two fallen countrymen, they ran.
“Regroup!” Maël commanded, and his men pursuing the enemy turned back, which was best for those whose opponents would soon be astride the same as Maël.
“See to the injured!” he called and ordered two men as loyal to him as Anselm had been—and would be again did he survive—to collect their saddlebags.
Chapter Fourteen
As with each time she dwelt on all that transpired since being forced from the abbey, Mercia feared she would be sick, so disgusted was she by a return to helplessness mostly unknown to the Abbess of Lillefarne.
Here again the impotence of her childhood, youth, and attainment of womanhood. Ever dependent on the kindness of Gytha, she had feared failing the only kin to acknowledge her. Thus, upon gaining control of her life beyond answering her grandmother’s missives and meeting as many of the old woman’s demands as possible, she had known a measure of happiness and fulfillment that made abbey life tolerable.
Now she did not have even that, and worse in this moment. After tossing her onto the horse of the older Dane, Canute had lingered near the inn to see how many of his men survived the return to arms. While Sir Maël fought the traitorous Saxon, Bjorn had taken back what was taken from him. The trade having gone awry, once more the Danes had both women. Thus, if not that Mercia would soon learn
who sired her, the sacrifice of her freedom would be for naught.
Upon departing the inn, again Canute had divided his men into two contingents to lead pursuers astray, but Bjorn had not been amongst either. Doubtless, distrust of his cousin caused him to go his own way. Upon reaching the Humber, likely he would beseech the earl to grant him his desire, and since Nicola had feigned feelings for Bjorn, it was hard to begrudge him for reclaiming her.
Had she now disabused him of those feelings? If so, what would he do? Continue to the estuary in the hope of persuading her otherwise? Or might she embrace the adventure a bit longer? Possible, especially as Mercia was once more in Canute’s hands. Or nearly so.
She opened eyes she had closed lest once more she fall to weeping over the harrying that worsened the nearer they drew to the Humber—burned villages and fields, scorched woodland offering little refuge for rebels and innocents, carcasses and the bones of animals who would have sustained their owners through winter into spring and, increasingly, more bodies of those unable to outrun the terror, among them children.
Though Mercia fixed her gaze on Ingvar who carried her sideways before him at a more sedate pace than earlier, she shuddered over imaginings of what she would see if she peered past him.
“Canute’s woman cold?” he asked
“Nay.”
He grunted. “Keep eyes closed. It bad and get worse.”
Though she wanted to do as told, she scooted up in the saddle, set her teeth, and looked to the Dane ahead, the one to the left, then past them.
“Lord,” she breathed. She had heard the Danish army that remained throughout the winter had suffered much, losing many to the scarcity of food and illnesses that preyed on malnourished men. Regardless of the weather and their king’s orders, those from across the sea should have returned home, if not in winter then at spring’s onset. Would they still be here come summer? Likely, since King Sweyn’s plans were set in motion.
“Worry not, we kill Le Bâtard,” Ingvar said. “Then King Sweyn make all right.”
