by Tamara Leigh
One page a day, no more than two, was all she would read, think, and pray on whilst here, she determined. As there appeared to be three dozen pages, they should last throughout her captivity—hopefully, well beyond.
Angling the psalter toward the lantern, she shone light on words small relative to Psalm One’s first letter.
Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, she read.
She was not blessed, having taken Gytha’s ungodly counsel. As for giving counsel to her charges at Lillefarne, though she did not believe it ungodly, it had been given by one who was herself made ungodly by weakness, desperation, and deception.
“Lord, forgive me,” she whispered but did not return to the psalm. That first portion provided enough to think and pray on. The rest would save for other days. Hence, if it took months for Sweyn and William to come to terms, she would not lack the sustenance of God’s word and much reflection.
She was loveliest in sleep though few women were in Maël’s opinion. The same as men, their faces became so slack and expressionless that even those boasting youth tended to sag. Not so Mercia of Mercia where she sat against the bars between their cells, head tipped to the side as if to return his gaze.
Whilst awake, her face was so stern its sharp lines and tension merely gentled in sleep. Were not her eyes now closed, he would think her relaxed rather than senseless—and easily coaxed to smile at which once he had excelled with the fairer sex.
She angered him, though more for Nicola’s sake than his own. As done often between dozing and watching her stare at a single page in the psalter, he wondered what had become of Vitalis who rode after Bjorn and Nicola, as well as Guarin and his men who sought Theriot.
If Ingvar’s musings were incorrect, was it possible the rebel leader had overtaken Nicola and Bjorn, slaying the latter to keep his word to Lady Hawisa to return her sister-in-law to Wulfenshire? Had the messenger who was sent after the Lord of Wulfen found him, and might Guarin now search for his sister as well as his brother? Was it possible he had found one or both?
Regardless, better prayers were spent on his missing cousins than forgiveness as urged by Ingvar.
Maël dropped to his haunches and looked to the elaborate psalter half open on Mercia’s lap, just enough of the first page visible to identify the language of the Anglo-Saxons. Though he spoke it fairly well after all these years, he was far from proficient with its written form, something he would not have to remedy since he was determined his days in England neared their end.
As he started to withdraw, he caught sight of the purse on Mercia’s belt. As noted upon her delivery below deck, it yet bulged, surely with what he had promised himself he would gain to learn her secret.
No longer necessary, Gytha’s granddaughter, he mused, though tempted to reach between the bars and open her purse.
“That would awaken me had you not already,” she said softly.
He swept his eyes to hers and wondered how long she had gazed at his ruined face. “So it seems,” he said and settled more deeply into his haunches.
Mercia straightened from her slump. “As ’tis no longer of consequence, you have only to ask, and I shall salve your curiosity.”
He realized he smiled only when her eyes dropped to his lips. Flattening his mouth, he reached between the bars. “May I, Lady Mercia?”
She set the psalter on the platter and drew forth her purse. Shortly, her fingers brushed his palm when she set the missive in his hand.
Her fleeting touch caused something of Maël’s past to move through him, and not for the first time with this woman to whom he did not wish to be attracted. As she snatched back her hand, he wondered if she felt—and rued—it as well.
“I assume you can read my language,” she said as he unrolled the parchment.
“A little.” He turned the writing into the light. Too little, he amended as he struggled to decipher enough words to make meaning of the whole.
“Would you like me to read it?” she asked, then added, “As God is my witness, I shall leave every word intact.”
He returned it to her.
After a glance over her shoulder at Ingvar who might only appear to sleep, she lowered her chin. But it was not the missive’s words that passed her lips. “I thank you for sacrificing your freedom to preserve my life, Sir Maël.”
He stared at the top of her head, and wanting to feel the soft of her hair, made fists of his hands. “Though now I know Ingvar would not have slit your throat,” he said, “were Canute’s threat real, the task would have fallen to one of the other Danes.”
She looked up. “Truly, I am sorry for all. I do not deserve forgiveness, but I wish you and your kin to know I meant no harm.”
Though tempted to remind her of all those affected by her deceit—foremost, Nicola—it did not compare with his own failings at Hastings and the many who suffered for them.
She swallowed. “This is what my grandmother sent with Canute to retrieve me from Lillefarne.” She moistened her lips. “My dear Abbess, this Saxon noblewoman, bereft of all sons and lands, has arrived safely in her kinsman’s country and been kindly received.”
“She speaks of King Sweyn,” Maël said.
Mercia inclined her head and continued, “I know not if my niece remains within your walls, but if she is yet in your care, I would have you deliver glad tidings I have secured a good future for her.”
Written in such a way to protect Mercia should the missive fall into enemy hands, Maël interpreted.
“The noble family who has taken in this lady seeks a wife of godly character for a second son of good character. Hence, Abbess, I entreat you to make haste in preparing my niece to be delivered to her betrothed who shall soon arrive in England. As it is imperative she begin her journey without delay and I would not further impose on the abbey’s hospitality, all arrangements have been made.”
Mercia looked to Maël. “No delay at all, and that is what Nicola happened upon.”
“Continue,” he said.
“Thus, you have only to remind my niece of the duty owed her family and that she is to be strong of mind, body, and spirit, then give her into the care of those with whom her betrothed has entrusted her safety.”
Maël grunted. “Your betrothed himself.”
“I did not know it then,” she said and returned to the writing. “Do this, Abbess, and when next we meet, your place in my affections will be secure. By God’s grace, Lady Edelwine.” Mercia looked up. “Just as ever I signed my responses M of M, ever she used a name not her own lest our correspondence was intercepted. And missives between us were, indeed, lost—some questions asked and answered again, others never asked nor answered at all.”
“What did she ask of you and what did you report?”
“The goings-on upon Wulfenshire, of which I never knew enough and for which my grandmother rebuked me for taking my position as abbess too seriously. But unlike Lady Hawisa, I was raised to be protected by men—no training at arms, stealth, nor intrigue. Thus, all I could report was what was delivered to my ears—your arrival at Wulfen Castle to collect the tribute for Lady Hawisa to retain her lands, your cousin’s arrival to take possession of a portion of her lands, how often Saxon rebels sought sanctuary inside Lillefarne’s secret passage of which I was to know naught, and whatever could be learned of Norman armies crossing over Wulfenshire and the destruction they wrought.”
She rolled the missive and returned it to her purse. “I know ’tis pitiful I should cling to this, but as I was ordered to burn every missive received, and it seems never will I possess the one Sweyn holds, this is all I have of my family—or nearly so.”
She drew something else from the purse. When she folded back a piece of cloth, he saw a brooch too small to fasten a cloak closed. This one’s only function was adornment.
Surprised she passed something so precious to him, he drew his hand back through the bars. As he turned the brooch into the light, the feeling of being watched made him se
ek the watcher.
Ingvar was on his side facing the cells. He met Maël’s gaze, then lowered his lids as if to grant them privacy.
“My grandmother said my sire gave that to my mother the eve of my conception. ’Tis all I have of my parents and nearly all I know of them.”
The brooch was masculine but beautiful. Wrought of silver, a thick letter G for Godwine was impaled down its center by a sword whose hilt and cross guard were gold and point was tipped with a triangular ruby.
“Costly,” Maël said. “Regardless of who bore you out of wedlock, I wager your conception was no mere tumbling of an innkeeper’s daughter. This looks a promise of more.”
“I thought the same, but Gytha assured me it was mere foolishness.”
“Your mother is dead?”
“I do not know. Ever my grandmother held that close the same as my sire’s identity, but as I am in possession of the brooch, it seems a fair conclusion my mother passed.” She looked down. “I know I should not put great store in who made me and I ought to turn from unraveling it—more so now I shall never see my grandmother’s missive—but too long I have ached for the truth.” She drew a deep breath. “I am resolved to let it go, and I will.” She slipped a hand between the bars, and Maël relinquished the brooch. She returned it to her purse, and as she started to rise, said, “I shall wish you good rest.”
“Alas, I am much awake now,” Maël said, curiosity making him loath to see her close the door opened to him, especially as she might never again allow him to enter. “Tell me about your life before Lillefarne—that which delivered your grandmother and you to Westminster.”
“For what?”
“As we are to live together a time, I am interested in knowing who you were before you took the name of Mary Sarah.”
“It is already told. I am an illegitimate, unacknowledged Godwine.” She straightened. “And therein my downfall—the wish to know who I was before Lillefarne so I might know who I am now.”
Maël also stood. “You must know I do not speak of your parentage but of your days and nights, of where and how you lived ere you were sent to Lillefarne.”
He felt her lean toward obliging him, but she shook her head. “I know ’tis the least due you, Sir Maël, but as it is not only my tale, I think it best not told. Good eve.”
Chapter Eighteen
A fortnight having passed since first she boarded the ship and over a sennight since being caged below, she believed herself accustomed to the hammock’s sway, even its swing when a wind come off the sea whipped against the hull and played chase among the masts. And perhaps she was, but this fairly gentle rocking met with what awakened her—a bristling against the back of a hand and a glimmer in eyes—made her belly toss. Worse was what felt like teeth sinking into the side of her hand.
“Mercia!” Maël barked when she cried out.
“My lady?” Ingvar called.
She flung out her hand, and the vermin released and thumped to the floor. Reflex and an aversion to remaining in the place of her attack made her spring out of the hammock as if to give chase, and immediately she longed to climb back into the rope sling. And she would have if not for the burn rising up her throat that demanded the bucket.
“What goes, Mercia?” the chevalier demanded from the other side of the curtain.
One moment she moved toward the bucket, the next sideways as the floor tilted opposite. She struck a shoulder against blanket-covered bars, dropped to her hands and knees, and as she began retching, the side curtain was torn down, letting in lantern light. Then the king’s man thrust an arm between the bars, hooked an arm around her waist, and pulled her against their shared wall—just as the ship rolled again, which would have sent her to the other side.
“Rat,” she croaked, and nearly retched again over the scent of sour. “I felt it…saw its eyes…it bit me.”
Though she did not hear the key in the lock, she startled over the door’s rusted protest as Ingvar entered with a lantern and stick. “I kill it, Lady!”
Providing he could find it. Several times she had seen or heard him put finish to kin of the one that awakened her, making her all the more determined to use the hammock for sleep though never had she glimpsed a rat inside the cells. But one had come, and where one came…
She shuddered.
“I have you,” Maël said. “Now move away from the sick, lower to the floor, and turn onto your side.”
Hardly had she set her back against the bars than the ship rolled again, causing Ingvar to grab hold of the cell wall opposite to steady himself and his lantern.
If not that Maël also lowered to his side, drew her nearer the bars, and cupped the back of her head with his free hand, she would have struck her skull on iron.
“Rat gone,” Ingvar said as the ship shifted toward center. “Keep hold of her, Sir Maël. I clean up sick and bandage hand.”
Though Mercia felt like a frightened child, she refused to be ashamed, certain a man would also react with considerable aversion to becoming a rat’s meal.
“Slow breaths,” said the one holding her, his words warming the top of her head and causing her scalp to prickle. “Slow, deep breaths.”
She tried to do as told, but even after Ingvar cleaned the floor and set to tending her hand, she continued to shake and draw ragged breaths. Her pierced flesh stung, next burned when the Dane poured strong drink on it.
“Save some for me, Ingvar,” Maël said. “The lady also draws blood.”
Feeling moisture beneath fingertips digging their nails into the top of the hand he curved around her waist, she released him. “Forgive me, Maël.”
Immediately he recaptured her hand and closed his fingers over hers. “Slow, deep breaths,” he repeated, and this time his words warmed the air between her ear and neck.
Though no longer shaking, she quivered. Knowing it had less to do with fear and pain than being held by this man as a beloved wife would be held by her husband, she dug her teeth into her lower lip to distract her great awareness of him. But it was futile, her heart pounding so hard and fast she feared it would crack open.
“Hand swells, but salve sooth and draw out sickness,” the Dane said as he bandaged it.
“I thank you,” Mercia rasped.
“I light another lantern, Lady.” He tied a knot at the back of her hand. “Should keep rats away.” He pushed upright. “Now I help you into hammock.”
She hesitated. Even with the bars between Maël and her, this was nearly sinful, but she did not wish him to let go. More, she longed to turn into him and, impossible though it was with the bars between them, tuck her head beneath his chin.
“Rat bother you in hammock,” Ingvar said, “but still safer than floor, especially now curtain down and light get in.”
She knew she ought to pull away from the chevalier as the abbess would have done, but she was no longer that woman. “If Sir Maël is willing, I shall remain here a while longer.”
She did not know what she expected of the man behind, but it only mildly surprised when he said, “Rest, Mercia. I shall watch over you.”
“As you will,” Ingvar said and secured her cell door, lit another lantern, and returned to his hammock.
Rest eluded Mercia the same as Maël she discovered a quarter hour later when he murmured, “I thought you unafraid of rats.”
She went so still only then she realized her thumb stroked the outside of his.
“After all, you expressed no concern over those encountered in the abbey’s hidden passage,” he added.
And proud she had been of the Abbess of Lillefarne, a grown woman in a position of authority who had many times dealt with vermin that caused her charges to scream and scramble atop chairs and tables as she wished to do herself. Mostly, she had become accustomed to the vile creatures, but what had happened here was different.
“’Tis one thing to look upon rats from a fair distance,” she whispered, “another to feel foul fur against the skin and find black eyes near one’
s own—worse, to be bitten.” She opened and closed her bandaged hand. “It aches. Do you think…?”
“What?”
“I have heard a rat’s bite can be deadly.”
He tensed, causing her to peer over her shoulder—and her heart to jump as she looked upon the unspoiled side of his face. But it was imaginings of a slow, painful death that made her tremble anew and long for the psalter tucked in her pillow. “It is true, then?”
“I have been bitten by a rat, and I live. Of those who die, likely it is due to the wound being improperly tended.”
Did he merely seek to calm her? she wondered as she turned forward again. “When were you bitten?”
Maël wished he had not opened that door, but prompted by protective instincts and the need to move her thoughts elsewhere, it was as if he had taken her hand and led her to the threshold. He wanted to yank her back, but something felt right in this moment. And he knew what it was—an absence of great loneliness to which he was long accustomed, though somewhat less so since Ingvar became his jailer.
And so I am bewitched by a Saxon as I vowed never to be, he acknowledged.
“Pray, speak to me, Maël,” she said and once more slid her thumb up over his.
Was it her pleading that moved him? Her familiarity with his name? Her caress of sword-toughened skin that should not be sensitive?
All that and more. As if told to take up arms ere fully recovered from a battle hard fought, he said wearily, “Shall we while away our captivity by telling each other tales, my lady? Salve curiosity and boredom with a trade of our own—you tell who you were ere Lillefarne, I tell you who I was ere Hastings?”
“It seems we have naught to lose that is not already lost, Sir Maël.”
Not entirely true. Her secret was mostly known to him, but not his to her. But then, he did not have to carry his tale that far. “You called me Maël before,” he said. “Just Maël. Let us remain there a time.”
“It sounds we are to be friends.”
It did, but it did not feel that way. So near were they, the warmth of her back against his front and curve of her waist in his hand, he could almost forget the bars. “For now,” he said gruffly.
