HEARTLESS: A Medieval Romance (Age of Conquest Book 4)

by Tamara Leigh

  “It would have to be very bad for me to think and feel different about you.”

  “It is, though what I did—and did not do—may have benefitted your people. You recall I said though I aspire to loyalty and honor, often I fall short?”

  “Sometimes disastrously.”

  “Aye. As told, my sire was a hard man. Hard to love. Harder to like.”

  She frowned. “I have little experience with family. Thus, I do not understand how it can be harder to like than love.”

  “Though it requires more to love, I speak of it being easier to remain in a state of love than merely enjoying time spent in another’s company. Whereas the roots of love go deep, wrapping around one’s soul so the only way to be free of it is to rip out a piece of the soul with the roots, to like a person seems more immediate—more in the moment—hence, less tolerant and forgiving, often optional.”

  Mercia considered that with regard to her grandmother whom she could not say she loved but had grown more in that direction than liking the old woman who demanded things of Mercia she had not asked of her legitimate grandchildren.

  “Shallow roots, if roots at all,” Maël brought her back to him.

  She stared at this man she loved as much as she knew how to love and wondered if his secret would pull out the roots of what she felt for him. Possible, since they had not years to grow deeper, and perhaps it was for the best. Tear them out while they were relatively near the surface, and the piece of soul they took with them might be small enough she would become numb to the loss.

  “Pray, continue, Maël.”

  “Years ago, it was more than family loyalty and honor that made me defend my sire when rumors about him demanded a response. It was the belief they were only rumors. Thus, I beat those who carried tales of Hugh’s infidelity, and on occasion they beat me. Only the first time did my sire ask after bruises and scrapes gained off the training field. When he pressed and I told him whence they came and assured him I knew he was faithful to my mother, he declared that before him stood the D’Argent long he sought to make me.” Maël breathed deep. “I do not think he had ever been more proud of me, and I was so grateful I did not question why he did not confirm his fidelity.”

  “Then he was unfaithful?”

  “On one occasion, likely many others—meaning it is possible though I am my mother’s only child, it is not so of my sire.”

  “I am sorry.”

  His smile was forced. “As was I when I discovered his betrayal, though first I was so angry I hated him.”

  “When was that?”

  “The afternoon ere the battle of Hastings, William bid his men to pray for the Lord to grant them victory and commanded the D’Argents to accompany him and his companions to a village church whose English priest had been replaced with a Norman. Some of us prostrate, others kneeling, the murmurings of our prayers swirled amongst us like a brisk snow. As we were there for hours, it was not unusual for men to pause in their beseechings to relieve themselves, but I remained vigilant as trained to do, aware of each one’s departure and return. Though unlike Theriot, I do not possess a keen sense beyond the natural, what little I have urged me to raise my head only once, and I saw my sire moving toward the doors. I continued my prayers, and when he did not return, worried ill had befallen him, whether an enemy had stolen upon him or he was struck by dysentery which had afflicted some of William’s followers.”

  “The same as Vitalis,” Mercia murmured.

  “But also I was suspicious since several times over the past days my sire had disappeared for hours. At first, I assumed the duke set him a task, but then William sent for him and raged over his absence. Hence, that eve I went in search of him. The village was quiet, the Saxons who had not fled their homes having closed themselves in for the night. I asked those on patrol if they had seen my sire, and all denied it—except one whose nose I had broken years earlier for spreading rumors of Hugh’s infidelity. He said my time would be better spent looking where harlots aplenty could be found. Though tempted to do worse to him than break his nose, I continued my search. It was fruitless, and to prove him wrong, I went to the village tavern. And proved him right.”

  “My sire was in a dim corner—a nearly admirable attempt to be discreet. I heard the soft laughter of the woman who shared his bench, saw her lean near and Hugh kiss her, then they rose. Though they traveled the shadows to the stairs, they could not avoid torchlight on the upper landing. Thus, I glimpsed the comely Saxon slip into a chamber with a man who took pride in his son beating those who spoke true of the mighty trainer of chevaliers. I returned to camp as had the others with whom I prayed, but when my cousins asked after my sire’s whereabouts and my anger threatened to spill on them, I determined that night I would confront the one who betrayed my mother and went back to the tavern. And yet…”

  “Yet, Maël?”

  “It was he who confronted me. Having seated myself near the door to await his reappearance, greatly I imbibed as oft I did when I disappointed him or he angered me. I do not know how many hours passed, but it was still dark and few patrons remained when he wrenched me to consciousness where I lay face down on the table. He berated me, called me a drunken fool, told I ought to be gaining sober sleep to ensure I did my duty to my family when dawn broke. I could hardly stand nor see straight, but I heard and felt his every word. And though slurred and broken my own, I made certain he heard and felt mine.”

  Once again, Maël was transported from the bowels of the ship to that filthy tavern. “All color left his face when I revealed what I had seen, then returned when I told him how greatly he disappointed. I said it was not with pride I claimed him as my father, that it was nothing more than fact, he was undeserving of my mother, and…”

  “Tell me, Maël.”

  His ears hurt over remembrance of what he had said after deflecting Hugh’s backhand. Had he not longed to save Mercia the ache of loving one undeserving of such, he would hold it close, but the sooner she knew who was behind this ruined face, the sooner she would turn from him and less she would hurt.

  “I said I cared not if he fell in battle, that his wife was young enough to make a match with a better man who could easily prove a better father.” Maël drew breath through his nostrils. “I saw that rarest of things in his eyes—pain—then it was gone, in its place disappointment, perhaps even hatred for a son he longed to beat.”

  “Did he?”

  “Non. He told me to sleep off the drink, be at his side ere the march to meet the Saxons, and departed. I did sleep off the ale, but not before several more fills of the tankard. What next I recall is sharp pain in my neck that returned me to consciousness.” He raised his eyebrows. “A rat, one of several crawling over me outside the tavern where the innkeeper dumped me.”

  Understanding lit Mercia’s eyes.

  “It was dark, the sky just beginning to lighten when I left the village. Since several times I paused to empty the sour in my belly, when I reached the camp, William’s army had departed. My squire awaited me, and not only passed to me my horse but my sire’s instructions that were to be delivered as spoken. With apology, the boy said, You, a blot upon our name, break faith with the House of D’Argent in behaving a child. Get the man of you to the battlefield, even if the boy of you must crawl. Though there can be no great reward for my wife’s son in William’s England, perhaps a life can be made of selling your sword arm to those less worthy of the duke’s good regard.”

  He breathed deep. “The remorse felt upon awakening and the determination to redeem myself threatened to scatter like fallen leaves. I was a blot on the D’Argent name, but to be told that by one more a blot for betraying my mother…” He shook his head. “Though I could hardly think right, I armed myself, got astride, and made it to the field before the battle commenced. However, so averse was I to being near my sire, I fought distant from him and my cousins. For a time, I kept them in sight, but my swings were sloppy, movements slow, and vision so cramped that to preserve my life a
nd the lives of the Normans alongside whom I did fight, I had to set my mind on what was directly before me.”

  Looking to Mercia, he wondered why her eyes did not brim with disgust since she knew the losses the D’Argents suffered that day. “When the blade sliced my brow and nearly took my eye, my first thought was it would please my sire who hated that his son was so fair of face. My next thought was to slay the Saxon who sought to part my head from my shoulders, then the one intent on cutting my legs out from under me.”

  Maël kneaded the muscles of his neck. “Once the Norman victory was complete, this D’Argent was standing, the only price paid for his treachery a face over which women would no longer sigh. When I learned of Dougray’s injury, my sire’s shameful death at the hands of boys, and that Guarin might be among the dead, I was certain had not anger and disgust dictated alongside whom I fought, all would be different. Instead, I made my mother a widow, Dougray a cripple, and for two years deprived my uncle of his heir who was believed dead.” He met Mercia’s gaze. “So now you know this man you feel for is unworthy of such.”

  She rose and turned onto her knees to face him. “I thank you for sharing a burden so heavy it drags down your heart and mind, but I know no such thing of you who are with me now because you are worthy. What I know is, pained by betrayal, you were not thinking right. You drank much, and it affected your ability to defend yourself and others, but you cannot say it would have made a difference to your family had you fought alongside them. It could have proved of great detriment—a distraction with so much ill between father and son.”

  “Ill because of words I should not have thought, and certainly not spoken,” he clipped, frustrated she made excuses for him. Because she truly loved him and love blinded her to his failings?

  She set hands on either side of his face. “We all speak without thinking first, especially when confronted with truths that send us reeling. That night, what you learned of your sire knocked you backward and—”

  “—set me to drinking though I gave my mother my word I would not yield to that weakness no matter what befell me across the narrow sea. I did not keep my word, Mercia. I lied, and that lie made her a widow.”

  “Not a lie. I know that sin, having donned the mantle of an abbess and fully aware of my deceit in the moment. That you did not do.”

  He grunted. “The result is the same. I failed my mother, my cousins, and my sire. Though I have gained control of my drinking, there is no remedy for a life lost and lives seriously altered by the refusal to fight alongside my family.”

  “But do you not see, Maël? If you failed them it was not by way of deceit, and you have righted your wrong by refusing to use drink as reprieve from the cruelties of the world. And so I say, accept the Lord’s forgiveness, seek the same of those you may have failed, and no matter how you are received, be done with it. Live the life left to a man bettered by his failings. Cease looking behind and begin looking—” She faltered. “What is it, Maël?”

  He reached up, touched her cheek. “At my side—near scandalously so—the Abbess of Lillefarne. Did you thus counsel your charges? Prying open their eyes to the benevolence of the Lord? To the righting of wrongs? To walking a new path?”

  Her lashes fluttered. “I tried.”

  “Then the false abbess was not entirely false. Though she did not commit her life to the Church, she aided those who did and sought to do.”

  She sighed. “Unfortunately, here on earth it is not God who will judge me for what I did. It is Bishop Odo, and I do not believe he will see good in it.” Lowering her hands, she sat back on her heels. “But let us not speak of what will or will not be come the morrow,” she said as if she could not bear further assurance of hope. “Tell what happened after Hastings—how you came to be at Westminster that day.”

  Remembering, he said, “I did not intend to remain in England, but neither was I prepared to return to Normandy. Not only did I hope to locate Guarin, be he alive or dead, but I could not bear facing my mother. And so Theriot and I remained with William, fighting alongside him as we made our way to London and the crown he meant to claim.”

  “You were not yet the captain of his guard, am I right?”

  “I was not. After I left you and your grandmother, I aided in putting an end to clashes between the mercenaries who set fires and roused Saxons to anger. Thus, I was among those who delivered to England’s new king the miscreants responsible for making a travesty of his coronation. When later he gathered men who had distinguished themselves at Hastings to reward them, he offered me English lands.”

  “You told you declined them as well as the hand of a Saxon heiress,” Mercia reminded him of what he had revealed the night the Danes came for her at the inn.

  He nodded. “Though better I would have fought had I not succumbed to drink the night before the great battle, many the Saxons I cut down to preserve my life and the lives of fellow Normans. But having failed my family, I proved unworthy of such reward and, thus, no longer wished a life in England.”

  “But you did not leave my country.”

  “When I rejected lordship of English lands, William offered the position vacated by the captain of his guard who was deemed lax in ending the chaos outside Westminster. Once more I declined, and he said it was an offer in name only. Though tempted to argue, it occurred it would give me time and excuse before I faced my mother. Too, being a position of great responsibility, it would allow me to redeem myself in some measure.”

  “And yet you brought Lady Chanson to England.”

  “Because of Theriot. He pressed me to deliver her across the channel for the sake of his brother whose lands he had been given to administer until Cyr returned from pilgrimage. He said he needed a Norman lady to set up the household of the castle raised upon Wulfenshire, and when I resisted, accused me of having little care for her and said she might as well be in mourning for her only child as well as Hugh. Accepting he was right, I agreed. Still, no matter how often I promised myself I would tell her all, ever I have sidestepped the truth, not only because of my hand in Hugh’s death, but so I would not have to deceive her by hiding his betrayal of their vows.”

  “I do not know your lady mother well,” Mercia said, “but methinks the truth will not undo her, especially if it returns to her the son she loves—and all the easier now she has a good life with Father Fulbert. Indeed, I believe she is as beloved as he. Since she wed him, the only shadows I have seen about her face are when Nicola speaks of you.” Mercia touched his hand. “When next you are with your lady mother, tell her all. It may not make either of you whole, but surely more than you are now.”

  Was she right? Or would Chanson be less whole knowing he was behind her loss? Might she blame herself since Hugh had attributed their son’s shortcomings to the soft of her?

  “Promise you will tell her,” Mercia said.

  He peered into eyes nearly black for the breadth of her pupils. “You have my word.”

  “I thank you.”

  “You thank me?”

  “Knowing you and your mother are reconciled, better I can accept my punishment when I stand before the bishop and—”

  “As you said,” Maël interrupted, “no more talk of what will or will not be on the morrow.”

  She shifted her gaze to the scarred side of his face. “Neither within nor without are you a monster, Maël D’Argent.” She rose to her knees again, lifted a hand between them.

  Knowing what she asked, he wanted to refuse, but he nodded. And tensed when she set fingers on his brow where first the blade had dug in before curving toward his eye.

  “Have never been, will never be,” she whispered and traced the path no other had done besides him and the physician. “Just as never have you been my enemy though once I believed it.”

  “As once I believed Saxon women the enemy,” he said. “After our crossing of the channel, my sire warned those of your country are capable of bewitchment, thus dangerous to William’s cause and our own. Superstition, my co
usins and I named it, but after what I witnessed in the tavern, I wanted to believe it. Though no longer convinced rumors of Hugh’s infidelity were lies, it was something of a balm to blame forces outside him for his behavior. And more proof was had when Cyr, next Guarin and Dougray, succumbed to English women.”

  “Not bewitchment,” Mercia said. “Love both sides and surely with the Lord’s blessing, for how better to heal England than unite Norman and Saxon with marriage, making one people of them through offspring?”

  Knowing it was impossible to be united thus with her, he stared.

  “I do not understand it,” she whispered, “but when first we met, I felt your emptiness, and when you agreed to allow Gytha and me to depart, I near ached to fill that space in you with what little in me was not empty.” She touched her lips to where her fingers had been. “I will miss you, Maël.”

  He ceased breathing, but the lack of air only intensified his longing for her, and more so when she began pressing kisses up the scar to his brow.

  “Pray, remember me,” she said, then set her mouth on his.

  He let her kiss him until he could no longer bear receiving without giving back. Then leaning hard into the meeting of their mouths, he opened his on hers. As the breath returned to him became hers and hers became his and their hands began exploring the hollows and curves of necks, shoulders, waists, and backs, the fraying seams of the cold place where long Maël had dwelt gave. Warmth suffusing him, he felt the pound of a heart returned to life. It was glorious and—

  Dangerous, his conscience struck hard.

  Lest one more touch cause him to dishonor her, he set her back and, peering into her wide eyes, said, “I will not have us cross a line over which we should not set foot, Mercia. I will remember you, but as we are now, not with regret as shall be felt do we continue what can find no good end.”

  Her shoulders lowered. “As told, not bewitchment,” she said. “As told, you are honorable and worthy. And so I shall sit beside you the night long do you allow it.”

  Though it would be best for Ingvar to return her to her cell, he said, “Sit beside me.”