by Tamara Leigh
It was another hour before the Dane appeared and found her sleeping, Maël’s arm around her, her head on his shoulder.
“Have you answer for me?” Maël asked low.
“Thus far, what you request is not possible, Sir Maël.”
Then the Dane had not merely walked the deck and conversed with those on duty.
“Best chance when there much excitement over preparation to sail.” Ingvar nodded. “Then I see if can make possible.”
“Ever I would be grateful,” Maël said.
“This I know.” The Dane crossed to his station, lowered the lantern’s flame, and climbed into his hammock.
Lord, help me keep Mercia out of Odo’s hands, Maël silently beseeched as he drew her nearer, even though it means returning her to that manipulative old woman.
Chapter Twenty-One
Though tempted to linger over his ablutions in the cabin where first Mercia was taken to make herself presentable for King William’s brother, Maël had quickly bathed and exchanged fouled garments for the clean ones provided him, which proved of good quality, including a green woolen mantle whose edges were embroidered with ivory thread.
Now, stepping onto the deck into sunshine long denied him, he narrowed eyes pained by the sparkling sea last he had sailed upon when he believed his future dependent on depriving the enemy of their own good futures.
“I not like if need go in after you, Lady,” Ingvar called, turning Maël toward where the man perched on a crate behind Mercia.
Once more beautifully clothed, the former Abbess of Lillefarne gripped the railing, setting her face against a cool wind that made hair released from its braids lift off her back and flutter like a pennant across her far shoulder. Should the wind cease, that great length would drop and settle against her lower calves if not her ankles.
Looking around, Maël saw the Danes who worked the rigging divided their attention between keeping air in the sails and the woman who was to have been their prince’s wife.
“You hear me, Lady?” Ingvar raised his voice though he was near enough she had to have heard.
Did she consider a leap into the sea a means of escaping Bishop Odo? Maël did not believe it, and neither did Ingvar who would otherwise have planted himself at her side. As the coast was too distant to reach even were she a strong swimmer and able to shed her gown before becoming entangled, only if she preferred death over severe punishment would she give Ingvar cause to go in after her. And the Dane would, regardless of whether Canute ordered it.
Maël did not have to look far to locate Sweyn’s son. Richly garbed to reflect his station when he represented his sire who had remained on the Humber, he stood at the bow with legs braced apart. Here a prince of Denmark soon to take audience with the brother of the king whose lands he and his sire coveted, and sailing to the left, right, and behind seven other ships to protect against Norman treachery.
Far less a concern that would be were it William come to the estuary into which the Great Ouse river emptied into the sea, but it was to be Odo who had less honor than the man who ordered the harrying of the North.
Hopefully, Ingvar would give the bishop good cause to refuse to pay Mercia’s ransom. If so, a safer life, though not necessarily a good one, awaited her beyond England’s shores. Once Maël did all he could for her, he would aid in recovering Nicola were she yet missing, and have reason to do so in the eyes of his king—retrieval of the mantle piece.
“You look a chevalier again, Sir Maël!” Ingvar called, causing Canute to peer over his shoulder.
Maël acknowledged the prince with a nod, then strode toward Mercia whose attention remained on the coast. As he drew near, he looked questioningly at Ingvar to determine the man’s success in accomplishing the task set him.
The Dane’s face remained impassive, but if Canute yet looked this way, it was necessary to avert suspicion were something of great import soon discovered missing. Unfortunately, had Ingvar failed, little time remained to aid Mercia. Within the hour, the Danes’ ships would turn west and drop anchor at the estuary’s mouth. Soon thereafter, the ransoming.
Catching the scent of cloves that Mercia’s washed hair shook into the wind, suppressing the longing to catch hold of it and sift it through his fingers, he halted on the side of her buffeted by stirred air.
As he did not expect her to speak more than she had this morn before being escorted to the cabin, he was relieved when she said, “I hold to Psalm thirty-one, over and over reciting it. Though still I am afeared, I am stronger for it—and for you being here with me.” She set a hand atop his on the railing. “Will you remain until you can no longer?”
Not caring who watched, he turned his palm up and fingers around hers. “I will.”
She turned to him, moved her gaze over his face. “Though it appears you are of a mind to make the facial hair of my menfolk your own, you do look the chevalier again.”
He let his mouth tilt. “Unfortunately, I was not permitted a razor to scrape clean this jaw. You prefer it bearded?”
He should not have asked that, and more he regretted it when her eyes moistened. “’Tis not for me to approve nor disapprove.”
She will be gone from me soon, Maël thought, and as what remained of that cold place beckoned him back inside, amended, Gone unless Ingvar fails, and then…
What? he demanded of the man who had given his oath to William. How do you free her without betraying your king?
Mercia raised her chin, forced a smile. “With sunlight running the silver of your hair, above all you look a D’Argent.”
That he was—first, in between, and in the end. Were Mercia a D’Argent…
Impossible. Even if he wished it, he could not grant her the protection of the name of which he was unworthy. Were he given the opportunity to speak vows with her—and that would require a miracle—an enemy he would make of the king. Thus, a life spent evading William’s vengeance could bode worse for her than what awaited her should Ingvar fail.
“’Tis most wondrous hair,” she said.
Now Maël forced a smile. “Do you not think it makes me look aged?”
“At first glance, but at second it is as breathtaking as a moonless night when the stars shine brightest against the heavens.” She averted her eyes. “Though it is wrong, I wish I had put my hands in it last eve.”
Such honesty he had not expected despite what had passed between them, especially as she had hardly spoken this morn as if regretting kisses that had sought to move them to acts reserved for marriage.
Determined to be as honest as she, he said, “I wanted to loose your braids, but far too dangerous that for how it stirs a man.” When she looked up, he nodded over his shoulder. “I wager there is not one aboard who does not long to wind the soft of your hair around his hand.”
Her wind-flushed face brightened further. “It is immodest to leave it unbound, but it was the only way to ensure it is dry when I stand before the bishop.”
He inclined his head, and once more she turned to the sea. After a time, she said, “Ingvar is a good man. I worry what might befall him if Canute discovers what I carry on my person.”
Maël tensed. “He has given you something?”
“He told I should keep the psalter and bound it up in linen with the brooch and my grandmother’s missive.”
Catching hold of that last, Maël said, “You speak of the missive instructing you to leave Lillefarne with the Danes?”
She frowned. “As told, ’tis the only one I possess, and still I cannot bring myself to destroy it.”
Disappointed, Maël said, “You have it on your person?”
“Aye, Ingvar instructed me to secure it beneath my skirts. He said should I require funds to deliver me from Norman wrath, it will bring more than enough coin to see me out of the country. Though I know it is of great worth, especially if it belonged to the daughter of King Alfred as I suspect, it is only of value if the one to whom I offer it has integrity enough to give service.”
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p; As it was possible it would be stolen from her—further endangering her—it was all the more imperative their jailer gain what was of greater value to her.
“Regardless, I would not have Ingvar pay a terrible price for his kindness,” she said.
They fell silent until a shout alerted the Danes the estuary was sighted.
Holding tighter to Maël’s hand, Mercia strained to see what the one atop the mast saw. And there it was…
“Go put your hair in order,” Maël said. “A simple braid, perhaps two.”
As she also thought best. The bishop might not be softened by the false abbess if she looked a humble lady, but he would be further hardened were she arrayed in elaborate braids that made her look a haughty Saxon.
Feeling great loss when she released Maël’s hand, she crossed the gently rolling deck.
When she emerged from the cabin, hair fashioned into two plaits looped once and fastened at her nape to make their great length less obvious, clearly she saw the estuary beyond Maël who remained at the railing with Ingvar at his back.
Several sails having been lowered, the ship made for the wide mouth bordered on all sides by low-lying fens that discouraged stealth in daylight. Though the vegetation scattered near and far was of a height and breadth behind which men might take cover, they would not be able to do so in numbers great enough to present a threat to one shipload of Danes, let alone eight.
Now it was Mercia who came alongside Maël. “You think Bishop Odo will come this day?”
He turned his face to hers. “As word was surely sent him as soon as Danish ships appeared, methinks he will show soon. Have you a veil?”
She touched the one tucked beneath her belt. “I will don it when we are out of the wind so I not lose it to the sea.”
Shortly, Canute gave the order to drop anchor and lower the rowboats that would carry them to land, then the tap of his hard-soled boots announced his approach.
“Now we make trade,” he said as his captives turned to him.
“What will you tell my grandmother?” Mercia asked.
He shrugged. “That is for my sire to do.”
“She will not like that I have been traded for silver.”
“She will not, but she will understand the need to make good our losses and her need to maintain favor with the King of Denmark upon whose benevolence she depends.”
Then Gytha did know that what remained of her life was to be spent in exile.
The prince looked to Maël. “Once we are on land, your weapons and purse will be returned. God willing, we will meet again one day so I may redeem myself in bettering you.”
“God willing, so I may prove redemption beyond your reach, Prince.”
Canute chortled, ordered Ingvar to keep watch over his prisoners, and departed.
“The Danes are not done with England,” Maël said. “The same as their ancestors, they shall return.”
“When?” Mercia asked.
“As their losses have been great, their ranks rife with treachery, five years, mayhap ten.”
Will I be here to see it? she wondered. If so, at what place? A tower room whose locked door makes me as much a prisoner of Le Bâtard as I have been upon this ship?
More a prisoner, she realized, for Maël would not be with her. Throat tightening, she said, “Where will you go?”
“Much depends on this day.”
She wanted to press for more, but he turned back to the railing and said, “Bishop Odo comes.”
So he did. Upon the fens most distant to the eye appeared a dark mass, the only light about it the glint of silver evidencing armor and weapons.
“Psalm thirty-one,” Maël murmured.
Struggling to keep from quaking, she turned her face up to his, and he set his mouth on hers.
Though the Danes were so occupied with preparations to disembark it was unlikely many witnessed the kiss, it was brief.
“Psalm thirty-one,” Mercia said when Maël drew back. “I hold it close.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Separate boats, two of a score lowered from Canute’s ships, carried Maël and Mercia up the estuary and through branches of the fens to a place of firm, expansive ground where Bishop Odo and a force of one hundred fifty men were to trade chests of silver for the king’s captain of the guard and the woman said to be of Godwine blood.
Unfortunately, Maël had been unable to converse with Ingvar before departing the ship and the older Dane had remained aboard. Thus, it was unknown whether Odo would pay Mercia’s ransom. The only thing for certain was Canute was confident of returning to his sire with two chests of silver.
Maël’s dagger, sword, and purse returned to him, he was flanked by Danes ordered to ensure William’s man presented as a prisoner accorded honor, but not so well that the weapons on his person jeopardized the ransom paid for him.
At the far left where Mercia stood unmoving, from beneath her veil she stared at the Normans who had yet to send a representative to the middle ground where Canute’s man had positioned himself.
At last, the bishop of two score years whose elaborate dress beneath a mail vest identified his high office, looked behind and motioned someone forward.
No mere representative this, but Guarin D’Argent now of the name Wulfrith.
Relief suffused Maël. As his cousin was so soon returned from the North, he must have found Theriot, perhaps even Nicola.
Odo and Guarin conversed, then the latter urged his mount forward and, meeting Maël’s gaze, inclined his head.
Words were exchanged between the two representatives, then both withdrew to report what was required of the other.
Laughable formality, Maël mused. They knew exactly what was needed to make the trade.
After calling forth Maël and Mercia, around whom were set four warriors each, Canute tucked a wooden cask beneath his arm and began the march to the middle ground.
Odo did the same—or nearly so. As though beneath the bishop to sully his boots across marshy ground, he remained astride, his mount led forward by one who wore the garments of a simple priest. The two were accompanied by eight warriors the same as Canute, two of whom carried chests considerably larger than the one borne by the prince.
At a distance of twenty feet, both sides halted.
“Canute, son of Sweyn of Denmark,” Odo called, eschewing the titles due father and son, “in the name of God’s anointed one, King William the Great, sovereign of England and Duke of Normandy now and forevermore, the most holy, honorable, and high Bishop Odo greets you.”
Canute snorted. “All know that holy peacock’s plumage is dipped more in blood than ink,” he muttered, then called, “Odo, half brother of William, in the name of God’s anointed one, King Sweyn the Magnificent, lawful and beloved sovereign of Denmark now and forevermore, the courageous, honorable Prince Canute asks—have you the silver to redeem your brother’s man and gain wardship of Lady Mercia of the House of Godwine?”
Pink sweeping up the bishop’s neck and coloring his jaw, he jutted his chin at Maël. “As there the man I know by sight, I have the silver to redeem him.”
Hoping if distaste for Odo showed in any measure, it disguised itself as disaffection with his captors, Maël inclined his head.
“As he appears to be in good health as promised,” the bishop continued, “send him forth, and I shall send payment. Then we shall confirm wardship of the lady.”
“Go, Chevalier,” Canute ordered.
Feeling Mercia’s gaze, Maël looked to where she stood on the prince’s other side. Though her eyes were moist, her chin was up as if once more she played the Abbess of Lillefarne.
Hoping for her sake that never again would he be so near her, Maël set his teeth and strode forward.
One of the two Normans bearing a chest broke from the others and, moments later, Odo’s man passed William’s man.
“My side, Chevalier Maël!” the bishop called, and the warriors opposite the priest who held the bridle of Odo’s mount open
ed a path for him.
In the Norman ranks beyond, Maël caught sight of Guarin at the fore. Beside him was Eberhard, his and Hawisa’s adopted son. But of greater note than the squire who was now more man than boy were two noblemen on Guarin’s other side.
The first was Hugh de Grandmesnil, a companion of William’s greatly rewarded with lands in Leicestershire and entrusted with aiding Odo in governing England during the king’s absence. The second was De Grandmesnil’s son, aged ten and six, who had been named after the duke who became a king.
Maël halted alongside Odo. “Bishop.”
William’s brother flicked his gaze over him, then returned his regard to the Danes.
Shortly, the prince looked up from the chest he had been presented and dropped the lid. “As agreed, William’s brother,” he called.
“That is a great quantity of silver, Sir Maël,” Odo said. “Though much you disappoint in being captured, the king is confident many times over you will repay it in service to him.”
Maël clenched his hands. He had not considered what the ransoming would cost him. Now his service to the king could stretch years beyond retrieving the mantle piece. Though such captivity would be far different from Mercia’s if she, too, crossed to this side, a captive he would be.
“Now proof the false abbess is a Godwine,” Odo called.
Canute gave the cask to one of his men who carried it forward, passed it to Maël, and stepped back to await the bishop’s approval.
“What think you, Chevalier?” Odo said when Maël turned to him. “Is she a Godwine?”
He had not expected to be consulted, but here an opportunity to sow greater doubt. “For a time I was imprisoned alongside the Saxon. Though she presents well at first, often the face of nobility slips. Thus, likely she is but a pawn of Harold’s mother—not only set against our king but possibly Sweyn the unwise.”
Odo chortled. “The unwise, indeed. Hence, I come prepared.”
There was something almost ominous about that last. Were there a place near for forces of great number to conceal themselves, Maël would think an attack on the Danes imminent, but the bishop made other, less bloody arrangements to ensure he benefitted more than Canute.
