by Tamara Leigh
“The cask, Chevalier,” he said, and Maël handed up what he prayed was lighter than it should be.
“A pretty box of good construction,” Odo mused as he balanced it atop his saddle’s pommel. “Ere these miscreants thieved it from a House of God, likely it held holy relics.”
As such sacrilege was not unique to Danes, numerous English churches having been stripped of valuables to pay for William’s army, once more Maël set his teeth.
Odo pulled the latch’s chained pin and raised the lid. One moment his smile made him appear attractive, the next unattractive for how flat it fell—and more so when the corners arched downward to deeply groove his chin.
He snapped up his head. “Where is the hag’s missive, son of Sweyn?”
Silently heaping gratitude on Ingvar who, hopefully, had found his way off the ship, Maël looked to the prince.
Face transformed by such genuine confusion few could believe it feigned, he called, “It is exactly where my sire placed it.”
Odo scrabbled over the contents and lifted out a gossamer veil, hammered silver circlet, and a ring set with a purple gem. Doubtless, all sent by Gytha with the missive to quickly see Mercia wed to the prince.
“This is all it contains.” The bishop thrust forward that hand while the other shook out the cask’s emptiness atop the head of the priest on his other side. “Where is your proof the false abbess is a Godwine?”
Canute took a step forward as if to confirm the missive’s absence, halted, then his eyes shifted wildly as if searching for sight of the parchment which was to have doubled the silver received for Maël.
“Ingvar!” the prince barked and pivoted toward Mercia.
The instinct to protect her nearly shouted down reason that warned Maël any attempt to aid her could endanger her more. Standing firm, he watched as Canute grabbed her shoulder and pulled her near.
“Did you persuade him to use those quick fingers of his to steal the missive? Did you buy him with sexual favors, Gytha’s granddaughter?”
“Loose me!” she cried.
Canute shook her. “Tell!”
To the surprise of those whose murmurings ceased as if to belatedly catch the sound of flesh striking flesh, she slapped her former betrothed.
He fell to stunned silence, then drew back a hand.
This time Maël’s instincts shouted down reason, but hardly had he started forward than Odo commanded, “Do no harm!”
The prince faltered, looked around.
As Maël struggled to remain this side of the divide with his eyes on Mercia whose shoulders rose and fell with great breaths, Canute said, “She is deception, making me appear unworthy of my sire’s trust in order to escape your king and join her grandmother in Denmark.”
“As all men of good wit know,” the bishop said, “more women are of Eve than of the blessed Mary. But fear not, even in the absence of proof of her blood, I may yet make use of her.”
Though Maël had known Ingvar might bear blame for the lost missive, casting Mercia as an accomplice, he had not considered the bishop would part with coin lacking proof of her parentage.
“What do you propose?” Canute demanded.
Odo returned the veil, circlet, and ring to the cask, dropped the lid, and swept a hand to the man holding his horse’s bridle. “Accompanying me this day is the Saxon priest, Jonas, who served as a clerk for Gytha of the House of Godwine. Though no longer possible for him to verify the missive was written by her hand, I would have him look close upon Lady Mercia to confirm she is the same who served the usurper’s wife, Lady Alditha, and was in Gytha’s confidence.”
Then this what he had meant when he boasted he came prepared, Maël realized—no coin given without some proof Mercia was of value.
Canute narrowed his eyes. “Does the priest say it is she, you will buy her wardship?”
“I will, though the price must be adjusted since it is not wardship of a Godwine I buy but that of a companion who may not prove useful in locating Alditha and her young son who are much in need of King William’s protection.”
The prince guffawed, expressing both disbelief over the queen and her child’s fate should they be found and bitterness over acceptance of less coin. But he said, “Two of three portions is the price for Queen Alditha’s companion.”
“Lady Alditha’s companion,” Odo corrected. “And the price is one-third—if Father Jonas confirms she served that lady.”
“One half,” Canute countered. “No less will I take.”
“One-third.”
The prince gripped Mercia’s arm and turned her opposite. “Come, Lady Mercia, the mother of King Harold will be pleased to make a good marriage for her granddaughter so one day the Godwines may reclaim England’s throne.”
“Hold!” Odo shouted.
Canute did not falter.
“I will give one half!”
The prince held his back to the Normans a long moment, then brought Mercia around. “Very good, Bishop,” he said as if praising a dog. “Now begin counting out half that silver and send over your priest.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mercia knew Jonas. Jonas knew Mercia. Not well, but enough that only were the priest’s eyesight deficient would he need to look nearer upon her than already he had across the distance.
As she watched, he loosed the bishop’s mount and, with a slight weave in his step as compensation for the twist in his spine, waded through the long grass.
Smooth of jaw and bald of pate, the man of thirty and five years halted before her. Regret shone from his pale blue eyes, but the Saxon man of God who now answered to a Norman bishop announced, “Here Queen Alditha’s companion, keeper of the wardrobe and, on occasion, companion to King Harold’s mother.”
Thus, Mercia’s fate was sealed, whatever that might prove in Bishop Odo’s power—and Le Bâtard’s if she survived punishment for posing as an abbess.
The prospect of the days ahead—be they few or many—making her long for Lillefarne where she had the honor and authority to do good for others, she sent heavenward, Lord, You answered my prayers to escape that life knowing more I would regret this one. I know not what is left to me, but help me keep my trust in You. Let me not waver. Let me hold firm.
“The deal is struck!” Odo called, and one of his men hefted the chest emptied of half its silver and carried it forward.
“Any words you wish delivered to your grandmother?” Canute asked as Mercia began the crossing alongside the priest.
She turned back. “Only that I wish her a good life and shall keep her in my prayers. And Ingvar… You shall believe as you will, but I asked naught of him that would cause him to betray you.” And it was true, that bound to the outside of her leg beneath her skirt not asked of him and only of consequence had Canute been aware the earl possessed something so precious and thought to relieve him of it.
The prince frowned. “Mayhap it was not you who persuaded him to take the missive.” He looked to the man she also suspected of gaining their jailer’s aid. “Or mayhap Ingvar did not steal. But of all my men, he is best at it—without sound and shadow slipping in empty-handed, slipping out full-handed.” He sighed. “I shall make you a promise. Should Ingvar be aboard when I return, I will give him time to convince me of his innocence.”
Would he be aboard? Mercia wondered. Or had he departed knowing suspicion would fall heavily on him, thus requiring time to distance himself from royal wrath?
The latter, she determined, and all because he had done what Maël asked of him—unfortunately, to no avail. Hoping he would not pay a high price, Mercia started to turn away.
“Have you not a question for me, granddaughter of Gytha?” Canute said too low for the enemy to hear.
She considered his slight smile, and made sense of him. But though great the temptation to have him reveal who sired her, she was done begging for scraps. Too, even were she to look upon the words, they could not be wholly believed. In the hope of restoring the Godwines to the rulin
g class, Gytha had wanted a marriage between the Danish prince and her blood, and no lie was too big to secure that.
“You are too kind, Prince Canute, but as I find myself in untenable circumstances because of the desire to learn that which was long withheld from me, best I trust in the Lord to be my father than a man who never was and can never be now he is dead.” Knowing she should find no satisfaction in his surprised disappointment, but finding it, she regained the priest’s side.
As she moved her gaze from Odo high in the saddle to Maël standing tall alongside him, the priest said low, “Forgive me. I longed to save you from that bishop who is more a false warrior of God than ever you were in donning the robes of an abbess, but I strive to be a man of few lies.”
His choice of words brought her head around. “Few lies?”
With a smile more crooked than his spine, he said, “After William gained London, here and there a lie told to preserve the lives and liberty of many, including Lady Gytha and you so you might escape the city. Among the greatest of my lies was that written under the direction of Harold’s mother for a woman never did she tell was of her blood—she who was to become Abbess Mary Sarah of Lillefarne.”
Recalling the missive delivered to the nuns of the abbey, Mercia shook her head. “It was Archbishop Stigand who named me the new abbess.”
Jonas shook his head. “My quill, my ink, my parchment. Having gained Gytha’s assurance it was in accord with his wishes and her word she would inform him it was done under her direction, I wrote it and set his name to it.”
Mercia glanced ahead. Seeing they drew too near to long continue the discussion, she said, “Does Bishop Odo know this?”
“He does not, and I pray you hold it close lest I be tempted to another lie and further disappoint the Almighty.”
“I will say naught.”
“I thank you. Though I know not where Queen Alditha’s brothers took her when they fled London, I would not fall under more suspicion than I do in having served the king’s mother.”
Mercia nodded.
“Upon much reflection, I believe you are of Godwine blood,” Jonas continued. “Though Gytha thought to make use of you to advance her interests, it was obvious she was more fond of you than any of the ladies long in her service.”
Mercia needed none to confirm Gytha’s blood flowed through her, nor that the old woman was fond of her in some small measure, but it had not been enough to stand inside the circle of her family. For that, she was here now.
“I thank you for your kindness, Jonas, and I hold you blameless for whatever path I now walk. All I ask is you pray for me.”
“I shall, my lady.”
They halted before the bishop, and though Mercia ordered herself not to show any regard for Maël, her eyes were drawn to him. In his she saw disquiet. And something that could prove of great detriment to him—assurance he would aid her.
Only of comfort and hope did she not love him.
Odo was more given to games than William, and this day was no exception. No word had he spoken to Mercia when she stood before him as the Danes retreated. Only when her gaze wavered and her clasped hands began to tremble had he broken the silence by ordering the priest to escort the false abbess to where his army awaited them and commanding Maël to join his cousin.
Since there had been no delay in journeying to Wulfenshire and the pace set to reach Stern Castle by nightfall was a rigorous one, no opportunity was there for Guarin and Maël to speak until two hours later when they paused at a stream to water their mounts.
Maël looked from where Mercia was aided in dismounting the horse shared with a chevalier to his cousin.
“Much has passed since we parted at Wulfen Castle,” Guarin said as he yielded his horse’s reins to his squire, Eberhard.
Maël inclined his head. “You have found Theriot and Nicola?”
Guarin’s mouth tightened. “Finding and retrieving are two different things.”
“Where are they?”
Guarin took a long draw from his wineskin and handed it to Maël. “Theriot is in Scotland at King Malcolm’s court.”
“Scotland?” Maël exclaimed.
Guarin jutted his chin for Maël to drink and after he did, said, “Several different accounts I have picked apart and pieced into one that halfway makes sense.”
“That is?”
“Theriot was tracking Edgar the Aetheling and his men who fled the harrying to once more gain Malcolm’s protection. Near the border, he was injured and captured.”
Maël stiffened. “How badly injured?”
“Likely nothing serious. The men I sent into Scotland returned with reports of a young man of silvered dark-haired walking Malcolm’s gardens with a lady.”
Recalling the rumors Theriot had deserted William’s service, Maël said, “The king has been told?”
“I pray not lest he make much of the tongue wagging that Theriot deserted.”
“When will you go in after him?”
“As Cyr now makes his home in Normandy, Dougray has yet to return to England, and Nicola seems the more pressing concern, my reach is stunted. Thus, for now I leave Theriot in God’s hands.”
“You know what transpired at the inn when I sought to trade Mercia for your sister?” Maël asked.
“Sir Daryl gave an accounting, but a truer accounting I had from your other men left behind when you gave chase.”
Recalling the Saxon-turned-Norman who lost his sire to Vitalis during the skirmish at the inn and himself took a blow from Zedekiah, Maël thought it likely Daryl would seek vengeance against his countrymen. “Then you know the earl’s misbegotten son, Bjorn, took Nicola from there.”
“I do, and that Vitalis followed and he is our greatest hope of retrieving her.”
“She may have been borne across the sea.”
“Blessedly not. The day before I returned to Wulfen Castle and learned Bishop Odo had paused at Stern en route to trade silver for you and Mercia of Mercia, my lady wife received Zedekiah who carried a message from Vitalis. It told Bjorn joined his sire in raiding down the coast as ordered by King Sweyn and Nicola remains with the infatuated Dane. He assured Hawisa she is in good health and treated well despite the frustration of finding no opportunity to escape.”
“Where are they?” Maël asked.
“Possibly very near since Vitalis believes they intend to venture further inland to seize the town of Ely and set up a base there from which to raid the wealth of East Anglia.”
“Word was sent to William?”
“Oui, and Odo warned as well. For that—lest his forces are set upon—he hastens back to Wulfenshire.”
Maël nodded. “With Danes abounding in East Anglia, it was not necessary for Canute to bring so many ships to pay the ransom. Methinks he will send back one with the silver and he and the rest of his men will join forces with his uncle’s, which could as easily benefit Nicola as prove detrimental.”
“Explain, Maël.”
“If she falls into Canute’s hands, he will ransom her. If Bjorn is forewarned of his cousin’s approach, he will run with Nicola, this time across the sea.”
“I do not believe Vitalis will allow that,” Guarin said, “but the sooner I take my leave of Odo, the better.”
Once more, Maël looked to Mercia and saw she knelt at the stream sipping water from her hands. “I do not know what lies ahead for her, but I am bound to aid her, Guarin. Hence, as soon as possible I will join you in retrieving Nicola and Theriot.”
His cousin’s brow grooved. “How is it you are bound to aid a Saxon woman?”
Though pride kicked Maël as if to knock the truth back down him, he said, “There are things I must needs tell—answers never given of what happened at Hastings—and I will, but at a better time than this. Until then, I admit I care for her.”
Guarin gripped his cousin’s shoulder. “I am pleased, above all that such feeling bodes well for the return of one who has ever been more a brother than a cousin to me.”
“I hope you will feel the same when you know all.”
“I shall.”
Discomfited by how much he wanted to believe that, Maël longed to turn the conversation, and there were several things that gave him cause. “One of my best men fell to a Dane the night Canute came for Mercia at the inn. Know you if Sir Anselm survived?”
“He did. Though his injury is serious, he was taken to a nearby monastery and there recovers.”
Maël thanked the Lord, then asked, “How fares Lady Hawisa?”
“Greatly she tires, the babe so large the physician believes she will birth ahead of her time.” Guarin breathed deep. “Much prayer for that.”
Maël understood. The greatest danger to women of childbearing years was bringing life into the world. Hence, the smaller the babe, the easier the delivery and more likely both survived—providing the child was nearly full term.
“I shall keep your lady wife and child in my prayers, Guarin.”
“As I will keep Mercia and you in mine.”
Maël looked to where De Grandmesnil conversed with Odo. Though he did not esteem this companion of William’s, compared to others who kept close company with the king, the man was decent and capable of humor that made one think hard rather than entertain themselves at the expense of another’s dignity.
“You question why De Grandmesnil is here?” Guarin asked. At his cousin’s nod, he said, “Much speculation over the High Sheriff of Leicestershire’s accompaniment, but none with merit enough to repeat.”
Still Maël would hear it, but before he could press his cousin, the command was given for all to regain their mounts, which was done quickly as if to stay ahead of the enemy.
And quite possibly they did.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Stern Castle
Wulfenshire, England
