by Tamara Leigh
Lady Chanson surprised. Though she had to know the truth about Lillefarne’s abbess, the talk of Odo’s men having revealed they passed last eve at Stern, the lady stepped from her son’s side toward the woman who had deceived all.
Ignoring the bishop’s sharp reproof, she continued forward, and when the chevaliers flanking Mercia attempted to block her progress, pushed past and wrapped her arms around one she ought not. And surprised again in a different way.
Unseen beneath her full skirt was a firm bulge. Maël’s mother, of two score years, was with child. Cause for joy, but also fear since the delivery of a babe could be as dangerous for a woman approaching the end of her childbearing years as one just entering them.
Was Maël aware of his mother’s state? Would she give him a brother or sister? More, how would he feel knowing this babe further distanced her from her first husband? Would it be of relief that she continued to rebuild a life lost and with what seemed a better man?
Guessing she would never know, Mercia closed her eyes and savored what felt a genuine embrace.
Chanson drew back, then clasping the false abbess’s face between her palms, said for all to hear, “Praise the Lord you are returned to us.”
“Lady Chanson!” Bishop Odo barked. “Already a fine line you and your husband walk. At greater peril, you stretch it and my patience thinner.”
“And thinner yet when he learns a marriage of which he disapproves has produced a babe,” Chanson whispered, then released Mercia and turned to the flushed man who stood at the center of the hall. “Forgive me, Bishop. It is difficult not to rejoice in the return of one taken by the Danes, and as you must know, it gives hope the Lord will also see my niece restored to us.”
“I would not begrudge you the joy of that Norman lady’s return,” Odo said. “But as you know, this Saxon is the false abbess who made mockery of the Church, and likely under the influence of the unholy one.”
Mercia’s heart lurched. Refusing to look to Maël whose regard she felt, she beseeched the Lord to stand in judgment of her ahead of men who professed to be His representatives on earth. Were she accused of consorting with the unholy one rather than merely the departed king’s mother, more likely death would be her end even had she proof of Godwine blood.
Though Mercia sensed Chanson wished to argue with Odo, the lady said kindly, “Yours has been a long journey, Bishop. Pray, take your ease in Stern’s hall, and the drink and viands being prepared for you will be served.”
His lids narrowed. “See it done soon, and the solar made ready for me.”
“Of course. May I ask how long we shall be honored with your presence?”
“Only as long as it takes for this woman to repent.”
Mercia wished she did not understand that, but better she was fearful than ignorant of what lay ahead.
“I give her into your care,” he said. “Now take her from my sight.”
As Lady Chanson drew Mercia toward the stairs, he called, “Her finery offends. When next I look upon her, she will be clothed in the garments of the lowly.”
No longer could Mercia keep her eyes from Maël, but it was a good thing. Though Father Fulbert gripped his arm, her curt shake of the head settled him. Now was not the time to give aid. If ever again…
“What is this?” Chanson looked up from the packet Mercia had unfastened from her leg following removal of the fine bliaut.
“One item of great value to many, the others of value only to me.” Mercia lowered the hem of the soft chemise Chanson had insisted she retain since the servant’s gown was woven of coarse wool. “As it could bode ill were they found on my person, pray give that into your son’s keeping.”
Chanson arched an eyebrow. “He knows of this?”
“He does.”
As Mercia had answered most of the lady’s questions covering the abduction at Lillefarne through the ransoming, thinking here the end of their exchange, she looked longingly at the bed she was to share with Chanson whilst the bishop occupied the solar.
“He is changed,” Maël’s mother said softly. “Was it you?”
Mercia frowned. “Me?”
Chanson set the wrapped psalter on the table alongside the bed, stepped near, and swept from Mercia’s eyes hair over which she had marveled when the veil was removed.
See what you have hidden from the world, she had said. Has ever a woman worn a crown more glorious than this? She had run her fingers over a braid. A rope could be made of such hair, so beautifully strong and nearly as thick at the ends as at the roots.
“Oui, methinks it you who changed him,” Chanson said. “Much time you have spent with my son these weeks, and now he returns weighted by something different from what has burdened him since the great battle—pain not in the dark below but in the light above. I saw it in his eyes, felt it when he tried not to look upon you, saw it again when he nearly challenged the bishop for reducing you to a commoner.”
Mercia was tempted to lie so she not further bare herself and Maël, but she lowered to the mattress and said, “I will leave it to your son to tell how first he saved me, but know though brief that meeting ere I took the name of Mary Sarah, and unbelievable though it may sound, it was then first I felt something for him that I more deeply feel now.” She touched her chest. “Regrettably, it needs pulling the same as what he has come to feel for me.”
Eyes moistening, Chanson dropped to the mattress and lifted Mercia’s hand in hers. “You must be saved. I know not how, but you absolutely must.” She set the younger woman’s hand on her belly. “A child grows in this cradle where first Maël grew when I was little more than a girl. God willing, five months hence I will not look upon the babe born of Fulbert and me in the hope it fills the place of the son who has been mostly lost to me since Hastings.”
Mercia swallowed. “Does Maël know you are with child?”
“Though brief our embrace, I felt him startle the same as you.” She breathed deep. “As much good came of your administration of Lillefarne, I care not why you did what you did. I may sin in thinking first and selfishly of my boy, but what matters is that Maël and you have the chance to see where your feelings lead.”
Emotion pushing past Mercia’s constricted throat, she caught a sob behind her lips.
Then Chanson’s arms were around her again. “Mercia,” she drew out the name as if to set it to music. “A better fit than Mary Sarah.”
As ever, the lady seemed too young to be the mother of an adult, but Mercia knew this was how it would feel had she been comforted by the woman who birthed her—and how she had told herself it would feel were she permitted inside the Godwine circle.
Turning her face into Chanson’s shoulder, she yielded to tears as the lady stroked her head, rubbed her back, and murmured assurances the D’Argents would stand her side.
They would try, but more for their sake than hers, Mercia feared they would fail.
“Mercia?” Her name should not have been the first thing out of Maël’s mouth, but there it was.
Rimmed in moonlight, Lady Chanson halted alongside her son who had departed the hall a half hour earlier to escape Odo’s presence.
“Mercia sleeps,” she said, and he saw wonder in her smile. “Strange she is so different from Abbess Mary Sarah. Stranger yet it feels I know her better as if ever I saw Mercia beneath the holy garments.” She set a hand atop his on the wall. “She loves you, and do you not love her, I believe you will.”
Though tempted to deny having feelings for her, he said, “You assume I will have the opportunity to grow into love with her.”
“I do, but that is what I want for you, Maël—the blessings of love till death do you part.” She glanced down. “As methinks you know, I am to be a mother again, making Fulbert a father and you a brother.”
“I am happy for you.”
“Though you care not for my husband?”
Turning his hand up, he closed it around her small fingers. “I am sorry I allowed you to believe disapproval of you
r marriage was founded on dislike of Fulbert, though it is true for a time I cared not for him.”
A soft breath went out of her. “Then?”
Was now the time to follow the advice of Ingvar and Mercia? Or would there be a better time? Deciding the sooner told the sooner his mother could fully embrace the life she made beyond Hugh, he said, “I seek your forgiveness.”
“My forgiveness?”
“For a broken promise, for what I took from you at Hastings, for cowardice born of shame that sealed my lips and raised a wall between us.”
“Tell me and spare me no truth, my son. I am strong and all the stronger now I am one with Fulbert.”
Over the next half hour, Maël related what he had told Mercia, sparing his mother no truth though more gently he presented each for having first revealed them to the woman who made him feel the heart he had doubted he still possessed.
Throughout, Chanson spoke little, but never did he sense anger nor disappointment. Only sorrow.
Where they had lowered and set their backs against a wall of wooden timbers, Maël said, “And there the truth of your son for which he seeks but does not expect forgiveness.”
She looked from the ebony canvas above to Maël. “How could you not be forgiven? Oui, I was betrayed by your sire, and not for the first time as you learned that night, but so were you.”
“You were aware he was unfaithful?”
Torchlight glanced off wet eyes. “The same rumors, for which you beat boys and men, reached me by more sly means. In the beginning, I did not believe what was told of the man I loved, but long ere I accepted he defiled the marriage bed, simply I did not wish to believe it. You erred, my son, but your sire gave you cause—”
“That does not excuse me. I was a man not a boy. I knew what I was doing and that I ought not.”
She set a hand on his jaw. “Hence, you sought the Lord’s forgiveness, and just as I believe He has granted it, I believe the truth of Hugh will move others to offer forgiveness as they would themselves wish to be forgiven.” She raised her eyebrows. “You will tell your cousins, will you not?”
“I shall seek their forgiveness, especially that of Guarin and Dougray who suffered most when I did not fight alongside them.”
She moved her hand to his shoulder. “No matter what comes of your confession, you must lean hard on the greatest giver of grace as I did in beseeching Him to return my son to me. And so He has—much, methinks, by way of Mercia.”
“I do aspire to lean hard on Him, Mother.”
She smiled wearily, sighed. “And now much I long to lay my head on a pillow.”
“I shall return you to the donjon.”
He drew her up beside him, and she hugged him fiercely and a small cry escaped her when he returned the embrace. However, almost immediately she set herself back.
“I nearly forgot!” She opened the purse on her belt. “As Mercia fears this being found on her person, she asked me to give it to you.”
He knew what it was. Too large to fit in his own purse, he raised his tunic and tucked it beneath the waistband of his chausses.
“May I ask what it is?” Chanson said as he led her across the wall walk.
“All she possesses, including a valuable psalter.”
They did not speak again until they stepped off stairs carpeted in moonlight and started across the bailey, then his mother said, “What will you do, my son?”
She spoke of Mercia who had not been made to stand before Odo this eve, though she would on the morrow. “I shall seek to deliver her from the bishop without him knowing of my hand in it.”
“And when you have done that?”
Were the situation not dire, he would smile over how confident she was of his success. “I will get her to safety beyond England.”
“Normandy?”
“Non. As the duchy belongs to William, better Flanders, Paris, even Italy.”
“Flanders! My brother is there. He would aid you.”
He nodded. “Once I have secured a good position for Mercia—”
“A good position?” So swiftly she stepped in front of him, he nearly trod on her. “You will not make her your own?”
Accepting that was what he wished despite being unworthy of her love, the dull ache at his center turned sharp. “No easy life could I give Mercia. Not only am I landless, possessing only my sword arm to support me, but—”
“No easy life?” Chanson interrupted. “As evidenced by how effortlessly your sire gained my hand in marriage, methinks few things easily attained are greatly valued. But not so those things which require us to reach deep inside and outside ourselves to gain them. They are precious, and more so when they must reach deep inside and outside themselves to gain us.”
Struck by words so impassioned they made him want even more what he should not for how terrible the cost of openly betraying William, Maël said, “I believe you are right, Mother, but the king has my oath, and having expended much on my ransom—”
“Your oath! After what he did in the North, such loyalty is no longer due him. It is due a man of honor, and that William is not.” She gripped his arm, in a more fierce voice, said, “Hear me, my son. As your uncle would tell, there is a difference between keeping God-honoring and God-defiling oaths. That difference is known to you. Pray, do not let guilt of which you have been absolved by the Lord and will be absolved by others cause you to stay the side of one whose atrocities ought see him denied eternal rest.”
Then she thought aversion to betrayal—this time that of his liege, rather than his family—the reason he could not make Mercia his own. Though once it would have been, no longer. As his mother said, there was a difference between keeping God-honoring and God-defiling oaths. And it could not have been clearer now there was Mercia.
“Pray, Maël,” Chanson rasped, “seek God’s counsel and go where He would have you go.”
Setting his hands on her shoulders, he said, “You are missing a piece of what I meant to tell, Mother.”
She frowned. “That is?”
“Oui, the king has my oath. But of more concern than earning his wrath for leaving his service without permission, which will be greater for how much he has expended to pay my ransom, is earning his vengeance once word of my marriage leads to the discovery I am the one who stole his wardship of Mercia.”
His mother’s eyes widened.
“With such a name as D’Argent, it will not escape him,” he said. “Hence, it would be exceedingly dangerous—even deadly—to make Mercia my own.”
Her shoulders sagged. “You are right, and I know William well enough you ought not have to tell me that. I just so desperately wish you to be happy, Maël.”
God has been kind to me, he thought. Unlike Mercia who has neither mother nor father, I have this beautiful lady. And what Hugh could not give me, Uncle Godfroi did.
“Come, let us see your head upon that pillow,” he said and urged her toward the donjon.
He led her through the silent, torchlit hall and up the stairs, and at the door to the chamber she would share with Mercia, kissed her brow. “God rest ye, Mother.”
She started to turn aside, hesitated, then gripped his arm and whispered, “I am thinking there is a way for you and Mercia.”
Then her churning felt since departing the bailey was more scheming than angst. “Mother—”
“Non, hear me,” she interrupted again as was not in her nature. “If you can set aside your pride as Guarin did to gain Hawisa, that which is dangerous will be less so. Indeed, perhaps enough to make it worth the risk.”
That he doubted, but he said, “I listen.”
When she finished, he neither agreed nor disagreed with her proposal. Not only because of a slap to his pride. Not only because still there was enough risk it could end badly. Because of what he would lose, even were he unworthy of it.
Knowing how hopeful his mother was in spite of what she would lose, he assured her he would think on it. And so he did as he lay on a pallet in the
hall—until he determined naught could come of it whilst Mercia was so firmly in Odo’s power. But afterward…
Perhaps.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Guarin was gone.
An hour ahead of dawn, a rain-drenched messenger from Wulfen Castle had roused Stern’s occupants and announced Lady Hawisa labored to gift her husband their first child.
The scowling, bleary-eyed Odo had hesitated to grant Guarin permission to depart, but it was not asked of him. As the bishop spluttered, the Baron of Wulfen ordered Eberhard to gather their belongings and meet him in the stables.
Maël had followed, and as he aided in saddling the horses, reminded his cousin soon they must speak of Hastings. Guarin had not responded, but before he swung into the saddle, had embraced his cousin and said, “Soon.”
Maël had wished him Godspeed, and as he watched Guarin and Eberhard go from sight amid slashing rain, beseeched the Lord to grant Lady Hawisa a good delivery and a healthy babe.
Now as he paced, the only thing keeping him from thrusting past the bishop’s men positioned before the stairs was knowing his mother and stepfather were present for Odo’s questioning.
Propriety demanded a man of the Church, especially one of high office, not be alone with Mercia. Blessedly, though Odo’s men could have borne witness, he had agreed to Lady Chanson’s petition that she and her husband accompany him.
How long had they been abovestairs? It felt hours, but from the slant of light come through the hall’s windows, an hour would be much.
Halting before the great doors, Maël looked around at the bishop’s men crowding the hall and settled his gaze on De Grandmesnil seated upon the dais. On the night past, the nobleman had announced he and his son would depart this day and grumbled much this morn when the rain prevented them from doing so. Guarin had been right about the speculation over their accompaniment. No merit could be found in it, but it mattered not. As soon as the skies cleared, they would be gone.
Maël opened a door, stepped onto the threshold, and peered out across the walls at a wood that was little more than dark shadow beyond the curtaining rain. Did someone huddle there gazing upon Stern?
