by Tamara Leigh
Hopefully, he did and would provide evidence of Mercia’s lineage, the absence of which had failed to keep her out of Odo’s hands and rendered her useful only if she told what she did not know.
“Psalm thirty-one,” Maël murmured, then strode to his pack in the far alcove and retrieved his mantle. It was time to ride to the wood.
“No matter how many times you ask—softly or loudly, kindly or cruelly—I will say the same. I am Mercia of Mercia, misbegotten of the House of Godwine, Queen Alditha’s companion and keeper of the wardrobe, the false abbess of Lillefarne, the cast-off betrothed of Prince Canute. That is all.”
Once more Odo circled her, once more thrust his face near. “That is not all!”
Ears ringing, gripping the rim of the stool so hard her knuckles ached, Mercia stilled her fluttering lids and swallowed against a dry throat. “I say again, I am not privy to the secrets of the queen who left me behind when she departed London. The same as you, I know only rumors—that she and her son are hidden in the midlands…they fled to Ireland…they joined my grandmother in Denmark…”
Nostrils flaring between ruddy cheeks riddled with tiny veins, Odo straightened. Then he circled again, so closely his robes dragged across her arms, back, chest, and face. Four times he did so, and with each circling she tensed further in anticipation of angry words, sour breath, and a spray of saliva.
“You lie, Witch!”
She startled hard despite being prepared, heard the catch of Lady Chanson’s breath, and out of the corner of her eye saw Fulbert set a hand on his wife’s arm.
“I do not lie,” Mercia croaked.
A flash of red preceded the hand come at her. Light jumping between the facets of the large gem set in his ring, he thrust a finger between her eyes, this time so near she felt its warmth. “Liar!”
She stared. And gasped when he jabbed his finger against her forehead as not done before.
“Bishop!” Chanson protested.
“Silence!” He gripped Mercia’s chin. “Repent of your lies, Heathen!”
“Bishop Odo!” Father Fulbert boomed in a voice that rose from depths many a man must envy.
William’s brother released Mercia and swung around. “Speak another word, and I shall send you both from here.”
“She cannot tell what she does not know!” the priest dared further, anger in his eyes and the jut of his jaw.
The bishop was silent so long Mercia thought he prepared to cast off all pretense of holiness and attack Fulbert, but he jerked at heavily embroidered sleeves and turned back. “As I weary of this game of yours, a different question I shall ask.” Again, he pointed a finger. “If you did know where the usurper’s wife and son cower, would you tell?”
What he asked seemed a great vice of sharp teeth set to catch large game. However, it was little more than a taunt. Whether or not she lied or told the truth, still he would believe she knew what she did not. “As my God-given conscience will not permit me to endanger the lives and liberty of two innocents, did I know where the queen and her son are, I would hold it close.”
Again he swung away, again came back around. “As I find Stern most comfortable, I shall give you time to grasp how severe the consequences of refusing to make restitution for your sins. Does it take days or weeks, you will tell what I wish to know, and in less comfort than thus far enjoyed.”
Then she would be removed from the donjon to a cell in Stern’s outer wall?
“Lady Chanson, Father Fulbert.” Odo gestured for them to follow.
In passing, Maël’s mother gave a smile that might have encouraged had not worry in her eyes outweighed the curve of her lips.
When the door closed, Mercia tried to find comfort in imagining Maël in the hall below but could not. His mother would tell him of the threat to the false abbess, and likely he would try to aid her. Futile since even had his cousin not departed to be with his laboring wife, the bishop’s men numbered too many for Maël to overwhelm them. Thus, he could also fall victim to William’s brother.
“Do not,” Mercia whispered. “Leave me and live for both of us.”
Rather than remain in the chamber that was ordered cleared of all but a stool, it would have been better had she been moved to a cell in the outer wall despite harsher conditions. Thus, more easily Maël could effect her escape should it prove necessary. And it might if the one who should have been in the wood did not soon appear.
Having been intercepted by Fulbert as he led his drenched horse into the stables following a fruitless search of the bordering wood, Maël had learned of Odo’s solution to what he believed Mercia’s lack of cooperation. Not only had the bishop made her prison less comfortable, but henceforth she would be isolated and provided minimal food and drink.
Jaw aching, Maël asked, “Has the bishop questioned her further?”
The priest nodded. “Twice this afternoon, and again my lady wife and I were present and no abuse did she suffer other than a battering of questions and accusations.”
Then he had not laid hand on her again. “How well did she hold?”
“She sat the stool, kept her head up and eyes on his, and did not waver from asserting her ignorance.”
That hardly comforted, this only the beginning of trials she would face as Odo grew increasingly impatient. If Maël did not soon provide proof of her lineage, much he would have to risk to bring her out of Stern.
A grip on his arm turned his head to the priest. But not just a priest, he told himself as anger and frustration threatened to fall upon one undeserving of either. My mother’s husband. The man she loves. The father of my brother or sister. My stepfather.
“Lady Chanson asked that I remind you of a lesson imparted by your uncle,” Fulbert said. “Seek the still of prayer that you may know yourself and make order of what is required of you.”
Maël recalled it being taught him and Guarin, both youths having stolen away at middle night to explore the temptations of a tavern when they should have been patrolling the walls. Whereas Hugh had been mostly angered the fortress was left in a vulnerable state, just as greatly Godfroi was concerned over the vulnerable state of his son’s and nephew’s souls.
Maël nodded. “Assure my mother I shall.”
“As she and I will do all we can to aid Mercia,” Fulbert said and stepped past.
“Father.” As Fulbert turned back, Maël wished he had added the man’s name to his holy title. But it was too late to do so now without drawing attention to what might sound a claim to kinship. “I am pleased my mother has found happiness with you and a child is to be born of your union.”
The one whose size rivaled that of Vitalis smiled so broadly he looked more a callow youth than a formidable man of God. “My heart is gladdened, my soul lightened, Sir Maël.”
Maël did not attempt a smile, but said, “Henceforth, I am Maël to you.”
Fulbert inclined his head. “Seek the still of prayer, my son,” he reminded and departed.
So Maël would, but there was another lesson he must tend to which was given by Hugh when they set sail with William amid the grumblings of many who had begun to question the chances of taking the crown from Harold.
Given time to plot and maneuver, engage the mind ere the muscles, the aging warrior had said, and all the more imperative should you lose favor with the odds.
And that, it seemed, was in danger of happening now as it had at Hastings when the battle swung in favor of the Saxons before desperate Normans engaged their minds to once more find favor with the odds.
“Think first, act second,” Maël told himself. “And pray you can make order of what is required of you if Ingvar does not come.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Twice more she had been questioned on the day past. Though Chanson and Fulbert were present and assured Maël she remained strong, this morn he learned the man-at-arms set outside her door had awakened her every quarter hour last eve. Only because during this day’s first session Mercia had scorned the bishop for tau
nting her over how fatigued she looked, had those who witnessed their exchange learned of that cruelty.
It was not the torture many men suffered for refusing to reveal secrets, but though it left no visible marks on her body, hand in hand with little water and food, it could prove deadly.
Engage the mind ere the muscles, Maël reminded himself as he stared after Odo who, having announced the new Abbess of Lillefarne would this day arrive to testify against the pretender, moved toward the stairs followed by Chanson and Fulbert.
Two of the bishop’s men stood on either side of the steps Maël longed to rush with sword in hand. It would be no great feat to cut them down, as well as the guard outside Mercia’s chamber, but more than those three men stood between Maël and the woman he would not forsake. Not only did the hall abound with soldiers loyal to Odo, but the bishop was first a warrior—and a fierce one. Though the shedding of blood by a man of God was looked ill upon, he would use his sword or club to stop any who defied him. And of more concern was the possibility Maël’s mother could be harmed in a clash.
Easing his hand from his sword, Maël determined it was time to depart for Wulfen as he had told the bishop he would do before resuming the task set him by the king.
Odo had snorted over concern for Guarin and his wife who had not yet sent word of their child’s birth, hopefully due to the rain rather than tragedy. Concern for them did drive Maël that direction, but also the need to gain his cousin’s aid if this day’s search of the wood proved as futile as that of the day past.
Lord, let mother and child be well, Maël sent heavenward and crossed the hall.
Maël stared at answered prayer, miserable though it appeared wrapped in a wet cloak that would be long in drying though the pitiless rain had become a drizzle.
Ingvar stared back from alongside the tree he had come out from behind. “The lady, Sir Maël?”
As expected, he was aware the trade had been made. Guessing he had watched at a distance after stealing off the ship he dared not be aboard when Canute returned, Maël said, “For what are you so long in meeting me here?”
“You rode. When I not hiding from men Canute sent after me, I run and walk. So, the lady?”
“She is at Stern Castle.” Maël swung out of the saddle and landed his boots on sodden ground. “Though denied Gytha’s missive, still Bishop Odo wanted her for what he believes she knows of Harold’s queen.”
“Does she know?”
“Nay, and for that she shall suffer more do I not deliver the missive that tells of her Godwine blood. Hopefully, it will safeguard her a while.” Maël halted and held out a hand.
Ingvar shook his head. “I dared not be caught with it.”
Fearing it had been destroyed, Maël demanded, “Where is it?”
“If not taken from Lady Mercia, in her possession.”
Maël frowned. “She did not tell you gave it to her.”
“She not know. After I took it from Canute’s cask, I bound it up in psalter I told her to hide beneath skirt.”
Relief flooding Maël, he returned to his mount, took the packet from the saddle bag where he had secured it against rain, and unwrapped it beneath the shelter of his hooded mantle.
The Godwine brooch Mercia had shown him was inside the front cover. Inside the back, their bulk causing the binding to bulge, were two folded missives. The thinner one was that which directed Mercia to give herself into the hands of the Danes who would deliver her to her betrothed. The thicker one was of many words inked small to fit the parchment. Here the revelation long denied the misbegotten Godwine.
Maël looked to Ingvar when he came alongside. “You have read this?”
The Dane grimaced. “I try, but barely can I read my own language.”
Though it felt a violation of Mercia’s privacy to set eyes on words first she ought to know, it was necessary to be versed in them before yielding the missive to the bishop. Thus, Maël read it slowly, not only because he was less proficient at written English than Norman-French, but to find meaning beyond revelation of who sired the woman who was to have made the Danish conquest of England more acceptable to desperate Saxons convinced the rule of Sweyn would be better than that of William.
“Well?” Ingvar prompted as Maël returned the missive to the psalter.
“It is not possible to know if this is the truth of Mercia’s birth since much her grandmother and her legitimate siblings have to gain from placing a Godwine near the Danish throne, but I believe it is enough to ease her suffering and, hopefully, make it possible to steal her away,” Mael said, in that moment fully accepting what he must do, regardless of pride, risk of terrible punishment, and what he would lose.
Ingvar smiled. “I good at taking what does not want taking.”
So he was, but there was considerable difference between thieving an easily concealed missive and delivering from an enemy of great number a woman not easily concealed.
“Worry not,” Ingvar said. “I prove worthy of Wulfen.”
That was their bargain—the Dane’s aid for the opportunity to serve Guarin and Lady Hawisa. Maël knew he had no right to speak for the Lord and Lady of Wulfen, but he believed they would give Ingvar a chance to impart skills to their charges that could prove useful when they became England’s defenders.
“Since the sooner I get Gytha’s missive in Odo’s hands, the sooner we free Mercia,” Maël said, “it is time to lay plans.”
He had threatened to cut her hair.
It jolted her, but certain the Lord was with her the same as Chanson and her husband who watched from the doorway, Mercia had managed to hold the bishop’s gaze, even when he set a heavy hand on her head and warned he would see her scalp scraped clean.
“And still I will not know what you ask of me,” she had said for the hundredth time.
The third session this day had not lasted long, not because Odo accepted there was nothing to be gained. Because one of his men had entered and whispered something that made him smile and withdraw with the Lady of Stern and Father Fulbert.
Hoping he would forget to set a man to awaken her as done each time she began to drift, Mercia pushed up off the stool and aimed herself at the corner to the right of the shuttered window.
Though not yet the vulnerable, sniveling victim, she was weary, thirsty, hungry, and her eyes burned. It was tempting to let tears fall in her tormentor’s absence, but if he returned soon, her reddened eyes would betray her and, encouraged by the show of weakness, he would press her harder.
Knees soft, she eased down in the corner, drew up her legs, and wrapped her arms around them. “Sleep,” she rasped past lips beginning to crack.
Soon, she found herself in Lillefarne’s chapel, and perched on a rafter above her was the bird her carelessness had trapped inside.
“There the door, little one,” she called. “There near the bread and water I leave so you not be as hungry and thirsty as I.”
It put its head to the side, causing light to glint in the eye turned to her.
“How can you not see it when you feed on the bread? Drink at the font? Are you blind? Dull-witted?” She frowned. “Or do I make it too comfortable and safe for you? Though much you long for freedom, do you fear it more? I did, pecking the scraps from Gytha’s hand, telling myself it was worth the bondage for what one day she would tell.” She raised a hand. “Come, I will carry you out, and you will see how blue the sky and how sweet the air you can only dream of in here. It is not safe, but it is no cage. You determine the bounds. You.”
The door to the chapel banged shut, its meeting with the frame causing vibrations to shoot through her body. But when she turned that direction to rebuke whoever trapped the bird inside, she saw the door remained open, the blue sky visible above the convent’s roof.
“Awaken!” demanded someone whose boot prodded her stockinged feet. As she realized she was being snatched from a dream, a rough hand pulled her upright.
Mercia blinked to focus on one of two men who followed th
e bishop’s orders to deny her restful sleep, then drew back an arm to slap him as done Canute.
He knocked it aside and pulled her across the chamber.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, throat so dry each word cracked.
“The bishop wants you belowstairs,” he said, his answer doing naught to allay fear of what judgment awaited her there.
Do not be present, Maël, she silently pleaded as she was drawn down the corridor onto the stairs, keeping her feet beneath her only because the man’s grip was firm and his footing sure.
The light was brighter in the hall, an abundance of torches lit to burn away the shadows of another overcast day that continued to wet the land though with less enthusiasm than an hour earlier as told by the rain’s assault on the roof.
As befitting such a day, the hall was crowded with warriors, none of whom was Maël. And neither was he one of those who sat at the high table on either side of the bishop, among them Chanson and Fulbert whose faces were grim. Unless Maël was in a corner or alcove where light barely ventured, he was not here.
Praying he distanced himself from Stern, she distracted herself by looking near upon the bishop’s men who thought little of being showered by blood but were loath to be washed clean by a spring rain.
Or was it a summer rain? she wondered as she approached the dais. If not, then nearly so, meaning soon she would attain her twenty seventh year. If she survived the false bishop who named her the false abbess.
The one who had borne Mercia forward between tables where men conversed, drank, played games of chance, and dozed, halted.
As she expected to look upon Bishop Odo where he stood before the high table atop the dais, no surprise there. Surprise was for the woman beside him who Mercia would have sworn was not in the hall moments earlier, meaning perhaps fatigue caused her to overlook Maël as well.
