by Tamara Leigh
She stared at Rixende who had been the first of the sisters to accept Abbess Mary Sarah at Lillefarne. Nearly a friend, the fairly young woman had shown kindness, genuine eagerness to do Mercia's bidding, and offered good counsel. Was she here only because the bishop wished to use her against the false abbess? Or to denounce the one who had deceived her and the others?
Odo called for silence, and when it fell, jutted his chin at Mercia. “You know this woman, Abbess?”
Mercia startled over Rixende’s elevation to the position vacated by the woman she had served. Not that she was unworthy. Better than any she would administer the abbey and shepherd its good work, but unlike several older nuns who would have vied for that honor, Rixende was not noble either side and could have been tainted by her close association with the false abbess.
The woman met Mercia’s gaze. “I knew her as Abbess Mary Sarah.”
“Never as Mercia of Mercia?”
“Never. We were deceived all.”
A great weight dropped through Mercia. She could not begrudge Rixende’s sense of betrayal, but it hurt that no credit was given Mercia for what she had done to meet the needs of her charges and those come unto the abbey in search of shelter and aid. Of course, such had also been extended to rebels…
“Then you did not know this woman aided the enemies of our king?” Odo said.
“I knew not, Lord Bishop.”
“And had you known?”
The weight within Mercia increased at the realization she was not the only one who must answer to the bishop. Regardless of Rixende’s feelings for Mercia, she could not show any kind regard for the false abbess without endangering herself and her charges.
“Ours is a House of God, Bishop. Thus, its servants are charged with looking upon Jesus’s flock not with the eyes but the heart, and that requires us to ease the suffering of all regardless of which side of a battlefield they stand upon.”
His lids narrowed. “You say you, too, would have aided the king’s enemies?”
“I say it not. As told, be it man, woman, or child who suffers, my heart would not see an enemy of the king but a child of God. Unless the scriptures long fed me are false, it is God’s will I do.” She frowned and, with what appeared genuine concern, said, “Tell, Bishop, do you think them false?” At his hesitation, she added, “Certes, you would know better than I.”
Mercia nearly smiled, but lest it was noted by Odo, she was grateful those muscles were weary.
The bishop flicked a hand. “Let us return to the sins of the false abbess. I am told many are the professions of faith denied novices whilst Mercia of Mercia played a holy woman.”
Rixende inclined her head. “Blessedly, their professions were made a sennight past, and many the expressions of relief by Christ’s brides that she who called herself Mary Sarah did not yield to their grumbling and conduct the sacred service.” She swept her gaze to Mercia. “Great the sorrow of all who admired and respected this woman for her guidance and good works after Lillefarne was set adrift following the death of our old abbess. For this, that never did she lead them astray though she be false, daily the good sisters pray to extend forgiveness born of pure hearts.”
It was not what the bishop wished to hear, his mouth pinching, but he heard it as did all within the hall.
Mercia swallowed, winced at the sting of a dry throat. Dear Rixende, she thought, I hurt you and the others, yet you grant me grace.
“It is difficult,” the abbess continued, “but all are determined forgiveness be given ere the work this woman began in placing dozens of children refugees in homes across Wulfenshire is completed.” She sighed. “So many innocents dead and suffering that surely the Lord weeps. As I am certain one as holy as you weeps as well, Lord Bishop.”
Mercia feared Rixende went too far, but before the flushed Odo could respond, a nobleman of middle years sitting with his chair tilted back and booted feet crossed atop the table said, “We all weep, Abbess, even our king who was forced to end the rebellion at the cost of innocent lives.” When she looked around, he raised his eyebrows. “Now England can heal in earnest, and the children displaced by their self-serving countrymen will grow into men and women who embrace the peace and prosperity of Norman rule.” He shifted his regard to Odo. “Do I not speak true?”
A corner of the bishop’s mouth rose. “For the sake of those children, Lord de Grandmesnil, that is the hope.”
Therein a threat, Mercia knew.
To the man who had delivered her belowstairs, Odo said, “Return the false abbess to her chamber and provide her an extra ration of water so more easily she may reveal what I tire of waiting upon.”
Though Mercia’s dry mouth moistened slightly at the prospect of drink, more she dreaded he would not be long in following.
“And you, Abbess,” he addressed Rixende as Mercia was guided across the hall. “I give you leave to return to your abbey.”
“I thank you, Lord Bishop.”
Partway up the stairs, Mercia peered around one last time to search out Maël. He was not here. Hoping he had been ordered to resume the task his king set him, certain it was for the best though his absence made her ache, she started to look forward. But her eyes landed on the woman she would not see again. It was worth the slip of a foot and pain in the knee when she dropped to the step’s edge. As her escort righted her, Rixende turned her face to Mercia and smiled softly.
No bitterness. Rather, much sorrow and sympathy.
Though given no opportunity to beg forgiveness, I am pardoned, Mercia marveled over what she would cling to when next she sat upon the hard stool and struggled to keep her head up and thoughts clear as over and again she denied the false bishop satisfaction.
“Mercia of Mercia!” Rixende called, her clear, authoritative voice quieting the many who had begun to converse.
With far less volume, Mercia answered, “Abbess?”
“The bird in the chapel whose plight so distressed you… The same day the Danes stole you away, it found its way out. Curious that, hmm?”
Warmth spreading through Mercia, she smiled. “Much that comforts, Abbess. I thank you.” Then hardly feeling the sting of stretched lips, she resumed her ascent of the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
What ill befell you that you should return hours following your departure, Sir Maël?”
Lord, forgive me the lies I speak in defense of Mercia, Maël silently beseeched as he strode past those languishing in the hall toward the bishop who sat in the high seat that had been moved to the hearth, the same as the chair in which De Grandmesnil sat low. A goblet dangling from one hand, legs stretched out before him, the heels of the nobleman’s boots dug into the floor to keep him from sliding down further.
There was blood on the rain-dampened tunic Maël wore over his chain mail, not his own blood but Ingvar’s—the Dane had insisted—and Maël saw the moment Odo noticed it.
“You were set upon?” he demanded.
Maël halted and, in a voice meant to carry, said, “Halfway between Stern and Wulfen.” There the first lie, one for which his mother had been grateful when, discreetly summoned to the garden, Maël revealed to her and her husband the plans laid.
The bishop’s lips curled. “Filthy Saxons. Is there no end to their evil?”
“It seems not,” Maël said, “but these Saxons were of note.” The second lie.
Odo sat straighter unlike De Grandmesnil who merely uncrossed his ankles. “Speak, D’Argent.”
“The three were the same I saw upon Canute’s ship, and it was made known to me they serve the mother of Harold.”
“For what did they attack?”
“They recognized me as I recognized them. And had cause to silence me.” In preparation for the third lie, Maël removed the thick missive from his purse. “I found this upon the one I slew whilst the others fled. Certes, it was they who stole it from Canute, believing its absence would prevent you from paying Mercia of Mercia’s wardship price and ensuring she wa
s restored to her grandmother.”
As Odo snatched the missive from Maël, De Grandmesnil sat up and gestured someone forward.
“You have read it, Sir Maël?” the bishop asked.
Here, in front of numerous witnesses as planned lest Odo attempt to discount Mercia’s high birth in opposition to his brother who believed the nobility were closer to God than the common folk, Maël said, “In its entirety, Lord Bishop.” He glanced at De Grandmesnil’s son who halted alongside his sire. “Quite the bargain you made acquiring Lady Mercia of the Godwines.”
A muscle jumping in his jaw, Odo unfolded the missive. “If what is written here is true.”
“It seems likely,” Maël said, “else for what would those men risk their lives to retrieve a woman of little account?”
“You think they followed us to Wulfenshire to rescue her?”
“I do.”
Belatedly, Odo commanded the onlookers to be about their business, then lowered his gaze. As he read the missive, he became more tense, as did the De Grandmesnils, causing what Maël had suspected and rejected several times to gain ground.
“Father Jonas,” Odo called the man to his side. “Is it Gytha’s hand?”
The priest carried the missive near his face, shortly said, “Lady Gytha of the House of Godwine set down these words.”
Odo snatched the missive from him. “Even if what is written here is false, much use can be made of it. Thus, Mercia of Mercia is of import beyond what she knows of Alditha.” He looked to De Grandmesnil. “Just as the Danes thought to calm the Saxons by wedding one of their own to a Godwine, so we shall by joining her to a Norman of high birth.”
Face grim, the nobleman nodded.
“God’s hand in this,” Odo said. “He sent the rain that held you and your son here the sooner to see His will done.”
Unseemly though it was, the youth was to be Mercia’s husband, Maël acknowledged. For this, the king had sent father and son with Odo. Neither was pleased it should come to fruition, but they could not be as displeased as Maël would be had he not plans to take De Grandmesnil’s betrothed from here.
So soon? Had even an hour passed since Rixende and she departed the hall? It could not have—unless she had slept as she did not recall doing.
Continuing to search backward, Mercia paid little heed to those within the hall who fell to murmuring as she was led toward the dais.
It has been less than an hour since last I was here, she told herself despite uncertainty. This but further abuse that spills no blood.
Drawn to a halt, she looked up. Though her lack of sleep caused Odo’s figure to waver and edges to darken, she saw his wide sleeves covered hands clasped at his waist.
Looking down upon her, he said, “I have glad tidings that shall return you to comfort—indeed, greater comfort than any you have known, Mercia of Mercia. That is, providing you thieve no more of my time.”
“I do not—” Her voice cracked, and though she tried to restore it by swallowing, her mouth was too dry.
“Lady Chanson!” the bishop called, and Mercia saw Maël’s mother hasten toward her with a goblet in hand. Though much she ached to set her lips on the rim raised to her, she pressed them tight lest the lady was punished for ignoring Odo’s rebuke.
“Drink,” Chanson urged.
Mercia shook her head.
“Drink, Woman!” Odo commanded.
Certain she heard wrong, Mercia looked to him.
He jutted his chin. “Drink.”
Then he had not rebuked Lady Chanson for seeking to quench Mercia’s thirst. He had ordered it.
Mercia swept up her hands, cupped them over the lady’s, and drew the vessel to her lips. A deep gulp of heavily-watered wine coursed tongue and throat, momentarily relieving parched tissues, but before she could further wet them, the lady lowered the goblet. “Slowly, else you will not keep it down, Child.”
Argument over being denied what her body needed and offense at being named a child bounded onto Mercia’s tongue, but Chanson’s choice of words returned her to Lillefarne where she had said the same to refugees regardless of their age.
Amazing the power of desperation and helplessness, she had thought many a time. It makes children of many. As now it sought to make one of her. And more humiliating it would be if she fell to her knees to empty a mostly empty belly.
Mercia loosened her hands from Chanson’s and the goblet.
“Remain strong,” the lady whispered, “all will—”
“Stand aside, Lady Chanson,” the bishop commanded.
Setting her teeth, Maël’s mother turned alongside Mercia whose struggle against peering at the goblet’s contents landed her averted gaze on two figures to the left of the bishop—an attractive, well-dressed Norman of middle years and one who might only now be called a man.
“We will not further argue Alditha’s whereabouts,” Odo returned her attention to him. “Though be assured, if she and her runt live, they will be found.”
Be long and far gone, Mercia silently beseeched, be it across the Irish Sea or the narrow. She cleared her throat. “Your glad tidings, Bishop?”
He shook back a sleeve to reveal a creased parchment. “You see what this is?”
Likely tidings from Le Bâtard.
“Here that which reveals your parentage, Mercia of Mercia.”
She knew she could make sense of that despite muddied thoughts, but he gave her no time.
“Or so goes the tale. After all, your grandmother is a mistress of falsehood.”
She gasped. Then here Gytha’s missive stolen from Canute?
“Regardless, it grants you privileges for which you ought to kiss my brother’s feet,” Odo added.
How had it come into his possession? What did it so convincingly tell that his cruel questioning was at an end? More, what would now be required of her to enjoy greater comfort?
She tried to moisten her lips, but the drag of her tongue over the cracks made her wince. “What must I do?” she rasped.
“You have only to wed a Norman, Lady Mercia.”
There the answer that should have been close at hand—that just as the Danes had wished to make a tool of her, so did the conquerors.
Amid the murmuring of those gathered in the hall, Chanson stepped in front of Mercia and once more offered the goblet. One long sip was all Mercia permitted herself, and as it slid down her grateful throat, the lady whispered, “Maël—”
“You shall wed this day,” the bishop interrupted the lady again.
Heart leaping, Mercia turned her face to Maël’s mother as the woman resumed her place at the false abbess’s side. Had she sought to assure Mercia her son would be the one to take a misbegotten Godwine to wife? Was he present as she had assumed he was not since he had been absent earlier? Unfortunately, even were the answer in Lady Chanson’s eyes, it could not be seen with those eyes fixed on Odo.
“Who am I to wed, Bishop?”
To her great confusion, it was the boy barely a young man who was summoned forth. To his great distress, evidenced by the pale of his face and set of his jaw, the bishop set a hand on his shoulder. “Your lord husband is to be William, son of our king’s esteemed companion, Hugh de Grandmesnil.”
Staring at the Norman who had to be ten years younger than she, the murmurings all growing louder, Mercia’s world began to tilt. She wished it were a great movement of the earth that forced her to widen her stance, but it was the disappointment of something she should not have been so quick to light her heart upon.
I am glad Maël is gone, she told herself, and I pray he stays gone so he not be moved to make an enemy of the king’s brother when I thieve more of Odo’s time.
“Lady Chanson will aid with your ablutions and see you properly garbed,” he said.
She pushed her shoulders back. “For what, Lord Bishop?”
“As told, this day you wed.”
She looked to William de Grandmesnil, offered him a thin smile that made her lips hurt. “I shal
l not wed this Norman.”
The youth blinked, and she knew it was the light of relief in his eyes that displaced resentment. She was far from an old woman, but to one of ten and six she must seem of an age near his mother’s, especially compared to the girlish maidens whose attentions he had surely begun to seek.
The bishop shouted for his men to quiet, then growled, “Do you test me further, it will go badly for you—and in the end, you will give what I want.”
She moved her tongue around her mouth, but despite her attempt to sound courageous, more she sounded a frog when she said, “To test you implies there is room for negotiation. There is not. Never will I speak vows with this…” She nearly named him a boy, but he had done naught to earn her scorn.
Again, she cleared her throat. “I will not wed this Norman who deserves a maiden near his own years.”
With a single step, Odo descended the dais, with another step, thrust his face near hers. So accustomed had she become to this form of aggression, she did not flinch when her nostrils were filled with the scent of perspiration poorly disguised by the herbs in which he bathed. “Methinks you forget the severity of punishment due one who posed as a holy woman!”
So she did, too weary and uncomfortable to think long on it these past days.
He narrowed his lids. “No matter how much persuasion is required, you will wed a Norman.”
Her thoughts flew to Maël, and she said, “Do I wed one of your own, it will be a Norman I know to be honorable and of an age fit for my own.”
The cessation of the bishop’s breath on her face urged her to more closely attend to her situation, next the thoughtful silence lowering him to his heels, then a question asked kindly, “Have you a Norman in mind, dear Lady?”
Though a voice within counseled her to think well on her response, someone seemingly outside her said wearily, “I do.”
Non, Mercia, Maël silently entreated where he stood far right of the dais as commanded by the bishop before Gytha’s granddaughter entered the hall. Do not speak my name.
As if Odo heard, unlike Mercia whose gaze Maël had sought since her arrival, the bishop glanced across his shoulder. He suspected—likely not only in this moment—what would make it more difficult for Maël to remove Mercia from his power. Not a bad thing were Odo inclined to grant her marriage to a Norman of her choice, but even were Maël landed, she would be of far less benefit to William than were she wed into the family of De Grandmesnil who possessed extensive lands worked by numerous Saxons in need of pacification.
