by Tamara Leigh
“Speak his name, Lady Mercia,” Odo said, “and mayhap it will be done.”
Do not! Maël silently demanded of the woman who had only to look far right to read the warning on his face just as his mother did where she remained alongside Mercia.
Chanson’s fear was the same as her son’s, but neither could she do anything but hope the dearth of sleep Mercia suffered did not further loosen her mind and tongue to make meat of mere suspicion.
A sound of distress escaped Mercia, then her shoulders lowered. Swaying slightly, it appeared she might collapse—in this moment a good thing—but she said, “I believe Sir Maël D’Argent as honorable a Norman as his cousins.”
Though Odo’s face was in profile, there was enough satisfaction there to threaten the plans made with Ingvar.
“So Sir Maël is,” the bishop raised his voice to be heard above his men who found it difficult to hold their tongues. “However, what you do not consider is that he is but captain of the king’s guard—lacking title and lands.”
She blinked as if to focus her eyes. “I care not he is landless, only that if I am bound to a Norman, he be…” Her lids fluttered. “…of good character.”
Once again, Odo looked to the king’s man.
Though it was hoped Mercia would follow his gaze and read the displeasure Maël fixed on his face, prompting her to do no further damage, she did not.
The bishop arched an eyebrow.
Maintaining a show of displeasure, Maël shook his head as if he believed it possible he, rather than De Grandmesnil’s heir, would be forced to wed a Godwine.
Whatever was believed of his rejection of Mercia, the bishop said, “I might think you in love, Lady, were it not impossible to have the handsome of Sir Maël without the unsightly.”
Maël stiffened. Such things the enemy had shouted at him in battles since Hastings, but of the Normans who dared, mostly it was done in whispers behind his back. That the fairly discreet Odo did so before all meant he sought to further unbalance Mercia to better learn her feelings.
She was unresponsive so long, Maël began to hope she had grown numb to Odo’s baiting, possessing only enough consciousness to remain upright.
But she said, “Enemies though you and I are, Bishop Odo, I believed we shared the same God. How tragic we have not even that in common, you who are more a false representative of God than ever I was.”
Lord, do You not quiet her, Maël sent heavenward, her punishment may not be wedding a boy but losing her life.
Knowing he was not the only one praying for the Lord’s intervention, Maël looked to his mother whose eyes were closed and lips moved slightly.
“Tell me about your God, Mercia,” Odo said with what sounded amusement.
“My God does not scorn the downtrodden, the outcasts, the imperfect. The same as His son who embraced the least lovely of creation, He sees the hearts rather than the forms that hold them. And loves them all.”
Odo chuckled. “As it sounds you are almost as fluent in God as you are Norman-French, I begin to understand how you were able to deceive the sisters of Lillefarne. It seems they are not as foolish as thought.”
Mercia stared.
He shrugged. “Then that is what you see when you look upon Sir Maël—his heart rather than the terrible scar one of your countrymen dealt him?”
“I do,” she said, this time with what sounded wariness.
“And is it love you feel for him?”
Her throat bobbed. “Though I esteem him for his honor that will make it easier to tolerate spending my life with a Norman, never could I feel for him that which a wife should feel for her husband.”
Odo glanced around at De Grandmesnil’s son who remained pitifully hopeful upon the dais, looked back at Mercia, and called, “What say you, Sir Maël?”
She did not disappoint, startling and turning her head left and right, gasping when her eyes found the man she preferred to wed.
Odo watched the tapestry of emotions stitching and unstitching themselves across her face, then turned to Maël. “Were you landed, Chevalier, would you wed this Saxon of Godwine blood?”
Grateful to have become versed in concealing his thoughts and emotions these past years, Maël considered her—all the while constructing another lie since he was certain De Grandmesnil’s son was the only match under consideration.
“Though I find Lady Mercia attractive and of good wit, and now I better understand how my cousins fell prey to Saxon women, great the compensation would have to be for me to take to wife one as deceitful as the false abbess. Thus, unless our king has plans to elevate me higher than my cousin, the Baron of Wulfen, I will but thank Lady Mercia for her kind regard and wish her and young William a blessed and fruitful union.”
Knowing Odo gauged the veracity of his words, Maël was grateful the distance between them ensured his face was even less easily read—too, that it allowed him to shift his gaze a fraction to assess Mercia’s reaction.
Whereas minutes earlier she had struggled to make sense of his presence, now upon her face was what appeared to be understanding. Hopefully, she grasped that just as she dared not profess any depth of feeling for him, neither could he show any for her.
“Alas,” Odo said, “as I do not believe the king has such plans for you, Sir Maël, the lady shall wed William de Grandmesnil.”
“I will not!” she exclaimed.
“Ah, but the alternative, Lady…” Odo shook his head in mock sorrow. “Strongly, I advise you to wed the Norman of your king’s choosing so you may enjoy greater comfort and esteem than ever you have known. Do you not, never will you know the contents of Gytha’s missive and you will give us no means of shielding you from punishment for your trespass against Church and God.”
“I will not wed him,” she said more forcefully and looked to Maël. “I am only as deceitful as you and your kind forced me to be to survive in an England ravished by barbarians. You may not answer now for your own trespasses against Church and God, but one day you shall—as shall you, Bishop.”
Maël could not know if she was truly angry with him as she was with Odo, but that was good. Feigned or not, her reaction should alleviate some suspicion about their feelings for each other. But more was needed.
“My Lord Bishop,” he called, “as further delay in completing the king’s task will incite his wrath, with your permission I shall depart Stern.”
“Granted,” Odo said, then to Mercia. “You are very tired, therefore not thinking right. Hence, you shall return to your chamber. Once you have rested, we will speak again, and you will see the wisdom of becoming William de Grandmesnil’s wife.”
Yield or not, just do not wed this day, Mercia, Maël silently beseeched as he strode across the hall. Already it would be exceedingly difficult to extricate her, but if she spoke vows with the youth, it could prove impossible—and once more bury the heart she had unearthed which had determined to risk all to make her his own.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
This time he came alone, and more she feared him than before as she sat on the stool and wished Chanson and Fulbert present. But shockingly, the bishop was no more aggressive than before. At times, he was even charming in his attempts to persuade her of the merits of speaking vows with a boy who was of good temperament, handsome, easier to command than a full-grown man, and would make on her children of great privilege and standing.
Despite having been assured of rest before next they spoke, less than an hour had passed between her departure from the hall and the bishop’s arrival abovestairs. Thus, over and again fatigue caused her thoughts to drift belowstairs and out the door in search of Maël. And ever she was snatched back up the stairs by a grip on her shoulder that steadied her on the stool.
Unable to recall Odo’s last words, certain they could be little different from the others, she said, “I will not wed him,” and looked to the shuttered window whose horizontal and vertical seams revealed the dull grey light outside had darkened further.
; Did Maël ride through it, distancing himself from her? Or was he doing what she should not wish but selfishly longed for?
“Will you try to take me out of here?” she whispered.
“What say you?” Odo asked.
She opened eyes that had fallen closed and, for the first time, noted the tyrant’s brother was a fairly attractive man. Fearing the observation was the result of a rattled mind, she gave her head a slight shake. “Whilst serving as the Abbess of Lillefarne, I found if I changed tact with a difficult nun or novice, oft I could bring her around, even were it by the long way.” She swallowed. “Provide me drink, food, and sleep, and mayhap on the morrow my answer will be different.”
It would not be, but as more and more she felt what might be cracks in her mind, it could be worth giving him false hope that would further anger him.
He straightened. “I will think on it, Lady Mercia.” Then he was gone.
Slumping, she tried to make sense of the voices on the other side of the door. She could not, but a short while later she made sense of the key turning in the lock. Her guard needed to relieve himself, else satisfy hunger and thirst.
As his footsteps faded, she pushed up off the stool and unbalanced it. Leaving it where it fell, she crossed to the wall to gain sleep whilst the bishop considered her proposal.
So deeply she went down into that blessed quiet that she was surprised to see a platter alongside the door upon awakening. Atop it was a small candle that would be a puddle of hardening wax within an hour, a bowl of cooled soup, a hunk of bread, and a cup of milk.
“Thank you, Lord,” she rasped, then with trembling self-control, sip by sip drank the milk and nibble by nibble ate half the soup and bread. It was no easy thing to leave the rest, but it helped that her body needed rest more than food.
Let me sleep through the night, she prayed, then curled on her side and clasped her hands beneath her chin.
The best wine was served during the evening meal, the Lady of Stern having ordered the opening of two casks held in reserve for a visit from the king and further ordered the servants to be as free with drink at the lowermost tables where Stern’s household knights and garrison dined as at the upper tables claimed by Odo’s men. Thus, most imbibed more than usual, as noted in the message Chanson left for her son beneath the altar cloth in the outer chapel, as well as instructions on how to contact his uncle in Flanders.
Something else had been beneath the cloth. From its size and weight, Maël had known that which was wrapped in linen was what he had refused years past. Though he did not believe he should accept Hugh D’Argent’s dagger until he could forgive his sire, since it could be a long time before he saw his mother again, he had taken it.
Albeit excessive drinking by those within Stern aided in entering the walls undetected, next the donjon by way of a side door used by servants that should have been bolted, the risk of awakening one of those sleeping in the hall was not to be made light of.
In the event someone roused, it would fall to Ingvar to silence them. And were an alarm sounded, the Dane would distract all with what he called a merry chase to give Maël time to lower himself and Mercia by rope to the garden below her window.
As he moved through shadows toward the stairs, grateful for deep and whistled breathing, snoring, and restless shifting, Ingvar veered toward the curtained solar behind the high table. From there he would keep watch, near enough the sleeping bishop to take him hostage were it needed to escape Stern. God willing, it would not be necessary.
As Maël neared the stairs, he recalled his mother’s warning. Stay to the right the first four steps, then move center, entirely avoiding the last step before the landing. It creaks loud no matter where you set foot.
Maël adjusted his hood and carefully began his ascent. Though Odo’s man posted outside Mercia’s chamber might have imbibed as much as the others, if the relative silence abovestairs was violated, more easily he would be roused and sooner require subduing. However, when Maël eased onto the landing and peered down the corridor, he found the torch-lit stretch empty.
He tensed. Unbeknownst to Chanson, had Mercia been moved for her refusal to wed De Grandmesnil? Could this time have been better spent freeing her from a cell in the outer wall?
Testing his footing all the way, gnashing his teeth when the floor creaked, he continued to the door behind which he might find someone other than Mercia. And saw a key protruded from the lock. Hoping it proof she was within and had been left to her sleep with only a locked door to guard her, Maël turned the key.
The first thing he saw when he opened the door was the platter beside it lit by the remains of a candle whose wick was tipped by a shuddering flame above a pool of glistening wax. Alongside it was half-eaten food and an empty cup. The next thing he noticed was the toppled stool center of the chamber upon which, he had been told, Mercia was questioned, lastly a figure against the wall.
Maël lowered his hood and started forward.
In response to the groan of a board beneath his foot, Mercia rasped, “Lord, strengthen me.”
Lest she loudly protest the disturbance of her sleep, he turned back, but as he eased the door closed, she said bitterly, “The stool. Aye, this I know.”
Then she believed Odo came to question her again.
As Maël strode toward where she rose onto hands and knees, she said more angrily, “Aye, the stool,” and sought to get her feet beneath her.
“I have come for you,” Maël said and swept her into his arms.
Her gasp was dry and grating, then her hand was on his jaw, eyes searching his face. “You should not be here.”
“Then where?”
“As far from me as possible. You will lose all if—”
“If I fail, I will lose all. You, Mercia.”
A sob jerked her body. “You love me as I love you?”
He would have answered her with a kiss if not that it would pain her parched lips. “These past days have been the longest year of my life, dearest Mercia.”
Another sob, the last of it muffled when she turned her face into his chest.
There was more to say and assurances to be given, but they must wait until Stern was far behind.
Since no warning had sounded from Ingvar, they would depart the way he had come rather than out the window which, exposed to the light of torches, could catch the eye of one of the few men sluggishly patrolling the wall walks.
“Put your arms around my neck and speak naught until Stern is at our backs,” he said.
She slid her hands up his chest and linked them at his nape.
Maël carried her from the chamber, but as he turned to secure the door, he saw a figure near the landing stood with a shoulder against the wall and ankles crossed.
Outside of a miracle, he—and Mercia—would lose all.
De Grandmesnil.
As Ingvar had given no warning, likely the Dane’s life had been lost on the edge of the dagger that was the only weapon upon the Norman’s belt. Not so Maël whose mantle concealed dagger and sword—one or both of which must be brought to hand were there any chance of taking Mercia from Stern.
“I need you behind me,” he said low as he eased her to her feet.
She raised her head and, following his gaze to the man who was to be her father-in-law, whispered, “Dear Lord.”
King William’s favored companion straightened from the wall. Hands empty at his sides, slowly he advanced as Mercia stepped to Maël’s back.
In preparation to draw a weapon on the warrior who, though proficient at arms, could not match his own skill, Maël elbowed aside his mantle to sooner bring his sword to hand. “Lord De Grandmesnil,” he said when the man halted five feet distant.
The nobleman settled into his heels and considered his son’s rival for a Godwine bride. “Though the bishop is uncertain as to how changed you are from the one who has long served his brother, Sir Maël, as I have spent some time in your company, I am less uncertain. Thus, though your dear mother was exc
eedingly generous with fine wine this eve, I satisfied myself with one pour the better to watch for your return. And you did not disappoint.”
“Ingvar?” Maël demanded low.
“A problem in the beginning, but easily resolved.”
“You slew him,” Maël bit.
“Non, though that the bishop may do should he rise above his fourth pour of wine.”
Maël frowned.
De Grandmesnil chuckled. “Clearly, your Dane was to keep watch, but he could not resist the plunder to be had on the other side of the curtain.”
Maël’s anger shifted toward Ingvar. And faltered. He could not claim to know the Dane well, but it was difficult to believe greed was responsible for De Grandmesnil cornering Mercia and him. And there was another thing more hard to believe. “Why have you sounded no alarm?”
De Grandmesnil raised his eyebrows. “Is it not obvious I want what you want?”
Just because something seemed obvious did not make it so. “I would hear it, my lord.”
“I wish Mercia of the House of Godwine wed not to my heir but another.” A corner of his mouth rose. “I am thinking you, son of Hugh D’Argent—after you leave England.”
Maël considered the man who shared his departed sire’s Christian name the same as De Grandmesnil’s son shared that of the duke who became king. “I know I betray William in removing Lady Mercia from Stern,” he said, “but do you stand aside and let happen what will, you shall betray as well.”
De Grandmesnil inclined his head. “Though many my children, none do I love as well as my eldest. He is his family’s great hope, and more I would betray him than his namesake do I not ensure our line remains Norman pure. Thus, give me the word of a D’Argent that no matter the outcome of your escape with Mercia of the Godwines, you will not name me a party to it, and I will give you the word of a De Grandmesnil none will know I witnessed it was you who stole her away. And one better I will do to decrease the chance Lady Mercia is recaptured and made to wed my son.”
