by Regan Walker
As the three drew close, Alex could see Malcolm was no longer young, but his weathered face bore the proud look of the warrior king Alex had heard so much about. He had led his people for decades, outliving the Conqueror. He had the air of a man confident in his abilities, a king worthy of being followed.
Malcolm’s long legs suggested he possessed a height not shared by either Duke Robert or England’s king, both of whom were men of small stature. When standing, the Scottish king would tower over them.
On King Malcolm’s right, rode a man Alex had never met, but who had to be his Uncle Steinar from his resemblance to Alex’s mother. Once they arrived in front of him, Alex glimpsed his mother’s violet eyes. Forced to flee England as a rebel, fighting against the Conqueror, Steinar had been welcomed in Scotland where his fortunes had risen. He now appeared more a Scot than an Englishman, his blond hair long with small plaits on the sides. On his face, both a mustache and a small beard.
On the king’s other side rode Edgar Ætheling, the fair-haired brother of Malcolm’s Saxon queen, who Alex knew from his time in Normandy. He had been correct in thinking Edgar had gone home to Scotland.
“Robert, my old friend,” said Malcolm, his gaze briefly resting on the duke and then Alex before alighting on Duncan. “You bring my son to me?”
Robert smiled graciously and Alex understood the wisdom of sending the duke to bargain with Malcolm. “The King of Scots knows well why I am here. It is true your son, Duncan, has come with me. I also bring the nephew of your chief, Steinar.” He gestured to Alex. “Sir Alexander of Talisand. For what we have to discuss, ’tis best we are among those we trust, no?”
Steinar dipped his head to Alex, acknowledging his presence, and Alex nodded in return.
“Welcome to Scotland, nephew of my mormaer,” said Malcolm to Alex. Then facing Duncan, the king smiled. “It has been long since my eyes have seen you, my son. I trust you have remembered all we spoke of when last we parted.”
“I have, Father.” Duncan’s words brought to Alex’s mind his conversation with Duncan in which he had said his father expected him one day to reign over the Scots.
“Well,” said Robert, “now that we have made the necessary introductions, is there somewhere we can share a cup of wine and talk? My mission is to avoid war, if ’tis possible.”
“My tent is not far,” said Malcolm. “We can talk there. You have my word you will be unharmed.”
Duke Robert rode beside King Malcolm and Duncan paired with Edgar, who he apparently knew, leaving Alex to ride beside his uncle.
They followed the others until they came to a wide glen. Well protected on a rise, Malcolm’s army stretched as far as the eye could see. Alex took in the field of white tents and many horses. As they rode into the Scots’ camp, fierce-looking mail-clad warriors with long hair and beards stared at them with narrowed eyes. At their waists were belted swords but many knives and a few axes were visible, as well.
The threat of violence lay thick in the air.
One of the Scots, a rough bearded warrior, wore across his chest two thick leather straps bearing two knives. He waited until his king passed, then he spit on the ground as Alex crossed in front of him as if the very dirt was tainted by a Norman’s presence. Others jutted out their chests, as if begging for a fight. Alex had been right in thinking the Scots had time to prepare. They were armed, confident and, no doubt, well-fed, whereas William’s men were weary and hungry.
Alex did not shy from their hostile looks but turned his face ahead. Unlike William, Malcolm was a man of his word. They would not be attacked in the Scots’ camp.
“You have the look of your father,” said Steinar, drawing his attention from the warriors around him.
“I have been told that since I was young,” Alex replied.
Steinar chuckled. “You are still young.”
Alex gave his uncle a sidelong glance. By now, Steinar was in his fourth decade, a proven warrior trusted by the Scottish king and a member of the Scottish nobility, the rank of mormaer being the same as an English earl.
“Scotland has been good to you,” Alex remarked.
“Aye, it has. My sister, Serena, how does she fare?”
“She is well, the Lady of Talisand, mother of four sons and loved by her Norman husband.”
“I saw that for myself before I left. You were just a wee babe then. Rhodri has brought me news over the years so I knew of my other nephews. Do you know the Welshman I call friend?”
“Aye, but since the trouble between England and Wales, Rhodri comes less often to Talisand.”
Steinar stared off into the distance as if contemplating the past.
“Do you miss your home?” Alex asked him.
“I miss my sister and the people I knew there, but I no longer think of Talisand as home. Scotland has been my home for more than a score of years. It was here I gained lands of my own, here I met my wife, Catrìona, and here my children were born.”
“Do I have many cousins?”
He laughed. “Aye. We adopted an orphan to begin. Then, like my sister, we lost a girl child at birth, but after that, God gave us five sons.”
“A large family. I wish I could meet them.” In truth, Alex would never know them, at least not as long as their kings chose war over peace.
They reached the center of the Scots’ camp. Malcolm’s army bowed their heads as their king passed. Reining in his white charger in front of the largest tent, Malcolm dismounted and handed the reins to a squire. A guard held open the tent flap for the king to enter.
Once inside, Alex was struck by how sparsely it was furnished: two pallets on one side of the tent and a table with benches on each of its four sides in the center. But then, a warrior king prepared for battle would not indulge in opulence.
Malcolm removed his helm and cloak and handed them to a waiting servant. Then he beckoned Duke Robert to sit. The king and the duke faced each other across the table. The servant, who had been awaiting his master’s signal, came forward and poured the two men cups of red wine. Alex and Duncan stood behind the duke and Steinar and Edgar behind Malcolm.
“Your king is not here,” Malcolm observed, taking a drink of his wine.
“I act for my brother in this,” affirmed Duke Robert, lifting his cup to his mouth.
Malcolm set down his cup. “He is no fool to send you, the only man to whom I am obligated. I owe William nothing and since he expelled Edgar from Normandy, I hold him in no high regard.”
“That was unfortunate.”
Alex glanced at Edgar, standing behind his brother-in-law, the King of Scots. The Conqueror had robbed Edgar of England’s crown and, fearing the Ætheling’s popularity, forced him to leave Scotland where his brother-in-law could aid his cause. Then the Conqueror’s son had taken from Edgar the lands in Normandy granted by Robert. Edgar was a man wronged by two Norman kings, unable to gain a foothold anywhere. And yet, he still had the look of a Saxon prince.
Robert took a deep breath, mayhap preparing for what would be a difficult negotiation. “You once agreed to terms with my father,” the duke reminded the Scottish king, “pledging your fealty to him for your lands in England. Will you not do so again, to the king who is the Conqueror’s son?”
“Why should I?” questioned Malcolm. “You have seen my army and you stand on Scotland’s soil. I am aware William’s ships were lost off Northumbria. And, besides all that, England’s current king is not known to be a man of his word.”
Robert ignored the criticism of his brother. All knew William disregarded his vows when it suited him, even his vows to the church. “I cannot find fault with anything you say, but consider this: It would spare both Scotland and England a war. And your pledge need not be unconditional.”
Malcolm leaned forward, his dark gaze penetrating. “Explain.”
“It need only concern your lands in England. William likes not your intrusions into Northumbria—”
“Northumbria is Scotland’s!” Malcolm insisted, his f
ist pounding the table.
“At the least,” Robert calmly replied, “it is disputed. Were you to agree to cease from taunting William by raiding Northumbria, my brother would assure you of all that you held under our father: twelve villages in England. And to that he would add twelve marks of gold a year.”
Knowing William as he did, Alex doubted Malcolm would ever see that gold, but he was pleased the discussion continued. Despite Malcolm’s strong words, Alex believed neither side wanted a battle.
In the end, after much blustering and back-and-forth, once Robert agreed to reconcile William and Edgar and see that Edgar’s lands in Normandy were restored to him, an agreement was reached.
The next day, the King of Scots appeared before William, giving the same promises he had made to the Conqueror and confirming the obligation with an oath. Alex could see by Malcolm’s expression, it was a distasteful thing to bind himself to a Norman king. And, by his dark glare whenever he glanced at William, it was clear Malcolm mistrusted William in particular.
Before the Scots left the meeting place to head north, Steinar handed Alex a sealed parchment. “For Serena.”
Alex nodded and placed the message beneath his mail, relieved the negotiations had been successful and he did not have to fight his way out of the Scots’ camp. “I am glad to have finally met you, Uncle. Mayhap one day I will see those cousins of mine.”
“And one day I might see my other nephews,” returned Steinar.
Alex turned Azor south, riding with William Rufus and accompanied by both Edgar and Duncan. Edgar, now hopeful of regaining his lands in Normandy, rode beside Duke Robert.
Duncan had told Alex he must return to England for he would one day need William’s support to claim Malcolm’s throne. What King Malcolm thought of the choices of his brother-in-law and his eldest son, Alex could only guess.
“He will understand,” Edgar assured Alex.
Alex had not had the chance to wield his sword against the Scots, but he was not disappointed. He could return to Talisand with good news for his mother about her brother. And he would be home before winter. The only fire he wanted to sit beside this winter was one he shared with Merewyn.
* * *
“I cannot go with you,” Merewyn told a disgruntled Owain. She had thought and prayed about it and considered Maugris’ words. Even if it brought her shame, she could not let Alex return and find her gone. Maugris had said it would cause him pain. And so she had agreed to meet Owain at the river’s edge to try and make him understand.
“Why not? Why would you want to stay when I have sensed you are unhappy here?”
His mood had turned angry. Owain did not understand the source of her unhappiness. She was not unhappy with Talisand only with the truth that she loved Alex but could not call him hers. Because she had hurt Owain by refusing him, she owed him an explanation. “I said we would talk and now the time has come.”
They were standing on the bank of the river some distance from the palisade and the village. The afternoon was chill as it had been this morning when she’d gone to see Father Bernard. Drawing her woolen cloak around her, she took a seat on a fallen log and Owain dropped down beside her, his long legs stretched out before him, his gaze intent upon her.
“Owain, I cannot go with you because I love another.”
His brows furrowed. “Who? I have seen you with no other.”
“ ’Tis the son of the Red Wolf, Sir Alex.”
He paused to consider for only a moment. “The eldest son who is away on the Norman king’s business?”
“Aye.”
“Do you expect he will wed you?”
“He has said… Nay, it can never be. The king has chosen another woman he would have Alex marry. But it does not seem right to leave now. I carry Alex’s child and only learned of it after he had gone. He knows naught of it.”
His cheeks reddened and his brows drew together, his nostrils flaring in anger. “This knight has seduced you?”
She did not want to discuss what happened between her and Alex but she could not allow Owain to think the worst of him. “Nay, Owain,” she said, meeting his disquieting gaze. “He did not.”
“I see. You carry his child but he will not have you for your lowborn status. Can you really be that foolish to love such a man? I care not that you may have agreed to lie with him, Merewyn. You were innocent and he took advantage. How can you stay to face the shame of a fallen woman when in Wales you could be the wife of a prince?”
She remembered the seven sins vividly portrayed on the walls of the stone church. Which had been hers? Surely not lust. Nay, it was love. And that was no sin. The vow she had spoken to Alex had been sincere. I would have you be mine.
Owain believed he was doing right by her, but a marriage should be based upon more. If she could not have the man she loved, she would have no one.
He leapt to his feet and grabbed her arm, wrapping his fingers tightly around her sleeve. “Come, we are leaving.”
“But Owain, I told you I would not go!”
His jaw was set, his eyes dark pools. “I know what you said, but in time, you will see, I am the one who cares for you. I am the one who is looking out for your welfare. Not him.”
He pulled her along behind him toward a copse of oak trees. For the sake of the babe, she did not struggle. Owain was so much stronger than she was it would have availed her little.
They arrived in the copse where Ceinder stood saddled next to his pony. “You were planning to take me to Wales were I willing or no?”
“I did not intend to leave without you,” he said, quickly tying her wrists together and lifting her to the pony’s back. Gathering up Ceinder’s reins, he mounted his own horse and headed south, leading Merewyn’s pony behind him. “I will go slowly for the sake of the babe.”
“What about my clothes?” She had worn a simple gown of dark green wool and her heavy cloak to meet him, but she had nothing else.
“I have your archer’s clothing. You can change whenever you will.”
“And my bow?”
“That, too.” And then she saw it, tied to the back of his horse. Her bow and her quiver of arrows tied with his. Owain had planned this well. He had spoken truly when he said he had come for her. He had always meant to take her with him when he returned to Wales.
* * *
“It was probably best William settled on terms,” Alex told Rory and Guy when he returned to camp and they were gathered around the fire, chewing on what remained of their dried venison. “The Scots were ready for us. Malcolm’s army appeared strong and eager for a fight.”
“And William without his ships,” said Rory.
“Aye, and little food for his men,” Guy put in. Alex shot him a glance, thinking the youngest knight among them was looking rather wane. They had not had a good meal in weeks.
“We leave at dawn for Durham,” encouraged Alex. “Mayhap the townspeople will see fit to sell us some of their winter food stores this time.”
The king drove his army hard, but none of Alex’s men complained as it meant returning sooner to better weather and, hopefully, better provisions.
The barons had not been unhappy to turn away from war. Sir Nigel had told Alex his men were as cold and hungry as the rest of the army.
When they arrived in Durham three days later, the king supped with William de Saint Calais, Bishop of Durham, who had returned to the city in September, the day after William had marched his army north. Alex had been invited by the king to join Sir Nigel and the barons to hear the old bishop’s explanation as to what had happened to the king’s ships.
Alex was impressed by the simple manner of Bishop William’s attire, his long green robe over white linen and his brown tonsured hair threaded with gray. He was obviously aged but his dark eyes reflected a keen intelligence.
As the men around the table grew quiet, all eyes focused on the bishop. “My understanding,” he began, “is that your ships arrived at the mouth of the Tyne a fortnight after yo
u left Durham. With you gone, My Lord, the seamen decided to plunder Tynemouth.” The bishop cast a disapproving glance at the king. “They took many goods and precious items. They even robbed an old woman of a cloth she was weaving.”
William listened half-heartedly. Alex could tell from the king’s restless stirrings that he was growing impatient.
The bishop continued. “The woman appealed to St. Oswin, whose shrine, I suppose you know, is in Tynemouth Priory. The next day the ships ran aground on the rocks of Coquet Island.”
“We know the ships ran aground, good bishop,” said the king, tapping his fingers on the table.
“What you may not know,” said the bishop, “is that the bodies of the seamen and the pilfered goods washed ashore around Tynemouth, the same town your seamen plundered. The people emerged from their hiding places and reclaimed their stolen property. They believe St. Oswin answered the old woman’s prayer, granting a miracle and rendering judgment upon your ships. I, for one, cannot disagree.”
William’s countenance grew troubled, his face turning ruddy as his brows drew together.
Sir Nigel cast a glance at Alex, who took it as a warning that the king’s temper was about to loose itself on the bishop. While the king was not a man who accorded much weight to the teachings of the church, he was superstitious.
“By the face of Lucca!” William swore. “The saints dare oppose me?”
The men of the church sitting around the bishop began murmuring to each other. Even Ranulf Flambard expressed concern. He was, after all, a priest, though he seldom acted the part.
Duke Robert shook his head. “A very regrettable incident, but the seamen paid for their rash acts with their lives.”
“And I have lost my ships!” William pounded the table and sent a stern glower at the bishop. Then his face turned bright red, making his blond hair appear even lighter, as he rose and stomped from the chamber.
War had been averted and the Scots reined in for the moment, but it was a somber evening in Durham as the barons planned to take their leave.
The king was still in a dour mood the next day, his every word sharp and accompanied by a frown, barking at his barons and his guards for the smallest thing.
