by Jo Beverley
She needn’t have worried. Odo was incapable of keeping quiet about anything which might be to his own self-aggrandizement. He grinned. “I heard rumors, too, as I was riding south. More than rumors. I received sure word that Hereward is out of the Fens. He and a large force are lurking in Halver Wood not far north of here. Too many for my men to tackle, but I sent word to the king. He’ll send a force and that will be the end of that weasel.”
Madeleine fought to hide her sick dread. Hereward was out of the Fens and had sent for his nephew. “Do you intend to wait here until then and take part in the fighting?” She heard the thinness of her voice and cursed herself.
He smirked, unobservant as always. “Lonely, are you? Where is your fancy husband anyway?”
“East,” Madeleine said quickly. “He’s gone to visit his estate of Rolleston.”
Odo shrugged. “It was always clear he didn’t want you, so you’ve no cause for complaint if he’s neglecting you.” He looked over her plain dress. “And you haven’t even cajoled out of him any of that gold that dazzled you. He probably has a buxom Saxon Danelaw wife tucked away at Rolleston, dripping with his spare jewelry.”
Madeleine pinned a faint, unconcerned smile on her face, while splinters of bitter jealousy tormented her. Was it possible? A manno Danico marriage didn’t block a Christian one. King Harold had been married in the Danish style for twenty years to Edith Swannehals and had taken Eadgyth of Mercia at the church door to solidify support for his claim to the throne.
But what did that matter anyway if her husband was riding to his death?
“Aimery and I are dealing together very well,” she lied. “Do you intend a stay here, Odo?”
He shook his head. “Though the food’s improved. I’m under orders south to the queen,” he said importantly, “to be captain of the advance guard to bring her north.”
“Bring her north?” Madeleine queried in surprise. “Into the middle of a rebellion? She’s eight months pregnant.”
Odo shrugged. “The rebellion’s as good as over, and the king wants her with him when the child is born.”
Madeleine thought darkly of men and their lack of consideration, but a large part of her mind was on Aimery.
Odo had sent word to the king about Hereward. William would surely send an army, maybe go with one himself, to finally capture that thorn in his flesh, and find he had Golden Hart in his grasp, too.
Aimery had surely guessed something of this. She remembered him saying, Remember me, even as he thrust into her. As if he were going to oblivion.
She swallowed tears. What was she to do?
Let him stew in his own juice, said a bitter part of her, but it was only a very small part.
She turned to Odo. “Do you ride on immediately then?”
He nodded. “Just thought I’d stop since we were passing close, and find better food than we carry. And a spare horse if you have one. One of ours has a sore leg.”
Madeleine arranged for a fresh mount and soon had the satisfaction of seeing him on his way. Then she went into the stables, ostensibly to check on the injured horse.
“Just a strain, Lady,” the stable groom said. “Soon remedied.”
“Good.” Madeleine leaned against a post and said idly, “Do you know where Halver Wood is, John?”
“Aye, Lady,” he responded readily and without suspicion. “It be north of here half a morning’s ride. Off the old road a bit and toward Gormanby.”
Madeleine left armed with directions which were doubtless clear enough to the local people but mystifying to her. Half a morning’s ride. Aimery would already be there then. But even if she couldn’t stop him, someone had to warn him of the danger. How?
She went into the solar and pressed damp hands together nervously. She had sworn to expose Aimery if she had proof of treason, but here she was trying to abet him. If the king could capture the magical symbol who was Hereward, and the other who was Golden Hart, he could break the back of English resistance to Norman rule. It was her duty to support that in every way possible.
But she couldn’t let Aimery be taken. Could she send Geoffrey to warn him? Could she trust Geoffrey? He was a pleasant young man, but Norman to the core and surely not so besotted as to contemplate dishonor as she was doing.
Besotted. Part of her objected to that word, but she shrugged away such nonsense. She was madly in love with Aimery for all he was a traitor. So, she had to save him.
Would one of the local people help? They surely were mostly in favor of Golden Hart and Hereward, but a few were ready to betray their own kind for favor, and she could not be sure which was which. And would they believe her, a Norman, on such a matter?
The only possibility, she realized, was for her to go alone. The prospect scared her to death.
Chapter 16
Since her well-escorted journey to Baddersley, Madeleine had never ventured beyond the paths of the nearby woods, and had never left the castle alone. Now she was planning to ride off through strange and hostile country in search of a poorly identified place which was infested by Norman-hating traitors.
She opened a box and removed Aimery’s maps of the estate. Ah. By the old road, John must have meant the Roman road called Ermine Street which passed not far north of Baddersley. But there was no marking for Halver Wood or Gormanby. Well, it was surely possible to ride a couple of hours and then ask for further directions.
Alone? Asking English people for help finding Hereward? It seemed impossible, yet she must do something, and speedily.
She deliberately put aside future problems and considered the immediate—how to get out of Baddersley with a horse and without guards. After discarding any number of fanciful plans she simply ordered her horse saddled and fitted with panniers, and told John she was going to collect some special roots for her medicine chest.
As she rode across the bailey, Geoffrey hurried forward. “Do you require an escort, my lady?”
“No need,” she said, grateful it was he and not Hugh who had been informed of her enterprise. “I am only going to the other side of the village, Geoffrey, and the horse will carry my load back for me.”
She could see he wasn’t happy with the situation but lacked the confidence to insist. She rode out at a trot before he found it.
Beyond the village she took the north path which led, according to the map, to Ermine Street. Very shortly she was out of sight of Baddersley and all alone in the light woodland. She must be mad.
She remembered that not so long ago the people hereabouts had been malevolent toward her. That had faded since the king’s visit and her marriage, but had they really changed? She shrugged. She had resolved to do this thing, and she would not falter. She eased Aimery’s knife in its sheath and urged her horse through the trees, trembling at every rustle in the undergrowth.
Soon she came to the road and sighed with relief to be in a more public spot. The heavy old stones were still in place and could occasionally be seen through the cover of dirt and weeds. They formed a solid base in all weathers—a marvel to everyone, who all wished the way of making such a surface was still known.
The road was busy with ox-carts, riders, and foot traffic. A few travelers were soldiers, but most were clearly traders of one kind or another, which suggested that there was no warlike trouble in the area. Madeleine hoped to be taken for a trader herself with her panniers.
She set off north at a brisk pace, trying to gauge “a half-morning’s ride” in John’s terms. She was tempted to ask one of the drivers of the slow-moving carts whether he had seen Aimery and his men going past, but the less attention called to herself and him the better. She did, however, stop after a while and ask a man if he knew a place called Gormanby. He shook his head and regarded her speculatively.
Madeleine rode on. She cursed her southern looks, inherited from her mother. Her darker skin and brown eyes marked her out among this fair-skinned race, and she was sure her careful English had a foreign tone.
However, she had to
take the chance and ask for help again or she’d end up riding Ermine Street all the way to Lincoln. When she came to a small monastery which served as an inn for travelers, she waved away the offer of food and asked after Gormanby. “Yes, my child,” the monk said readily. “But you have passed the track. Go back a little way, and by some cherry trees and an oak you will see a path go west. It is not far.”
Madeleine mounted again and turned back with relief. Both she and the horse were weary, but the end was in sight.
She soon found the oak and cherry trees, and a path next to them. She turned onto it eagerly, but she couldn’t help noticing that the woodland here was heavier than around Baddersley. It was more difficult to see into and more likely to hold danger both from man and beast. The tall trees grew close to the narrow path, which was only just wide enough for a cart to pass along. In fact, the ruts from such carts were deeply ground into the earth. Above, the leaves met to form a heavy green roof, cutting off the sun and making the place dark and chill.
Uneasiness crept into Madeleine, and she would willingly have taken any excuse to turn back, but she pushed on. She had another concern now. Even if there was no personal danger, how was she to find anyone in this forest? She might have to wait for Hereward to find her.
When a man ran out from the woods and neatly pulled her off the horse, she was startled but not vastly surprised. She hadn’t, however, expected a sharp knife at her throat.
“Well, Lady Madeleine. Have business hereabouts, do you?”
Madeleine gasped. It was the Saxon, the one who had been with Aimery. He was grinning, but his eyes were hard, and she knew he would slit her throat without hesitation if he decided it was meet.
“I need to contact Aimery,” she whispered.
“Aimery? Lady,” he said with a leer, “I would have thought he’d contacted you enough for one day.”
This man had watched! Madeleine’s face flamed, and she glared at him, knife or not. “I wish to speak with him. Or Hereward.”
The grin was wiped away, and the knife pricked. Madeleine cried out and tried to jerk back, but his hold was like iron. She felt blood trickle down her skin.
“What do you know of Hereward, Norman bitch?”
“He is here,” she choked out. “It is known. Word has been sent to the king.”
“And you’ve come to warn him? A likely tale.”
“I’ve come to warn Aimery.”
“Now, that’s more likely. You’d not want him to lose the bits you like best, would you?” He dragged her into the woods. She fought, but he swung the knife up to her face and she stopped. He only dragged her as far as his horse.
He pulled a rope from his pack, formed a noose, and slipped it over her head. Was he going to strangle her?
But he mounted up and told her to walk. When they returned to her horse, he told her to mount.
“I’m going to take you to Hereward,” he said. “He’ll know what to do with you. Try to escape and you’ll throttle.”
With the heavy, coarse rope lying on her shoulders and fretting at her skin, Madeleine needed no further warning. They rode along the track for a little way before turning off into the dark woods. If this was the treatment meted out by the man, what could she expect from the master?
She told herself Hereward was Aimery’s uncle, and an English nobleman, but she wasn’t reassured. He was an outlaw rebel and surely hated all Normans. He’d find it very convenient to slit her throat. Then Aimery would have possession of Baddersley without the burden of her presence or the threat of her telling someone about Golden Hart.
Despite everything, though, she couldn’t believe Aimery would condone her death.
She began to say very earnest prayers that Aimery was with Hereward. Even though that would confirm his treason, and he’d be furious with her for following him and discovering his treachery, he’d protect her.
They turned off the well-worn path onto tracks which were scarcely visible. The dense wood seemed peaceful and empty of all but birds and insects, but then suddenly a man was before them. He said nothing, just took in her companion and nodded, then melted back into the undergrowth.
A little later, she saw her captor raise a hand. She looked around, then up to see another watcher in a tree.
It was a well-guarded camp. Hereward was no fool.
Then they were entering the camp of Hereward the Wake. It was not in a clearing but merely a gathering among the trunks of great old trees. Odo may have overestimated the size of the force, but it was still substantial. There were two tents, at least thirty rugged armed men, and a number of others who appeared to be servants. There were no women.
There was no Aimery.
Madeleine’s mouth dried as she became the focus of hard eyes in ruddy, bearded faces. A lone Norman woman among men who hated Normans. What mad impulse had brought her here?
A few wore mail, but most wore only leather armor; they all, however, had weapons to hand—spear, bow, sword, ax. They all wore gold. Not as much or as splendid as Aimery’s, but gold all the same—signs of a great ring-friend.
A man moved out of the group and came forward. He wore no armor at all, only a finely worked tunic over braies. A sword hung at his belt in a magnificent scabbard of gold and jewels, and his bracelets and arm bands were the finest she had ever seen.
Madeleine knew she faced Hereward of Mercia.
He bore a distinct resemblance to Aimery. He had a beard and moustache, and his long blond hair was silvered at the temples, his eyes a clear blue, but in the bones of his face and body she saw how Aimery would look twenty years hence. There was a power to this man. His movements were quick and light, and energy shone in him like a beacon.
“Gyrth,” he said, looking at her captor, “have you found an unwilling bride?”
Gyrth swung off his horse and knelt. “Nay, Lord, except it be Aimery’s bride.” With a smirk he added, “And him the unwilling one, according to Baddersley gossip.”
“And you bring her here haltered?” Hereward’s fist connected with his man’s jaw, laying him flat out. He ignored Gyrth and turned to help Madeleine off her horse, then gently eased the rope over her head.
“My deepest apologies, Lady Madeleine. Niece. You will be treated with nothing but honor here.” He drew her over to a cloak on the ground at the base of an oak and urged her to sit, then turned to his men.
“This is Lady Madeleine, wife to Aimery, my well-loved nephew. Treat her as my niece or surrender your rings.” The men quietly returned to their activities.
He sat down beside her. “Can I have anything brought for you? Mead? Pure water? Food?”
Madeleine shook her head, which felt full of lambswool. “I need nothing. I . . . I thought Aimery would be here.”
The blue eyes fixed on her questioningly. He suddenly reminded her of William of Normandy, who had just such a piercing look. What a pair they would make if they ever came to a meeting. “And why would he be here, Madeleine? He has not come near me since William invaded England.”
Madeleine forced her wits to clear and faced him. “I expected him to be here because you sent for him.”
His eyes twinkled. “I send for him regularly, and despite the fact that he wears my ring, he does not come.”
Madeleine worked at hiding an onslaught of uncertainty. This man was saying Aimery was loyal. Was it possible that Aimery had gone about his proper business despite the message from Gyrth, that she had ridden into this nest of outlaws for no reason? After all, he’d left hours ahead of her and was not here. It was a frightening prospect, yet she was filled with joy.
He was not a traitor!
“Even if you thought Aimery had come to me,” Hereward said gently, “how did you know where to come?”
Held by those powerful eyes, Madeleine forced herself not to warn him of the danger of attack. If Aimery wasn’t here, she had to let the king prevail, even at cost of her own life. But it was hard to deny Hereward of Mercia anything. No wonder the Normans fear
ed him as no other.
“Have you ever met William?” she asked.
He didn’t press for an answer to his question but smiled. “Indeed. Back in 1051 when he came to visit Edward.” His face reflected genuinely pleasant memories. “We were bold young men and found pleasure in each other’s company. Even though we knew this day would come.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“No? Edward would have no children, and it was clear he’d promised William the crown.”
“Then he has the right,” Madeleine asserted, raising her chin. “Why do you fight him?”
He shook his head. “He has no right, Madeleine. A king of England is chosen by the people through the Witan, and they chose first Harold, then Edgar Atheling, who is therefore the true king. But we knew in other ways what was to come. William knew what he wanted, and I see the future.”
He said the words so calmly it took a moment for them to register. “No one but God can see the future. That’s blasphemy!”
He smiled, unmoved. “Not to my god.”
Madeleine crossed herself in horror. “You are a pagan. What are you going to do with me?”
He laughed, showing teeth still white and healthy. “Sacrifice you on an altar to our bestial deity? I would not so distress my nephew.” He made a sign and Gyrth came over. To Madeleine’s surprise he sat companionably on the cloak, showing no resentment of that earlier blow, though he flashed an angry look at her.
“How did she find her way here?” Hereward asked him.
“I don’t know. I saw her heading north on the old road and followed. She asked directions to Gormanby twice and found the track. I took her in charge. She says the Bastard has word of our being here.”
Madeleine cursed herself for giving that information.
Hereward raised a brow. “A bit slow in telling me, aren’t you?”
“Took a while to get my senses back,” said Gyrth wryly.
Hereward turned back to Madeleine. “So, William is coming,” he said thoughtfully. “Why do you say that?”
