A Man of Value

by Anna Markland

  “Better than no clothes at all,” he laughed, then saw her blush.

  “The boots are your own. We cleaned them.”

  He tugged them on, feeling only a slight spasm in his ribs. In an effort to ease the tension, he said, “They feel good.”

  She braced his arm and helped him walk to the knot garden. He could feel the strength in her small fingers as they pressed around his bicep. The weather was cold and the garden barren, but he was happy to be in the fresh air. She shivered involuntarily and he put his arm around her waist to warm her, drawing her close to him. She flinched away, looking around nervously. “Sir,” she stammered.

  “I’m sorry, Agneta,” he replied, cursing himself for a fool. “I wanted to warm you.”

  But touching her had aroused him, and he couldn’t stop. He enfolded her in his arms, pulled her body to his arousal, and rested his forehead on hers. The feel of her breasts against his chest was as he’d imagined it a hundred times. He wanted this woman, and breathed into her ear, “I want to warm you forever.”

  Feeling his hard body pressed against her, seeing his warm breath on the frigid air, Agneta reddened and pushed him away, mortified in case anyone should see, and shocked too that her own body had responded with sensations she’d never felt before. Despite the chill she was on fire. She should have been outraged. It was blatant, yet enticing. She scurried away in confusion and left him standing alone in the garden.

  After that, Agneta avoided accompanying him, and he spent hours outside alone, sitting on a stone bench in the bitter cold wind. She was afraid he would catch a chill if he stayed outdoors too long, but had seen how the long hours of inactivity frayed his nerves if he stayed indoors. He fell into the habit of taking his sword out with him, sitting with it in his lap. As he grew stronger, he practised movements, slicing and thrusting at an imaginary enemy. She winced when he flinched at the lingering pain in his ribs. Though the deep wound to his thigh hampered his stride, it was evident he’d been an agile warrior, a man to be reckoned with.

  One day, after Yuletide, he limped in hurriedly from the garden, very excited. “I’ve remembered my name,” he shouted. “I am Caedmon Brice Woolgar.”

  It surprised her that she was thrilled at his progress and happy for him. “That doesn’t sound Scottish to me,” she laughed.

  “It’s good to hear you laugh, Agneta.”

  She sobered, but he was right. It had been a long time since she had laughed. “I’m relieved for you—but—”

  “—But I still sound like a Scot, don’t I?”

  “Aye,” she whispered, mocking him. Relieved as she was he’d recalled his name, she still felt uneasy about his identity. “Have you remembered where you’re from?”

  He took her hand, and she felt the gentleness of his touch, saw the kindness in his eyes. She wanted desperately to believe in his innocence.

  “No, but it will come. I’m confident now that it will.”

  That night, in her dormitory, she prayed, “Dear Lord, I’m confused about this man. I pray my feelings not turn to hatred, if he’s a Scot. Help me. Kyrie eleison.”

  ~~~

  Two days later, Caedmon sat in the garden bemoaning his ludicrous fate. His heart was heavy. He would have to tell a woman he was drawn to what he’d recalled, and it would hurt her. He went back inside and sat on the edge of the pallet, bracing his feet on the stone floor, his thighs tense. The injured muscle throbbed. Agneta looked up from the patient she and Brother Manton were tending.

  He strove to sound more confident in the outcome than he felt. “Agneta, may I speak with you?”

  She nodded and approached him. “You sound serious and your tone is formal. I won’t like what you have to say, will I?” she asked nervously.

  He was afraid to share with her the memories that had rushed back. The tapestry had rewoven itself into an image he’d rather forget. “Agneta, I need to tell you some things I’ve recalled. My name is Caedmon Woolgar. I’m the son of Lady Ascha Woolgar. I was named for my father who died at Hastings, fighting against the Conqueror.”

  “You’re a Saxon then?” she whispered hopefully, swaying slightly towards him.

  He wished she would look at him. “Aye, but I was born in Scotland. My mother lived in Ruyton in England, in the Welsh Marches. She was alone, expecting a child. She had a brother, Gareth, who decided to flee to Scotland. She went with him. They couldn’t abide living under Norman rule. Then King Malcolm married the Saxon princess, Margaret, Edgar the Aetheling’s sister. They nurtured Saxons at their Court in Edwinesburh.”

  She moved away. “I’m nervous. That’s why you speak like a Scot. You were born there.”

  “Aye, but I’ve remained a proud Saxon. However, I need to tell you—I fought on the side of the Scots in the battle here. We’ve naturally been their allies against the Normans.”

  He held his breath. She was silent. Perhaps she knew what he had to tell her next. He took her hand in his. His heart thudded so loudly he was sure she could hear it. “I also need to tell you, Agneta, with deep regret, that I took part in the raid on Bolton.”

  “No,” she gasped with an anguished sob, looking directly into his eyes for the first time. “Why, why would you do such a thing?”

  She pulled her hand away from his firm grasp, but he wouldn’t let go. He’d longed to look into the depths of those intriguing eyes, but now he was ashamed and had to look away from the condemnation and hatred burning there.

  Forcing himself to keep his voice low, he ground out, “Agneta, I’m a landless Saxon knight living in Scotland with nothing to offer to anyone. I’d hoped if the Scots were successful in wresting some of the border lands from the English, I might benefit from a reward of land for myself, for my heirs. It’s the reason many men take up arms. Agneta, I swear, on my honour, I killed no one that day. I plundered, I destroyed, I created mayhem, but I didn’t kill. The bloodlust sickened me. I didn’t know it was a Saxon manor. You must believe me.”

  Her face reddened with anger, and through her tears she stammered, “Your honour? Whether you struck the fatal blows or not matters little. You were there. You abetted the crime.”

  Suddenly, the colour drained from her face, and in a whisper so low he barely heard, she said, “I saw you. It was you. You looked up at me, you and your companion. I was in the barn.”

  His heart broke. Should he fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness? She would deny him that. He let go of her hand.

  She stood and lifted the edge of her habit slightly, but stopped suddenly and turned. “It would be better for you to leave. You’re fit enough to ride. People here will be angry when they find out who you are. Go to the kitchens, ask for food for your journey. Your horse has been taken care of in the stables.”

  “I’ll go, Agneta, but—” he faltered, stunned by the ice in her voice. “I don’t want to leave you. You’ve become important to me. I owe you my life.”

  “What do you expect me to do? Leave with you? I’m a nun, Caedmon Woolgar, Saxon traitor. I’m the daughter of a family you had a hand in annihilating. Go now. I can’t bear to look at you any longer. I hate the sight of you.”

  She fled.

  Dazed, Caedmon did as she’d commanded. He slowly gathered up his belongings from under the pallet, made his way to the kitchens for provisions, saddled his horse and rode out towards Scotland and a New Year.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Agneta filled Caedmon’s’ thoughts as he rode as fast as his weakened condition would allow to Edwinesburh, to reunite with his mother. She would be devastated to believe he’d died in battle. She had no other relatives, and had devoted her life to his upbringing.

  The few people he saw in the desolate winter landscape fled from him, until he reached Lothian. After several gruelling days in the saddle, he rode into the courtyard of the only home he’d ever known, his mother’s house in Edwinesburh, the house she’d inherited from her brother, Gareth. A hue and cry went up from the servants, one of whom ran inside to tell La
dy Woolgar.

  “Caedmon,” she cried, as she burst from the house. He limped to embrace her, his lacerated leg stiff from riding. “Caedmon, you’re alive. I knew you were. I had faith you would return. I never lost hope, even when we heard the devastating news of King Malcolm’s death. His poor saintly Queen Margaret died of a broken heart, only a sennight later. To lose her son at the same time—”

  She laid her head on his chest and sobbed, and he comforted her. He loved his mother dearly.

  “Where did you get those clothes, Caedmon? Are you limping? Where have you been all this time? Oh dear, I’m rambling. It’s such a relief to see you. I thought I’d lost you.”

  He put his arm around her shoulder. “It’s a long story, Mother. I’m relieved to be home. I’ll tell you about it over dinner. I’m looking forward to a good meal.”

  His mother wrinkled her nose and smiled. “Let’s get you into a bath, and you can change into some decent clothing. Now we have reason to welcome the New Year.”

  They walked into the house, her arm linked in his. He smoothed his free hand over the sheepskin jacket, suddenly reluctant to remove it.

  When he came to his chamber, conflicting emotions assailed him. He was overjoyed to be back in the safety and comfort of the room he’d slept in since he was a child. But without Agneta, it seemed empty.

  Enid, the maid who’d accompanied Ascha from England many years ago, ordered the other servants about, chivvying them to hurry with Caedmon’s bath water, smiling broadly, obviously delighted to see him home.

  After bathing, Caedmon joined his mother for dinner. He told her about the battle at Alnwick and what had happened to him afterwards. He mentioned Agneta, but referred to her as Sister Agneta and said nothing about his feelings for her. Nor did he mention the connection to the raid on Bolton. Did his perceptive mother sense there was something he wasn’t telling her?

  Ascha raised her finger to her own temple and traced a line to her chin. “The new scar makes you look like a scoundrel,” she teased. “You’ll have more beautiful Saxon girls lusting after you.”

  Caedmon winced at her reference to his reputation with women. Could he help it if they found him attractive? It was ironic that the one woman he ached for—

  He stared at his food for a while, then suddenly blurted out, “Mother, did you—did you love my father?”

  Ascha was taken aback. Not only had she not been in love with her dead husband, he wasn’t the man who’d fathered Caedmon. But her son didn’t know this, didn’t know he’d been conceived during a brief but treasured encounter she’d experienced with a man betrothed to another, a man she’d fallen in love with at first sight, but could never have. A Norman Earl.

  Her husband had been an insensitive brute who had died at Hastings. Caedmon Brice Woolgar was the living image of his real father, an everyday reminder of her joy and her shame and she thanked God he’d met neither his supposed sire nor his actual one.

  Unable to give him a Norman name, she had named him for her dead husband, in order to further the belief among the exiled Saxon community that he was indeed the son of a Saxon hero. But she had given him the second name Brice, which in her language meant son of a nobleman, and she smiled inwardly when she thought of how cleverly she had acknowledged his real lineage, that of the Montbryce family.

  She was cautious in her reply. Why had her son asked such a question? She wondered about the nun he’d mentioned with such glowing words, but resolved not to lie to him. “Sir Caedmon fell at Hastings,” she said. “We weren’t together long. Most people of noble birth don’t marry for love. Why do you ask? Are you in love?”

  “I don’t know if I’m in love, Mother. I only know I’ve met a beautiful woman I can’t imagine living without.”

  Ascha dawdled over her food, suddenly finding it unappetizing. “Is she free, Caedmon? Free to spend her life with you?” She was desperately afraid for him, not wanting him to live the aching existence she’d lived, destined never to be with the one he loved.

  He took a deep breath. “She’s a nun.”

  “Agneta?”

  He nodded. “Aye. You’re right. Typical of me to want something I can’t have. But she’s a novice only. She hasn’t taken her final vows, and is only becoming a nun because she has no choice.” He gradually told his mother the whole story about Agneta, including that she’d seen him at Bolton.

  Ascha felt the tears well. “Caedmon, you can’t spend your life pining for something out of reach.”

  As I have.

  “She may not share your feelings, and your role in her parents’ demise will make her resent you. When you told me about that ill-fated raid I was afraid it would have dire consequences.”

  Caedmon too seemed to have lost interest in his food. He pushed his chair away from the table. “There must be a way.”

  “There are many beautiful Saxon girls here and, I’m sorry to say, not many young Saxon men after Alnwick.”

  That seemed to jolt her son from his thoughts. He leaned forward. “Who survived? Who came back? Leofric?”

  Ascha fiddled with the edges of her bread trencher. “Yes—Leofric returned—but—well, you’ll see him soon at the New Year’s festivities, such as they are this tragic year.”

  “You say Queen Margaret died too? Who rules Scotland now?”

  Ascha shook her head. “King Malcolm’s brother, Donald, immediately laid siege to Edwinesburh and seized the throne, then exiled Malcolm and Margaret’s sons. He wants to rid Scotland of what he calls the English. It’s enough to keep all Saxons here awake at nights.”

  Caedmon’s face registered surprise. “Donald? But he must be an old man by now? And unmarried, as I recall?”

  “Yes, three score years, and no heirs. More trouble ahead. They call him Domnall Bán, Donald the Fair.”

  ~~~

  “Is it absolutely necessary we attend these New Year festivities tonight?” Caedmon asked for the third time.

  Lady Ascha sighed, as Enid helped her don her cloak. “Yes, it’s necessary. Please, Caedmon, for my sake. You were lost and now you’re found. Let your fellow Saxons, including me, rejoice in that small victory. We’ve all lost a great deal. These are uncertain times and a piece of good news gladdens the heart.”

  Caedmon shuffled his feet. “I know. It’s that I would rather—”

  Ascha put her hand on his arm. “You would rather stay home and pine for your Agneta. There will be many young women happy to see you tonight. They’ll take your mind off Agneta. You need to get on with life and start a family.”

  He shrugged. “It will be good to see Leofric. He’ll be there, won’t he?”

  Ascha hesitated. “Yes, but he’s changed, Caedmon. Be prepared. He didn’t return whole from Alnwick. I don’t want to say too much. He’s your friend. He’ll be glad to see you.”

  Caedmon nodded. “It’s a pity the celebrations aren’t being held at Court.”

  Enid fastened Ascha’s cloak around her. “Thank you, Enid. It’s a hostile place for us now, unfortunately. We’ll all feel safer and more welcome at the home of the Beasants. They have plenty of room for the few of us that are left.”

  The torchbearers were waiting, sent from the Beasants to accompany them, and they made their way on foot the short distance to their destination.

  Caedmon couldn’t conceal his shock when he saw his old friend, Leofric Deacon. The once burly, jovial and handsome lad had become a gaunt shadow of his former self. His right ear was gone, his right eye covered by a patch. The mutilated side of his face bore a thick, heavy scar from his hairline, through his eyebrow to his chin. It had twisted his mouth into a permanent grimace.

  “Leofric, old friend,” Caedmon rasped, extending his hand.

  Leofric’s gloved right hand remained at his side, but he offered his left to Caedmon. “Sorry, Caedmon, my right hand doesn’t work well. Godemite, it’s good to see you, even with one eye.”

  The two men embraced. Caedmon could barely speak, imagining the ho
rror his friend had suffered. “Leofric,” he managed. “How did you survive these wounds and get back here?”

  “I was lucky. Eivind helped me. His injuries weren’t as serious. You’ll see him later, I’m sure. He looked for you without success, and, to be frank, I was in no fit state.”

  “I was found under another man’s body. Wyvern drew their attention to me. What happened to your hand?”

  Leofric shrugged. “Burns. You don’t want to see. It’s not a pretty sight. Ah, here comes your mother, with Kendra Beasant in tow. Lady Ascha will no doubt be busy trying to find a wife for you.”

  Caedmon turned his mouth down at the corners and shook his head. “I’m not interested in Kendra.”

  Leofric slapped Caedmon on the back and chuckled. “Why not? She’s a beauty. Look at those breasts! What I wouldn’t give to be suckling on those, wrapped in her long blonde tresses. She always did prefer you.”

  “Leofric, how nice to see you,” Lady Ascha said when she and her companion reached them.

  Leofric nodded and kissed Lady Ascha’s hand. “Lady Ascha.”

  “Caedmon, you remember Lady Kendra?”

  Caedmon turned to the well-endowed girl he remembered as empty headed. He forced a smile. “Yes, of course. Lady Kendra, I’m glad to see you again.”

  Kendra gave him her hand and curtseyed. He bowed and helped her to rise. When she didn’t remove her hand from his, he felt obliged to give it a perfunctory kiss. She blushed. “We’re all ecstatic to see you safely returned, Sir Caedmon. When we believed you were dead, it was a great loss for all Saxons. I myself cried every night for sennights.”

  She still hadn’t removed her hand and her bountiful breasts were thrust towards him. Leofric stifled a chuckle. “I’m flattered, Lady Kendra. I’m sure there was much weeping for all the brave Saxon knights who didn’t return from Northumbria.”

  He dropped Kendra’s hand and turned to his friend. “Leofric, who else came back?”

  He didn’t want to continue the conversation with Kendra. He was sorry to disappoint his mother, but he would much prefer to talk with Leofric and seek out old comrades. However, Lady Kendra wasn’t easily put off. “Eivind Brede, of course. He was heroic, dragging poor Leofric back.”