A Man of Value

by Anna Markland

  Leofric winced. His mother reddened.

  “Bernhard Blakemore has a nasty scar, though not as bad as Leofric’s, and Dalston Garthside seems to have gone a little bit mad. Thomas Chadwicke’s broken arm wasn’t set right and looks strange, and—”

  “Yes, Lady Kendra,” Ascha interrupted. “I’m sure Leofric will make sure Caedmon sees his old comrades again. They too will be anxious to see him. Here comes Eivind now.”

  Thank you mother.

  Eivind strode over to Caedmon and embraced him warmly. “Caedmon. Oli Crosse. It’s good to see you.”

  Caedmon slapped his old friend on the back. “Eivind. I never thought to see your ugly face again.”

  “Aye. Uglier now with this cursed scar. But I was lucky.” He glanced at Leofric. “I’m sorry we left you behind, Caedmon. We truly thought you must be dead. We didn’t have much time to hunt for you. The Normans were making sure no survivors left that bloody field. If it hadn’t been for the heavy mist, none of us would have made it back.”

  Caedmon nodded. “I understand, Eivind. I wouldn’t have expected you to risk your lives looking for me.”

  “How did you manage to survive?”

  Caedmon told the story of how he’d been found and nursed back to health. Kendra made her excuses part way through the story, giving the excuse she had to greet guests as her father’s hostess. Ascha shook her head and followed her.

  Caedmon breathed a sigh of relief and winked at Leofric. “Did anyone see Malcolm fall?”

  They all looked at their feet.

  “No, but I saw his son Edward die at the hands of the Earl,” Leofric murmured. “I was distraught and took my attention off protecting myself, and—well—you see the results. Anyway, back to this nun you talked about in such glowing terms.”

  Caedmon felt his face redden. “She was a special person. If she wasn’t a nun—”

  “Ho, ho. Our friend Caedmon has fallen in love at last.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It seemed to Caedmon his mother would never run out of candidates for him to consider as his wife. For four months she arranged chance meetings. He’d known these women for years, grown up with most of them, and his heart told him he didn’t want to spend his life with any of them.

  Lady Ascha often voiced her opinions of his attitude at table as they supped. “But they were girls then, Caedmon. They’re women now. Some of them lovely women. Kendra isn’t suitable, but Aediva Newberry cares for you, and—”

  Caedmon bristled. “Mother, please. Aediva is sweet. She will make someone a wonderful wife, but that someone isn’t me. Please stop trying to marry me off.”

  Ascha ate some of her pigeon pie. He expected she would try again. “I don’t want you to be alone, Caedmon. I won’t be here forever.”

  “I would rather be alone than spend my life with a woman I don’t care for.”

  “But you care for Aediva.”

  The pie had suddenly lost its taste. “Not that way.”

  “You mean the way you care for Agneta, your little nun?”

  “Aye,” he replied wistfully, excusing himself from the table.

  He complained to Leofric one day as they shared a jug of ale.

  “Tell someone who cares,” his friend retorted jovially. “You’re surrounded by beautiful women, all lusting for you and you don’t want any of them. None of them take a second look at me. I’m too repulsive. No woman wants to wed a monster.”

  Caedmon felt great sorrow for his friend, who’d been such a handsome knight, before Alnwick.

  Perhaps I’m being too selfish, wanting too much. But—Agneta.

  “I know, I’m selfish, but Agneta is special.”

  “You spent little time with her, during most of which you didn’t know your own name. From what you’ve told me, she isn’t likely to want to marry you after what we did at Bolton.”

  Leofric was the only other person aware Agneta had seen them at Kirkthwaite Hall.

  The alehouse was full and noisy, and Caedmon had to shout to be heard. “I helped to destroy her life, Leofric. I owe her.”

  Leofric shook his head, and cupped his hand to his mouth. “But that doesn’t mean you have to marry her.”

  Suddenly there was a lull in the noise. People were staring at them. Caedmon gazed into his tankard, feeling his face redden. “I don’t want anyone else. It’s much more than that. She haunts my dreams. I’m obsessed with her.” He took a long swig of his ale.

  “I dream of a woman too,” Leofric said wistfully, then stopped, and looked warily at Caedmon, whose attention was abruptly on him.

  “Who?”

  “It’s of no importance. It was before—this.” He indicated his disfigurement with his gloved hand.

  “Did she care for you—before?”

  “Aye. But that’s the past. This is the reality. I’ve come to accept I’ll be alone. But you don’t have to be. Marry one of these hearty Saxon wenches, and live happily ever after. I’ll be Uncle Leofric to your many offspring.” He clinked his tankard against Caedmon’s.

  “I suppose—”

  Their conversation was interrupted by loud shouts from the street. “Siege! An army at the gates! Normans!”

  The two friends jumped to their feet and ran out of the alehouse. Panicked people scattered hither and thither. Caedmon grabbed a boy by the arm as he ran by. “What’s the alarm? What’s happening?”

  The lad tried to pull away, on the verge of tears. “The city’s under siege. Let me go, I beg you, sir.”

  Caedmon clamped his hand tighter. “Be calm. Tell me who is laying siege.” He already had an idea who it might be. Rumours had been rampant for weeks that one of Malcolm Cenn Mór’s sons would try to wrest the throne from Donald Bán.

  “They say it’s Duncan, son of our good King Malcolm, and his first Queen, Ingibiorg. He has a mighty army with him, Normans and Northumbrians.”

  “Normans?” Leofric exclaimed.

  “Northumbrians?” Caedmon said quietly. He let go of the boy’s arm and the urchin sped away. “We’ll go to my mother’s house, Leofric. Saxons must decide what to do in the face of this new threat. Our decisions now could be crucial to our future here. Edwinesburh has suddenly become a more dangerous place.”

  When they arrived home, Enid told them Lady Ascha had already gone to the Beasant home where most Saxons were gathering. They followed her there.

  Edgar Beasant addressed a restive crowd. “It appears Duncan is in league with his half brother, Edmund, son of Malcolm Cenn Mór and Margaret. As you know, Edmund fled to England when Donald Bán seized the throne. Now King William Rufus is aiding him in this bid to wrest the throne from Donald.”

  Caedmon wished he could get his mother’s attention across the crowded room. “This is a kettle of stinking fish,” he exclaimed to Leofric. “Malcolm and Rufus were bitter enemies, and now Rufus is helping Malcolm’s two sons.”

  “Where does that leave us?” Leofric wondered aloud.

  Beasant had continued speaking. “It’s my opinion that for the moment we do nothing. The siege may not be successful. If Duncan and Edmund do succeed in taking the throne from Donald Bán, I suggest we form an emissary committee to convey our assurance of support.”

  “Aye,” everyone shouted.

  “I will volunteer to head the Emissary Committee, but we need younger men, young knights.”

  “Caedmon Woolgar,” someone shouted.

  Caedmon’s mother scanned the hall for a glimpse of him.

  “Sir Caedmon, are you willing?” Beasant asked.

  Ascha’s eyes found his. She hesitated, then nodded slightly.

  He nodded back, heartened by the pride in her eyes. “Aye. Willing. I propose Sir Leofric Deacon, a knight who sacrificed much for Duncan and Edmund’s father, Malcolm Cenn Mór.

  “Sir Leofric, are you willing?”

  Leofric didn’t hesitate, only nodded to Caedmon. “Aye. Willing.”

  “Any other names to propose?”

  Th
ere was a pause. People murmured quietly, shaking heads.

  “Hearing none, settled then. Sir Caedmon and Sir Leofric. If you please. My library, forthwith.”

  Caedmon liked the look of pride on Leofric’s face, instead of the desolation he usually saw there.

  ~~~

  After Caedmon’s departure, life in the convent became a numbing, monotonous round for Agneta. She’d previously taken secret delight in being able to use her work in the Infirmary as an excuse not to attend all the recitations of divine office required of the other novices. Now, despite the fact she’d been appointed Infirmarian and given full control, she determined to be present at all the services, unless it was a matter of life and death in the Infirmary.

  She was determined to banish thoughts of Caedmon from her life. First up for Lauds at two hours after midnight, she went back to her pallet in the dormitory after that, until first light when she rose for a breakfast of bread and ale. If all was in order in the Infirmary, she offered assistance to the Sacrist with the books, vestments and vessels.

  After Prime she met with other nuns in the chapter house where chapters from the Bible or the writings of saints were read out. Then it was Tierce, after which she worked in the hospital, or helped with the washing or cooking. She learned how to make wine, ale and honey, and as the spring of the Year of Our Lord One Thousand and Ninety Four arrived, assisted with the planting of vegetables and herbs.

  She often struggled to stay awake during the service of Sext at midday, but the dinner served after that revived her somewhat, and she went back to work until Nones, three hours later, then Vespers two hours after that, and finally Compline. She rarely had any idea of what was served at the light supper served between Nones and Vespers.

  As the days passed, the round became a daily grind, Lauds, breakfast, work, Prime, work, Tierce, work, Nones, Vespers, work, Compline, work, work, work, sleep, work. After Compline she collapsed, exhausted, onto her pallet. She came to an understanding of why nuns were detached. They were too numbed by fatigue to feel anything.

  Yet, every night, Caedmon came to her.

  I want to warm you forever.

  He pulled her body against his.

  I have to tell you—I took part in the raid on Bolton.

  In her dreams he cradled her dead brother, practiced with his sword, held his helmet on his belly, crowded her in the oxcart, breathed his warmth breath on her, brushed his lips against hers, looked up at her hiding place in the barn.

  It’s good to hear you laugh, Agneta.

  The memory of his husky voice washed over her. “I’ll never laugh again,” she whimpered, awakened once more by her dreams, curling up, hugging her body, trying to get back to sleep.

  She was ashamed when she dreamed of Caedmon touching her, holding her, stroking her hair. Sometimes his presence felt real enough that her own sighs woke her up.

  Pray God no one heard me.

  She fought to still the aching throb arching into her core, and often awoke hot with shame, her hand between her legs, her pillow wet with tears of longing. Whenever she shaved a patient, her hand shook and she had to abandon the task, often to Brother Manton. She craved Caedmon’s return, and hated herself and him for it.

  “You look unwell, Sister Agneta,” Brother Manton whispered to her one day, keeping his eyes on the patient they were tending.

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she replied.

  The monk shook his head. “It’s more than that, isn’t it child? You’re unhappy here.”

  “I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  “That’s not a reason to take final vows,” the old man whispered softly.

  Agneta felt her whole body tense. She wanted to scream, but murmured, “I’m trying my best, brother. I’m trying to be a good nun.”

  “You should speak to Mother Superior. She can perhaps help you with whatever is making you unhappy.”

  Agneta shook her head, panic in her eyes. “No, she can’t help me.”

  “It’s the Saxon knight, isn’t it?” There was no accusation in the monk’s voice.

  Oh God, is it so obvious?

  She gasped and their eyes met for the briefest moment. He’d seen the truth. She felt the tears welling.

  “I will pray for you, Agneta.”

  “Thank you, Brother Manton. Please excuse me, I must see to the child with the broken arm.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Your Majesty.” Edgar Beasant bowed low to the new King, Duncan. He effected a slightly less deferential bow to Duncan’s half-brother, seated in the lesser throne beside Duncan’s. “My Lord Edmund.”

  He turned back to Duncan. “May I introduce my comrades who have accompanied me on this mission from the Saxon community to bring our good wishes on your accession to the throne?”

  “Proceed,” Duncan replied. Edmund nodded.

  Edgar indicated the two knights who’d accompanied him. “Sir Caedmon Woolgar and Sir Leofric Deacon are both Saxons born in Scotland after their parents fled the Conqueror. Both fought valiantly for your Father, King Malcolm Cenn Mór at the Battle of Alnwick, and, as you see, both bear the scars of their sacrifices for Scotland.

  While Edgar talked, Caedmon watched the new King Duncan. He seemed ill-at-ease and obviously aware of his half-brother seated beside him. Though they shared the same father, they didn’t look alike. Caedmon wondered if they trusted each other. What had they done with their uncle, Donald the Fair, whom they’d deposed?

  When his own name was mentioned Caedmon bowed with great deference, aware his actions and those of Leofric and Edgar, would have an impact on the exiled Saxon community. As Edgar continued to extol the loyalty of the Saxons, Caedmon sensed Edmund growing impatient and suddenly King Duncan raised his hand.

  “Enough, Sir Edgar. We’re already aware of your efforts over the years on behalf of my Father. Sir Caedmon, Sir Leofric, we thank you for your bravery and your sacrifices for Scotland. However, we must also respect the feelings of our new allies, King William Rufus and the Northumbrians who have aided us to regain the throne. We must have assurances there will be no further attacks by Saxons against Norman holdings and interests.”

  “I, like my fellow Saxons, seek only to protect the interests of Scotland, the land that has afforded us protection since the Conquest,” Caedmon replied.

  “Aye, well, we all seek to protect Scotland’s interests,” Edmund suddenly interjected. “We need your oath there will be no attacks against Normans.”

  Caedmon raged inwardly, but he had no choice, any more than the two royal princes who sat before him. What price had Rufus exacted for his support?

  “On behalf of the Saxon community, I swear there will be no attacks on Norman interests and holdings,” Edgar solemnly intoned, his hand on his heart.

  They were dismissed. As they left, Caedmon whispered to Leofric, “I predict the reign of Duncan the Second to be a short one.”

  ~~~

  As the days blurred into each other, Agneta lost track of how old she was. She wouldn’t be required to make her final vows until she reached her majority, but exactly when that would be wasn’t clear in her mind. Since she didn’t want to think about the finality of that event, she made no great effort to clear the fog. She was grimly certain Mother Superior had the matter in hand.

  One day, in the early autumn, a man came to the infirmary with a deep sword wound to his upper arm. It wasn’t a new wound, but had been poorly treated and there were signs of putrefaction. He was feverish. Agneta quickly had him assigned to a pallet and she and her helpers tended him.

  “Where did this happen? This blow came close to cleaving your arm in two. Who sewed your wound?” she asked him.

  “Edwinesburh,” he rasped. “One of my comrades did the stitching, just so’s I could get back home.”

  “You’re from Northumbria?”

  The man nodded, wincing at the pain.

  “What were you doing in Scotland?”

  The man looked around ne
rvously, then seemed reassured. “Helped with the siege.”

  Agneta’s had to wipe her sweaty palms on her habit. “Siege?”

  He nodded. “Went with Rufus’s army to help depose King Donald.”

  She swallowed hard. “Was the siege successful?” Her hands shook and she had to stop her ministrations. She saw the questioning look of concern in Mayda’s eyes.

  “Are you all right? You look like you might swoon,” the novice whispered.

  Agneta nodded, and wiped her brow with her sleeve.

  The injured man continued, “Duncan’s king now, but more or less shares the throne with his half-brother, Edmund. They’re the sons of King Malcolm, you know, the one killed near here, at Alnwick.”

  To Agneta’s surprise, it was Mayda who asked, “But you say the Normans helped them capture the throne?”

  The man nodded, gritting his teeth against the pain. Agneta could see he was close to swooning as they laved the putrefaction from his wound.

  “Was it a long siege? Did many die?” she stammered.

  He had to wait for the spasm of pain to pass. “No, it was enough that we threatened. Donald the Fair couldn’t withstand our army and gave up quick. Saved his own neck. I was unlucky. Too cocksure of our success.”

  Agneta had to get away, before she did indeed fall to the stone floor. Caedmon wouldn’t sit idly by if he had a cause to fight for and he hated Normans. “Sister Mayda can finish taking care of you. Hopefully, the wound will heal properly now. Watch his fever, Mayda,” she whispered, unwilling to look her friend in the eye. She fled to the sanctuary of the chapel, and fell to her knees.

  “Pater Noster,” she sobbed. “Please—please protect him. Keep him alive. I can’t bear the thought he might be dead. Please.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Many Saxons have already left, mother. We must do the same. This country is no longer safe for us. We have no future here. Duncan’s flimsy hold on the crown won’t last now that his foreign allies have had to return to their own lands to put down a rebellion.”