The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  “His lordship has departed the palace with the Breton, Barbetorte. They ride for King’s Worthy.”

  “That could only mean one thing,” Garreth muttered, thinking of the royal residence, a short distance to the north. “Osbert, find the scribe and bid him come to my chamber with his parchment and ink pots. I have need of him.”

  Garreth suspected more schemes to be afoot between Cynric and Barbetorte. Best compose his letters and see them off at once.

  Ordering his thoughts, Garreth sought his chamber.

  »«

  “Milady. Wake up, milady.”

  Aldith’s voice broke through the thick haze of sleep enveloping Ailénor, and she felt a hand gently nudge her arm.

  –Milady, you are summoned. Come, you must dress.”

  “Who . . . ?” Ailénor roused from a slumberous fog and pushed slowly up on an elbow. Dragging open her eyes, she found the room dimly lit with candles.

  “Hurry, milady.” Aldith assisted Ailénor as she rose from the bed.

  Hastily the maid helped Ailénor into a loose-fitting smoc, over which she drew a full-length tunic with close-fitting sleeves.

  “Who summons me, Aldith? — Garreth?” Ailénor rubbed the sleep from her eyes as the maid laced the back of her dress.

  “Nay, milady. A guard waits for you on the orders of the wicgerefa.”

  Ailénor came full awake. “Cynric? What could he want with me at this hour?”

  “I know not, milady. Only that he wishes you to come at once.” Aldith guided her to a chair, then offered Ailénor a warm, damp cloth to press to her face and took a comb to her hair.

  “If it eases your mind, milady, Leflet brought word ahead of the guard that visitors have just arrived at the palace. Mayhap this concerns them.”

  A heavy rap at the door and call from the guard stirred Aldith anew. Fetching a mantle, she cloaked Ailénor’s shoulders and drew the dark red tresses from where they caught beneath the neckline. Aldith gave them a few last strokes of the comb, then bustled over to the door and hauled it open. Outside, a stalwart guard stood at attention, spear in hand.

  Unease slid through Ailénor. She found no choice but to comply. Fighting back her concerns, she passed out of the chamber and followed the guard through the torch-lit corridors and down a back stairway. As she went, she wished she had bid Aldith to send word to Garreth.

  A cold finger of apprehension traced her spine as the guard brought her before a heavy iron-bound door of a chamber tucked deep in the palace.

  The guard preceded her, opening the door and briefly barring her view as he announced her. He stepped aside and gave her a meaningful nod, indicating she should enter.

  Filled with misgivings, Ailénor crossed the threshold into the chamber. As her eyes alighted on those within, the door screaked shut behind. Ailénor took a swallow as she found herself trapped with five pairs of eyes fixed on her.

  “Lady Ailénor, thank you for coming. And so promptly.” Cynric broke away from the rest and came forward full of cordiality.

  His eyes skimmed over her, one side of his mouth pulling upward into a thin smile, a smile that stopped short of his eyes. Ailénor did not trust him and would have remained rooted to the spot had he not caught her by the elbow and drawn her farther into the room.

  Ailénor’s gaze quickly brushed over the others — a lady of obvious station, two youths, and another man, Alain Barbetorte. All, including Cynric, appeared to have just concluded a ride — garbed in heavy traveling cloaks and their faces pinkened by the fresh morning air. Each now partook of a fortifying goblet of wine.

  Ailénor returned her gaze to the comely lady who moved to a chair at the room’s center and lowered herself onto its cushioned seat. Everything about her seemed regal from the grace of her movements to the noble bearing in the way she sat upon the chair. Her pale flaxen hair was drawn back from her face, overlaid with a translucent veil and crowned with a circlet of gold. Jewels winked upon her gloved hands while the deep blue silk of her gown peeked from beneath her traveling cloak.

  To the lady’s right stood the plainer of the two youths, about four years and ten in age. With a jolt Ailénor realized she stood before the exiled dowager queen of Francia and her son, Louis, the pretender to the Frankish throne.

  Ailénor sank into a deep curtsy and bowed her head. “La reine, Ogine,” she whispered, using the name the Saxon princess Eadgifu had assumed when she became Charles III’s consort.

  Ailénor kept her eyes fixed to the floor, perplexed as to how she should address the princeling, Louis, who at the moment held no certain title, yet was Francia’s rightful if unhallowed — king.

  “M-Majesty,” she floundered, then immediately regretted uttering the word. Not only was the term incorrect, ‘twas foolish on her part to use it. The lapse might be read as her personal support for Louis’s claim.

  Eadgifu smiled and gave an approving nod at Ailénor’s choice of address. Diverting her gaze past her shoulder, she spoke to Barbetorte who moved now to stand behind her.

  “This may be simpler than you led me to believe,” she said in Saxon without lowering her voice.

  “Which can only be to our benefit,” Louis added, glancing toward his mother and the Breton. He started to say more, but Barbetorte raised a warning hand.

  “Careful. She understands Saxon to some extent, Barbetorte regarded Ailénor with chilly disdain. “Probably speaks that accursed Norse tongue. She is part Dane, after all. You can see it in her height.”

  Ailénor tightened her lips against what she would say and lifted her gaze, her heart congested with defiance. Her eyes touched on Barbetorte’s left hand where it rested conspicuously on the back of Eadgifu’s chair, just above her shoulder. ‘Twas a telling gesture, Ailénor thought, declaring his familiarity with Eadgifu and his influence over her — and, presumably, over her son.

  “I see.” Eadgifu lifted a finely arched brow, considering the Breton’s words as she took a sip from her goblet. Her gaze shifted back to Ailénor. “Rise, child. Come into the light,” she bid in Frankish.

  Ailénor complied, and to spite Barbetorte, she drew herself up, Valkyrie tall, as she stepped forward. Her composure threatened to buckle as she found herself openly inspected by those within the chamber as though she were some prize bauble or rarity.

  Eadgifu counseled her features with a sympathetic smile. “I am aware of the distressing events that befell you, Lady Ailénor, and in my brother’s absence have come to personally welcome you to his court. Be assured, you are safe now. Our soldiers are alerted with descriptions of your attackers. Should the scoundrels show themselves, they will be seized at once.”

  “Merci.” Ailénor inclined her head, surprised and gratified by Eadgifu’s words.

  “Your misfortune aside, I confess it pleases me enormously to have a noblewoman of Francia — especially of Normandy — visit our shores.” Eadgifu traced her finger around the rim of her goblet. “As you know, ‘twas my husband, Charles, who granted Rollo his titles and lands. Rollo expanded his boundaries somewhat, but he was ever loyal to Charles.” Her hand stilled, and she held Ailénor’s gaze. “The ties are strong between our houses — the Carlings and the Norman dukes. Indeed, the debt runs deep.”

  The thinly veiled words were not lost on Ailénor, and she wondered where they would lead.

  “‘Twould please me to take you into my service, Lady Ailénor, as one of my ladies-in-waiting. When the Carolingian line is restored, I promise you shall remain in my service and enjoy a privileged place — reward for having shared exile with me and proven your loyalty.”

  Ailénor stood flabbergasted. The dowager queen wove her web with great skill, making her offer appear a fine and generous one, without a hint of duplicity. Had it not been for Eadgifu’s comment to Barbetorte, Ailénor would believe her words most sincere. To the contrary, Ailénor recognized all too well the trap laid before her. To refuse outright would offer grave and perhaps lasting insult. Should Louis indeed come into h
is own, what retribution might he or his mother exact on her and her family, and perchance all of Normandy?

  Ailénor silently fumed. If Cynric and Barbetorte were two of a feather, Eadgifu and her son made four.

  “Your Grace,” Ailénor began cautiously in Frankish. “‘Twould be an immense honor to serve you, and I am deeply flattered. As you know, however, I was abducted from my homeland by men who mistook me for my mother. Most desperately I need apprise my parents of my fate and warn my mother, for she may yet be in danger. In all truth, my heart aches to rejoin my family.”

  “I understand, of course,” Eadgifu said in a silken voice embroidered with compassion. “You have endured a frightening ordeal and have scarce had time to recover. But fear not. A letter shall be sent to your parents — in due course. ‘Tis my fervent hope we can all return to Francia, and soon. Duke William can make a difference as to how soon that will be, as can Hugh of Paris,” she added pointedly. “Meanwhile, it pleases me — as I am certain it will please William — to accept and honor his kinswoman with a position within my personal retinue.”

  Rising, Eadgifu closed the subject. “As you will learn, the Carlings are long on memory as to the measure of their subjects’ loyalty.”

  Her meaning hung suspended like a double-edged sword, sharp and clear. Disaffections would be remembered and repaid.

  “Are we finished here?” Louis spoke in rapid Saxon as he strode to a side table and set down his goblet. “There are yet some good hours for hunting left to this day, and I would return apace to King’s Worthy.” He started for the door, then turned back. “The duke’s kinswoman appears satisfactory for our purposes, but even if William conforms to our wishes, I do not trust him a whit. Nor do I trust Hugh for that matter. But then you know my feeling concerning the both of them.”

  Pivoting, Louis quit the chamber.

  As Ailénor drew her gaze from the door, she noted the handsome, fair-haired lad who still stood to one side quietly listening. He shifted uncomfortably and would not meet her eyes.

  “You must be exhausted, Lady Ailénor.” Eadgifu’s voice brought Ailénor’s attention back. “Take your rest for the coming days and recover yourself fully. I believe I shall remain in Winchester myself for a time and shop Ceap Stræt and West Gate. When you feel up to it, you may join me. There is no place in England quite like Winchester.”

  With that, Eadgifu whisked from the room, followed by Barbetorte.

  Ailénor turned on Cynric, her ire flaring. “Your king shall know of this. And so shall all of Normandy,” she spoke crisply in Danish and hoped he understood. “You cannot succeed.”

  Cynric closed the space between them, his steps almost swaggering, certainly overconfident. He studied the contents of his goblet, then cut his eyes up at Ailénor.

  “Might I assume Garreth has promised you his help?” When she did not answer, he sighed and wagged his head as though she had fallen victim to some folly. “My dear, Garreth of Tamworth is the king’s own champion and utterly loyal to the king’s wishes. Whatever His Majesty decrees, Garreth will comply, completely and without question.”

  Ailénor jutted up her chin in defiance to his words.

  “You do not believe me? Then you will learn, with some pain perhaps, that the bond between Garreth and the king is strong and, to Garreth’s mind, unbreakable. The two were fostered at Tamworth when Athelstan was an atheling, a princeling. When King Edward died, Garreth took up his sword and aided Athelstan to his throne. He has helped him secure and preserve it ever since. Garreth is one of England’s most renowned warriors, one of the chief officers of the Hird — the King’s elite guard. I can promise you, my dear, no pretty head will ever turn Garreth of Tamworth against his king.”

  Ailénor wavered before Cynric’s revelation, and it took several moments for her to regain herself. “He will have no need to act against the king’s wishes, for the king will never support this madness,” she challenged.

  Cynric skimmed a glance to where the young boy stood, then returned his gaze and lowered his voice.

  “Oh, but he will. Especially when he realizes just how valuable you are to his purposes.”

  “And you and the king’s sister, nephew, and godson will all be in his ears to convince him of that, is that not so?” she spat. “But Garreth will be there, too, and he will oppose you and appeal to the king directly himself.”

  Cynric elevated a brow. “Is that so? I have received no word of his leaving the palace thus far.”

  “He has no need to. He sent missives last night to the king and to Normandy. You shall not prevail in this.”

  “Did he tell you he would send missives? To the king?”

  Ailénor disliked the smugness in his smile or the keen feeling he toyed with her as a cat would a mouse. He turned toward the door where several men waited, servants and possibly court ministers or clerks of some sort, judging by their garments.

  “Fulcard,” Cynric bid one of the men to enter. “Did any of our couriers leave the palace since my own departure last night?”

  “Nay, sire. None save your own,” Fulcard made an abbreviated bow toward the high reeve. The man reminded her of a scrawny, narrow-faced weasel dressed in black robes and a skull-conforming cap.

  Cynric turned back to Ailénor with a shrug. “I fear Garreth has misled you, my dear. ‘Tis not the first time he wooed a maid to his will with pretty words.”

  Ailénor clenched her hands at her side and bit back the words burning on her tongue. Cynric lied. He was full of guile. Desperately she clung to her trust in Garreth.

  Ailénor recognized she could not win a battle of words with Cynric. She could barely keep grasp of them as it was due to the difficulties of language.

  “I see no point to continuing this conversation,” she clipped out. “Time will prove what has been spoken here. For now I shall retire to my chamber, as the dowager queen suggested.” She added the last to override any objection he might shy at her.

  Ailénor pivoted and walked briskly to the door where a guard waited, apparently assigned to shadow her every move. She chafed at the constraint. With her freedom of movement curtailed, she was no more than a captive in a golden snare. Boiling, she turned to the right and stalked blindly ahead, running headlong into Garreth.

  Ailénor jerked back and stared up at him. God forgive her, but the venom of Cynric’s words swarmed through her — of how Garreth “wooed maids to his will with pretty words.” An image rose before her mind’s eye — that of herself lying naked in Garreth’s arms in Hamwih’s mill as she gave herself to him.

  Unable to bear more, Ailénor shoved past him and fled as fast as her feet would carry her back along the passageway.

  »«

  From the daggers in Ailénor’s eyes, Garreth knew things had run afoul once more. Curse Cynric for his plotting.

  “What mischief now?” Garreth boomed as he entered the chamber.

  Cynric looked up from where several clerks attended him. He waved them away and fixed his gaze on Garreth. “Mischief?”

  “Just now I encountered Eadgifu and Louis with their shadow, Barbetorte. That was after discovering your weasel, Fulcard, intercepted my missives last night,”

  “Missives? I know of no — ”

  “Save it, Cynric. You arranged for your message alone to reach His Majesty so you might present matters as you deem fit. You go too far, Cynric. Athelstan shall hear of this in full detail from my lips.”

  “Mayhap.” Cynric’s gaze traveled past Garreth’s shoulder causing Garreth to turn and look to the far corner. There, to his surprise, he discovered the atheling Edred, the youngest of Athelstan’s half brothers.

  “Your Highness.” Garreth acknowledged the princeling with a brief bow. “Do not tell me that you are part to this.”

  “The atheling decides his own mind,” Cynric stated imperiously. “Our plans took form of a sudden, I realize, but we hoped by now you would see the advantage in detaining Lady Ailénor at court.”

  �
��The folly you mean.

  “Folly? How so? ‘Tis in Louis’s and, thus, the king’s best interest, and Lady Ailénor shan’t be mistreated. Indeed, she will be granted every courtesy and comfort. At the same time, her presence in England will afford Athelstan leverage with Duke William and underscore his earnestness in restoring the Carolingian line.”

  “‘Tis in no one’s best interest save Barbetorte’s,” Garreth retorted. “One might question where your loyalties truly lie, Cynric. With the king or Alain Barbetorte? What has the Breton promised you?”

  “Like you, Garreth, first and foremost I serve my king and thereby this land. Ever shall I strive to do all within my power to advance his interests. That necessarily includes Louis who occupies the king’s concerns. Francia’s throne is Louis’s birthright. His succession remains of grave importance to the king, his uncle.”

  “You are blind-sighted, Cynric, and do Athelstan no service. The time is ill-favored to advance Louis to the Frankish throne. Raoul is sure in his power and shall devour the cub like a wolf should he attempt to seize the crown. Even should Louis initially succeed, his throne would be too weak to endure,” Garreth echoed the duke’s words. “Louis will not find the support he requires among his barons. They look to their own cares.”

  Cynric cocked a brow. “One might question your loyalties, Garreth, and what rewards Duke William might have offered for you to dissuade the king with this gloomy assessment. It appears you hold hands rather cozily with the Normans. Or at least with the duke’s kinswoman.” Cynric sneered. “One must wonder of your relationship with the beautiful Ailénor. You did after all — by your own admission — spend considerable time with her, unaccompanied. What transpired in Hamwih, I wonder, as you waited out the storm? ‘Tis something you might not wish the Normans to explore too closely. Or the king, for that matter.”

  Garreth gazed on Cynric stonily, silently rebuking himself for having divulged details of his and Ailénor’s passage from Normandy. But that was before Cynric and Barbetorte hatched their schemes, and at the time he had suspected no guile.

  Cynric only guessed at the intimacies he and Ailénor had shared, Garreth knew. All the same, he would need to be careful in his comportment toward her under the watchful eyes of those at court. But for now he must ride directly to the king.