“Am I to understand you have a bride in mind?” Garreth felt genuine pleasure at the dowager’s concern for his marriage.
Eadgiva sniffed. “Rather I have two not in mind.”
Garreth’s brows rose at her frankness. He watched as Eadgiva directed her sharp gaze to where Cynric sat with Ailénor.
“Tell me more of Lady Ailénor and this little adventure of yours. You say she was abducted?”
Eadgifu, catching the dowager’s last words, quieted the others. “Yes, Garreth, do recount the tale for us all. ‘Twill make a fine diversion over supper.”
Garreth skimmed a glance toward Ailénor, giving her an assuring look, and as the first course was served, he began to relate their adventure.
Beside him Rosalynd sat stony-faced, as did Mora nearby, as they listened to him detail Ailénor’s abduction, their perilous crossing, and how he and she had escaped and taken refuge in the half-abandoned village of Hamwih. A needling question from Louis forced Garreth to admit they had eluded the henchmen by hiding overnight in a mill.
“Alone? Mora sniped.
The dowager quelled her with a sharp look. “Whatever measures Garreth took to save Lady Ailénor, I am sure were noble-minded and above reproach.”
Garreth did not miss how Ailénor’s hand shook as she sipped her goblet of wine, or the bright spots of color staining her cheeks. Nor did Cynric.
“Actually, we were aided by the good miller and his family.” Garreth closed the door on the subject. “We managed to keep from sight and travel to Winchester without encountering the Irishmen. We fear they could still be about, though the guards are alerted with their descriptions.”
Cynric leaned forward. “More than that, the guards likewise have Lady Ailénor’s description. They have orders to detain anyone inquiring of a woman fitting her description.” He leaned back in his chair and leveled a sly look toward Garreth. “I daresay, they might detain Lady Ailénor herself should she take a notion to leave.”
The threat was not lost on Garreth who could only sit and clench his hands.
The dowager, Eadgiva, brought the goblet from her lips. “Leave? Oh, we mustn’t let her do that.” She smiled on Ailénor. “My dear, I do hope you will remain a very, very long time, indeed. Why, I am sure the court would be delighted to keep you forever.” She added the last with great cheer.
Ailénor’s expression fell at the dowager’s words, and she looked utterly stricken. She stumbled to her feet, tipping over her goblet.
“I — I . Forgive me, Your Grace.” Ailénor fled the table, tears tumbling over her face.
Garreth bolted to his feet, swiftly excused himself, and hastened after Ailénor.
The dowager queen glanced up and down the table, right to left. “What did I say?”
A moment passed, and no one uttered a word. Eadgiva marked the smirk lining Cynric’s lips and a similar one playing over Barbetorte’s. She narrowed her eyes.
“I demand an explanation!” She slammed her goblet to the table and thrust to her feet. Turning to her right, she fixed her gaze on her stepdaughter. “Eadgifu. What are you keeping from me?”
»«
Ailénor rushed from the hall, aware of someone pursuing her close behind. Heading for the entrance doors, guards suddenly stepped forward and blocked her way, crossing their spears in front of her.
Ailénor came to an abrupt halt, nearly losing her balance and pitching forward. But in the next breath an arm slipped around her waist from behind and caught her up. She heard Garreth utter her name as he pulled her against his chest and held her firm. While she stood in his grasp, her heart thumping madly, he ordered the soldiers to withdraw.
In silence Garreth conducted her toward the staircase but continued past until they came to an alcove.
Ailénor stopped before it and rounded on Garreth. “Truly, I am hostage of the English.”
“Nay, Ailénor.”
“Then help me. Either get word to my parents or take me back to Hamwih. Put me on a boat and send me to Normandy.”
Garreth’s jaw tightened. He dropped his gaze to the floor for a moment, then raised his gaze to hers again and held it unflinchingly. “You know I cannot.”
“Why?” she cried out.
“We must wait for the king’s instructions.”
“We? Who is ‘we,’ Garreth? Certainly I am not part of your ‘we.’ Or have you cast your lot with the others?”
“Nay. Of course not.”
“Then help me.” She grasped his arms, her fingers driving into them. “Time runs short. There has been no word of Rhiannon’s men since our arrival. My mother could be in grave danger. Please, I implore you. Either alert my parents or help me return to Francia.”
Garreth released a long breath. “‘Tis not as simple as it seems. Did you see the reaction of the guards just now when you neared the door? You are being watched like a hawk. We both are. Cynric has already intercepted my missives to the king and to Normandy. I would not be surprised if he has posted his men at the ports, at least the southern ones, in the event you should escape his grasp. You — we — might both be seized if we went near them.”
“You did send missives?”
“Aye, as I said I would. Did Cynric say otherwise?” At Ailénor’s nod, he tried to mask his aggravation. “Ailénor, I vow, if word does not arrive from the king within the coming days, I shall go myself in search of him.”
Ailénor’s heart lurched with a new fear. “You could be in danger yourself if Cynric — ”
“I shall deal with Cynric and anyone else he might send after me. For your part, I would have your trust, both in myself and in my king.”
Ailénor nodded, her head sinking forward for a moment.
“Oh, Garreth, were it not for circumstances, there would be no urgency for me to leave.” A smile brightened her lips as she looked to him. “I would very much like to see more of your land.” Her smile widened farther. “And return for a private outing on St. Catherine’s Hill.”
“And I would love to escort you there.” Garreth drew her in his arms. “Lord knows I’ve missed you,” he whispered above her lips, then brushed them with his. Lowering his mouth, he claimed her with his kiss.
A short distance apart Mora and Rosalynd held to the shadows, watching as Ailénor melted against Garreth and welcomed his kiss. Their eyes constricted to catlike slits and their mouths thinned.
Nearby, but farther apart, the dowager queen Eadgiva also looked on, silent and unheeded. She took note of Mora’s and Rosalynd’s spleenful expressions as they turned to each other. The dowager then shifted her gaze to the enamored couple. As Ailénor’s arms stole around Garreth’s neck, Eadgiva’s lips lifted with a smile.
»«
Early the next morning Ailénor shortened her stride to match the pace of the other women — Eadgifu, Mora, and Rosalynd — as they emerged from the palace grounds and made their way north along Mensterstret, accompanied by a small escort of soldiers.
Ailénor directed her interest to the surrounding sights, striving to concentrate on something other than Rosalynd’s and Mora’s chatter. Sharing quarters with them last night had proven a taxing affair. The two had prattled endlessly of their “splendid jaunt” from Grately with Garreth, and how he had charmed and entertained them the entire way to Winchester. ‘Twas as if they sought to make her jealous, Ailénor thought. Non, she reconsidered. ‘Twas more like they were marking their territory and announcing their claim of Garreth.
Ailénor scanned the sky. ‘Twas a pretty, cloudless day and she was delighted to be outside the palace complex. Eadgifu wished to visit a particular goldsmith in the West Gate markets and suggested to her cousins they inspect the booths of the cloth merchants there for trims and fabrics for the new gowns they planned.
Ailénor gave over her thoughts to Garreth. She had hoped to see him before departing the palace this morn, however, he did not appear in the Great Hall to break his fast. Presumably he attended to other business. She hoped it
concerned the king.
Ailénor did encounter the dowager queen who apologized for her unknowing remarks of the night before and went on to enjoy a small conversation with her over their bread and wine. Ailénor quickly warmed to her and found herself hoping Eadgiva would accompany them on their sojourn today.
But the dowager held plans to visit Nunnaminster and her daughter, Eadburga, who was a religious there. When she learned the others intended to visit the cloth merchants, however, she called to Eadgifu.
“Ailénor needs materials for gowns herself. See she acquires enough for several and do so at my expense. Obviously she has naught of her own, coming to these shores as she did. ‘Tis deplorable she should be relegated to borrowed or discarded garments,” she reprimanded, mincing no words. “You should have thought of this before now, Eadgifu. See it rectified this day.”
Ailénor began to object, but the dowager shooed her on her way, pressing a coin pouch into her palm as she did.
“Purchase something truly stunning — mayhap cloth of emerald-green or sapphire-blue — something that will compliment your extraordinary hair and excite a man’s eye!”
Ailénor saw Mora’s and Rosalynd’s gaiety shrivel.
“Enjoy the day, child.” The dowager patted Ailénor’s hand. “All will be sorted out. You shall see. And when it is, I still hope you will choose to stay with us a time longer in England.”
At that, the dowager called for her escort and departed the palace for Nunnaminster.
Ailénor came back to the moment as she and the others arrived at Ceap Stræt, the main east-west axis running through Winchester. As she looked in each direction, it seemed to her the entire length of the wide and cobbled thoroughfare was a veritable marketplace.
Eadgifu directed them across the street to the north side, then turned left in the direction of West Gate. They slowed their progress to peruse the many stalls and shambles. Vendors peddled everything from essentials such as salt, candles, rushes, brooms, and soap, to luxuries — silver from the Harz Mountains and beautiful glassware — blue, green, and amber in color — some extraordinary in their shape and design.
One in particular captured her interest, having large globules ballooning from the lower portion of the glass and wilting to its foot, somewhat like a teardrop only reversed. Owing to the glassblowers’ genius, the projections were hollow so that when the glass was filled, so would they be also. Ailénor wished dearly to purchase a matching pair for her parents, but unable to spend the dowager’s coins freely, she promised herself to return when she could do so and procure the rare gift.
They continued on past the booths of the shoemakers, leather workers, and wood turners; potters, shieldwrights, needle makers, and, of course, the tables of the moneyers.
Along one section, there were a great many victuallers — butchers, fishmongers, bakers, vintners, and not a few brew houses. Mora wished to acquire something to drink, but Eadgifu urged the women on toward West Gate, insisting she relied on certain merchants there for the finest dye goods.
“The settlement outside West Gate is the city’s oldest, largest, and most prosperous,” Eadgifu explained to Ailénor, attempting to include her in the conversation that had been dominated by Mora and Rosalynd. I am particularly fond of its specialized markets. There are also highly skilled metalworkers there — gold and silver smiths, and also bronze workers.”
The women’s arrival at the walls of Winchester caused some commotion, as the soldiers recognized their royal visitor and scurried to clear the way and offer additional soldiers to augment the women’s escort. Eadgifu saw no need for this and proceeded, confident in the palace guard.
Passing through the gate, Ailénor observed that more than a few soldiers took a second glance at her, recognition creasing their eyes. She diverted her gaze and next discovered beggars clustered outside the city gate. One man whose clothes were naught but tattered shreds was blind, his eyes covered with ragged strips of linen.
Moved by pity, Ailénor slipped a coin from the dowager’s purse and placed it in his wooden cup. At the dull clunk of the coin against the wood, the man murmured his thanks and blessings.
Seeing that the others continued ahead — excepting one stout guard who hovered ever near — Ailénor hurried to catch up.
»«
Wimund dragged the bandages from his eyes and peered after the Baronne de Héricourt.
Fishing the coin from his cup, he tested it between his teeth, then moved off, shoving the piece into the pouch at his hip. Scant moments later he entered the first stable on Wudestret and located Grimbold mucking out a stall.
“She’s here! She’s moving toward Athelyngestret.”
Grimbold tossed aside his rake and forsook his task, mopping the sweat from his face and his newly grown beard.
“She’s not alone. There are guards, though not many,” Wimund said in a rush.
“Athelyngestret, did you say? Good. Selida’s herb booth stands toward the end of the others. She is not above a bit of silver to help out her ‘friends.’ Think what she will do for one of our little jewels.”
Wimund grunted in agreement at the thought of the wench with melon-sized breasts. Grimbold had renewed his acquaintance with Selida on their arrival in Winchester, plying her first with questions of news of the baronne and secondly with coin to lift her skirts for him. Aye, Selida would do most anything for gain, Wimund had found, even with him.
“What have you in mind?” Wimund asked.
“A potion, I think. Selida has a talent with that. She can devise something to offer the baronne, a drink that will swiftly render her dizzy and seemingly ill. Selida can then offer her a place to sit, guiding her over to her booth. The guards should not object if she rests, and mayhap they will even ease their vigilance. The booth backs up to a coppice of beech trees. We can snatch her from there and disappear before all.”
“But what of the guards, Grimbold? Maybe Selida should give them a potion, too.”
“She has ways to distract them, do not fear. But should they prove difficult, I shall be prepared to deal with them. Come now. Our time slips away.”
»«
Ailénor moved ahead of the other women while they lingered over a table of ribbons and threads.
As she trailed her gaze over harnesses and saddles at the leather workers’ booths, something gnawed at the back of her mind. ‘Twas as though something was out of place. Or not quite right. Or . . . She sighed, unsure what the source of the feeling might be.
Her eyes drew back toward the gate where she had given the blind man a coin. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. People milled about, engrossed in their own affairs. The beggars still crowded the gate. Excepting the blind man.
Ailénor scanned the crowd. He was not to be seen. After a moment she mentally shrugged her uncertainty away. It pleased her to think the man had no more need for begging this day, due to her gift, and had left. Still, her unease persisted.
The day grew warm as Ailénor inspected a diversity of goods, her guard ever near. The jewelry drew her interest more than the cloth goods, but at last she moved toward a stall with brightly colored wool, knowing she dare not return to the palace without material for three gowns.
Around her the humanity of Winchester buzzed, hawkers crying their goods, buyers and vendors arguing over prices, children laughing and darting about the adults, wagons rattling past.
Ailénor smoothed out a length of pretty cloth, the color of pale yellow primroses.
“Cider, milady?” a voice sounded at her shoulder, startling her.
Ailénor turned to find a woman with a tousled mane of dark brown hair and equally dark eyes. Her simple work dress stretched tight over an amazingly bountiful bosom, which, at the moment, was enthralling every male nearby including that of Ailénor’s guard.
“Cider, milady?” the woman asked again.
“Non, merci.”
“You are with Her Grace’s ladies are you not?”
”Oui, yes.”<
br />
“Her Grace has purchased cider for all the ladies in her company. The day grows warm, and she thought ‘twould be appreciated.”
“Mais oui. I do appreciate it, truly.” Ailénor accepted the cup, unable to refuse Eadgifu’s gracious gesture. She skimmed a glance in Eadgifu’s direction, but the woman distracted her once more.
“Drink, milady,” she prompted. “And tell me how you like the blend. ‘Tis made from three varieties of apples, a balance of mellow and tart.”
Indulging the woman, Ailénor raised the cup to her lips.
“What a lovely tone of yellow.” Mora appeared at Ailénor’s elbow and eyed the cloth in the stall. A half second later Rosalynd joined her. In unison, their gazes fell on the woman next to Ailénor and her startling endowments.
As they continued to gape, the woman stepped away and melted into the crowd.
“Is that cider?” Mora stared at Ailénor’s cup. “I should like some. Where did you get it?”
Before Ailénor could answer, Rosalynd interrupted, holding up the cloth.
“Would you really wish to wear yellow for your betrothal gown, Mora?”
“And what is the matter with yellow?”
“Tis rather garish.”
“And I suppose you would prefer black for yours. ‘Tis a festive occasion, Rosalynd. I would rather look like a spring blossom than a dried weed.”
“You are making a gown for your betrothal, Mora?” Ailénor interjected, fearing the squabble was about to escalate. “How wonderful.”
“Actually, I am also,” Rosalynd added, glaring at Mora, challenge in her eyes.
“What great fortune that you are both to wed. Congratulations.” Ailénor lifted her cup to them in their honor, then set it to her lips.
The sisters exchanged glances, then shared a small laugh as though they harbored a secret.
Ailénor paused as her upper lip touched the cider. She lowered the cup once more. “Have I said something amusing?”
They exchanged another look. Mora pursed her smiling lips as though to keep them from divulging something she would love to say.
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 20
