The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  “Is it to be a double wedding?” Ailénor smiled at the thought. “May I ask whom you are to marry?”

  Rosalynd replaced the cloth on the table and turned to Ailénor, a gleam in her eyes. “Why, did Garreth not tell you? He is to choose between Mora and myself, betrothing himself to one of us just after the ceremony investing him as the Ealdorman of Hamtunscir.”

  Ailénor’s heart rammed against her ribs. She fought to keep the shock from her face, but knew she failed miserably.

  How could this be? her mind reeled. Garreth had made love to her. He took her virginity, deflowered her, knowing full well he would soon wed another — Mora or Rosalynd. He had promised to keep her always at his side. But as what? His concubine?

  For a moment Mora’s and Rosalynd’s faces swam before her eyes. But then her anger erupted. Disgusted, Ailénor passed her cider off to Mora.

  “Forgive me. I must return to the palace. I find I do not feel well of a sudden.”

  Turning on her heel, Ailénor hastened back toward the gate and, entering the city, hurried toward the palace with tears in her eyes.

  Eadgifu, seeing Ailénor’s sudden departure, nodded to one of the soldiers to follow her, then joined her cousins.

  “Whatever passed between you and Lady Ailénor? She looked stricken.”

  Mora and Rosalynd struggled to conceal their triumph. “She seems to have taken ill,” Mora said, full of innocence.

  “I am not surprised. She is still recovering from her journey.” Eadgifu turned to the yellow cloth spread on the table and began to examine it.

  Mora shared a conspiratorial smile with Rosalynd. Exultant, she lifted the cup to her lips and downed the cider.

  »«

  Short of breath and with an ache in her side, Ailénor forced herself on at a brisk pace and entered the palace.

  She heard the clip of the boots of the guard following behind her but dismissed him from her thoughts and headed for the staircase. As she gained the first step, she heard Cynric’s voice call her name.

  She stayed her foot, clenching her fists at her side. She held no wish to suffer the man. Not now. Not when her heart was breaking.

  “Lady Ailénor,” Cynric called again. “I thought you would wish to know — a letter has arrived from the king.”

  Slowly Ailénor turned in place. Cynric stood a short space apart, a parchment grasped in his hand, a look of victory in his eyes. Ailénor steeled herself.

  “King Athelstan concurs that you should remain for the time as a guest of his court. He wishes to greet you himself on his return. Furthermore, he believes you will be more comfortable at the royal estate at Andover and has instructed for your immediate removal there.”

  Ailénor’s heart beat high and rapid at his words. She was to be a prisoner, then. Where Garreth held every confidence in his king, that same king now failed her.

  She notched her chin defiantly. “Does Garreth know of this?”

  Cynric’s lips curled in a smile. “My lady, Garreth has agreed to lead the baggage wain himself for your transport to the fortifications at Andover.” At her look, he stepped forward a pace. “I tried to warn you. Garreth will follow the king’s wishes in all matters, even those concerning you.”

  Ailénor felt as though a knife had just been plunged through her heart and twisted. She pivoted and escaped up the stairs. As she reached the top of the flight, she heard a commotion from below.

  Casting a quick look back down, she saw two soldiers carrying Mora into the palace. ‘Twould appear she had passed out in a dead faint.

  »«

  Garreth took the stairs two at a time, having only now received word of Ailénor’s return. Unfortunately Cynric had already spoken with her.

  When Garreth reached the chamber, it was bustling with activity. Through the open door he glimpsed Mora, moaning on her pallet while Rosalynd wrung out a wet cloth and laid it to her head.

  Aldith caught sight of him and bustled over to the door. “The ladies can have no visitors now, I am sorry.” She began to close the door.

  He thrust out his hand, preventing Aldith from closing the door. “I need to speak with Ailénor. ‘Tis a matter of some urgency.”

  “Lady Ailénor has taken to her bed and does not wish to see anyone.”

  “Is Eadgifu present?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then I strongly suggest you stir Ailénor from her bed unless you wish me to do so myself.”

  “Sir!” she sputtered, aghast. “You wouldn’t! Why, milady has not a stitch on beneath the covers.”

  Garreth smiled grimly. “Then I suggest you hurry to see her dressed.”

  Aldith’s eyes rounded. She snapped her mouth shut and disappeared inside the chamber. Minutes later Ailénor appeared at the portal. She had been crying, Garreth realized as he observed her reddened eyes. He vented a long breath.

  “Could we speak a moment?” he asked quietly.

  Ailénor nodded in assent and joined him outside the room.

  “I am surprised as you are at the king’s missive, though not entirely. ‘Tis my belief Cynric misrepresented matters to King Athelstan. I intend to ride personally to the king and confront him.”

  “Is that before or after you deliver me to Andover?” Garreth winced, not realizing she knew this.

  “And what next?” she pressed. “Will you collect laurels from the king? And a bride of royal blood?”

  “Bride? What are you speaking of?”

  “Do you deny you are to betroth yourself to one of the king’s cousins — Rosalynd or Mora?”

  “Who told you this?” Garreth growled.

  “Does it matter? Tell the truth, Garreth. Are you to choose one of them as your wife?”

  “No. Yes. Both.”

  “You cannot have it all ways,” Ailénor argued, slipping into Frankish. She lowered her voice. “You claimed my maidenhead, knowing full well you would pledge yourself elsewhere.”

  “That is not the way of it,” he blurted in Saxon, then transferred also to Frankish. “No commitments have been made, formal or informal. The king only suggested I consider his royal cousins. I met them on two previous occasions and those for a very limited time. The only pledge I made was to announce my choice of a bride upon my return from Francia. And that I still intend to do.”

  Ailénor swallowed hard against his words, then dashed a tear from her cheek. She began to turn from Garreth, unable to hear more. He held her fast, however, and would not allow her to move away.

  “I intend to announce my choice is you, Ailénor,” he said more gently.

  Ailénor’s gaze leapt to his, his words joyous and bittersweet, vying with one another within her heart.

  “Yet you would banish me to Andover. You would lead me there yourself and leave my mother endangered due to Saxon duplicity. Mayhap this offer of marriage is but another way to bind me here.”

  “Nay, you are wrong, Ailénor. All is not as it seems. I believe the king sends you to Andover with good reason. It lies roughly thirteen miles to the north and upon the same road that I must travel to reach him. By sending you to Andover, he also removes you from beneath Cynric’s authority. It may be a signal he suspects something is amiss in what Cynric has related to him.”

  “And if it is not? What if the king agrees with Cynric and intends to keep me his captive, installing me where my own people cannot easily find me?”

  “I cannot believe that.”

  “Then prove me wrong. Help me reach a ship that will take me to Normandy. If the ports are watched, then take me to Lundenburh where I can board one of my uncle’s vessels. Then you can have your talk with the king.”

  “That I cannot do, Ailénor.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  “I am bound by oath and loyalty to my king.” And by ties you cannot possibly understand. “Had I been able to deliver you back to Normandy before the matter was submitted to the king, I could have acted of my own accord. But once Cynric’s message went out, I was bound to
wait. To do otherwise would be tantamount to supplanting the king’s authority and imposing my own will.”

  Cynric’s words flowed back to Ailénor. Garreth would faithfully follow the king’s biddings, no matter what. Her heart sank.

  Garreth reverted to Saxon though he appeared not to realize he had. “The king’s missive requires you to remain in England. To that end, I will conduct you safely to Andover, fulfilling his instructions. Afterward, however, I shall personally go in search of him to settle this matter. Then we will speak of the future and what we will share.”

  Inside the bedchamber Mora lifted her head slightly from her pillow and looked to where Rosalynd stood listening beside the partially opened door.

  “What do they say?” Mora gritted out against a raging headache, yet aware Ailénor had joined Garreth in the passageway.

  Rosalynd came away from the portal and changed the cloth on Mora’s forehead. “Ailénor is to remain at court, no telling how long,” she spoke quietly so Aldith would not hear. “Garreth is to escort her to the king’s estate at Andover.”

  “Remain? But she can’t!” Mora blurted and immediately regretted it as pain seared through her head. “Oh, Rosalynd, Garreth is sorely affected by her. I think she has placed a charm on him.”

  Rosalynd bit the nail of her thumb, turning her thoughts.

  She looked up of a sudden, her eyes flashing. “When was the last time you visited Andover?”

  »«

  Streaks of pink lightened an otherwise slate-gray sky, as the baggage wain assembled at dawn.

  Ailénor waited upon a nutmeg palfrey, preferring to ride mounted than to be enclosed with Mora and Rosalynd in the covered charette for the duration of the journey. She still wondered at their insistence to accompany her to Andover. Mayhap they really did have relatives there, but Ailénor believed their sudden friendliness toward her to be wholly feigned.

  Eadgifu, pleased by Athelstan’s command, graciously yielded up her new lady-in-waiting, having no wish to travel to “windy” Andover herself. Late yesterday she repaired to King’s Worthy to rejoin Louis and Alain Barbetorte.

  The dowager queen Eadgiva decided to entrench herself at Winchester and wait for her stepson Athelstan. She declared she had a few choice things to say to him, and not a few included the high-stepping wicgerefa, Cynric.

  The last of the spare wagons arrived from the West Gate stables and were loaded with furniture and goods for the journey. Like most royal palaces, Andover stood barren when the royals were not in residence.

  Garreth traveled along the full length of the entourage, making his last inspection of the horses, wagons, and accompanying retinue. Satisfied, he turned his horse and returned to the head of the line where he joined Ailénor.

  She had spoken no more than a handful of words to him for the last two days. Now she looked straight ahead and would not look at him. Garreth longed to reach the king and right this matter, setting it behind them.

  Shouting out a command, he signaled the entourage forward and conducted them toward North Gate.

  »«

  At the end of the baggage wain, Wimund grumbled beside Grimbold as they manned one of the wagons.

  “I tell you, we have lost too much time. Princess Rhiannon warned she would hire others and give the treasure to them if we tarried too long.”

  Grimbold rolled an eye to Wimund, weary of his constant fretting. He clicked his tongue and twitched the reins, prodding the animal ahead.

  “We have little choice as I see it. But this time we should be able to get inside the royal compound at Andover. You need to learn patience, Wimund. Why do you think I sought employment at one of the largest stables that serves the palace? Sometimes ‘tis necessary to bide a little time and keep one’s ears to the ground for the best opportunity. Right now, ours appears to be Andover.”

  “But the treasure,” Wimund whined. “By the time we reach Ireland with the baronne, Rhiannon will have promised it elsewhere.” He thought a moment, his huge eyes darting about as if to catch a thought. “But she doesn’t know we are here, does she? Mayhap if she did, and that we have the baronne in sight and the reasons for our delay . . .” He spun on his seat to face his companion. “Do you think I should catch a quick craft to Ireland to tell her and join you later at Andover?”

  At the end of his patience, Grimbold gave Wimund a long look. “Is that what you wish to do — go to Ireland?”

  Wimund nodded rapidly.

  “Mayhap ‘tis best after all,” Grimbold conceded. “Take the old Roman road from West Gate straight across to the coast to the Severn. Catch a boat there. Return the same way, only at Sarum take the branch that leads north and east. You’ll soon come to Andover. ‘Tis on the same road that leads to Lundenburh.”

  Grimbold slowed the wagon, and Wimund scrambled down. As he pulled ahead, Grimbold shook his head, thinking of what the princess would do to Wimund when he appeared empty-handed. It didn’t really matter if Wimund returned. His luck lay at Andover, he could feel it in his bones. In the coming days, Lady Ailinn of Héricourt would be his. And so would be the treasure.

  »«

  The baggage wain departed Winchester, passing beneath the stone church that spanned the North Gate bridge overhead. To the north the land opened out to rolling meadows, dotted with wooded coppices and bounded by the River Itchen to the east.

  Ailénor glanced up as skylarks winged their way ahead. What great advantage they had, Ailénor thought, to see the whole view of things at once, even what lay ahead of them before they even reached it. How she wished she could view her world as they. And look ahead to the path that lay before her in the days to come.

  But she could not wait on kings or on the man she loved. If she was to get back to Normandy in time to warn her mother, she must rely on herself. When Garreth departed Andover, she would find a way to escape and find her way to Lundenburh.

  Chapter 9

  Rouen, Normandy

  Lyting marked the center of the target, drew on his bow, and with unerring aim sent the arrow hissing to its goal to crowd four other shafts. Without a wasted movement, he nocked another arrow, pulled, released, and added a sixth.

  God help the whoresons who took Ailénor, he thought darkly. If any harm came to her, he would personally . . .

  “Lord Lyting!” a servant cried, hastening toward him. “Lady Ailinn asks you to join her in your chamber at once. There are arrivals from Valsemé.” The servant came to a halt, panting for breath. “Lady Ailinn says ‘tis urgent.”

  Lyting handed off his bow and headed for the keep. Long minutes later he climbed the stairs by twos to the upper floor where his and Ailinn’s chamber lay. He arrived at the door just ahead of his brother, Rurik, who approached from the opposite end of the gallery.

  As they entered, Ailinn turned and looked up from where she sat with Brienne and their visitors. Lyting directed his gaze to the couple who were now rising to their feet, and immediately recognized Ailinn’s stepcousin Lia.

  Ailinn and Lia were as close as sisters, having been raised together from their youth. During the raid on Clonmel, they had been seized along with their kinswomen and transported to the Danish market town of Hedeby. ‘Twas there Lyting first set eyes on Ailinn. And there his old friend, Ketil, discovered Lia being sold as a slave. Ketil purchased her freedom, and together with his wife, Aleth, brought her to Normandy. Lia later married one of Rurik’s men-at-arms and made Valsemé her new home.

  But ‘twas not her husband who accompanied her this day. Lyting did not recognize the man. Whomever he was, he appeared neither Frankish nor Norse by the look of him.

  As Lyting greeted Lia, he could feel a fine tension layering the room. Ailinn appeared alarmingly pale, and fine lines etched Brienne’s forehead. Mentally he steeled himself, wondering what news Lia bore that could be so urgent.

  “May I present my kinsman, Comyn of Clonmel,” Lia began. “He brings remarkable news from Ireland. Rhiannon is alive. She returned six months ago from the
East.”

  Lyting’s eyes leapt to Ailinn. She dropped her gaze, sealing her lips against the emotions she plainly felt. As Lyting returned his gaze to Lia, he wondered how she felt of this news. Rhiannon had been responsible for the death of Lia’s sister, Deira. He himself had witnessed the act. Try though he did, he could not save Deira from the fierce rapids of Gelandri. It had haunted his soul ever since.

  Lia’s voice netted his attention. “When I heard the full of Comyn’s story, I knew we must come at once. I fear it may have some bearing on Ailénor’s disappearance.”

  Lyting exchanged a look of surprise with Rurik. “How so, Lia?”

  She turned to Comyn and spoke with him briefly in Gaelic. Again she looked to Lyting and Rurik. “Comyn does not speak Frankish, but I will translate his words for you. ‘Tis a lengthy tale. Mayhap you wish to seat yourselves.”

  Lyting shook his head but crossed the expanse to stand behind Ailinn. He placed a calming hand upon her shoulder while she in turn slipped her hand overtop his. Rurik, meanwhile, joined Brienne.

  Softly, in Gaelic, Lia bid Comyn to begin, and then rendered his words in Frankish.

  “One day, six months past, Rhiannon arrived in Clonmel, bringing with her a barbarian of the Steppe, a man with the devil’s mark upon his face. At the time, Mór, her father, lingered on his deathbed. He was jubilant to find Rhiannon had survived, having thought her to be dead these many long years. Rhiannon, too, was overjoyed, thinking Mór had died during the Norse raid on Clonmel.

  “In the days that followed, Rhiannon described how she and the barbarian, Varya, had gained their freedom. It seems a missionary discovered them, one of the itinerant monks who devote their lives to converting heathens and seeking enslaved Christians so they might buy them out of bondage.”

  Lia paused as Comyn said something very rapidly, gesturing expressively with his hands.

  “Comyn says to this day no one understands the nature of Rhiannon’s association with Varya, only that she convinced the monk to bargain his freedom as well as hers, claiming him to be agreeable to conversion and taking baptism. From what can be surmised, Varya never received the holy waters. Nor is it clear what became of the monk. But over the last year, Rhiannon and the barbarian made their way west to Ireland.