Wimund backed toward the door, bobbing in short, rapid bows. “Yes, Princess. At once.” He stumbled in his haste to leave.
“One thing more,” Rhiannon called after Wimund. “Varya will accompany you this time.”
An hour later Rhiannon stood on the wall of the hill-fort, looking out over the steep drop to the sea as Varya and Wimund’s ship departed.
“You shan’t escape your fate, Ailinn,” she promised on the wind. “Not this time.”
Chapter 10
Andover, England
Ailénor’s heart dipped when she saw the fortifications of Andover. Defended by earthworks, stockade, sentry walks, and a guardhouse that spanned the entrance gate, she knew there would be little chance of escape.
Guiding her palfrey behind Garreth’s larger courser, she entered the compound at the head of the baggage wain and reined her horse to a standstill. As she began to dismount, Garreth appeared at her side to assist her.
Their eyes met and held. She knew in her heart their time together now dwindled to its close. Placing her hands on his broad shoulders, she allowed him to lift her down. She gazed into his beautiful, dark brown eyes, making no move to withdraw her hands from him. Nor did he withdraw his from her. They stood locked together for a moment in time. It tore at her that their paths must part.
“Do not leave me here, Garreth,” she appealed softly. “Help me.”
A sadness, a wearied frustration, flickered across his eyes. “That is what I am striving to do.”
His look pleaded for understanding. But Ailénor knew understanding alone would not protect her mother. Nor would he change his course of action.
She dropped her gaze. “Then ‘twould seem there is nothing more to say.”
Drawing her hands from his shoulders, she stepped from his hold. She must rely on herself. The English king, she believed, would uphold his earlier decision ordering her detainment. If so, she doubted not at all what Garreth would do. Cynric had been very clear. Were Garreth faced with a choice between his king and her, she would lose.
However she could accomplish it, she must escape Andover and find her way to her uncle’s ship in Lundenburh.
Dispirited, Ailénor glanced aside and caught sight of Rosalynd and Mora whose eyes were fixed on Garreth and herself. She guessed them to be the only ones who sincerely wished for her to leave court. It gave her no joy, knowing when she did she would be leaving Garreth to the wiles of these two felines.
Garreth’s gaze lingered over Ailénor as she looked back along the baggage wain, his emotions drawn tight as a bowstring. Was he doing right by her? He had asked himself that question a thousand times. And a thousand times he found no answer that could be held free of doubt.
One thing remained, however. His steadfast faith in the wisdom and justice of Athelstan.
A bright patch of color caught his eye — Mora’s scarlet sleeve as she waved for him to help her and her sister from their covered charette. Garreth glanced at Ailénor, wishing to offer some encouragement, but as his gaze met her stiff back, he knew she was right. There was nothing more to say. Nothing more until he conferred with Athelstan face-to-face.
Garreth strode from Ailénor’s side to assist Mora and Rosalynd. They flushed and twittered and fawned as he lifted them one by one to the ground, stretching his nerves all the tighter. In silence he escorted the women to the timbered hall, leaving behind the courtyard abuzz with activity as members of the retinue saw to the horses and the unloading of the wagons.
Inside the rustic building, they were met by the palace staff who had been informed of their coming and also by the reeve of the royal estate of Andover, a man known to Garreth as Rannulf.
While servants conducted the ladies to their chambers, Garreth conferred with the reeve concerning the king’s missive. He then repaired to the quarters he customarily occupied on his annual visits with the monarch. After refreshing himself, he next joined the women in the main hall for a goblet of wine and to make his farewell.
“You are leaving?” Mora gasped. “But we just arrived.”
Rosalynd shared her sister’s surprise, her mouth dropping open. Ailénor simply looked away.
“I go to the king on a matter of some urgency,” Garreth explained. “I trust you will understand.”
Ailénor pressed her lashes shut as though blotting out his words. Mora pouted petulantly but in a way meant to dissuade him from leaving. Rosalynd pleaded for him to remain. Unable to bear more, Garreth placed his goblet on the table and sketched a shallow bow.
“Ladies. If you will excuse me, I must see to obtaining a fresh mount.”
Quitting the hall, Garreth headed for the stables, more anxious than ever to reach the king and resolve this whole affair.
The stables proved to be a bustling, congested scene. The last of the pack and wagon horses were being unhitched, rubbed down, and walked about the yard, and the sundry conveyances lined up beside the building.
The commotion extended to inside the stable as well, where stablehands stalled and fed the horses and others cared for and stored the gear. His gaze fell on one of the workers hanging up the heavy horse collars.
“Have you seen the groom named Warrin?” Garreth called above the racket.
The man, darting a brief look to Garreth, shook his head, then turned back to his work. Garreth thought he recognized him as one of the men in the baggage wain who had just made the journey from Winchester. He possessed small, hard eyes beneath a floppy brimmed hat and a scrubby beard that covered his lower face.
Garreth crossed to the stalls to examine the choice of horses. He required one trained for long distances, having stamina and standing to a suitable height, able to accommodate his own size. What he would give for one of the large Norman horses he had seen at the ducal palace at Rouen.
As he began to examine the horse in the first stall, it flinched and sidestepped, throwing its head up and away from Garreth’s touch. The horse’s eyes showed a large amount of white, an indication the animal was skittish. Definitely not a good choice for the task set before him — scouring the countryside for a king.
Garreth moved on to a dark bay courser in the next stall that looked promising. He diverted his gaze momentarily to the bearded man hanging up the tack. There was something indefinably familiar about him. But Garreth could not pinpoint just what that was.
Returning his attention to the bay, he ran his hand down the animal’s leg, feeling for heat or swelling that might indicate inflammation or joint problems. He next checked the hooves, making sure they were clean and free of small stones. They were. The groom had done his job.
Garreth straightened and, rubbing the horse’s muzzle, checked its eyes. As he did, he allowed his gaze to drift once more to the bearded man. He sat conditioning a saddle, rubbing it with lanolin-rich sheep’s wool.
Something jabbed at the back of Garreth’s mind like the point of a bull’s horn. He concentrated on what he could see of the man’s profile, narrowing his eyes. Just then, the groom, Warrin, appeared at his side and interrupted his thoughts with a hearty greeting.
Warrin quickly caught Garreth up in conversation, agreeing with his assessment of the one horse while assuring the bay was sound and dependable. They looked over several more mounts, but Garreth settled on the bay.
While Warrin saddled the horse, Garreth again considered the bearded man, though he was no longer in sight. Many minutes later, as Garreth led the courser from the stable, his continued to turn his thoughts as to why he should be afflicted with the nettling feeling.
Progressing across the courtyard, another thought supplanted that of the stablehand. Ailénor. He craved to see her before his departure, yet given her coolness since their arrival, he believed she held no wish to see him.
Filled with regret, he set his foot to the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. But as he started to turn the bay toward the gate, Ailénor appeared unexpectedly, hastening from the hall.
She halted, gazing at him across th
e expanse.
Garreth read the pain and conflict in her eyes. How he wished to ask her trust of him. Wished to vow his love for her. But words would no longer suffice.
Impulsively he touched his heels to the flanks of the horse, spurring it forward. Coming alongside Ailénor, he reached out and swept her up with one arm, then kissed her boldly, possessively, without care to who might watch.
Setting her once more to the ground, he touched her cheek, memorizing her features, then turned his horse across the courtyard.
Ailénor felt her heart tear as Garreth galloped through the gate. She pressed her fingers to her lips, a tear sliding from the corner of her eye.
No matter the outcome of his meeting with the king and despite her love for him, God willing, she would no longer be at Andover when Garreth returned.
»«
Ailénor sat with her stitchery in the ladies’ bower with Mora and Rosalynd, her needle idle in her hands, her thoughts far away.
She needed to act swiftly if she was to escape, yet her heavy-heartedness threatened to overwhelm her. Thinking of Garreth, then of her dear maman and the dangers that threatened, wrung her emotionally to the core.
She swiped at her tears, drawing Rosalynd’s attention.
“Does aught distress you, Lady Ailénor?”
Rosalynd appeared genuinely concerned, but Ailénor did not trust her motives. Still, she desperately needed help. If Rosalynd and Mora truly wished her gone from court, mayhap her hope of escape lay with them.
“I was thinking of my mother,” Ailénor returned.
Mora glanced up from her handwork. “Is she not well?”
Ailénor realized the sisters did not know she had been abducted in her mother’s place. Garreth had related the tale over dinner at Winchester, but he had omitted that detail. Before she could decide how much to reveal to them, Rosalynd spoke.
“Has no word come from Normandy?”
Ailénor’s gaze shifted to hers. “In truth, my parents and the ducal court have no idea what has become of me, or even that I am here in England.”
“What?” Mora gasped.
How can that be?” Rosalynd leaned forward. “Has no missive been sent?”
Ailénor hesitated, fearing they might not wish to help her if they realized she was being detained as a political hostage. “The high reeve, Cynric, would not allow it without conferring with the king . . .”
“‘Tis ludicrous,” Mora blurted, interrupting Ailénor and relieving her of further explanation. “I have always said that man was a cockscomb. Don’t look at me so, Rosalynd. You know he is that and much worse.”
Ailénor’s gaze flicked between them. “Forgive me. I mean no offense to the king’s hospitality, but I fear greatly for my mother’s well-being.”
Ailénor thought it best if they believed her mother ailed. Yet knowing the truth and the dark possibilities that might befall her mother if she failed to warn her seared her heart. Ailénor crumpled the embroidery in her lap, purposely catching a sob in her throat.
“I must return to Normandy before ‘tis too late. Before she . . . If only I could reach my uncle’s ship in Lundenburh.”
Rosalynd moved to Ailénor’s side to comfort her, though Ailénor saw that her eyes glinted with cunning.
“And so you shall.” Rosalynd heartened.
“You can help me?” Hope flooded Ailénor’s voice.
Rosalynd raised her chin proudly. “Not only have Mora and I relations in Andover, but being of royal lineage, we are not without means or connections.” Her lips curled into a smile. “Leave everything to me.”
»«
Garreth sat at the scarred table over a goblet of cold ale and a joint of venison, considering the words he would use when he met up with the king.
His progress thus far had been favorable. Yesterday he had reached the burh of Chisbury, and today that of Cricklade. The burhs were part of the fortification system begun by King Alfred, none being more than twenty miles apart and offering defense and communication points throughout the land. ‘Twas Garreth’s intention to travel by way of the burhs as far as he might toward Scotland, collecting what information he could of the monarch’s movements.
With an early start on the morrow, he expected to arrive at Cirencester before midday. From there he would head north to Tamworth. He suspected the king and his troops had passed through the Mercian stronghold before heading on. With luck he would encounter them on their return, perhaps at Bakewell or Manchester, and have no need of tracking them to the Scottish border itself.
As Garreth sat working through his thoughts, a man entered the lodging — a man with a scar running alongside his eye, downward over his cheek, and into his scrubby beard. The nettling feeling he had experienced two days before now returned fresh and every bit as disturbing.
What was it about the man? Garreth gave his concentration to him. He did not know the man, nor did he appear a threat. Still, the disquieting feeling would not subside.
Garreth took another bite of venison. Chewing it slowly, he traced the line of the man’s scar to where it disappeared into his beard. Except it didn’t disappear wholly. There was a visible path where the hair would not grow along the scar.
The thought jarred, bringing with it the memory of the bearded stablehand at Andover. ‘Twas the beard that had bothered him. It seemed somehow odd and did not suit the stablehand’s face. ‘Twas a fairly new growth, curly and briery, yet uneven — spotty in its sproutings — as though the skin beneath was damaged, scarred.
Garreth suspected the scars to cover the greater portion of the man’s cheeks. He would have to have been slashed badly with a knife. Or suffered a disfiguring disease. Like the pox.
Garreth bolted to his feet, realization slamming through him. “Grimbold,” he spat out.
Tossing down the meat, he abandoned the room.
»«
Ailénor waited inside the horse litter for Rosalynd to join her.
Thus far, their plans had unfolded smoothly. It played to their advantage that neither Rosalynd nor Mora had visited Andover for many years, having lived mostly between the family estates at Boscombe and Eashing and joining the court for seasonal celebrations at other royal residences.
Over time, most of the staff at Andover had changed. The maidservants now attending them were among the newest and had never before met Rosalynd or Mora. Nor, of course, had they met Ailénor. ‘Twas a fairly easy matter to confuse them as to who was who. Ailénor and Mora assumed each other’s identity, “correcting” the maids’ earlier perceptions formed at their arrival.
The first eve, Rosalynd dispatched a swift rider to her cousin Gilbert at Kingsclere, arranging for her and Mora to visit there in the coming days and requesting he fetch them with a small escort.
Rosalynd also informed the reeve Rannulf of their intentions so he would expect their departure. What he did not know was that Ailénor would assume Mora’s place. Once at Kingsclere, Ailénor would ride on to Silchester and Lundenburh with Gilbert as her escort. Gilbert, Rosalynd claimed, owed her more than a few favors and could be trusted. She offered no further explanation, but judging by her look, Ailénor did not doubt her.
Gilbert arrived midafternoon of their third day at Andover, and when he met Ailénor face-to-face, he appeared more than happy to accommodate Rosalynd’s request. Too happy. This did not give Ailénor great ease, as he impressed her as a carefree, flirtatious sort of man. Yet he seemed sincere and honorable. Ailénor believed he would truly endeavor to safeguard her to the best of his capacity.
‘Twas going to be an interesting journey.
For her part, Mora took to her bed over the last days and feigned illness. She jested that she had only to think of her recent malady in Winchester to effect it, then set about convincing the young maid she was, in fact, Ailénor. The sisters insisted they take their meals in the bower and tend their friend, thus keeping them all from the sight and scrutiny of others, especially Rannulf.
Rosalyn
d now stood several feet away from the litter, speaking with Gilbert as servants finished loading the packhorses. Rannulf appeared suddenly from the hall and strode toward them.
Ailénor quickly adjusted the veils swathing her head and throat and concealing the color of her hair. She heard Rosalynd offer her regret that she must leave “dear Ailénor” abed and ill, though much improved, and asked the reeve to assure the servants provided her every comfort.
Exactly what Rosalynd planned beyond Ailénor’s escape remained somewhat hazy. ‘Twould seem she intended to return within days to Andover, send the maids to the family’s more distant estate at Eashing, and, if asked, claim she and Mora knew nothing of what had become of Ailénor, having both been absent from Andover.
The blame for Ailénor’s disappearance would fall ultimately on Rannulf’s shoulders. Ailénor felt no small amount of guilt for this. In all likelihood, he would forfeit his position as reeve. But she could not count the cost as too high if ‘twould save her mother’s life. Mayhap her father or Duke William could right the situation or recompense Rannulf in some way.
All that lay in the future. For now, they must successfully leave the fortifications of Andover. Seeing Rannulf step toward the litter and peer inside, Ailénor averted her face, looking out the opposite window, toward the stable.
The doors stood open to the building. Just inside, shrouded in shadow, stood a bearded and behatted man staring straight at her. A chill spilled down her spine as she felt the stab of his eyes. Shifting well back in her seat, she withdrew herself from view.
“You must excuse Mora.” Rosalynd addressed Rannulf outside the litter. “She broke out in a rash this morning — a reaction to the eel sauce served at supper last night, I fear. She is quite sensitive.” Rosalynd lowered her voice. “Mora is mortified for anyone to see her in such a frightful state. Especially you, Rannulf,” she fairly purred.
Ailénor’s jaw dropped at the last of Rosalynd’s comments, and she dared a small glance in their direction. The reeve was an attractive enough man, but did Rosalynd have the gall to flirt with him in the same moment she was deceiving him?
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 23
