“Well?” The young man’s eyes were as chips of ice.
Garreth watched in utter amazement as the nobles bent to the rushes and began to lick the mustard, grimaces twisting their faces. The flaxen-haired youth held them to this long enough to satisfy his sense of justice.
“Enough!” he barked. “Take the bowls and tray and present yourselves to the pantler for more mustard. And see you reimburse the steward for the cost of what was lost.”
Chastised, the nobles left, coughing and sleeving their mouths. The young man then sent the child to the kitchens with calming words. He turned to Garreth.
“You honor the house of Mercia this day. On behalf of Lord Athelred and Lady Athelflaed, I thank you.”
Garreth recognized at once a kindred soul in the flaxen-haired youth. But he glimpsed something more beyond his boldness and fairness — a force of spirit and personality that bespoke of courage and some other intangible essence more rare.
“So you are the Kentman. I had not the opportunity to meet you before now. Saint’s bones, but you have pluck and are a fine champion of innocents. Mercia can use more like you. Come. Have you seen a lanthorn before? I have just finished fashioning one.”
Garreth followed the young man across the hall to a side niche. There he picked up a handsome, boxlike affair, its frame of wood, its sides and door of thinly shaved ox-horn, translucent as glass and milky white. Inside it contained a fresh candle fixed on a spike.
“See,” the youth said as he gestured to the box. “The horn allows the light to flow through without loss of brightness, yet drafts cannot disturb the flame or snuff it out. ‘Tis my grandfather’s invention,” he added proudly. “I thought to use it tonight to go in search of frogs. Would you like to join me?” A gleam appeared in his eyes. “Of course, we cannot let Lady Athelflaed know.”
Their instant and easy camaraderie closed the gap of their years, and Garreth found himself much at ease with the young noble as he happily agreed and examined the innovation.
“Your grandfather is a very clever man. Who is he?”
“He was King Alfred.” A smile spread the young man’s features as he held forth his hand. “And I am Athelstan. Welcome to Tamworth.”
Stunned, Garreth clasped forearms with the prince, and in that grip the first strands of their friendship were bonded.
From that time forward and after a successful night of sacking frogs — they enjoyed a close fellowship, open and honest and, on Garreth’s part, filled with increasing respect for Athelstan.
Garreth’s happiness at Tamworth was soon darkened, however, by the death of his mother. Within several years his father, too, lay dead, but not before he had remarried and sired two more sons. Scarce had he grown cold than the widow challenged her husband’s first union so that she might disclaim Garreth and seize the titles and lands for her own offspring.
The woman’s actions inflamed Mercia’s lady, Athelflaed, who upheld Garreth’s cause with a passion. But in it, Garreth knew, she also read disturbing parallels with the prince’s own lineage.
Shadows enshrouded the marriages of Garreth’s and Athelstan’s parents alike — both mothers being Mercian noblewomen, both finding their eternal rest in the same abbey grounds. Upon their mothers’ deaths, their fathers had remarried, each to a grasping woman. One threatened to steal the legacy of Kent’s high reeve of Aylesbury, the other the crown of the West Saxon king.
Athelflaed read the signs with deep foreboding and guarded the young men’s interests as was within her power. But ‘twas not enough.
Garreth’s stepmother contested the validity of his parents’ vows, alleging the cleric who performed the ceremony to have been an excommunicant. Though ‘twas recalled in Kentish memory the priest once suffered the ban — unjustly so and soon rescinded — the unhappy episode occurred in roughly the same period surrounding the nuptials. The precise dates of the ban’s duration hung in question, and lucklessly the priest had died on pilgrimage long past.
The second wife, who sprang from one of Kent’s most powerful families, gained the support of her kinsmen — including a few high-placed ecclesiastics and successfully seized her late husband’s inheritance for her sons, proclaiming Garreth bastard-born.
Athelflaed, accepting none of this, placed Garreth directly under her protection. Repudiated by the Kentmen, Garreth adopted the house of Mercia as his own.
Athelstan, also enraged at such injustice, took Garreth under his wing, and their comradeship deepened even further. The prince kept Garreth ever near and helped him hone his skills with lance and sword. Garreth soon joined Athelstan on campaign, and together they fought for Mercia’s cause against the Danelaw.
Athelflaed’s concerns for her nephew, Athelstan, did not abate when King Edward’s second wife died and despite her approval of his choice of a third bride. Already rumors spread claiming Athelstan’s mother to have been no more than a low-born consort — a beautiful shepherdess — but not a lawful wife and never a hallowed queen. No matter that she had died before Edward’s accession, or that while she lived she had been clearly accepted at court by King Alfred and his queen, Ealhswith. No matter that King Alfred favored his grandson, Athelstan, and bestowed on him the symbols of kingship — a cloak of royal purple, a Saxon sword and belt.
Athelflaed did not live to support Athelstan at the critical time of his succession. When King Edward died six years after she, her fears proved to have been well founded. The first crisis Athelstan bore was that of his right of succession and the question of his legitimacy.
Garreth took up his sword for Athelstan and embraced his cause as his own. Aelfweard, Athelstan’s half brother, appeared prepared to give challenge but died sixteen days after their father of wounds received in the same battle. Next, Edwin, the second son of the second marriage, gave opposition. While the Mercians elected Athelstan their king at Tamworth, the West Saxons supported Edwin.
But in the months to come, the councilors transferred their loyalty to Athelstan, recognizing him to be the more seasoned warrior and most capable of defending the kingdom. Angered, Edwin attempted to blind Athelstan, but Garreth foiled the plot with Athelstan narrowly escaping.
On the fourth day of September in the Lord’s year 925, Athelstan was crowned at Kingston. He went forth to secure the peace of his kingdom and began his climb to a glorious ascent.
Garreth rode at his side, his sword ever faithful and at the king’s command. At Jórvík they drove out the Norse-Irish king, Sihtric. Next, they moved against the Northumbrians at Bamburgh, then successively wrought the submissions of the kings of the Scots, the Cumbrians, the Welsh, and the Britons of Cornwall.
Three short years after his accession, King Athelstan reigned as Rex To Bri — King of all Britain. ‘Twas the first time since the days of the Roman conquerors that the Isle had been brought under one rule. Offa had envisioned it, Alfred had laid the footings, but Athelstan brought it into reality. Such was his glory.
Yet Athelstan was much more than mere victor. Courageous and skillful in battle, he was also gracious and generous with men, humble yet bold where needed. He bore a keen sense of fairness and justice and inspired others to noble action and deeds.
Still, he possessed a quality that set him apart from other men — what Garreth had only glimpsed that first day at Tamworth, but which came to full flower in the years of Athelstan’s kingship. ‘Twas what others called magnanimitas — a greatness of soul.
Garreth’s admiration flowed for his king and friend even as he knelt in the abandoned church in Silchester. He basked in the light of his thoughts, but a shadow quickly moved through it. Edwin.
Earlier this year, the king’s half brother sought once more to overthrow him. But once more Garreth put Edwin to rout, pursuing him to the coast. Edwin seized a ship but drowned in his flight across the Channel. When Garreth received the news, he rode immediately to the king.
Garreth considered now, as he knelt in the tiny church, how much he had worried that Edwin’
s death might be used by the king’s enemies to stain his reputation. Yet what would they do if they learned Athelstan now held the kinswoman of Normandy’s duke as his captive? Surely they would use it to advantage to tarnish his crown. And what retributions might the Normans themselves take against him?
Garreth’s pulse began to drub in his veins. He must protect the king’s interests and reputation as well as Ailénor’s. Yet what to do? The king might not share his views.
Again thoughts of Edwin intruded. When Garreth informed the king of his half brother’s death, they had sat awake the entirety of the night speaking of it. It had been the king who brought up Edwin’s earlier attempt to blind him and how Garreth had thwarted his efforts. Garreth had warned at the time to keep Edwin far away, even to exile him, that no good would come from Edwin.
“I should have listened to you,” Athelstan told Garreth that night as they spoke of Edwin’s death. “For as long as I have known you, your instincts have served you well.”
“Your instincts serve you just as well,” Garreth returned, then smiled. “‘Tis only your magnanimitas that gets in the way and obscures it sometimes. ‘Tis well to forgive, my king, but sometimes, as in Edwin’s case, you trust too greatly.”
“Then you must stay near and advise me, friend.” The light returned to Athelstan’s eyes. “Trust and follow your instincts, Garreth. Surely they are your best guide.”
»«
Ailénor awoke to a cold and empty pallet.
Looking toward the door, she found it open. Beyond, the soft glow of morning washed the interior of the church.
Hastily she drew on her gown and slipped from the chamber. She had taken no more than a few steps when she halted abruptly.
The first rays of dawn streamed through the open roof, bathing Garreth and the vacant sanctuary in a golden light. Soundlessly, trying not to disturb him, she approached where he knelt. But as she neared, his eye caught her movement, and he turned his head to look at her.
Ailénor’s breath caught as she read his utter exhaustion. He looked to have waged a great battle this night, within the very depths of his soul.
“We must be away,” he said quietly, rising to his feet.
At his sober look, Ailénor’s heart dipped. “So you return me to Andover after all, captive of the English.”
“Nay, love. We ride for Lundenburh.”
Ailénor blinked, disbelieving her ears. No words would form on her lips.
“I shall see you safely aboard your uncle’s ship and under sail for Normandy,” Garreth continued. “Then shall I ride to the king directly and explain my actions and all that has gone before.”
Still stunned, Ailénor gripped his hands and searched his eyes. In helping her, he set himself directly against his king’s wishes and strained the ties that bound them. Yet ‘twas exactly what she had asked of him time and again. How much better for Garreth had she been able to reach Lundenburh without his aid. No one could hold him to blame for her escape from Andover.
“You risk much on my account, and I truly regret that.”
“There is risk in the very act of living, dear Ailénor.” A faint smile touched his lips, then disappeared. “But that must not stop us, especially when the cause is just and we need protect those we love and care for deeply.”
Garreth stroked back a strand of hair from her face, his expression grown solemn again.
“Whatever comes, I will stand fully accountable and accept any consequences that might result. My faith remains in the king’s wisdom and sense of justice. As soon as I can, I shall come for you in Francia. We must face the possibility, however, that the king will take grave exception to my countering his commands and authority. He could dispossess me completely if he so chooses, and I could arrive in Francia reduced in standing to no better than a ceorl. I would have naught to offer you, and your family might forbid a union between us. Already I am not high in your duke’s favor.”
“I shall accept you however you come to me, Garreth.” Her fingers reached out to stroke the fatigue from his face. “And I shall wait for you faithfully.”
Garreth shifted her fingers to his lips and pressed them with a kiss. “Upon my vow, I will come for you. I shall not rest until you are again at my side. Ailénor of Héricourt, before God I pledge you my troth, my love, and my fidelity. And I wait impatiently for the day I can bind myself to you and make you my wife in fact — to love and to treasure all the days granted me and an eternity beyond.”
Garreth’s words filled Ailénor’s heart to overflowing, and she found herself gazing on him through a haze of tears.
“And before God do I plight you my troth and my love, Garreth of Tamworth. I am yours, and yours alone, now and for always. You are the keeper of my heart. I shall wait no matter how long the days. No matter whether you come to me acclaimed or bereft, I shall accept you. May these, our vows, rise straight to heaven and find favor there.”
Garreth drew Ailénor into his embrace. Lips melded and hearts mingled and love joined two as one.
Chapter 12
Ailénor maneuvered her mount around one of the rubble-filled holes potting the road, then drew alongside Garreth’s bay once more.
An assortment of travelers, wagons, and packhorses accompanied them, some having journeyed the full distance from Silchester, others having increased their numbers along the way as they passed a village here and a sprinkling of cottages there. Forests lined much of the old Roman causeway, broken sporadically by clearings. But more and more as they neared the city, the countryside opened up to land under tillage.
“Just ahead the road bends toward the Thames.” Garreth indicated with a tilt of his head. “We should be able to catch sight of Lundenburh in a moment.”
The horses progressed at a moderate pace. As promised, glimpses of the city’s pale walls appeared through the screen of trees. Ailénor’s heart rose, picking up its beat in anticipation, so near was their goal. Again the road crooked northward. In time they emerged from the cover of the greenwood.
Ailénor now saw they advanced along the crest of a hill. A stream sprang to life off to the left, sparkling cheerily and keeping their company until it and the road alike plummeted from sight. As they converged on that point, Garreth brought his horse to a halt, allowing the wagons to rattle past and begin their descent down the steep incline.
“We are atop Old Bourn Hill,” Garreth informed her with a smile, then lifted his hand to point. “There, across the ravine and the River of Wells, lies Lundenburh.”
Ailénor raised her gaze from where the road dropped away, and glanced to the lower-lying hill opposite. She drank in the expansive view, her gaze flowing over the thick, sentry-lined walls and into the city itself. The late-afternoon sun fired the thatched roofs to a reddish-gold, and she caught the distant din from within.
Lundenburh proved as alive as Silchester was dead, yet a far different sort of city from that of Winchester, her life contained solely within her walls, with no settlements without. Still, even at this hour, people jammed the gate, demanding entrance.
Ailénor reined her mount behind Garreth’s and began to descend the slope. At the bottom he waited for her, then together they crossed the timbered bridge and advanced up the opposite and, thankfully, less arduous side. Rejoining the crowd, they pressed steadily forward till, amid the crush, they squeezed through the gate’s constricted opening.
Inside, they entered onto a narrow street cramped with houses and teeming with activity. Vendors hawked wares, carts clattered over the paving stones, and a pig rooted through refuse near one of the merchants’ food stalls.
Garreth led Ailénor to an adjoining lane and turned southward toward the River Thames.
“There is good lodging on Candlewick Street,” he called back. “We should first visit Thames Street, however, and attempt to locate your uncle’s ship. My guess is we will find it docked at Downgate. The ships from Francia tend to favor the quays there. Are you certain ‘twill be in port at this time?
”
“Oui. If it has not already sailed,” Ailénor returned.
“Will you be able to recognize it?” Garreth called once more.
Ailénor flashed him a smile. “I believe so. My father designed the craft. Its lines are more Norse than Frankish, and it sails under the sign of the falcon, my uncle’s emblem.”
Garreth snatched a glance over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth lifting. “The sail will not be raised, Ailénor”
“Vraiment, but the ship has certain modifications — such as a falcon head rising from the prow rather than that of a serpent.”
Picking their way through Lundenburh’s congested streets, they soon arrived at Thames Street. As they neared the river, the pungent scents of fish and salt water weighed the air, mingling with the more fragrant and appetizing aromas of the cookhouses. Ailénor’s stomach rumbled, but Garreth was already turning his bay into another side street.
“This alley leads directly to Downgate,” he called. “Take care as you follow.”
Ailénor understood his warning scant moments later. Dark and exceedingly narrow, the alley fell in a sharp decline to the waterfront, an uneasy footing for their horses. As they emerged at the bottom, they found the quays swarming with seamen and clogged with vessels. Salt, fish, horses, furs, and more laded the ships and barges, while bales of wool and casks of wine loaded the wharves, stacked high and in abundance.
From her vantage atop her mare, Ailénor studied the various ships tied up in the slips. A smile spread over her face as she sighted the merchant vessel of the Baron de Valsemé.
Prodding her mare forward, this time ‘twas she who bade Garreth follow. At their approach, one seaman, possessing a head and jaw full of coppery curls, dropped the line he coiled, recognition and confusion colliding simultaneously in his eyes.
“Lady Ailénor?” He inclined his head, his brows butting together as he puzzled over her presence.
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 26
