A Night of Angels

by Andersen, Maggi

  “I’ll go get Benedict,” Mary said.

  Sarah stepped forward, “Let me give your son to Branson for the moment and let’s get you cleaned up before your husband sees you.”

  Before he could utter even a word of protest, the squalling babe was tucked into his arms and he was sent out to the small sitting room just off the bedchamber. Looking down into the scrunched up, red and not altogether pretty face of the heir to the Vale Viscountcy, Branson said, “I know precisely how you feel, young man. Precisely.”

  Sarah entered her own bedchamber and thought she might collapse from weariness. It was fully dark outside. The long hours of Elizabeth’s labor, followed by cleaning both her and the child, getting her settled into a clean and comfortable bed. There’d been longer hours still of reassuring Benedict that both mother and child were hale and hearty. Then there had been the impromptu celebration dinner where even Benedict and Lord Wolverton had been able to briefly bury their animosity.

  She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so tired. It wasn’t only the physical exertions, though. Heaven knew that Elizabeth had done the work, but the emotional toll of revisiting her own harrowing birthing experience and the fear of what it would do to Benedict to lose both his wife and child—well, she felt rocked by it all.

  She’d barely entered the chamber when she drew up short. Branson was seated before the window, staring out at the snowy landscape beyond, his booted feet propped on a lovely rose-colored ottoman that would likely never be clean again.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “Exhausted but euphoric. There’s no feeling quite like it, really. Your body has done the unimaginable and produced this tiny, little thing that you’d move heaven and earth for,” she said. Under other circumstances she’d have taken him to task for simply letting himself into her rooms. But she hadn’t the strength or the will to fight with him over nothing. The truth of it was that she was rather glad to see him there. “And you, Branson? Have you recovered from your birthing room heroics?”

  “I may never recover,” he said.

  “Was it so harrowing then? To witness the birth of a child?”

  “I’ve seen blood, bone and worse, Sarah. It’s harrowing because… well, there’s very little I could do. Without your direction I’d have been lost. So would Elizabeth and the child. You, my dear, are the heroic one. I’m just the brute strength you wielded.”

  She smiled and closed the distance between them. He didn’t hesitate but simply pulled her down until she sprawled across his lap. It felt right to be there.

  “Have they named him yet? Something that will suit his wrinkly and wizened appearance, I hope.”

  Sarah smacked his shoulder. “He is beautiful. The most perfect infant to have ever been born, excepting his father, of course.”

  “He’s wrinkled, red-faced and squalls like a banshee,” Branson retorted. “But yes, I’d say he’s perfect… and nameless.”

  “Noel. They named him Noel. It’s rather fitting.”

  “Noel Middlethorp.”

  “Noel Branson Middlethorp,” she corrected. “It’s only fitting as he’d have never entered this world without your assistance.” She’d thought he’d offer some retort or some other snide remark as was his wont. But instead, he grew very quiet and only held her tighter while he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Are you not pleased?”

  “I am pleased,” he said. His voice was gruff, tinged with emotions that he was clearly trying to hold at bay.

  “We’ll never have that. I can be your wife, Branson, but I can’t be the mother of your children. You are still a man in his prime… if you wanted that, I certainly wouldn’t begrudge the opportunity to know the love of your own child,” she said softly.

  “I don’t need to. I have your love… and I’ll have a grandson to spoil, now won’t I? It’s like all the reward with none of the actual work.”

  “So you will,” she agreed. “What time is it?”

  “Midnight.”

  Sarah leaned forward and kissed his lips very lightly. “Merry Christmas, Branson. May it be our first many together.”

  He kissed her back and then murmured against her lips, “We’ll never spend another apart. I promise you that. I love you, Sarah. I’ve loved you for what feels like all of my life. And I intend to love you even more for every day that I have left.”

  Epilogue

  They eloped to Gretna Green, but not on New Year’s Day. It took them an entire week after to tear themselves away from the sweetly wrinkled face of little Noel whom Branson had finally admitted was turning into a handsome boy. Of course, Sarah could see just how in love he was with the child. It brought back memories of how wonderful he’d been with Benedict when he was such a small boy and it only made her love him more.

  “We wasted so much time being angry at one another,” she said.

  “You, my dear. You wasted so much time being angry with me. All you ever had to do was concede that I knew best,” he replied with a shrug.

  She recognized his tactic well enough by then. “You’re not needling me into arguing with you today, Branson. I refuse to fight with you on my wedding day.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips. “Our wedding day. And you miss the point entirely, my darling. Couples, the truly happy ones, only argue so they can make up.”

  “It’s seduction then? That is your ham-fisted attempt to talk me into your bed, is it?”

  He shrugged. “If it works—”

  “It doesn’t. But if you want me in your bed, Branson, you have only to lead the way, for I cannot think of anywhere else I’d rather be,” she admitted.

  “Then follow me, Mrs. Middlethorp, and your every wish will be my command.”

  She did, trailing a step behind him just to admire the way he’d look back at her and smile. It had been years since she’d seen him so carefree if, in fact, she ever had. It had certainly been decades since she’d felt that way herself. They were still giggling like naughty children as he led her up the stairs of the inn and to their room. The door hadn’t even closed behind her when his eager hands were tugging at the tapes of her gown.

  When at last they fell onto the bed in a tangled heap of limbs and petticoats, all their giggling had ceased. It was all hunger and intensity and the driving need to be as close as any two human beings could manage. And just as she had been every other time, she was taken by surprise. His tenderness, the care he took to arouse her passions and bring her to pleasure before he ever considered taking his own—they left her breathless with wonder and with gratitude to whatever fate had brought them together in a hail of snow and ice.

  Laying in his arms afterward, his fingertips tracing delicate circles on her skin, she smiled as he placed a kiss on her shoulder blade. “Will you regret no longer being addressed as Lady Vale?” he asked.

  “So long as I am addressed as the Right Honorable Mrs. Branson Middlethorp, I’ll never regret anything,” she replied. “Well except for one thing.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Must we have an extended honeymoon? Couldn’t we go back to Midford Abbey and spend a little more time with our darling new grandson?”

  He cocked his head to one side. “I am open to being persuaded.”

  “By fair means or foul?”

  “By licentious means,” he replied. “Do your worst.”

  With that challenge hanging between them, Sarah set out to do just that. They left Gretna Green the following morning for Midford Abbey.

  The End

  The Viking’s Gift

  Anna Markland

  Dedicated to the City of Worcester, England

  More Anna Markland

  The Montbryce Legacy~Anniversary Edition (2018)

  I Conquest—Ram & Mabelle, Rhodri & Rhonwen

  II Defiance—Hugh & Devona, Antoine & Sybilla

  III Redemption—Caedmon & Agneta

  IV Vengeance—Ronan & Rhoni

  V Birthright—Adam & Rosamunda, Denis & Paulina


  VI Star-Crossed—Robert & Dorianne, Baudoin & Carys

  VII Allegiance—Rhys & Annalise

  The Montbryce Legacy~First Edition (2011-2014)

  Conquering Passion—Ram & Mabelle, Rhodri & Rhonwen (audiobook available)

  If Love Dares Enough—Hugh & Devona, Antoine & Sybilla

  Defiant Passion-Rhodri & Rhonwen

  A Man of Value—Caedmon & Agneta

  Dark Irish Knight—Ronan & Rhoni

  Haunted Knights—Adam & Rosamunda, Denis & Paulina

  Passion in the Blood—Robert & Dorianne, Baudoin & Carys

  Dark and Bright—Rhys & Annalise

  The Winds of the Heavens—Rhun & Glain, Rhydderch & Isolda

  Dance of Love—Izzy & Farah

  Carried Away—Blythe & Dieter

  Sweet Taste of Love—Aidan & Nolana

  Wild Viking Princess—Ragna & Reider

  Hearts and Crowns—Gallien & Peridotte

  Fatal Truths—Alex & Elayne

  Sinful Passions—Bronson & Grace; Rodrick & Swan

  Series featuring the stories of the Viking ancestors of my Norman families

  The Rover Bold—Bryk & Cathryn

  The Rover Defiant—Torstein & Sonja

  The Rover Betrayed—Magnus & Judith

  Caledonia Chronicles (Scotland)

  Book I Pride of the Clan—Rheade & Margaret

  Book II Highland Tides—Braden & Charlotte

  Book 2.5 Highland Dawn—Keith & Aurora

  Book III Roses Among the Heather—Blair &Susanna, Craig & Timothea

  The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty (medieval Europe)

  Book 1 Loyal Heart—Sophia & Brandt

  Book 2 Courageous Hearts—Luther & Francesca

  Book 3 Faithful Heart—Kon & Zara

  MYTH & MYSTERY

  The Taking of Ireland—Sibràn & Aislinn

  17TH CENTURY

  Highland Betrayal—Morgan & Hannah (audiobook available)

  CLASH OF THE TARTANS

  Kilty Secrets—Ewan & Shona

  Kilted at the Altar—Darroch & Isabel

  Kilty Pleasures—Broderick & Kyla

  Novellas

  Maknab’s Revenge—Ingram & Ruby

  Passion’s Fire—Matthew & Brigandine

  Banished—Sigmar & Audra

  Hungry Like De Wolfe—Blaise & Anne

  Unkissable Knight—Dervenn & Victorine

  Harthacanute

  England, December 1041 AD

  Wulfram increased his pace in an effort to ward off the winter chill. “What does our glorious king want with us now?” he complained to his adopted brother as they made their way to court. “He hasn’t bothered to summon us since we helped bring his fleet ashore.”

  Sandor clamped a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to halt. “Patience, little brother. Guard your tongue. These walls have ears. It’s rumored Harthacanute has spies everywhere.”

  Wulfram shrugged off Sandor’s hand and resumed his brisk pace. “Ignoring us is an insult to our father. The Governor of Jomsborg sent his sons to captain ships for Harthacanute’s invasion, and we’ve been stuck in England for eighteen months without a word of thanks or leave to return home.”

  Sandor sneered, his breath hanging on the cold air. “Some invasion. Canute’s son was so afraid there’d be opposition to his claim on his father’s English throne he brought sixty-two ships from Denmark. Ridiculous considering he’d been invited after King Harald’s death.”

  Wulfram thought back. “What a sight though, you must agree, scores of Viking ships coming ashore at Sandwich seven days before Midsummer.”

  Sandor kept pace. “Ja, he was welcomed then, but now the English hate him. The glorious summer has turned to a winter of discontent.”

  Wulfram lowered his voice. “This year’s poor harvests have made matters worse, on top of which he’s imposed crippling taxes to pay for his grand fleet, among other things.”

  Sandor agreed. “We’ve received no recompense, however, and are obliged to foot the bills for our crew’s wages. We are not Danes, but the English don’t know the difference. We are hated too. And, let’s face it, the new fleet will be used to rid Harthacanute of his rivals in Norway and Denmark.”

  Wulfram shook his head. “I doubt our king even knows Jomsborg is in the Baltic. His rule is a far cry from the tales about the wise King Canute that father tells.”

  “The English earls had become used to a king ruling in council, with the advice of his chief men,” Sandor added. “His son is an autocrat who does what he wants and they resent him for it.”

  Wulfram clenched his jaw. “Especially since he and his mother seem more intent on avenging the late King Harald’s murder of Alfred the Aetheling than on the wellbeing of the people.”

  Sandor grimaced. “I’ve seen some gruesome things in my lifetime, but Emma of Normandy’s insistence Harald’s rotting corpse be dug up so it could be beheaded and then disposed of in a sewer.

  “Ja, you’re right. I want to go home to warm my wife’s bed and spoil my children. They’ll miss their papa at Yuletide.”

  Wulfram sympathised, but felt a twinge of envy—there was no one waiting for him in Jomsborg. “I suppose when I eventually get home I’ll have to begin the search for a wife.”

  Sandor slapped him on the back. “You’ve plenty of time. I was five and twenty when I wed Inga, older than you are now.”

  “Only by one year,” Wulfram retorted. “Truth is, no woman has taken my fancy.”

  “You’re too picky,” Sandor replied. “Because you want what our parents have.”

  “All of you found the right mate. Why not me?”

  The air inside the royal enclosure was still cold, but at least they were out of the incessant east wind. Guards at the doors of the king’s antechamber scowled them to silence. Wulfram paced, pondering the notion of finding a woman he loved and who loved him in return. He decided he must be getting old. Marriage had never seemed very important, but recently he’d been thinking a lot about siring children. He hoped the summons meant they were going home, but, if that was the case, it was unlikely he’d find a bride in England, as his father had. Sigmar Alvarsen never stopped boasting of his luck reuniting with his beloved Audra again after many years apart.

  They squared their shoulders when the double doors groaned open and they were ushered into the king’s presence.

  It had been more than a year since Wulfram had seen Canute’s son. The gaunt man slumped in the ornately carved chair bore scant resemblance to the confident Harthacanute who’d come ashore at Sandwich. The king was obviously ill, his skin sallow, his breathing labored. Regal robes hung on the skeletal form of a once well-muscled warrior.

  “Elf-shot,” Sandor whispered as they bowed.

  Wulfram didn’t believe in elves, but his disbelief had been sorely challenged by what he’d heard of the death of the king’s half-brother, his predecessor on the throne. Harald’s skin had apparently turned black. What else but elfin magic could have brought about such a thing?

  Harthacanute squinted, as if he couldn’t see them clearly. “Are you the Jomsvikings?” he rasped.

  Wulfram replied, “Ja, Sire, Wulfram Sigmarsen and Sandor Wulframsen, sons of Sigmar Alvarsen, Governor of Jomsborg.”

  The monarch stared at them as if trying to comprehend how two brothers could have different last names, and why the younger man spoke when usually the older brother had that right. However, Wulfram deemed it an inopportune moment to explain that his parents had adopted Sandor as a boy.

  A coughing fit seized the king when he opened his mouth to speak. He waved away an attendant who sought to assist, using the hem of his outer robe to wipe his mouth after the racking cough subsided. It was impossible not to notice the blood smeared on the garment.

  “Anger eats at my lungs,” the king finally croaked. “As if it wasn’t enough the cursed Bishop of Worcester was complicit in the murder of my half-brother, now the people of that town have killed two of my tax c
ollectors. They must be punished.”

  Wulfram risked a glance at Sandor who seemed equally perplexed as to what this had to do with them. He found it surprising only two of the collectors sent to extort the heavy taxes had been murdered, but decided it would be wiser to keep his mouth shut.

  Harthacanute brandished a fist, revealing a near-fleshless arm when the sleeve of his robe slipped to his elbow. “You will go to Earl Leofric of Mercia and tell him Worcester is to be razed and every inhabitant therein slaughtered.”

  This wasn’t the journey they’d anticipated, but it would be suicide to argue with a man who was obviously close to death and whose thirst for blood smacked of lunacy.

  “We will do as you bid, Sire,” Wulfram replied, wondering what the chances were of surviving Leofric’s outrage. In this season of goodwill, the earl was expected to destroy his priory town and the people of his own tribal kingdom.

  Roswitha

  With frozen fingers, Roswitha of Pershore hefted the last bundle of nettle-cloth onto the handcart under the watchful eye of her crippled stepfather. Kennald the Weaver sat on a large flat stone close by the ice-covered retting pond.

  “I would accompany ye, if I could,” he lamented, coming to his feet with the aid of the wooden crutches he’d been obliged to use since the royal tax collectors had broken both his legs.

  Roswitha knelt by the side of the pond, broke the thin layer of ice with a stick, and dipped her nettle-stung hands into the frigid water. Since the untimely death of her mother, she’d been tasked with gathering the plants and retting the fibers from the stems. It was only by the grace of God that Kennald’s loom produced a smooth durable cloth from a noxious weed.

  The cold water numbed her hands further, but brought a measure of relief to the infernal itching. She stood, dabbed her hands dry on the hem of her skirts and pecked a kiss on her stepfather’s cheek. They’d scarcely exchanged a word prior to her mother’s demise. Deprived of his wife as the target of his temper, he’d taken to bullying Roswitha, and his fits of anger were more frequent now. It was only a matter of time before she felt the force of his fists.