Redemption (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  He nodded back, heartened by the pride in her eyes. “Aye. Willing. I propose Sir Leofric Deacon, a knight who sacrificed much for Duncan and Edmund’s father, Malcolm Cenn Mór.

  “Sir Leofric, are you willing?”

  Leofric didn’t hesitate, only nodded to Caedmon. “Aye. Willing.”

  “Any other names to propose?”

  There was a pause. People murmured quietly, shaking heads.

  “Hearing none, settled then. Sir Caedmon and Sir Leofric. If you please. My library, forthwith.”

  Caedmon preferred the pride glowing on Leofric’s ruined face to the desolation he usually saw there.

  Daily Grind

  After Caedmon’s departure, life in the convent became a numbing, monotonous round for Agneta. She’d previously taken secret delight in being able to use her work in the infirmary as an excuse not to attend all the recitations of divine office required of the other novices. Now, despite the fact she’d been appointed Infirmarian and given full control, she determined to be present at all the services, unless it was a matter of life and death for a patient.

  She resolved to banish thoughts of Caedmon from her life. First to rise for Lauds at two hours after midnight, she went back to her pallet in the dormitory after that, until first light when she rose for a breakfast of bread and ale. If all was in order in the infirmary, she offered assistance to the Sacrist with the books, vestments and vessels.

  After Prime she met with other nuns in the Chapter House where chapters from the Bible or the writings of saints were read aloud. Then it was Tierce, after which she worked in the hospital, or helped with the washing or cooking. She learned how to make wine, ale and honey, and, when spring arrived, assisted with the planting of vegetables and herbs.

  She often struggled to stay awake during the service of Sext at midday, but the dinner served after that revived her somewhat, and she went back to work until Nones, three hours later, then Vespers two hours after that, and finally Compline. She rarely had any idea of what was served at the light supper served between Nones and Vespers.

  As the days passed, the round became a daily grind, Lauds, breakfast, work, Prime, work, Tierce, work, Nones, Vespers, work, Compline, work, work, work, sleep, work. After Compline she collapsed, exhausted, onto her pallet. She came to an understanding of why nuns were detached. They were too numbed by fatigue to feel anything.

  Yet, every night, Caedmon came to her.

  I want to warm you forever.

  He pulled her body against his.

  I have to tell you—I took part in the raid on Bolton.

  In her dreams he cradled her dead brother, practiced with his sword, held his helmet on his belly, crowded her in the oxcart, breathed his warmth breath on her, brushed his lips against hers, looked up at her hiding place in the barn.

  It’s good to hear you laugh, Agneta.

  The memory of his husky voice washed over her. “I’ll never laugh again,” she whimpered, awakened once more by her dreams, curling up, hugging her body, trying to get back to sleep.

  She was ashamed when she dreamed of Caedmon touching her, holding her, stroking her hair. Sometimes his presence felt real enough that her own sighs woke her.

  Pray God no one heard me.

  She fought to still the aching throb arching into her core, and often awoke hot with shame, her hand between her legs, her pillow wet with tears of longing. Whenever she shaved a patient, her hand shook and she had to abandon the task, often to Brother Manton. She craved Caedmon’s return, and hated herself and him for it.

  “You look unwell, Sister Agneta,” Brother Manton whispered to her one day, keeping his eyes on the patient they were tending.

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she replied.

  The monk shook his head. “It’s more than that, isn’t it child? You’re unhappy here.”

  “I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  “That’s not a reason to take final vows,” the old man whispered softly.

  Agneta tensed. She wanted to scream, but murmured, “I’m trying my best, brother. I’m trying to be a good nun.”

  “You should speak to Mother Superior. She can perhaps help you with whatever is making you unhappy.”

  Agneta shook her head, panic in her eyes. “No, she can’t help me.”

  “It’s the Saxon knight, isn’t it?” There was no accusation in the monk’s voice.

  Oh God, is it so obvious?

  She gasped and their eyes met for the briefest moment. He’d seen the truth. She felt the tears welling.

  “I will pray for you, Agneta.”

  “Thank you, Brother Manton. Please excuse me, I must see to the child with the broken arm.”

  New Rules

  “Your Majesty.” Edgar Beasant bowed low to the new king. He effected a slightly less deferential bow to Duncan’s half-brother, seated in the smaller throne. “My Lord Edmund.”

  He turned his attention back to the king. “May I introduce my comrades who have accompanied me on this mission from the Saxon community to bring our good wishes on your accession to the throne?”

  “Proceed,” Duncan replied gruffly.

  Edmund nodded.

  Edgar indicated the two knights who’d accompanied him. “Sir Caedmon Woolgar and Sir Leofric Deacon are both Saxons born in Scotland after their parents fled the Conqueror. Both fought valiantly for your father at the Battle of Alnwick, and, as you see, both bear the scars of their sacrifices for Scotland.

  While Edgar talked, Caedmon watched the new King Duncan. He seemed ill-at-ease and obviously aware of his half-brother seated beside him. Though they shared the same father, they didn’t look alike. Caedmon wondered if they trusted each other. What had they done with their uncle, Donald the Fair, whom they’d deposed?

  When his own name was mentioned Caedmon bowed with great deference, aware his actions, and those of Leofric and Edgar, would have an impact on the exiled Saxon community. As Edgar continued to extol the loyalty of the Saxons, Caedmon sensed Edmund growing impatient.

  Unexpectedly, King Duncan raised his hand. “Enough, Sir Edgar. We’re already aware of your efforts over the years on behalf of my father. Sir Caedmon, Sir Leofric, we thank you for your bravery and your sacrifices for Scotland. However, we must also respect the feelings of our new allies, King William Rufus and the Northumbrians who aided us to regain the throne. We require assurances there will be no further attacks by Saxons against Norman holdings and interests.”

  “I, like my fellow Saxons, seek only to protect the interests of Scotland, the land that has afforded us protection since the Conquest,” Caedmon replied.

  “Aye, well, we all seek to protect Scotland’s interests,” Edmund suddenly interjected. “We need your oath there will be no attacks against Normans.”

  Caedmon raged inwardly, but he had no choice, any more than the two royal princes who sat before him. What price had Rufus exacted for his support?

  “On behalf of the Saxon community, I swear there will be no attacks on Norman interests and holdings,” Edgar solemnly intoned, his hand on his heart.

  They were dismissed. As they left, Caedmon whispered to Leofric, “I predict the reign of Duncan the Second to be a short one.”

  As the days blurred into each other, Agneta lost track of how old she was. She wouldn’t be required to make her final vows until she reached her majority, but exactly when that would be wasn’t clear in her mind. Since she didn’t want to think about the finality of that event, she made no great effort to clear the fog. She was grimly certain Mother Superior had the matter in hand.

  One day, in the early autumn, a man came to the infirmary with a deep sword wound to his upper arm. It wasn’t a new wound, but had been poorly treated and there were signs of putrefaction. He was feverish. Agneta quickly had him assigned to a pallet where she and Mayda tended him.

  “Where did this happen? This blow came close to cleaving your arm in two. Who sewed your wound?” she asked him.

  “Edwi
nesburh,” he rasped. “One of my comrades did the stitching, just so’s I could get back home.”

  “You’re from Northumbria?”

  The man nodded, wincing at the pain.

  “What were you doing in Scotland?”

  The man looked around nervously, then seemed reassured. “Helped with the siege.”

  Agneta’s had to wipe her sweaty palms on her habit. “Siege?”

  He nodded. “Went with Rufus’s army to help depose King Donald.”

  She swallowed hard. “Was the siege successful?” Her hands shook and she had to stop her ministrations, aware of the questioning look of concern in Mayda’s eyes.

  “Are you all right? You look like you might swoon,” the novice whispered.

  Agneta nodded, and swiped her sleeve across her brow.

  The injured man continued, “Duncan’s king now, but more or less shares the throne with his half-brother, Edmund. They’re the sons of King Malcolm, you know, the one killed near here, at Alnwick.”

  To Agneta’s surprise, it was Mayda who asked, “But you say the Normans helped them capture the throne?”

  The man nodded, gritting his teeth against the pain. He was close to swooning as they laved the putrefaction from his wound.

  “Was it a long siege? Did many die?” Agneta stammered.

  He waited for the spasm of pain to pass. “No, it was enough that we threatened. Donald the Fair couldn’t withstand our army and gave up quick. Saved his own neck. I was unlucky. Too cocksure of our success.”

  Agneta had to get away, before she did indeed fall to the stone floor. Caedmon wouldn’t sit idly by if he had a cause to fight for and he hated Normans. “Sister Mayda can finish taking care of you. Hopefully, the wound will heal properly now. Watch his fever,” she whispered, unwilling to look her friend in the eye. She fled to the sanctuary of the chapel, and fell to her knees.

  “Pater Noster,” she sobbed. “Please protect him. Keep him alive. I can’t bear the thought he might be dead. Please.”

  Flight

  “Many Saxons have already left, mother. We must do the same. This country is no longer safe for us. We have no future here. Duncan’s flimsy hold on the crown won’t last now that his foreign allies have had to return to their own lands to put down a rebellion.”

  “You’re right, but I’m too old to start again,” his mother replied sadly, slumped in a chair. “This house is home for me.”

  “But you have another home. In Ruyton. We must go there.”

  Ascha shook her head, apparently unwilling to think about it, but said, “Shelfhoc is your birthright, Caedmon. I suppose you’re right. I’ve been away for a long time, and the memories—”

  He took his mother’s hand, and hunkered down beside her. “It won’t be easy. You already know it’s a long, hard journey. But I’ll be there to help you and Leofric has already said he’ll accompany us. There’s no reason for him to stay, now both his parents are gone. I believe many more will want to accompany us. We’ll seek shelter in monasteries and abbeys along the way. We can make a new life in the Marches. From what I hear, your valiant Norman protector, the Earl of Ellesmere has the area under control, and you’ve said yourself his stewards have kept up Shelfhoc.”

  “Yes,” Ascha whispered.

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it? The Normans stole everything from us, yet it’s thanks to a Norman we have a manor to return to in England. I’ll set about organizing our departure.”

  Ascha looked around, her eyes wandering over the furnishings, the drapery, the warm wooden panelling. “What about this house? Can we sell it?”

  Caedmon clenched his jaw. This was the only home he’d ever known. “We can try. I’ll speak to some people at court. Though in these unsettled times—”

  He pondered the possibilities. “Edgar Beasant might be interested. He’s decided to stay here, and has mentioned buying a house for Kendra and Eivind, now they’re married.” He shook his head. “What is Eivind thinking? Being married to Kendra would drive me mad.”

  “Perhaps he loves her,” his mother said.

  Caedmon shook his head. “Eivind isn’t a man to marry for love.”

  “Not like you, my son? Will you not choose a bonnie Saxon girl to take with us as your wife? There are many who would wish you as their husband.”

  “There’s only one woman I will consider marrying, and that’s Agneta.”

  “But she may have made her final vows already.”

  He shook his head. “She’s not old enough yet. Anyway, when we travel through Northumbria, I’m determined to try to change her mind about me.”

  “She may not be glad to see you.”

  “I have to try, if it’s only to say a last goodbye.”

  Caedmon and Leofric set about making clandestine arrangements for their departure. The three surviving members of the Brightmore family, Coventina and her mother and aunt, had decided to join the Woolgars in their flight. The women came to assist Ascha with packing.

  “The morrow will see a twelvemonth passed since Alnwick,” Leofric observed, as he and Caedmon were examining the latest charts they’d procured, planning a route. “Hard to believe a year has passed since that bloody day when life changed completely.”

  “Aye,” Caedmon agreed. “And isn’t it ironic the same thirteenth day of November is the feast day of Saint Brice?” He turned to his mother. “Why did you pick that as my middle name?”

  She reddened, muttered something about having to finish packing, and left abruptly. The elder Brightmore women went with her.

  “It’s more than a fitting day for us to leave this cursed country, make a fresh start,” Enid said. “I’d better go help your mother.”

  Caedmon wondered exactly what Enid meant by her unusual outburst, but his thoughts were interrupted.

  “You have to admire Enid’s loyalty. She’s not a young woman and yet she’s been willing to follow your mother and serve her for many years.”

  Caedmon looked at the person who’d spoken. Coventina Brightmore was a shy, quiet girl, not beautiful, but pleasant, with a good figure, and what Leofric described as voluptuous tits. It was rare for her to offer an opinion. Caedmon nodded, and then happened to notice Leofric also stared at the girl, clenching and unclenching his good fist.

  I wonder.

  “Let’s go over the plan again, Leofric,” Caedmon suggested.

  “What? Oh—yes—the plan. Everyone who is assembled here at dawn will be making the journey. Each traveller has been told they must have their own healthy horse and sufficient provisions for a sennight, at least. There will be only one wagon, which has been generously provided by Edgar Beasant, and each family will be allotted a space in it. No furniture, chattels or the like. Warm winter clothing and boots. Sufficient funds to support your family—well concealed, of course.”

  “How many have committed?”

  “Fifteen.”

  Caedmon was about to reply when Eivind Brede burst into the room. Ascha, the Brightmores and Enid followed right behind. “They’ve butchered Duncan.”

  Ascha’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. “The king?”

  “Aye. The treacherous Edmund has joined forces with his uncle. They’ve had Duncan murdered, and Donald the Fair is back on the throne. The old man has named Edmund his heir.”

  “Rufus won’t be happy about all this,” Leofric suggested.

  “Will we still leave on the morrow?” Lady Ascha asked worriedly.

  “We must,” Caedmon replied.

  I hope my little nun is praying for me.

  Agneta’s patient with the putrified sword slash proved to be an excellent source of information about the goings-on north of the border. He recovered after a fortnight in the infirmary and she visited him and his family often in their cottage near Alnwick, on the pretext of making sure his wound had not reopened. She always took another novice with her. One cold November morning, as she carefully examined the scar, she learned about the murder of King Duncan a sennight before.


  “Ironic it was on the eve of the twelvemonth anniversary of the battle here, when his father Malcolm and his half-brother died,” he told her.

  Agneta was startled. “Twelve months? Since Alnwick?”

  Oh God. Has it been that long?

  “Yes. Feast Day of Saint Brice.”

  It suddenly came to her she’d been immersed in the ritual of the divine office and paid no attention to which saint they were honoring. Her head spun.

  My name is Caedmon Brice Woolgar.

  She made a great show of examining the man’s scar. “What’s happening there now? Has there been bloodshed?”

  The man looked at her strangely. “You’re mighty interested in all this.”

  “I have a friend who lives there, a Saxon.”

  “They say the Saxons are leaving in droves.”

  “Leaving?”

  He nodded. “I expect many will come to Northumbria. The people I’m in contact with are already on their way here. You’ll likely be seeing refugees at your abbey soon.”

  Agneta’s heart thudded in her ears. She rose to her feet unsteadily and bade her patient goodbye.

  “His wound seems fine to me. It’s long since healed,” Mayda suggested as they made their way back on foot to the abbey.

  “Wound? Oh, yes. It’s healed well. You’re right.”

  Agneta looked at the threatening clouds and drew her cloak around her.

  It was on such a day as this.

  As she crossed the very moorland where she’d first seen Caedmon, the memory of the sights, sounds and smells of that fateful day assailed her, but the one predominant image was of Caedmon, lying helpless, tied to the pallet, yet exuding strength and power.

  Are you an angel?

  “Do you think he’ll come?”

  Agneta stopped abruptly and stared at her fellow novice. “What?”

  “Your knight. Will he come?”

  Agneta hunched her shoulders against the wind and clutched the cloak. “My knight? I don’t know what—”