by Tamara Leigh
“Marguerite’s mother had much to offer Diarmad. You more than any know I am not what I was.”
“And yet still a warrior as proven by the attack in the glen and the enemy who fell to your sword.”
“Just as her sire needed to protect his family, so would I were I to take a wife.”
“Certes, during times of threat your household would require more sword arms,” Hendrie allowed, “but were ye to serve Malcolm, I am certain he would provide.”
Theriot’s thoughts moved to his sire whose household had been reinforced with trusted warriors to allow Godfroi to rule despite being unable to move about his fortress and demesne without being carried from one room to another and lifted into the saddle.
Hendrie sighed. “Men have wanted her, and she has declined in the hope of gaining what her parents had. If you take that hope with you by departing Scotland, she may yield to the attentions of one here who now covets the songbird he did not know flew about Malcolm’s court.”
As she herself had considered while at meal…
“That, or just as she is alone now, she shall remain—no husband nor children.”
Theriot scowled. “For two who did great injury to each other, it is not natural there should be such civility between us.”
“True, but all should aspire to be Diarmad the Mad, eh, Norman?”
Deciding there was naught for him here, Theriot started to turn away.
“What was it the lass said ere she left you in the graveyard?”
That Theriot also wished to know, though surely it was better he did not. “You did not hear her words?”
“She did not cast them as loud as you did in demanding to know their meaning. I am thinking they were Gaelic. If ye can repeat them, I shall translate.”
“Tá mo chroí istigh ionat,” Theriot said grudgingly.
Hendrie chuckled. “You listen well. I doubt there are many unfamiliar with our language who could almost flawlessly repeat such rare words.”
“Though I understand little of Gaelic, I have become acquainted with its sounds and rhythm. Now the meaning.”
“As I said, rare words. They profess even after you are long gone, the sparrow shall yearn for you—hence, that which you take of hers that you ought not.”
“The meaning?” Theriot growled.
“My heart is in you.” He nodded. “Where you go, her heart goes, leaving her empty here.”
Pain in the center of him as if his own heart were being stolen—further confirmation this was love he felt—he said tautly, “I thank you, Hendrie. Now I am for bed.”
“Ah, but will ye sleep?” the Scotsman called to his back. “I think not, Norman.”
A door was opened for Theriot, and when it closed behind him, he lifted his face to the sky. It was entirely black, no silver and white twinklings to form images exceedingly still compared to those formed by clouds during the day.
He missed stars, he missed clouds. But more, when he left Scotland, he would miss the face of Marguerite he knew better by touch than sight.
“Sire?”
Guarin, born a D’Argent and made a Wulfrith through marriage to a great Saxon lady, knew he should not resent Eberhard’s prompting, but the tidings delivered across the estuary beneath an ink-black sky hours from sunrise felt a blow to heart and gut.
Theriot lived. Blessed tidings.
Theriot was no deserter. No tidings that.
Theriot was neither chained nor beaten as once Guarin had been and he moved among the enemy as if accorded respect. Blessed tidings, though only if he had not suffered greatly between capture and the feast of King Malcolm who may have been the one who blinded him. Blinded!
A hand touched his shoulder.
He swung around, arms trembling with the effort to keep his knuckles from bloodying the one who trespassed on…
What was this? Grieving? Of a sorts, for it could prove the death of a warrior even if Theriot survived as had their sire who had more to return to—a wife and children—than had his youngest son.
“Guarin!” Maël said with warning.
Bringing his cousin’s scarred face into focus, Guarin knew from the expression delivered with the warning that though Maël might fail were blows exchanged, his opponent would be hurting as well.
Maël leaned near. “That he has lost his sight is terrible, but what happened cannot be changed. We can only control what happens next.” He peered behind and Guarin followed his gaze to Dougray who stood to the left of the tent opening, the lantern’s light causing his shadow to shift across the canvas. His face was as livid as his oldest brother’s felt, his single arm at his side ending in a fist.
“My words are for you as well, Dougray, and they are not of my sire who trained us at arms but of Godfroi who imparted wisdom with which to wield those arms.”
Even before Maël spoke them, Guarin knew the ones to which he referred.
“Battle threats of the moment by going into the past only to retrieve lessons learned,” his cousin recited, “and into the future to make use of those lessons to better one’s chances in the now.”
Dougray’s eyes, different from those of D’Argent blood, just as the gold of his hair was different, shifted to Guarin. Ever he who shared only a mother with the D’Argent siblings had been closest with Theriot. If he did not cool as Guarin must as well, mistakes would be made.
“Maël is right,” Guarin said. “If we are to free Theriot without casualties, we must lean hard on the training of our uncle and our sire.”
“No casualties our side,” Dougray growled.
“Do we succumb to vengeance, Brother,” Guarin said, “it could blind us worse than Theriot.” He strode to Eberhard, gripped the young man’s arm, and was grateful for this son who was not of his body but loved as Guarin imagined his own sire loved the misbegotten Dougray. “You are worthy. Your mother will be as proud as I.”
He started to turn to Sir Guy whom William had earlier sent across the border with a contingent, but Eberhard said, “There is more. At noon on the morrow—or I suppose it is this day now—Malcolm shall bring the princess to Edinburgh to present an early wedding gift.”
Guarin swept his regard to Guy.
“Likely the chapel he raises,” the chevalier said, “though it is far from finished despite fortification of the castle having ceased to allow the workers to labor solely on that House of God.” He nodded. “One of my spies reported the grumblings of many who do not believe it should take precedence over defense of their country against William’s ambitions.” His smile was slight. “It is said the princess is very devout, not at all in the way of William’s brother, Bishop Odo.”
“True faith,” Guarin said, and knew for this Guy wrestled with what was expected of him.
Before Eberhard’s return, the D’Argents had conversed with the warrior who would surely become the captain of William’s guard once Maël relinquished that position by disappearing from England to begin his life with the Saxon lady he had aided in escaping the conqueror. No matter the cost in Norman lives, Guy was to prevent the princess from becoming Queen of Scotland, preferably by way of abduction which would see her locked away for life, ensuring she birthed no children with a claim to William’s throne.
Though Guy strove to serve his king well, he had confided it would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to deprive the godly woman of a good life after all she and her family had lost.
As this eve’s tidings presented the chevalier a greater chance of stealing her away, he did not welcome them. Where he was concerned, the only good of this was the men under his command were ignorant of the opportunity Malcolm would present to fulfill their mission. More easily William would grant forgiveness for failing to abduct the princess were it believed Guy lacked the time to devise the means to do so.
It was the same for the D’Argents who would be expected to aid the chevalier though the king had granted them permission to retrieve Theriot—a rescue too long in coming.
Weeks past,
efforts to locate their missing kin had led to the discovery of Theriot’s horse of unusual color and eyes near Scotland’s border. Not only had Guarin bought the stallion from a Saxon who claimed he had found it outside his village, but coin was given for tale of what happened the night the Aetheling led his men through its streets, followed by Normans who set much afire.
Further, the man had revealed the village physician had tended a seriously injured Norman and a Scotsman, and the prince took both north.
Immediately, Guarin had sent a scout into Scotland. When the man returned with tale of a silvered, dark-haired young man walking in the outer garden of Dunfermline’s palace with a lady, Guarin and his kin had prepared to go in after him. And would have had not his wife sent tidings his sister was in danger.
They had no choice but to turn south, assuring themselves since it did not appear Theriot was ill-treated he could better protect himself than the reckless Nicola—Nicola who had recently wed the Saxon warrior who proved her savior, then she his when William sought to avenge himself on the leader of the Rebels of the Pale.
Would the Lord once more bless Guarin’s family by turning tragedy into good? And was that even possible if Theriot’s eyes were put out? Unfortunately, Eberhard had been unable to draw near enough to confirm or refute it following what he named the most beautiful performance by a woman said to resemble the mute friend of Dougray’s wife, Em.
“First, in between, and in the end, we are D’Argents,” Dougray returned Guarin to this moment. “We go for Theriot on the morrow, not the princess.” He looked to Guy. “Until we have departed for Dunfermline, your men cannot know she and Malcolm come to Edinburgh. It will be no easy thing to steal inside the palace, but we will not be denied the opportunity to enter walls more easily breached in the absence of Malcolm and the sizable entourage he is sure to take with him. Oui, Sir Guy?”
The chevalier looked from one D’Argent to the other, inclined his head. “At this moment, I am fast asleep—have been for an hour, mayhap two.”
“We thank you.”
Guy smiled tautly, but as he turned to exit the tent to which he had been summoned upon Eberhard’s return, Guarin called him back.
“Baron Wulfrith?”
“What comes after this?”
“You speak of when I fail to stop the marriage of Malcolm and Princess Margaret?” He shrugged. “Regardless of whether or not I become captain of the king’s guard, methinks I go to the Isle of Ely. Unless Hereward and his rebels accept they have no chance of ousting William now the Danes have deserted them, by force that isle must be brought under Norman control. Once that is done… God willing, the unrest ends and the beautiful England made ugly by the conquering shall flower again.” He dipped his head, pivoted, and ducked outside.
“God willing,” Guarin said, then he and his kin began laying plans.
When finally they sought their rest, it was to little avail. One after another rose to walk the deep-cut valley where Guy had made camp on the recommendation of Normans long of these northern lands whom he paid well to ensure Malcolm’s enemies moved unseen through his country. Though the two men were of the warrior class, an injury sustained by the oldest mercenary rendered him no longer capable of effectively wielding a blade. Just as it was possible Theriot would never again do.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The clamor was too great and too sudden to be that of a new day through which awakening men and women trudged. Dubh knew it as well, having begun pacing the hut.
Theriot turned his face to the unshuttered window through which night air drifted. As expected, only the dim of torchlit dark was seen, no hint of dawn to reveal how many hours had passed since he gained his bed.
As he sat up, the shouting began. Though the voices lacked the urgency of men preparing to defend their lives, quickly he donned tunic, belt, and dagger and dragged on his boots.
Dubh was at his side when he stepped into a bailey rife with movement that converged on the stable whence the king’s voice sounded.
“Guide me to Malcolm,” Theriot said.
The hound fit herself to his side, but with so much bustle and flickering light, Theriot trampled pride and hooked fingers around her collar to guarantee his footing.
As if now she could better perform her duty, she increased her pace. It alarmed, making him feel off balance, but he yielded to her lead. Though sharply she corrected their course when someone anxious to do the king’s bidding shot into their path, there were no mishaps.
“Sir Theriot!” Malcolm boomed. “A bad business this.”
Theriot halted. “What has happened?”
“I was hardly abed when word was delivered that an outer wall of the chapel I shall present to My Pearl collapsed as the workers began returning home for the night.”
Theriot wondered if it was of William’s doing, but since it had transpired while the workers were present, likely not. “Faulty craftsmanship?”
Malcolm grunted. “It appears. Still, precautions will be taken. I go there now and not by ferry—the long way around to accommodate a sizable escort with the best horses at our disposal.”
“I am sorry your plan is ruined, Your Grace.”
“Not ruined—only inconvenient. Once I confirm all is as told, I shall have the damage repaired ahead of the princess’s arrival at noon, even if the workers must sweat blood to see it done.”
“Your betrothed will be disappointed you do not cross the estuary with her.”
“It cannot be helped. I will not have her learn—” He broke off, shouted, “Boy, saddle Sir Theriot’s horse!”
Theriot could not contain his surprise—one moment at the realization it was Grendel of whom he spoke, the next over the belief this Norman could sit a horse well and ride hard.
“I will not have My Pearl learn of the collapse lest she believe God is displeased with my gift,” Malcolm said. “She sees His hand in everything, you know.”
“I am surprised you wish me to accompany you, Your Grace.”
“Only a bit sooner than the morrow.”
With which Theriot had been uncomfortable enough for the short ride to the dock, but now he was to go to Edinburgh by land, a long ride in the dark made more dangerous for its urgency.
“You question your ability,” Malcolm said. “Were you a lone rider or one of a few, understandable. But that you will not be, and I am told the horse you won from your attacker is fond of you. Too, he ought to require little guidance beyond what is provided by the others running ahead of him.”
It was true, though still a lead might be needed once the running was done, and imaginings of another guiding him was nearly as distasteful as sweeping a stick before him.
As if Malcolm knew his thoughts, he said, “Soon you return to England. Will you do so in a cart the same as you arrived at Dunfermline or astride?”
Theriot ground his teeth.
“Begin here, Chevalier, and I shall have my squire deliver your armor and sword.”
This was even more unexpected than riding with warriors, but Malcolm was right. Better Theriot continue piecing himself together in Scotland, even if this piece landed him face down in the mud, than in England where he could not escape pity.
“I shall await your squire,” he said. Once more holding to the hound who would not like being left behind, Theriot turned away.
Plans gone bad—blessedly before the D’Argents and their dozen men were more than a league distant from camp. It was Sir Guy’s squire who overtook them, revealing all had changed and telling they must return.
They followed and learned the collapse of one of the chapel’s walls had altered Malcolm’s own plan. Before expected, the King of Scots and a sizable retinue that included the Aetheling had arrived in Edinburgh to supervise repair of the wall ahead of the princess’s arrival. But it was not that which necessitated an alteration of the D’Argents’ plan. It was that Theriot accompanied Malcolm as reported by mercenaries who aided in keeping watch over that fortress.
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br /> Guarin jutted his chin at where the two hired warriors ate cold pottage. “They are certain Theriot is among Malcolm’s entourage?”
“They are, and so tells one of the patrol who also witnessed the king’s arrival. A young man of silvered dark hair, he said, surely he whom the D’Argents have permission to retrieve. Too, he told not only was your brother astride, his mount running at the rear, but he had a sword on his belt.”
Greater the mystery of Theriot’s captivity. A blind prisoner allowed to move among his captors with a dagger at his side and now the most esteemed weapon of a warrior? Was it possible the injury to his eyes was not serious, even feigned? God willing, it was so. But for what did Theriot accompany the king as if one of his men?
“He is no deserter,” Dougray bit, then swung his gaze to Guy. “No matter what your man believes.”
“Though he may think it, he made no accusations,” Guy said. “However, he was surprised to learn Theriot is without sight.”
Hopeful, Guarin said, “How did he learn that?”
Guy jutted his chin at the mercenaries. “The bent-backed one taunted him for his lack of observation. He said my man must be as blind as that D’Argent not to notice he does not look upon the world in a natural way.”
Hope fading, Guarin said, “Eberhard told Theriot’s sightlessness is not obvious, that it was apparent only after he overheard my brother was blinded and watched for signs.”
“Perhaps in that situation, but riding could prove very different,” Guy said.
Guarin considered the mercenaries, both of whom wore blades and had bows and arrows fixed to their backs. “Swords for hire cannot be trusted, but instinct tells these two less so.”
“I agree. Unfortunately, Scotland is so foreign and wild it is necessary to employ them to provide my men good range of movement with little risk of detection. And another thing—my own coin ensures they do my bidding without question.”