HEARTLESS: A Medieval Romance (Age of Conquest Book 4)

by Tamara Leigh

  All these months later they had yet to depart, and it was speculated they awaited the arrival of their king who intended to assert his own claim upon England’s throne.

  “What do you, Gytha?” Mary Sarah rasped. Had the old woman abandoned hope of returning England to her family’s rule? Did desperation move her to gain the crumbs from Sweyn’s table by aiding in gaining Saxon acceptance with marriage to a Godwine? If so, it would require Mercia be acknowledged as the daughter of one of Gytha’s departed sons.

  She drove her teeth into her lower lip. Did the King of Denmark know the truth of her? Though Canute was illegitimate the same as she since all but one of Sweyn’s score of children were born out of wedlock, he was second in line to his father’s throne. Lest one day the crown came to him, surely Sweyn would wish one of Gytha’s legitimate granddaughters for his son’s wife—were the old woman willing to part with one. But she was not, even though one day that young woman might be Queen of Denmark.

  “What manner of man are you, Canute?” Mary Sarah whispered. Might he not be worthy of even the least precious of Gytha’s blood? Rather than a good future for this unacknowledged granddaughter, was she to be a sacrifice?

  Hearing the merchant grunt, she looked across her shoulder and saw he stood at the top of the ramp he had fixed to the wagon’s backside down which he would roll the barrels. As he shifted one in preparation to ease it onto its bulbous side, she returned her attention to the missive.

  Hence, Abbess, I entreat you to make haste in preparing my niece to be delivered to her betrothed who shall soon arrive in England.

  Once more, Mary Sarah’s breath stuck. Was Canute already upon these shores? If so, was he in the company of his sire who had determined it was time to take the crown? And was that even possible? So strong was the conqueror’s hold on England now nearly all resistance was ended, no matter how formidable King Sweyn’s army, likely he would fail.

  Then of what use a Godwine bride? Mary Sarah wondered. What will become of the one who casts off the name Mary Sarah to reclaim Mercia? Am I a coward to wish to remain here? Though I did not choose this life, I have been a better shepherd than I thought possible and much I care for my charges. This is familiar to me and as acceptable as possible knowing I offend God in playing a holy woman. Now to become the chattel of a foreign prince…to have no say over my days and nights…over my body…

  She startled when the panting merchant rolled a barrel past her, breathed deep to calm her heart, and returned to the missive.

  As it is imperative she begin her journey without delay and I would not further impose on the abbey’s hospitality, all arrangements have been made. Thus, you have only to remind my niece of the duty owed her family and that she is to be strong of mind, body, and spirit, then give her into the care of those with whom her betrothed has entrusted her safety.

  As the merchant strode past to unload another barrel, Mary Sarah mulled that last. Did Danes come for her? If so, how would they present at Lillefarne and when? Soon, it sounded. A day? A sennight?

  She shook her head and read the last.

  Do this, Abbess, and when next we meet, your place in my affections will be secure. ~ By God’s grace, Lady Edelwine

  Mary Sarah closed her eyes and entreated the Lord to straighten her thoughts so she could determine what to do—were there anything to be done.

  Nicola knew better. She knew she knew better. Was certain she knew better. Of course she knew better. Still, she did what she ought not.

  What moved her off the bench where she had perched to consider the far shuttered window overlooking the cloister was a feeling bolstered by Lady Hawisa’s misgivings about the abbess. But what sent her up the stairs was what she had witnessed last eve.

  Though fatigued, after much tossing she had risen from her pallet, slipped out into the night, and checked on the children. Assured by two nuns all slept well, she had started back to the dormitory.

  Lady Hawisa having impressed on her the importance of being aware of one’s surroundings, Nicola had seen the abbess before she herself was seen and nearly called out. But in the woman’s stride was what seemed urgency tempered by stealth. And Mary Sarah carried something close to her chest like a babe sheltered from rain.

  Not yet proficient at stealth herself, though more so than the abbess, Nicola had followed at too great a distance to make sense of what was conveyed to the apartment. Drawing around her the shadows of the cloister, she had tipped her head back and watched the unshuttered windows for movement but gained only glimpses of Mary Sarah in the outer chamber where she conducted the business of administering a house of God.

  But then light appeared in the partially unshuttered window of the inner chamber where the woman was to keep company with herself alone—and from which words sounded so low they were nearly unheard. Though no sense could be made of them, from the pitch and rhythm, Nicola had been fairly certain it was the abbess who spoke. Had she soothed a babe? Conversed with one not a babe? Or was it the Lord she addressed?

  Nicola had told herself it was the latter and withdrawn. But this day, so greatly was she gripped by this feeling, she assured herself the abbess would be long occupied with the merchant, ascended the steps, and quietly opened the door.

  Daylight all about the outer chamber revealed no one was behind the desk nor perched on a chair or bench where visitors were invited to take their ease. The only occupant was that which pooled in the chair before the brazier—a thick coverlet as if the abbess, also unable to sleep on the night past, had settled there to think on the day gone and the day to come. Else find her rest in less comfortable circumstances than usual…

  Leave, warned a voice so small it had little to recommend it, then with measured steps she moved toward the inner chamber, wincing each time floorboards with whom she had only a passing acquaintance revealed which nails were loose.

  Excitement, tempered by fear that Lady Hawisa said was more strength than weakness, trickled down her spine. Like the small voice, it urged her to turn back. Like the reckless Nicola her eldest brother named her, she did not.

  Halting before the door, she touched the cool handle. This time fear tempered by excitement coursed her, and she had to tell herself no one was inside before she could bring herself to open the door. But even then it was not possible.

  It was locked. From the inside or outside? she wondered, then accepted she would never know.

  “And so your great adventure ends, Nicola the reckless,” she muttered and turned away.

  A click brought her back around. Snatching her dagger from its scabbard on her girdle, she stared at the door soon to be thrown open. But it was not.

  She was certain she had not imagined the turning of the lock, just as she was certain Lady Hawisa would tell her to run—and more angrily her brothers. She should, but the click of the lock was no coincidence and, clearly, an invitation to enter.

  Did the one inside—more plausibly one of the abbess’s charges than a person of great interest—think her Mary Sarah? Likely, and when the abbess did appear, it would be reported someone had tried to enter her private chamber.

  Already I am had, Nicola reasoned. And here the excuse to satisfy her curiosity—and apologize for disturbing the occupant. Were they harmless…

  Keeping hold of her dagger, she abandoned stealth that had been of no use across the floorboards and thrust open the door.

  The outer chamber’s light swept inside, falling brightest on an unoccupied bed with a single pillow, blanket, and sheet Nicola was certain would not be as soft as her own at Stern Castle. But of greater note was the state of the bedclothes absent the coverlet seen in the outer chamber. They were tousled and hung to the floor on one side as if whoever had slept there did so poorly.

  Standing near enough the threshold she could view the greater portion of the chamber that evidenced whoever was inside was either beneath the bed or to the right or left of the doorway, she said, “I know you are here—as you know I know.” She suppressed
a groan over those last words. “Show yourself!”

  No response.

  She strained to catch sounds of movement, but there were none. Because the person inside was very ill?

  Might it be one of the displaced children whom Mary Sarah cared for separate from the others? If so, was the little one terribly diseased? Perhaps dying? What if he or she had collapsed after turning the lock and was on the floor behind the door?

  Suppressing the impulse to lunge inside, she called in more precise Anglo-Saxon, “I enter. Be assured, I mean you no harm.”

  She took a step inside, looked sharply left into dim depths and right past the angled door. And nearly choked on a gasp that sent saliva down the wrong way.

  Though the man sitting forward in a chair beside an unlit brazier was mostly in shadow, he was of formidable size. Too, he was so familiar she would wager his long hair and beard were red.

  The abbess had lied.

  “As thought,” he said in a voice that sounded rusted, “’tis only the termagant.” As she stiffened at being named harsh-tempered, he mused, “I wonder, does she still wish to kill this Saxon pig?”

  It was as she had threatened to do—and named him—when he delivered Guarin half dead from the rebel camp to Stern, at that time unaware he was more ally than foe to her brother though long he had charge over his captivity. Hardly had she cast those words at the rebel than one of her cousin’s men snatched her off the drawbridge and carried her back inside the walls.

  “I…” She cleared her throat. “…thought you responsible for my brother’s injuries.”

  “Not directly, Lady Nicola,” he said as movement drew her regard to his forearms on his thighs and large hands past his knees drawing a piece of cloth through his fingers.

  Absently or with thought? she wondered and wished the light more generous so she could look near on what suffered a warrior’s calloused fingers.

  “But responsible enough that had your brother died, I would not begrudge you an attempt on my life.”

  His choice of words indicating an attempt was all it would be, she longed to demonstrate how accurate her dagger’s throw, but what was the sixth lesson—or was it the seventh?—impressed upon her?

  Let not pride show your hand before your opponent shows his.

  A mistake at this time, but he would learn how great her facility with a blade if he attempted to take her only weapon that should not have been permitted inside the abbey. It was no meat dagger, as well the abbess knew, but the woman had ignored the relatively long scabbard above whose neck a wire-wrapped hilt jutted.

  “Still, it is a pleasure to meet you again,” he broke the silence, “and more so since these circumstances put me in mind of a recent victory when I played David to—”

  “David?” she interrupted.

  Was that a smile amid his beard? “Of the Bible, ere he became King of Israel.”

  Nicola deepened her frown.

  Misinterpreting it, he said, “Aye, this Saxon is familiar with God’s book. Though you Normans name my people heathens to excuse the heinous acts perpetrated against us, we are not. Thus, I do not think I would be remiss in claiming most Saxons are more Christian than those come across the narrow sea.”

  “It is true once I believed Saxons godless,” she acceded, “but no longer, and after what our king—” She snapped her teeth. This warrior needed no reminder of what William had done nor that he was her family’s liege.

  “Continue, Nicola.”

  Telling herself his familiar use of her name unsettled only because it offended, assuring herself she longed to step nearer only to deliver a slap, she ignored his prompt to elaborate. “You read my confusion wrong, Vitalis. I did not question the depth of your faith nor knowledge of the Bible. My confusion sprang from you equating yourself with David who became king as it is highly doubtful you shall become.”

  “Nor do I wish it. Had you not interrupted, you would know I spoke of an encounter David had with one who was king.” He flicked a hand, causing her to jump back and what he tossed at her feet to land short of her skirt.

  By the light come through the doorway, she could see the cloth was of a size upon which she could place both hands side by side, was woven of fine wool, and worked with embroidery. As only one edge was finished, the others frayed, it had to have been cut from a larger piece. A lady’s gown? A fine mantle? An exquisite coverlet?

  “For you,” Vitalis said.

  Rebuking herself for ponderings that would have rendered her vulnerable had he moved against her, she said, “Why?” as yet oblivious to the tale he referenced and just as oblivious to what use the cloth was to her.

  “Much gratitude you will gain from your cousin do you deliver that to him, perhaps even respect do you exaggerate how you came by it.”

  “Exaggerate?”

  “Doubtless a woman who thinks naught of threatening a warrior is capable of embellishment.”

  He mocked her. “What would Maël want with a piece of cloth?” she snapped.

  “The biblical tale I spoke of…’tis why he hunts me.” He jutted his chin. “He is tasked with retrieving the cloth.”

  Rather than delve that, Nicola asked, “You know he was here—that he escorted me to Lillefarne?”

  “I do, and because I lingered to speak with the abbess after delivering the children and fell asleep in a chair before her desk, I found myself cornered.”

  Nicola frowned. “It is two days since my cousin departed. Why are you still here—and in the bedchamber of a holy woman?” It was said more sharply than intended though she could not believe anything untoward had happened between Mary Sarah and Vitalis.

  “Initially, the abbess insisted I remain to ensure the king’s men long gone.” He pushed up out of the chair.

  Again, Nicola retreated and, seeing the true size of him up close, would have further distanced herself had he not earlier foregone the opportunity to overwhelm her. Too, still she had her dagger and the doorway was near.

  Though she had heard Vitalis compared to Goliath the same as her aunt’s husband and thought it exaggeration, the leader of the Rebels of the Pale was just as tall and broad as Father Fulbert. At the realization he likened himself to David rather than the giant that future king had slain with a stone, she almost smiled.

  As he moved slowly into the light as if he feared frightening her, she saw he wore undertunic and chausses and the red of his beard was darker than that of his hair which was as tousled as the bedclothes.

  He halted and reached to retrieve the cloth. When he straightened and stepped further into the light, she had the answer to why he had not departed Lillefarne.

  “You are ill!” Her heart pounded over how drawn his face, sunken and red his eyes she had not known were brown, and dry his lips.

  “Relapse only,” he said gruffly. “With much gratitude to the abbess for her care, soon I shall depart.”

  Certain what Mary Sarah had carried to her apartment were items to aid in his recovery, Nicola was also grateful to the abbess—as compassion for a fellow human being demanded, she told herself.

  Vitalis handed the cloth to her, and she noted he avoided contact with her fingers.

  He fears his touch could pass his illness to me, she told herself, the alternative being he found this lady of Norman blood repugnant.

  “Whatever tale you decide on, see this into your cousin’s keeping,” he said. “He knows the truth of how it was obtained.”

  Then she would have that truth from Maël. “I shall.” She started to turn aside.

  “Vixen.”

  She halted. “What say you?”

  “Methinks termagant too harsh for Nicola D’Argent. More the fox you are—sleek and elegant, curious and cunning, sharp of teeth and claw. And let us not forget protective.”

  As she had been of Guarin. Though Aunt Chanson would believe it criticism what this Saxon named her, Nicola smiled over what she embraced as praise—even if Vitalis did not. “Much better,” she said.
<
br />   That should be the end their conversation, but it was the opening to ask what she had not. “Why did you let me in?”

  “For the interest you showed in the window of the abbess’s bedchamber—so much you could hardly sit still.”

  Then he had seen her in the cloister below, either through a crack in the shuttered window or an unshuttered window of the outer chamber.

  “You knew it was I who entered the apartment.”

  His lips curved. “I did and unlocked the door so I might look nearer on a girl who appears to have become a woman since last I saw her.”

  It was fear not excitement coursing her, she assured one who should want naught to do with the Saxon rebel.

  “Since your cousin and his men are long gone as soon I shall be, I saw no harm in satisfying your curiosity alongside mine. Now, lest dread grow into deception as it is wont to do the longer one delays confession, I advise you seek the abbess and tell her what passed here.”

  Or he would…

  “I shall. Godspeed your journey and healing, Vitalis.” She stepped into the outer chamber, and hearing the door close and the sound of metal on metal, returned her dagger to its scabbard.

  Shortly, she secured the outer chamber’s door and considered the cloth worked with many-stranded black thread shot through with a strand of gold. She touched the embroidery Vitalis had touched, brushed the frayed edges he had brushed. Then having no pouch in which to tuck it, she slipped the cloth down her bodice.

  Guessing the abbess’s business with the wine merchant neared its end and feeling dread that could, indeed, tempt her to deception were there no possibility Vitalis would reveal their encounter, Nicola decided to be done with it.