by Tamara Leigh
Were the abbess still at the shed, privacy would be had there in which to confess, earn displeasure, and be forgiven.
Chapter Six
My final delivery to Lillefarne.” Slapping his hands to remove the grime of a half dozen barrels unloaded from his wagon, the merchant halted before Mary Sarah and smiled as she had never seen him smile, revealing a broken front tooth. “Though it has been profitable, I will not miss supplying this abbey with wine—too far out of my way, you know.”
She did not know. What she knew was she paid the price of superior wine, which his was not, and Gytha paid him for carrying and delivering messages. Though Mary Sarah assumed he was not privy to the contents of those missives, this day he knew enough that he bid her farewell.
“I thank you for your service.” She pushed off the wall she had leaned against during the last reading of the parchment. “I shall meet you at the gate to deliver your coin.” As ever she did after composing a response were one required.
“No charge this day.”
She blinked. “That is generous, but—”
“Not generous, Abbess.”
Emphasis on her title turning her wary, she said, “Then?”
He glanced at the purse on her belt whose bulk evidenced Gytha’s missive that she was to burn as soon as she reached her apartment. “Over and again you read it. What is not clear?”
Its seal had not been broken when he gave it to her, but it sounded as if he knew its every word, and that alarmed as much as his tone that was no longer respectful.
Determined to be strong of mind, body, and spirit though she wanted to hasten opposite, Mary Sarah stepped nearer. “Pray tell, what is clear to you?”
“As Lady Edelwine told, her niece is to begin her journey without delay. This day. This hour. This moment.” He jerked his head toward the wagon. “Get in.”
Feeling punched in the chest, she said, “It cannot be this day—not even this week.” If ever, she dare not speak what dread over becoming more of a pawn made her consider. “To ensure the stability of this house of God, I require a fortnight to put all in order.”
His brow grew more lined. “I have my orders and my honor, both of which have been bought. You depart now.” He grabbed her arm and thrust her toward the wagon.
She stumbled, and as she regained her balance, saw the canvas move. Then that portion gone flaccid following the removal of barrels was tossed back to reveal three men—two fairly young and one of good age. Of greater note, they were Danes.
For this, lest she protest her departure, the merchant had positioned the wagon so that little could be seen of what went between its rear and the shed.
The last time she had been this frightened was at Westminster when her grandmother and she faced Maël D’Argent, a Norman given much cause to reveal them but had not.
Abandoning the Saxon of her who, in this moment, could not be strong of anything, she lunged left and evaded hands that snatched her veil from her head. However, in the next instant she halted at the sight of a nun and novice and several convent residents scattered left and right, as yet unaware uninvited men were inside their walls—wolves who, were they revealed, might not be content with taking only one lamb.
Fearing her resistance would be token only and others would suffer for it, she swung back and raised her hands. “I yield!”
The two Danes coming around the rear of the wagon halted so abruptly they sprayed her habit with dirt. And smiled. Triumph, she first named it, but the gleam in their eyes revealed something else—appreciation.
And she did not doubt it was due to her unveiled hair. Had she let go of that last bit of Mercia as she told herself she must after Maël D’Argent witnessed her vanity, these men might appreciate her face despite hair cut to a modest length but not as much as they did now.
Lest they entertain thoughts beyond appreciation, she enlisted the only weapon she possessed. “I would be surprised if your prince approved of you looking upon his betrothed in the manner of one preparing to undress a harlot.”
She could not know how versed they were with a language similar to their own, but the youngest Dane understood enough that he blinked away what offended. As for the other who held her veil, appreciation yet shone from his eyes, but it was tempered by what seemed amusement.
Hearing a chuckle, she looked to the merchant who stood where she had left him. No need to give chase when he had younger, fitter men to force her into the wagon.
Knowing the longer they lingered, the more likely they would come to the notice of the women she sought to protect, Mary Sarah dropped her arms to her sides. “Make haste ere you are seen and word is delivered to the Wulfriths that Danes are at their abbey.”
The youngest knew that family’s name as told by widening eyes and how quickly he turned back.
Lord Almighty, Mary Sarah sent heavenward as she followed the Danes around the wagon, keep my charges safe. And have mercy on me, reluctant servant though I have been.
Once more out of sight of those who strolled the rear of the abbey, she eyed the merchant as he strode to the opposite side of the wagon and bent to exam the rear wheel.
A hand thrust toward her moved her regard to the young Dane. Ignoring his offer to assist in her ascent of the ramp, she raised her skirt and walked her slippers up the incline to where the other two straightened the canvas their hasty exit had caused to go aslant.
It was then she saw where they had concealed themselves at the front of the wagon in the space between barrels on each side where more barrels should have been. Since the merchant had unloaded six of ten, greater comfort would be had during the journey ahead—more than enough space so there was no reason to draw inappropriately near the woman in their midst.
The older Dane who was wiry, of unremarkable stature, and had long hair and beard gone mostly silver, motioned her forward. “I be Ingvar, Lady Mercia. Come.”
She was shocked to hear her birth name spoken, but more that she was granted a title as if she were legitimate. Was it mere assumption on his part or his king’s? Or had Gytha made it so, formally acknowledging her misbegotten granddaughter as a Godwine?
“Come, Lady!” he said with greater urgency.
Telling herself she must once more think of herself as Mercia, Mary Sarah bent to go beneath the canvas. However, her veil tucked beneath the belt of the amused Dane made her pause. It looked a trophy, just as had been made of hair shorn from two of her novices ravished by Normans.
“That is mine.” She reached for it.
He caught her wrist and chuckled as if she sought to make a game of it. “Now mine. The betrothed of Canute has no need to cover her pretty hair.” He reached with his other hand as if to test how silken those strands.
She knocked it aside. “Dare not touch me, you—”
“Unhand her, fiend!” cried one whose voice sang a song not of England.
Not her, Lord, Mary Sarah silently entreated though it could be none other than the young woman whose conquering people these Danes had come to conquer in turn.
Looking across her shoulder at Nicola whose fine gown was as detrimental as her accent, marking her as a lady not of the Church—and an unwed one as told by loose hair and ringless hands—Mary Sarah said sharply, “This does not concern you. Go!”
Nicola swiped her dagger at the young Dane who stepped near. “And allow these vermin to abduct a holy woman? I will not!” She bared her teeth at the one who gripped Mary Sarah’s wrist. “Loose the abbess, else I will stick your little friend.”
“Such spirit,” said the amused one. “She must be in want of a man.”
Again, Nicola swiped at the young Dane. “I said loose her!”
“’Tis only a misunderstanding, Nicola,” Mary Sarah entreated. “I will deal with it. Now leave.”
“We cannot have the Norman lady give warning,” said the young Dane with mock sorrow. Then with what looked a smile of apology, he added, “Sleep sweet, my lady.”
The wine merchant, whom n
either Nicola nor Mary Sarah saw circle from one side of the wagon to the other, brought a stick down on the young woman’s head.
As Nicola’s eyes rolled up, the amused one clapped a hand over Mary Sarah’s mouth and caught her cry in it. Thus, she could do naught but watch the only sister of the D’Argents collapse at the merchant’s feet.
The young Dane bent near, then looked up at the one holding the Abbess of Lillefarne. “I like this silvered Norman lady.”
A snort. “Of course you do. Put a blade in the hand of a pretty woman and she will put it in your heart. Every time, Bjorn.” The amused Dane shifted his regard to Mary Sarah. “My cousin never learn. I say he ought to wed a godly woman of good face and figure, but does he listen to one older and wiser?”
Above the hand pressed to her mouth, she glared at the man who made himself sound a dozen years beyond the younger one though he could not be aged more than her own twenty and six.
He sighed. “He wants what he wants—spirit in bed and outside it. Me? Plentiful sons and daughters of good blood.” He winked. “My lady.”
It had not gone as planned, all because of Nicola D’Argent. Blessedly, because of that vixen.
Had she not resisted as the wagon departed the abbey—tossing back the canvas, pulling the abbess with her, screaming and cursing as the two were dragged back—the nuns who opened the great doors for the merchant would not have known he had brought Danes inside and exchanged barrels of wine for a Saxon abbess and a Norman lady.
Unfortunately, all had transpired too distant from the abbess’s apartment for Vitalis to catch sight or sound of it and immediately pursue the miscreants. More unfortunate, it was two hours before he heard tale, and only because nuns entered the outer chamber. It did not take long to make sense of the crisis that required a missive be composed for the Baron of Wulfen.
Terribly improper though it was for Vitalis to reveal he occupied the abbess’s private chamber, the alternative was to allow the abductors more time in which to work greater ill on the women. Thus, grateful he was fully clothed in anticipation of departing the abbey, he had shown himself and so scandalized the nuns it was necessary to raise his voice and use his intimidating size to quiet them.
Saxons themselves and long enough at Lillefarne to know him from when he was Lady Hawisa’s housecarle and next led the Rebels of the Pale against their enemy, they had begun to calm. More they had calmed when he explained the arrival of the king’s men had forced him to remain in the apartment after delivering the children to the abbey and that a relapse of illness had prolonged his stay.
Still their disapproval was great, but he gained the tale of abduction by the merchant and three others—Danes, they were certain from the voices of those who pulled the abbess and Lady Nicola back beneath the canvas. Just as they were certain it was the latter they had come for and their abbess was taken as well during her attempt to protect the D’Argents’ sister.
Whether it was Lady Nicola they came for or the abbess, the only sense to be made of the abduction of a woman who was not an heiress was that one had come to the notice of a Dane determined to make her his own.
Greater youth, beauty, and opportunity to catch the eye of one of the allies who had failed the Saxon resistance favored Nicola. But there was something more to it, Vitalis was certain, whether the more was of Mary Sarah or Nicola.
He straightened from the edge of the ravine over which the wagon had been sent to break on jagged rocks fifty feet below—all splintered wood, bent iron, and spilled wine. No bodies, and from the trampling of spring grass, the occupants of the wagon were now astride and in the company of others who had awaited them in the wood.
“How many, Zedekiah?” he asked of the warrior advancing on him who was all that remained of his rebels after the final disbanding following the encounter with William at the cave.
“Ten horses, mayhap twelve, and not all departed the same direction. A lone rider—likely the merchant—headed southwest, while one group went north and the other northeast.” The stocky Saxon halted. “Had I known something was amiss, I would have followed.”
Instead he kept vigil in the wood where he had been ordered to remain while the children were given into the care of Lillefarne. He had seen the arrival of the king’s men with Lady Nicola and their departure absent the lady. As the hunted Vitalis was also absent, he had concluded either his leader had determined it was not safe to depart, else he was once more taken by the flux to which all his rebels had succumbed weeks past.
That sickness of the gut thought due to contaminated water had afflicted Vitalis least of all, though it weakened him sufficiently he had believed it possible he would bleed out his life had he challenged William to swords in the cave. In the days thereafter, he had improved the same as the others—until Zedekiah and he happened on the children.
But he was better now as he must be to pursue the Danes who had taken a Saxon woman of God and might do her great harm. And of course there was his lady’s sister-in-law to recover. Much he risked since the missive sent by the nuns might see not only Guarin D’Argent—now Baron Wulfrith—give chase but his cousin, Maël, if that chevalier remained upon Wulfenshire.
Vitalis nearly laughed over how greatly he exaggerated what he risked. Though pockets of resistance remained across England, the harrying had accomplished what Le Bâtard intended. No longer were Saxon rebels a viable threat to his rule. Now threat came from Danes whose king would soon arrive had he not already. Even then, from what Vitalis knew of William into whose back he had been tempted to thrust a dagger, Le Bâtard would find Sweyn an unworthy opponent the same as the Danish king’s brother who had refused to meet the conqueror in battle after aiding Saxon rebels in taking York—a city once more in the hands of Normans.
Truly, little at risk, Vitalis amended. His country belonged to Normans. His family’s lands belonged to Normans. The future he had imagined for himself belonged to Normans. The woman long he had loved belonged to a Norman. The child she would bear belonged to a Norman.
Albeit a worthy Norman, he silently acknowledged what once would have been a lie. Hoping should his quest to free the abbess and the vixen cause him to cross paths with a D’Argent it would be Guarin who no longer bore that family name, Vitalis returned Zedekiah to focus.
“I will go northeast and you north. Likely the Danes will regroup in two days—three at most—once assured they are not tracked, then we shall meet again. Between now and then, we must ensure neither Abbess Mary Sarah nor Lady Nicola is handed off and watch our backs lest the king’s man is at Wulfen upon receipt of the missive from Lillefarne.”
The man who looked as much a warrior now as he had a smithy when first he joined the rebels, grunted. “A good plan, my lord.”
The title annoyed as if mockery was made of one whose future no longer portended such responsibility and honor, but mockery Zedekiah did not intend. Since becoming the last rebel to remain at his side, he had insisted on naming Vitalis that and would not be moved from it, just as he refused to go home though Lady Hawisa would welcome him back. Henceforth, he had declared, even were he Vitalis’s only man, ever his man he would be.
“Aye, a good plan.” Zedekiah confirmed, then added, “But good only if you are well enough recovered.”
“I am. Now let us ride.”
After the two clasped arms from atop their mounts, they went in search of those who, while awaiting the arrival of the king they believed could topple Le Bâtard, made sport of defenseless women.
Rather, mostly defenseless. Vitalis would not be surprised if this moment they rued having taken the vixen captive.
Wulfen Castle
Wulfenshire, England
“Lord, ’tis not to be borne,” Lady Hawisa rasped so low that were Maël not seated beside her at supper, he would not have heard nor seen her splay a hand on her belly after dropping the missive delivered during the meal.
If not that the messenger insisted the tidings from Lillefarne were urgent, likely she would
have waited to read it in the privacy of her chamber.
“My lady?” asked the housecarle seated on her opposite side.
Maël leaned in. “What is it, Lady Hawisa?”
She dropped back in her chair. “We are set upon on all sides. First Theriot, now this.” She shook her head. “And Guarin is gone from Wulfen.”
So he was, having departed yestermorn to search for his youngest brother as once Theriot had searched for him.
Though both Maël and Ordric reached for the missive fallen atop the table, the king’s man brought it to hand. The tidings were succinct. Nicola and the abbess had been abducted by Danes smuggled into the abbey by the wine merchant. Though the younger woman must be the intended victim, it was believed the abbess was taken as well to quiet her after interceding on behalf of a D’Argent.
Every tooth and muscle tight over fear for Nicola who truly was as a sister to him and the holy woman who despised him, Maël stared at the name of the one who had signed the parchment—Sister Rixende.
“To me!” Ordric reached for the missive.
Maël started to pass it but drew back when he caught sight of a stroke of ink above the curled end. Unrolling the parchment in its entirety, he revealed more words written in a hand different from the first. There was naught precise about the bold letters, and after reading them, he was certain they were inked by a man.
My lady, having escorted displaced children to the abbey, I was at Lillefarne when your sister-in-law and the abbess were taken. Most unfortunate, I remained unaware for two hours. I set out now and, God willing, shall restore both to you.
No signature, but since a sighting of Vitalis near the Wulfenshire border had drawn Maël and his men here, likely the rebel leader had inked the lower parchment. Possibly, he had been at the abbey when Maël delivered Nicola there, but for what had he returned two days later? Having learned the king’s men searched the demesne for what remained of the Rebels of the Pale, had he sought refuge within the hidden passage?