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

by Tamara Leigh

  Believable had this day’s search been near the abbey, but it was the eastern portion Maël and his men scoured, including the abandoned rebel camp tucked in a ravine where Guarin had been held captive for two years and which had been converted to a refugee camp when the harrying began last December.

  What was now a permanent community was the first place Maël should have gone, but whilst aiding Guarin in making arrangements to search for Theriot, his cousin had asked that the village be searched last so his wife could prepare the northern Saxons for the king’s men. Though Guarin had admitted some of the resistance were among those displaced Saxons, he had assured Maël they were rebels no longer, having submitted to William’s rule in return for resuming their lives.

  Maël had believed him, and though he knew it possible Lady Hawisa made more of the camp than her husband knew, he had given his word he would search elsewhere first though the delay could see Vitalis warned away.

  “Sir Maël?” The Lady of Wulfen touched his arm.

  Certain the missive’s last words had escaped her, he said, “There is more written here. Your man, Vitalis, was at the abbey.”

  Her breath caught, and he relinquished the missive before she could snatch it from him.

  Though by word she neither confirmed nor denied the writing was of her former housecarle, as her eyes darted over it, she exuded such relief it was confirmation enough.

  Passing the missive to Ordric, she looked to her husband’s cousin. “Not Vitalis,” she sought to protect her man, “but blessedly, one loyal to the House of Wulfrith.”

  Maël pushed his chair back and rose. “I think it best I assume it is of Vitalis, for which you ought to be glad since continued pursuit of him by a good number of the king’s men increases the chance of recovering Nicola and the abbess unharmed.”

  She opened her mouth as if to object, then sighed. “I will not begrudge you that, and shortly I shall send a messenger to alert Guarin he must now search for two D’Argents.”

  “I think that wise, my lady. Now as every minute is precious, my men and I will depart this eve rather than the morrow.” He bowed. “I thank you for the hospitality. If possible, I shall send word of my progress in taking back what was stolen from our family and Lillefarne.”

  She inclined her head. “Think well on making use of the man loyal to me ere exercising loyalty to one undeserving of it, Sir Maël. And forget not that first, in between, and in the end, you are a D’Argent.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lincolnshire

  England

  This was not how she would have chosen to escape God’s house. Were she yet a bird amongst the rafters, less harrowing that than being forced to depart the abbey as she had. In the end it might not prove intolerable for her, but for Nicola who continued to challenge the Danes…

  Dear Lord, I am responsible for the ill done her and what might be done does that young man do more than look longingly at her, Mary Sarah silently appealed where she stood behind a shoulder-high hedge exchanging her habit for the fine garment sent by Gytha—a gown the amused one had warned he would himself see her into if she offered further protest.

  “As you will not long have eyes about you, stare your fill, Dane!” spat the youngest D’Argent who remained astride, one side of her head matted with blood from the blow that had been of just enough strength to render her unconscious a few minutes. “Aye, stare hard so I haunt your darkness after King William digs the sight from your sockets for abducting his noble subject!”

  The one named Bjorn who had paused in setting a fire to once more look upon her called, “Soon he who wears the crown will be too desperate to keep it on his head to bother with Bjorn and his woman.”

  A yelp of outrage gaping her pretty mouth, Nicola wrenched at the rope binding her hands to the saddle’s pommel and jerked back and forth, causing her tethered mount to sidestep.

  “Cease, Lady!” Bjorn hastened forward. “The rope will scratch your delicate wrists.”

  “They are not delicate!” she cried when he halted alongside, then thrust a foot against his chest.

  As the four Danes erecting canopies against impending rain sniggered, the young man regained his balance and raised a hand. “I mean no harm, would only—”

  “The D’Argents are many, and when they come for me, you will wish it were King William who but took your eyes.”

  He went still, then threw back his head and laughed. At the end of the jovial display that caused Nicola to quiver with anger, he said, “Oh lady, when I saw silver in your hair, I hoped you a D’Argent!”

  “That I am, fool who laughs when he should be shaking in boots put to flight.”

  More laughter. “I know your cousin, Sir Dougray.”

  “Not my cousin. My brother, and he will—”

  “Why does he not have your silvered hair the same as Sir Maël?”

  Nicola glared.

  He shrugged. “Mostly I like Sir Dougray. He gave me scar worthy of a warrior. You like to see?”

  “The only scar I wish to see upon you is the one dealt when he puts you down for taking us from Lillefarne—if it has a chance to scar. I am thinking best not, Dane.”

  “Finish setting the fire, Bjorn!” the amused one shouted.

  The young man told Nicola he would make her a bed fit for a lady, jumped back from another kick to the chest, and returned to a fire more smoke than flame.

  Reaching behind, Mary Sarah began to tighten laces she wished were worked into the sides to more easily fit the bodice. A moment later, she released them.

  Though she was to cast off the abbess of loose garments and modest carriage to once more become the possibly marriageable granddaughter of Gytha of the House of Godwine, the single tug of laces that drew in the bodice in anticipation of hugging her every curve seemed wrong. Not because it would make her feel pretty again, because it was meant to present her as something desirable. Though that had appealed years past when she hoped to be valued enough to make a good marriage despite her birth, now…

  She did not wish to give her life to the Church, but neither did she wish to give it to Gytha who, to better her lot and those more dear to her, would give Mercia to a man who regarded her as a means of gaining Saxon support, satisfying lust, and birthing babes. Though the part played at Lillefarne had been forced on her, there had been gratification in no longer being powerless and in engaging mind and hands to give to those in need of guidance and aid. In some measure, she wanted that still.

  “For what do you take so long?” asked the amused one who no longer sounded amused.

  “I am nearly done.” She fastened her belt around her waist and paused over the bulky purse hung from it, the culprit being Gytha’s missive that would have been put to flame were her granddaughter not taken from the abbey.

  Not necessary now, she thought as she drew her habit off the bush over which she had draped it.

  “That is no longer you,” said the man who came around the hedge and snatched it from her, causing her protesting hands to grasp air. As he tossed the garment onto muddied ground, he ran his gaze down her. “It was told you are fine of figure. I see it not. Turn around.”

  She stood taller. “I will not!”

  “I shall do your laces.”

  “I prefer the gown loose.”

  “Not I.” He reached to her.

  She jumped back. “Do not touch me!”

  “Leave the holy woman be,” Nicola shouted, “else all the more the Lord will punish you.”

  “She is not a holy woman,” he snapped, then caught Mary Sarah’s arm and, as he dragged her from behind the hedge, caused her to tread on the habit as a final insult to that which had falsely clothed her all these years.

  The other Danes having paused in their labors to give curiosity its full reach, their smiles contrasted with Nicola’s bared teeth past which she called, “Bite him, Abbess! Scratch! Kick! Between the legs is good!”

  It sounded she believed this tool of the Godwines was the same
as a D’Argent who could, at the very least, make it difficult to hold her. Instead, the amused Dane who had yet to name himself the one she halfway hoped he was for his fairly mild manner, relative youth, and good build, had her entirely under his control.

  He halted alongside Nicola’s mount and pulled Mary Sarah forward. “Tell this Norman lady who you are, Abbess—more, what you shall become.”

  Hoping the young woman read the apology in her eyes which Mary Sarah had spoken before they were pulled from the wagon and it was pushed into a ravine, she said, “Lady Nicola knows I am of Godwine.”

  A surprised silence, then, “But does she know you spoke no vows ere donning the habit?”

  Nicola startled.

  He chuckled. “As told, no holy woman. Does the Lord punish any, it will not be me.”

  Does He punish me now? Mary Sarah wondered. Is this but the beginning of worse to come?

  “Surely he does not speak true, Abbess,” Nicola entreated.

  Feeling bared to the skin, she swallowed. “I am not a holy woman, the name Mary Sarah but required to…”

  “…be the eyes and ears in Wulfenshire for Godwine,” supplied the man at her side. “Of aid to rebels.”

  “Of very little aid,” Mary Sarah said.

  Never before had she seen the young woman’s mouth turn so opposite a smile, but it did now and tears brightened her eyes. “Then you never liked me.”

  “I was a Saxon then the same as I am now, Nicola, and ever I have liked you. I but sought to stay true to my own the same as you to yours.”

  The young woman glanced at the Dane. “Who are you to him?”

  “First and ever, I am Mercia of Mercia,” said Gytha’s granddaughter who must refamiliarize herself with the name left behind. “And I have been given to wed a Dane.”

  “This Dane?” Nicola scorned.

  “I do not know.”

  “This Dane,” he said.

  There was some relief in confirmation he was her betrothed, but it barely eased the pound of her heart.

  “Who are you, Dane?” Nicola demanded.

  “I am Canute who will be King of Denmark after my sire’s passing should ill befall my brother who stands ahead of my claim.”

  Nicola looked satisfied rather than surprised, as if she but sought confirmation. Also of credit to her wit was she did not question him as to the suitability of a bride made of a misbegotten Godwine. That she held close the same as Mary Sarah who could not know what tale Gytha told and hoped her betrothed would reveal it.

  “You would add England to your kingship, Dane?” Nicola said.

  “For that, we cross the sea and increase the army my sire sent last year.”

  “This time he will come as well?”

  “Aye, the mighty King Sweyn.”

  “Forgive me if I do not believe you.” A tilt of her head caused moonlight slipping past the clouds to jump blood-matted hair and streak silver strands amid dark. “After all, he dared not accompany his men last year, and did he join them now, surely word of his arrival would fly across England.”

  “He is not yet ashore, but—”

  “Then it is the same as last year. Just as the Danish army slunk away following the fall of York, allowing Saxons to pay the price when the resistance’s allies refused to engage King William in battle, next accepting a bribe to return home—”

  “A bribe?” Canute looked around. “Of what does she speak, Bjorn?”

  A nervous smile flitted across his lips. “Nonsense, Cousin.”

  “Nonsense?” Nicola exclaimed. “You told you know Sir Dougray, and it was he our king sent to negotiate with King Sweyn’s brother, the earl.”

  “With winter setting in, a cessation of hostilities both sides was negotiated with my sire,” Bjorn said. “That is all.”

  “Hostilities both sides? Ha! So frightened was the earl after York that his efforts were spent on staying ahead of William’s vengeance. And just as he allowed others to fight—and lose—his battles, no doubt the cowardly King Sweyn will do the same.”

  The son of that king released Mary Sarah, lunged, and gripped Nicola’s thigh. “You will not speak—”

  “Get your filthy hands off me!”

  “Cease, Cousin!” Bjorn called as Mary Sarah tried to think what to do.

  Canute stepped nearer. “I care not you are Bjorn’s, you will not speak ill of my sire.”

  “I am not Bjorn’s, and ever I shall speak as I find!” Nicola tried to kick him.

  Knowing Bjorn would not reach Nicola in time, Mary Sarah grabbed Canute’s arm. “Do not harm her!”

  He rounded on her, and it was his betrothed he would have struck had she not released him and lurched back. As if delivered a backhand, she lost her footing, landed on her rear, and was nearly trampled by Bjorn.

  “Coward!” Nicola flung at the Danish king’s son. “Muck between my toes! Stink upon my heel!”

  Fearing he would injure the D’Argents’ sister, Mary Sarah startled when she was swept upright and saw the hand upon her belonged to Canute rather than Bjorn.

  “Forgive me,” he said as his cousin sought to calm Nicola who continued to sling slurs though her target had turned his back on her. “I have a temper.”

  Which had nearly seen Mary Sarah struck. Had he been jolted back to good behavior by the sight of her toppling or remembrance she was a Godwine?

  She snapped her mouth closed, and when next she opened it, raised her voice to be heard above Nicola. “A temper, indeed—unbecoming for a man who thinks to one day rule people who will time and again test his patience.”

  She glimpsed resentment in his eyes a moment before he looked across his shoulder. “Get your lady down, Bjorn. We are soon for food and sleep.”

  The younger man nodded, and as Canute turned Mary Sarah toward the nearest canopy whose poles were fixed in moist ground, called for the Dane named Ingvar to aid with the lady’s dismount. The earl’s son might yet wish Nicola for his own, but he was learning she would be no easy conquest.

  Beneath the canopy, Canute released Mary Sarah. “I want this less than you, but I do what my sire commands, Lady. As your grandmother told, a Godwine bride will sooner bring your people to accept Danish rule when we take the throne from our common enemy.”

  But what of a Godwine born out of wedlock? More greatly she longed to know the answer now she had seen a temper mere words spoken against his sire caused to surface.

  Of a sudden, he smiled, but unlike most who were more attractive with a show of teeth—providing they were well cared for—he was not, the spread of his lips too large in a narrow face peaked by a long nose.

  “I know what you think,” he said. “If you tell your sometimes ill-tempered betrothed you were made on the wrong side of the sheets, he will defy his sire and free you.”

  Then he knew of the circumstances of her birth and it mattered not? Because Gytha would publicly acknowledge this granddaughter? Likely, though surely only because the old woman refused to risk a legitimate granddaughter in allying her family with one who might prove unable to take the throne.

  “Unhand me!” Nicola cried.

  Canute looked around, and past him Mary Sarah saw the young woman pulled from the horse. Wrists remaining bound, arms gripped on one side by Bjorn, the other by Ingvar, she was drawn forward.

  “Were that one my betrothed,” Canute said, “I might defy my sire. But you are mostly biddable.”

  Meaning weak…easily bent to his will…his wishes met ahead of hers…

  As if her face reflected turmoil that made her mind work in the direction of escape, he said, “Your grandmother warned you might claim illegitimacy so I would reject you.”

  Then Gytha told it would be a lie if she revealed she was misbegotten?

  “You think you are not legitimate,” he read her again, “but what if ever your truth was a lie, hmm?”

  Dear Lord, Mary Sarah beseeched, what tale did Gytha weave to ensure I not thwart her?

  Deciding it bes
t she hold her words, she looked to Nicola. Rather than suffer the indignity of being carried, the young woman moved her legs beneath her.

  “Gytha is cunning,” Canute continued. “Once we reach the Humber and my father joins his brother there, you will be told which son sired you.”

  Mary Sarah’s heart leapt. At long last she would know who she was? Both sides of her? Might she even discover her mother lived?

  “That is, providing no ill winds fill the King of Denmark’s sails,” Canute added somewhat emotionlessly. But since death upon the sea was common among those who habitually crossed the great waters, it must be an accepted part of life.

  Returning to the truth long withheld from her, it struck Mary Sarah it might merely be a means of controlling her should she prove difficult. Certes, she had given her grandmother cause to believe it possible since time and again she failed the old woman, though only because what was asked of her was impossible for an abbess to deliver, whether something was out of reach or lest it endanger her charges.

  As her betrothed turned away, he added, “Then the rest beyond that will be told.”

  That to which he alluded—the possibility she was well born. Determined to leave it be for now, she said, “Canute?”

  “My lady?”

  “You said you want this less than I. Is there another you wish to take to wife?”

  “Assuredly, there is.”

  Then for this and that she was only a means of securing a more peaceful reign, he had assigned another Dane to carry her upon his saddle.

  “Though she holds my heart in hers, is younger and prettier than you, and gave me a son, I must wed one of benefit to my sire. Thus, I do my duty as you shall do yours.”

  She did not believe he meant to scrape raw her feelings, and he did not since she had no care for him, but it stung knowing she might spend her life with a man who would long for one younger and prettier. And likely he would keep the woman denied him, and their child—perhaps children—would be raised alongside those legitimately born.