by Tamara Leigh
Pray, Lord, she silently beseeched, once I learn who sired me, help me escape the yokes of all.
“Are you hungry, Abbess?”
Guessing her stomach had grumbled, she said, “I am—and thirsty. Lest the stream is fouled, I drank little.” Though tempted to add such fouling would be a result of the harrying, he did not need to be told. Too, of a sudden she was more fatigued than in want of food and drink, her nightlong journey having permitted little rest.
The chevalier settled an arm around her waist and nudged his mount forward. “We shall find a place to sit, and once you are refreshed, you will reveal all I must know to retrieve my cousin.”
All but that it was for me the Danes entered the abbey rather than the abduction of the D’Argents’ sister, she thought.
“Settle in!” he called to his men. “There is a tale I must needs hear ere we resume our hunt.”
Chapter Eleven
She did not reveal all. There was something she held close that would explain why, in seeking to prevent Nicola’s abduction, she was not simply knocked unconscious or quickly bound. Considering how often she averted her gaze when he pressed for details, he was certain she feared he suspected her deception.
Of greatest interest was the revelation King Sweyn’s misbegotten nephew, Bjorn, was among those who came for Nicola. And yet the young man Maël had met during Dougray’s negotiation with the King of Denmark’s brother last autumn was not the one who led the Danes that had divided into two contingents following the abduction at Lillefarne.
“As you do not know the name of the leader, can you describe him, Abbess?”
Continuing to pick at a biscuit, she shrugged. “Long hair and beard the same as most Danes.”
“As well as Saxons,” he said. “What age? What color hair? How fine his clothes?”
She raised her chin, causing one of several looped braids to shift off her shoulder, slide across a breast, and settle in her lap—and him to tense over imaginings of drawing it through his fingers. “Does it matter?” she asked.
He moved his gaze to hers and saw the widening of her eyes through which wariness entered. Cursing himself for appearing a predator, he said, “As unbelievable as it is, I question if it was Bjorn’s sire, the earl, who aided his son in abducting a bride. Not that I can make sense of Nicola being that bride since she can have had no contact with Danes to bring her to Bjorn’s notice.”
After a long moment, she said, “The leader was not as old as that. I am thinking…”
“What?”
“Perhaps in seeking a wife for Bjorn and knowing there is a convent within our walls, the Danes bribed the wine merchant to take one of our women and chose the first lovely maiden who was not clothed in a habit.”
“Possible, and yet also they took a holy woman rather than subdue her.”
She touched the braid that entranced him. “As once more I lost my veil, likely vanity is responsible for my abduction.”
Believable since she was relatively young and lovelier yet wreathed with such hair, and yet not believable. As the Danes were also of the Christian faith, surely they would have deemed it more forgivable to quiet her than abduct her. Of course, in the moment they could have yielded to base instincts.
“It is possible,” he said. “So how old the leader?”
“Mayhap a score and ten, hair dark blond and naught special about his garments.”
“You did not hear his name spoken?”
She popped a piece of biscuit in her mouth. After slowly chewing and swallowing, she said, “It must have been, but when camp was made, your cousin and I were kept distant from most, and it was Bjorn who tended us.”
“Smitten pup,” Maël muttered, then once more struck by what he wished were unimaginable, said, “It is true neither of you were…”
“As told. Though I feared violation when I was ordered to exchange my habit for this gown, we were not defiled.” She glanced down. Her bodice and skirt were snagged and soiled, but their ruination could not disguise the garment was fine enough to have been fashioned for a noblewoman. “’Tis strange to once more appear to be of the world outside the cloister. I—”
A curse rendered in English moved her gaze to where Zedekiah remained astride though the king’s men had dismounted to eat and stretch their legs.
As Maël pondered what went between the rebel and Daryl who held the halter of the man’s mount, the abbess asked, “Who is the Saxon bound to his saddle?”
“I wondered how long ere he came to your notice.”
“Almost as soon as I was out of the tree.”
Since she had said naught of Zedekiah, he had thought her too shaken and weary. Had she delayed in asking after the rebel to prepare herself to deny knowledge of Vitalis’s man? Or was he truly unknown to her?
“You say you do not recognize him?”
With something of a smile, she said, “Our country is not as large as France, but of the English there are hundreds of thousands.”
Maël might have returned her smile had she not added, “At least there were ere your kind came.” Briefly, she closed her eyes. “So tell, who is he? And for what was he not slain where captured?”
Knowing he had no right to take offense, Maël said, “His name is Zedekiah.”
As if she knew the name, a glimmer appeared in her eyes.
“He was captured on the day past when I thought him in too great a hurry to allow him to ride on without being questioned. Had he not seemed familiar when I took him to ground, and had he a believable explanation, he would have gone free. But he was familiar, and in his pack something that revealed he and I have much in common.”
“What have you in common?”
“You. He happened on the Danes’ camp before us, and there found your habit. Since once he was of the Rebels of the Pale and remains true to Vitalis, I believe he will be of use in delivering to my king what is required of me.”
She looked to the biscuit that was now mostly crumbs. “If what is required is of such import, I wonder why you bother with me—even your cousin—when you should be hunting Vitalis for your beloved William.”
“The sooner I overtake those who abducted Nicola, the sooner I shall lay hands on the rebel leader.”
“I do not understand.”
“Because you do not know what I know.”
“And that is?”
“Sister Rixende sent a missive to Lady Hawisa alerting her Nicola and you were taken. At its end was a message from he who delivered the refugee children to Lillefarne.”
Her eyes widened.
“I know not when exactly Vitalis returned to the abbey, but he told it was two hours ere he learned of the abduction and that he would set out to retrieve Nicola and you.”
Breath shuddered from her.
“Though Lady Hawisa denied the handwriting was Vitalis’s, since a sighting of him upon Wulfenshire delivered my men and me there, I do not think I am wrong in saying she lied to protect her man. Now let us try this again—did you harbor the king’s enemy whilst I was at the abbey?”
Measuredly, she said, “No men are allowed inside our walls beyond deliveries made by those who have our trust, and even they are not permitted to linger.”
“That does not answer my question, especially since the wine merchant you trusted conspired with Danes to abduct my cousin and you.”
“Just because someone earns my trust does not mean one day they will not spend it upon something that could harm those of the abbey.” She closed her fingers around the decimated biscuit, flung her hand out, and opened it to scatter crumbs. “Much I regret trusting the one whose betrayal endangers Nicola. Unfortunately, all I could do was follow her plan to use our wiles on the Danes in the hope they would loosen their watch over us. Last eve, they did, but though I was left unbound, Nicola was fixed hand and foot. Thus, I gave her my word I would go for help. Obviously, it was not you and your men I hoped to encounter but those of Wulfen who Nicola was certain would come for us.”
“Heavenly Father,” she breathed, “the D’Argents are set upon on all sides.”
“Lady Hawisa said the same.”
“Be assured, Sir Theriot will be in my prayers.” She nodded. “’Tis good you were at Wulfen when Sister Rixende’s missive was delivered.”
“And that Vitalis also sought to recover you. Otherwise, I would have few men to aid me.”
She frowned. “You would disobey William—cease searching for Vitalis if he did not also seek to overtake the Danes?”
“Though it may prove to my detriment, Nicola is my first concern.”
She drew her lower lip through her teeth. “You are not entirely without heart, are you, Sir Maël?”
The observation, as much as the fullness of her mouth making him uncomfortable, he said, “My sire would name it loyalty and honor, and that is what I aspire to though often I fall short. Sometimes disastrously.”
“Disastrously, Sir Maël?”
That last he should not have spoken. “Disastrously,” he said.
Though interest was in her eyes, she said, “What will you do if you find Vitalis?”
“Take him prisoner.”
She was silent a while, then said, “I know what happened in the cave.”
The warrior who ought to be better at masking his emotions jerked.
“Nicola and I unriddled that which was given into her keeping,” she continued, “and I believe it is what you seek as much as the man who entrusted it to her.”
“What was given her?” Maël asked tautly.
“Vitalis was at Lillefarne when you were there, though as you know, not in the hidden passage. Since he was ailing, he recovered in my apartment.” At his widening eyes, she snapped, “Naught untoward, Sir Maël, simply Christian charity alongside the need to protect a man I believe as honorable—if not more—than the best of your family.”
“Continue.”
“Nicola became suspicious and went to my apartment, and there she and Vitalis spoke. After he told her he played David to William’s King Saul, he gave her a piece of cloth and instructed her to deliver it to you.” She touched Maël’s arm. “He is not your enemy, and as should be obvious from his disbandment of the rebels so they not uselessly spend their lives on what cannot be won, he is not even your king’s enemy. He humiliated William, aye, but he made no weapon of that piece of cloth.”
“Wise of him.”
“More than wise,” she said with what sounded desperation, causing him to question if the holy woman had forbidden feelings for Vitalis. Of course, because something was not permitted did not mean she and the rebel leader had not succumbed to temptation. Vitalis had been in her apartment the day she revealed to Maël the vanity of her hair. Perhaps time expended on her tresses was for the rebel leader.
That bothering as it should not, he told himself it was only because she looked lovely despite her disarray and what he had discovered when she came out of the tree. Though at the abbey, briefly he had pondered what figure she possessed beneath the habit, there was no reason to ponder further after helping her onto his horse. He had glimpsed the shape of her calves, felt the small of her waist, seen the flare of her breasts above and hips below, and known the curve of thighs settling between his.
Mere attraction, he named it, then beseeching the Lord to aid him so he not suffer the bewitchment of a Saxon woman, rose from the fallen tree. “As best you can, Abbess, point me in the direction from which you fled, and men I trust will return you to Lillefarne.”
“Nay!” She jumped up, lurched forward when her foot caught on her hem.
Gripping her arm, Maël wondered if her sharp breath had more to do with being a holy woman or with the woman she set aside to make her profession.
Once steadied, she drew back. Color striping her cheeks, all that was rigid and severe about her became soft and uncertain as if a mask had dropped, but even when she fit it back in place, he could see where it gapped against the truth of her.
And what was the truth? he questioned, glancing at his men who feigned interest elsewhere. From which of the noble Saxon families did she hail? Considering the position she had attained, it could be no minor family—at least, not before the conquest. Since most of the great Saxon families that survived the loss of their men and lands were sharply in decline beneath William’s rule, likely it was the same with her kinsmen.
“For what do you stare?” she asked.
He moved his gaze from hair peaked on her brow to dark braids, large eyes, long lashes, a good nose, and lovely lips. And at long last, he placed her.
But was it truly Abbess Mary Sarah who had been mostly in shadow upon the balcony at Westminster? Or did she merely resemble the granddaughter of that angry old woman? Certes, then she had not worn a habit, and if this was the same woman, she had lied in telling she had been en route to take up her post when William was crowned.
“Why do you stare?” she repeated.
He looked to his men. “Prepare to depart!” he called, then said, “I question who you are, Abbess, and what you hide.”
“I hide naught.” She raised her chin higher, and its dimpled center cast doubt on her being the woman at Westminster. However, as it had been dim and the cleft was slight, it could have gone unseen.
Great was the temptation to ask if she was that woman and, if so, when she had made her profession. Had she been of the Church then and but eschewed the habit that day? Or had she spoken vows before beginning her journey to Wulfenshire?
“Who are you?” he asked again.
“As well you know, Abbess Mary Sarah.”
“So you say, and yet a holy woman who ought to be more concerned for the Saxon women and children inside Lillefarne than my Norman sister whose captors are pursued by the king’s men does not wish to return to her charges.”
Though she did not avert her gaze, he sensed her struggle. “As told, it was your sister’s plan that allowed me to escape, and I gave my word I would see her returned to her family.”
Not for the first time struck by how beautifully precise her speech, especially now it called to mind the woman at Westminster, he said, “Your word you shall keep by pointing me to the Danes.”
“As I have every faith Sister Rixende and others of the abbey will care well for my flock during my absence, that I shall do—whilst in your company.”
He could force her to accept an escort to Lillefarne, but there was much here, not the least of which was confirmation or rejection of this woman as the one who persuaded him to allow her and her grandmother to use the hidden passage one last time.
“Very well, you shall accompany us, Abbess.”
Relief nearly bowed Mercia’s shoulders. What he could not know was she was the best means of Nicola finding her release with the least amount of bloodshed providing a trade could be effected. Too, no matter what happened, the abbey was now consigned to her past.
“You will ride with me,” Sir Maël further unsettled her. But as there were no extra horses, she could not argue it. Too, so impressive was his mount that even with her added weight, they would keep pace with the others.
“Mount up!” he called and started toward his destrier.
As she followed, the rebel shouted, “King’s man, I am flattered by Sir Daryl and Sir Aiken’s confidence in this Saxon’s superior ability to control bladder and gut—perhaps better even than their king who surely must pause and make use of trees, hedges, even caves—but as I am not fully recovered from the flux, I may prove as inconstant as my traitorous countrymen. And that would be unpleasant and inconvenient for all.”
“Aiken and Daryl,” Maël D’Argent shouted, “Zedekiah is a fearsome Saxon, but surely together you
can get him behind a bush without risk to your lives.”
Shame caused their faces to darken. Did they not do as commanded, it would be seen by the others as confirmation the Saxons-turned-Normans did fear one rebel.
As they assisted their bound captive in dismounting, Zedekiah’s rumbling taunts landed well, resulting in rougher handling.
“They hurt him, Sir Maël,” Mercia said as they neared his destrier.
“They do, and yet Vitalis’s man enjoys himself.” He halted. “As long as I lead, no real harm will be done him.”
Once again struck by how handsome that other side of his face—more, how much she longed to explore the damaged side, she pressed her fingers into her palms and permitted herself a moment’s pondering as to whether he did see her as Nicola told. Then she said, “As long as you lead, meaning he is dead should your men determine not to follow you.”
“A possibility, but that would require more of those under my command go the way of the few.”
“They might.”
“I am aware, Abbess. Now let us get you astride.”
“If you relieved Zedekiah of his mount and released him, I need not share your saddle.”
“I will not release him.”
“Then I shall sit behind you.”
“That would require you truly go astride, which is cumbersome in a gown.”
“But not impossible. And better you can control your mount if I hold to your back rather than you hold to me.”
He eyed her. “I am thinking you have never ridden in that manner for a long distance at good speed. But we can begin that way.”
“And end that way,” she said, determined not to suffer again the cramped and awkward fore of a saddle and arms of a man as she had with the Danes.
“As you wish.” He swung into the saddle and reached to her. When she set her hand in his, she kept her chin down lest the heat sweeping her showed in her face.