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

by Tamara Leigh

  With what seemed little effort, he boosted her up, and further she warmed in providing a show of woolen hose up to her calves and the bunching of her gown between her legs as she settled behind him. It was unseemly, but the alternative was perching between his thighs, the thought of which disturbed more than having done so with Ingvar who had shared his saddle with her.

  Not until Sir Maël adjusted his seat did something forgotten come to notice. Tugged slightly forward, she saw he sat on the lower edge of her purse whose bulk was nearly all her grandmother’s missive.

  You should have tossed it on the fire—else buried it, she rebuked as she snatched the purse from beneath the chevalier and shifted it across her belt to her hip. Though Gytha’s words spoke of one in the abbess’s care, with all that had transpired, sense could be made of it.

  “Draw nearer and fit your arms around my chest,” the chevalier instructed as Zedekiah was heaved back atop his horse.

  Mercia did as told, and when her forearms and hands came into contact with muscles felt through his garments, thought she might have erred in insisting she sit behind. She knew little of intimacy, but it was very possible the shiver moving through her was how the dance between men and women began.

  “Lean in, Abbess.” At her hesitation, he gripped her arms and pulled her forward, pressing her breasts against his back.

  “Sir Maël!”

  “Abbess Mary Sarah!” he mocked, then said, “I assume you wish to stay astride.”

  “Aye, but ’tis not necessary I be so near.”

  Peering over a shoulder, he presented the barely ruined side of his face. “You will lose the saddle otherwise, but if you are uncomfortable, reconsider my arms around you rather than yours around me.”

  She raised her face higher. “I will make do with this.”

  Rather than turn forward again, he looked to her lips, then lower.

  Her chin wanted down, but she kept it up. “Should we not ride, Sir Maël?”

  “We should,” he said but continued to scrutinize her face.

  “Just as your men grow restless, the Danes grow more distant, Sir Maël.”

  A corner of his mouth tugged. “Still I try to place where first we met.”

  “That was when you rode upon Lillefarne to do your cousin’s bidding.”

  He looked to her chin again. “Mayhap you but resemble someone I encountered years past.”

  More than ever fearing he did not believe her, certain her hair and clothing were responsible, she said, “It will be good to don habit and veil again,” then told him the direction they ought to ride.

  Smile slight, he turned forward.

  With each league that carried them northward, more tightly Mercia clung to him. And more shivers she suffered.

  Chapter Twelve

  Like it or not, the stubborn woman would sit the saddle’s fore, though more for her safety than his comfort.

  These past hours, often she had relaxed against him as if sinking into sleep. Each time he tightened his arms against her arms and closed a hand over hers to better secure her, she had returned to wakefulness. But this time she did not, and against his back he felt the slow rise and fall of her chest and warmth of her exhales.

  Maël raised a hand to rein in his men, then peered over his shoulder at the woman who held to him only because he held to her.

  Her dark head was down, the side of it pressed against his lower shoulder, and so deeply she slept that when he shifted around to move her to the fore of the saddle, she was unresponsive. Doubtless, she had not rested since escaping the Danes.

  She did not stir until she was seated before him, legs over one side, and only when his attempt to shift the purse wedged between her hip and his abdomen snapped its leather thong.

  Her eyes sprang wide upon his face above hers, then she snatched the purse from him. “You dare!” She pressed the leather pouch so near her chest the parchment within crackled.

  Interesting on two fronts. Her haughty rebuke was the same as that of the old woman at Westminster, and the parchment—or something else—was so precious she was more concerned with it than him moving her to the saddle’s fore. Precious how?

  “I but ensure your safety, Abbess, which was questionable with you asleep against my back. Whilst adjusting your purse to make both our seats more comfortable, its tie snapped. Now if you would look upon the land and confirm we continue toward my cousin, we can resume our ride.”

  She stared, huffed, sat forward. And caught her breath. “Aye, we came this way on the day past, the charred field far left, the village…” She shuddered. “We did not draw so near.”

  He rebuked himself for being unprepared for her reaction to the harrying. Though not as evident nor unsightly here as it would be nearer the Humber, an increasing number of homes had been abandoned by Saxons who feared perishing if they clung to what could take years to recover—and farther north what likely would take generations before the land was able to sustain communities again.

  Though the abbess turned her face toward him, she kept her eyes lowered. “Now that I am awake, once more I can sit behind you.”

  Hearing ache in her voice, certain she concealed tears, the seams of the cold place inside him strained. “As we have few hours of daylight remaining, and we can make better progress with you seated before me, it is best you remain here.” And I hold you as I have not held a woman in a very long time, he thought. “Now secure your purse, return to your rest, and if an inn can be found ere nightfall, you shall sleep better so we may ride harder on the morrow to overtake my cousin’s captors.”

  Sensing argument, he shouted for his men to ride and spurred forward.

  After fumbling with a purse too bulky to slip down her bodice and too precious to return to her belt lest he relieve her of it again, she knotted its severed ties and slid the loop onto a wrist.

  What did the missive tell? he wondered. And who had inked it? A foul-tempered old woman? Possible, meaning the deception the abbess had owned to regarding Vitalis being present at Lillefarne could prove greater yet.

  Over the next hour, she remained silent and rigid, but when they passed near scorched fields and the carcasses of slain animals, a groan escaped her. And when they approached a village of such grand size there was no doubt its inhabitants had prospered and of such devastation it appeared entirely abandoned, the stiff went out of her.

  There being no way around it, the harrying widespread and including the bodies of villagers unable to escape with their lives, Maël was grateful when she turned her face into his chest.

  Feeling her every breath—long, slow draws evidencing the stern Abbess of Lillefarne struggled to calm herself—once more his seams strained, and not for the first time he cursed William for resorting to ungodly measures to stamp out the rebellion. Measures all the more tragic seen through the eyes of this woman whose exposure to the harrying before her abduction was word of mouth and the living victims who sought aid at the abbey.

  Her shoulders jerked, and her attempt to contain sobs which he would not have believed her capable of started her trembling.

  More straining of Maël’s cold seams, but though determined to hold against speaking words of comfort, he lowered his mouth to her ear. “I am sorry you saw that. More, that it will get worse throughout our ride.”

  Though he expected her to rebuke him, she nodded.

  Encouraged, he tightened his arm around her waist. “Keep your chin down and eyes closed, Lady.”

  He did not mean to title her that though surely she was noble, but in this moment it was a better fit than naming her an abbess as done the day he first rode on Lillefarne.

  “Sleep if you can,” he said gruffly.

  She bobbed her head, but a sob moved from her chest to his, followed by another and a murmured apology, then she slid her arms around his waist. Holding tighter to him than he to her, over the next quarter hour she cried so softly he knew it only by her quaking and the damp felt through his tunic. Then her arms around
him eased, and she slept again.

  Thereafter, for how often Maël looked upon her, he felt almost the youth he had been when first he found favor with a woman other men wanted. Not that this one sought his attentions, abbess or not.

  Or not, he mulled, then let it be, telling himself he was no longer the entranced youth amazed to discover how easy it was for one of attractive form and face to fill his arms with those of the fairer sex.

  So far was he from that young man, it felt as if he had been more observer than participant, intense training having bettered his form and Hastings having ruined much of his face.

  Less than my due, he reminded himself, then set his mind on the ride.

  Though no sighting was had of fellow travelers resembling Danes, Maël and his men made good progress across land and past homes as ravaged as he had warned the abbess. Thus, he was grateful she continued to sleep, even when they halted before the inn he had hoped to find just as dusk heralded approaching night.

  Though only a quarter of the structure was burned, it appeared abandoned by the innkeeper and his family who had likely fled had they not perished.

  “We pass the night here,” he called and ordered two men to confirm the premises were vacant and four to scout the area.

  “And the tyrant wonders why we oppose his rule,” Zedekiah said as he nudged his mount alongside the king’s man.

  Maël had not been oblivious to his prisoner’s witness to the means of ensuring the opposition lacked supplies to sustain efforts to oppose William, but he had told himself Zedekiah had seen worse farther north, and it was true. What was not true was the rebel would be mostly unaffected by devastation on a lesser scale.

  “I do not wonder, Zedekiah. I understand. Just as I understand it is not for lack of courage nor ability Vitalis disbanded his rebels. It was for this, Stafford, York, Exeter, Hastings, and all between.”

  The man considered him, then the abbess. “Careful, Chevalier, unlike three of your cousins who gained more than land in invading my country, already this Saxon woman is wed.”

  What he suggested offended. Even were Mary Sarah not a bride of Christ, he would not want her. A far different path he walked from that of Cyr, Guarin, and Dougray who had fought side by side in the great battle until separated by chaos.

  “You mistake courtesy for emotion, Zedekiah.”

  “Possible, but that does not mean there is not some truth to it.”

  As Maël struggled against rebuking him, one of two chevaliers exited the inn and called, “Clear!”

  “Its furnishings are abused and stores stolen,” said the other, “but it will provide shelter should it rain again.”

  When two scouts returned from searching the area and reported there were no signs of Saxons nor Danes and the other two would begin the night’s watch, Maël returned his gaze to the woman seated before him, the hand to which she had bound her purse lax in her lap.

  If not for Zedekiah, he might delve the purse’s contents. “Awaken, Abbess.”

  She drew breath, sighed long, and sank deeper against him. Not until he called forth two of his trusted men to aid Zedekiah in dismounting did she sit up and look around. Suspicion narrowing her lids, she drew her purse-bound hand against her chest.

  Here again the abbess. Wishing he did not miss the lady who had cried herself to sleep, as much in his arms as he was in hers, Maël said, “More and more I am curious as to what you hide.”

  “Naught,” she said, then as if to prove it, dropped that hand back to her lap. As if to make a liar of her, the parchment rustled.

  “Abbess,” acknowledged the rebel whose hands were being loosed from the saddle.

  “Zedekiah, is it not?” she asked.

  “’Tis.”

  She inclined her head, moved her regard to the inn. “Normans were here before you, Sir Maël, doubtless in so great a frenzy to slay fleeing Saxons they did not entirely return this fine establishment to the dust of the earth.”

  It was said with accusation directed at him for being of the same race as those who committed the atrocity, but it did not ring true. Guessing she sought to wipe from memory the lady who had grieved in his arms and strangely unwilling to let her go, he said, “I fear you are right.”

  She hesitated, then peered across her shoulder. “Rather than agreement, Sir Maël, I almost wish reproach—even a lie—fallen from your tongue.”

  As did he, the cold place within more comfortable for how familiar it was and how great the distance it placed between him and this woman. “Tempted as I am to accommodate you, I see what you see and know this is the least of my king’s anger.”

  He glimpsed brightness about her eyes a moment before she turned forward again. “We shall pass the night here?”

  “We shall.”

  “Did you sight Danes during the ride?”

  “Nay, meaning they are many leagues beyond us.”

  “You cannot be sure of that.”

  Hearing fear in her voice, certain it must have been terrifying for a virtuous woman of God to be taken captive by plundering Danes, Maël said, “Be not afeared. You are safe with me and my men. To ensure we are not set upon, two chevaliers will patrol the area at all times. Now let us get you inside.” He glanced at the heavens. “Rain soon, methinks.”

  Rain whose fall may mask the sound of Canute and his men coming for me, Mercia thought and wished she could reveal the likelihood Danes were near. Bjorn wanted Nicola and had her, but more King Sweyn wanted Gytha’s granddaughter and no longer had her. Thus, were it necessary to slaughter William’s men to reclaim her, it would be done.

  “What so troubles?” Sir Maël asked.

  If only I were, indeed, a mistress of deception, she silently bemoaned. Hoping a veiled warning would cause him to increase the patrol, she said, “As Saxons learned of Normans, one should be overly cautious where those from across the sea are concerned. Thus, would it not be better to double the patrol?”

  “It is not believable the Danes would not go directly to the Humber to gain reinforcements for defense against Nicola’s kinsmen.”

  As he did not know it was for Mercia they had come, he had no reason to exercise greater caution, but she dare not reveal the truth. Even if she could trust him with her identity, not so his men whom he did not entirely trust. Thus, were it learned this abbess in the hands of Danes could endanger Le Bâtard’s rule, a trade for Nicola would not be made.

  “It is just a feeling I have, Sir Maël.”

  “Noted,” he said and swung out of the saddle and reached to her. At her hesitation, he said, “You will be stiff.”

  Though she wanted to refuse his aid for how comforting the enemy’s words and how welcome the strength of his arms after looking near upon the harrying as she had hoped never to do, she leaned toward him. Shivers shot her sides as he gripped her waist, next her hands when she fit them to his shoulders.

  He did not delay in setting her to her feet and releasing her, but as if he felt her response to their hands on each other, he considered her visage before looking lower.

  It was one thing for him to note the heat in her face, another he should see the rise and fall of her chest made all the more obvious by a fitted gown.

  Pivoting, he cast over his shoulder, “Follow me.”

  “Sir Maël?”

  He looked around. “Abbess?”

  “I think it best I don my habit.”

  “As Zedekiah is no washer woman, it is as muddied as when he found it. Though you may rinse it out on the morrow when we water the horses at a stream, unless we make camp again ere overtaking the Danes, there will no time to dry the gown before a fire.”

  Resolved to wearing this traitorous, disarrayed garment, she followed him into the inn.

  An hour later, the hunger and thirst of all were satisfied and beds made on the lower floor where once sturdy tables and benches caused weary travelers to press coins into the innkeeper’s palm.

  “You are recovered?” Sir Maël asked as Mercia settl
ed beneath the blanket he gave her.

  She looked up at where he halted before the corner in which she would pass the night. The unspoiled side of his face mostly in shadow, she wished the terrible scar over which flame flickered so thoroughly repelled that never did she have to make sense of what he caused to move through her. But it did not repel. At all.

  He raised his eyebrows, a reminder he had asked after her recovery.

  He referred to her reaction to the destruction—and death she had been nearly close enough to touch which had led to weeping and clinging. Though she was not recovered, neither from the horror of this day nor the shame of behaving a child, she said, “Be assured, I am better than those given no chance to recover.”

  Sensing what might be anger though it did not look it, she expected him to walk away, but he lowered to his haunches. “Much I regret what you saw, Lady.”

  Once more able to see the whole of his face and feeling ache in fingertips that should not miss what they had never touched, she said, “What I saw, Sir Maël? Is that all you regret?”

  “It is not.”

  “Yet still you serve one such as that. Why? And how?”

  Silence, then, “The king has my oath. Thus, for a while longer I must protect him and do his bidding.”

  She pushed onto an elbow. “For what did you give him your oath? Though he did not award you lands stolen from my people, you could have—”

  “He did award me lands.”

  She startled.

  “And the hand of a Saxon heiress. I declined both.”

  “Because the lands were stolen?” she said and winced lest she sounded as hopeful as she felt.

  “Nothing as lofty as that, and it had naught to do with the lady.”

  “Then?”

  His nostrils flared. “As I do not seek a confessor, my reasons shall remain private.” He started to straighten. “It grows late and—”

  She caught his hand. “What of your reason for remaining in England to serve a man whose actions it seems you disapprove of?”

  He looked to where she held him, and when she did not release him, said, “Since ever the D’Argents have been well-regarded by their liege, William wished me to be captain of his guard. As it was more command than request and a man must earn coin to pay his way through the world, that I became.”