by Tamara Leigh
Certain there was more to it, she said, “For what else?”
Darkness flashed across his face, but as if to make light of what she glimpsed, he said, “Mayhap I deserve no better, hmm?” Were not his response a poor fit for what she knew of him and had not bitterness slipped through, she would not have persisted.
“I do not believe that of you.”
“You do not know me,” he said, then curled his fingers over hers and loosened her hold. A moment before he released her, instead of ache in her fingertips, she felt a thrill as though a promise were made that she wished fulfilled.
Dear Lord, is this desire? she sent heavenward. Might it be lust?
“I will be near until the patrol falls to me,” Sir Maël said and, rising, jutted his chin at his bed. “Then Sir Anselm shall watch over you.” He indicated the relatively young chevalier who had lost most of the hair on his crown, making him appear a tonsured monk. Though she had spoken no word to the one trusted by the king’s man, she liked him for his easy smile.
“When do you begin your patrol?” she asked.
“Third watch, three hours hence.”
“The middling of night.”
Maël inclined his head. “Good eve, Abbess.”
Hoping it would be, that rather than fall to slaughter in the night, the king’s men would overtake the Danes in the light of day and by negotiation—a trade—win Nicola’s release, Mercia set about her prayers as the other occupants settled to their rest.
Regret. His greatest was, indeed, for the harrying and what the abbess had witnessed of it, but regret also for defending his service to William which he had no cause to do. Rather than withdraw, Maël had felt compelled to explain his actions, more to set aright her belief he had not fought well enough at Hastings to gain great reward.
As much as he proved unworthy of his family that day, he had proved worthy of his king, cutting down swaths of Saxons intent on cutting down him and his fellow warriors.
When Mary Sarah pressed him to explain why he declined to become a landed noble and he refused to answer, he should have left her. But as he struggled not to be moved by her touch, she had pried further into his reason for serving William. What he had told was true, but more true was what he sought to disguise by making light of it—that he deserved no better. Worse than that it sounded more self-pitying than teasing was that her refusal to believe it of him had caused warmth to seep into his cold place. And made him long for greater warmth.
Maël opened his eyes and looked to the woman who lay on her side, lids lowered, lips parted.
Once more craving warmth not his due, he rebuked himself for not sooner turning from her. Why had he not?
Because this woman makes you feel again, came the answer he did not wish. Because she causes you to think and hope outside this cold place. Because she makes you want what you have not wanted in a long time. Because you weary of this existence. And more. So much more.
He closed his eyes, thanked the Lord a Saxon he did not want was unattainable, and went down into sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
Danes. How had she known the enemy would steal upon the king’s men, spreading out across ground dampened by a drizzle come and gone?
Since they numbered at least eight, if they were the same ones who abducted Nicola, the two contingents had become one again. And if Maël read this right, they risked confronting Normans for one reason—the abbess.
Silently cursing himself for ignoring the lesson reinforced with a thrust to the chest that dropped a young man of ten and five to his back, he heard again Hugh’s words.
If the Lord did not bless you with the instinct to listen well when the pit of you warns something is amiss, I certainly did. Heed it, pretty boy, else die the least of the D’Argents—less even than that baseborn cousin of yours. If not to make me proud, do it for your mother so she not soak our bed with worthless tears.
Maël had hated him then, though not for long. Never for long. He had wanted to be what was required of him and for years strove to become the best of those his sire trained, but though he excelled in many areas, in others often he was bettered. It did not reflect well on Hugh D’Argent, but eventually the renowned warrior adjusted his expectations of the son he deemed too fine of face and grudgingly accepted if Maël could not be the best, he would be among the best. That he had become to honor his sire, ensure his mother did not bear responsibility for birthing an unworthy son, and not disappoint Uncle Godfroi who gave as much time and prayer to his nephew as his own sons. And all the easier it was once Maël learned to use his sire’s goading to unwind the anger that enabled him to run faster, swing swifter, and strike harder—anger he might need this eve.
What felt like string wrapped around his emotions beginning to loosen in preparation for its unwinding, Maël looked to the wood on the other side of the road opposite that which he patrolled.
When Aiken raised a hand, acknowledging his position half concealed behind a tree, Maël signaled him to advance ahead of Danes who intended to surround the inn. Then, absent chain mail that allowed him to more stealthily patrol the area, he set his own sword before him and began moving tree to bush, bush to tree.
Certain if he could stretch his lead of fifty paces to one hundred before raising the hue and cry to rouse his men, there would be space and time aplenty for Aiken and him to defend the inn’s occupants before the enemy abandoned stealth, Maël began reciting lessons.
Evade moonlight, Chevalier!
Sixty paces.
Use your enemy’s advance to mask the sounds of your own.
Seventy paces.
Hunker low and move slow outside of shadow.
Eighty paces.
And that was all. Whether Maël or Aiken came to the enemy’s notice or impatience won out, the Danes lunged.
As did Maël. “To arms, king’s men!” he bellowed ahead of the Danes’ war cries.
When his eighty pace lead was reduced to sixty, the inn’s door banged opened and his men sprang outside with swords in hand.
Since they were not fully up out of slumber and needed time to don the warriors, Maël swung around. But the one who was to join him as the front line of defense was nowhere to be seen. Though possible a Dane had taken Aiken to ground without a cry of protest, it was unlikely.
Marking his first opponent as the bearded, blond-haired warrior at the fore, Maël reached his legs longer.
Forty paces.
Twenty paces.
He arced his sword up. Steel crashed on steel, spinning both warriors to the sides—of little concern for Maël’s opponent who had sufficient time to recover before the king’s men joined their leader, of great concern for Maël now in the path of another whose sword rose to deliver a blow.
He shouted as taught him to release tension and allow blood to course fast and hot, then twisted, and with his blade turned aside the Dane’s.
As his new opponent stumbled back, Maël recognized the youthful face. Here the misbegotten Bjorn who had attended his sire’s negotiations with William’s representatives last autumn, the one who thought to take a D’Argent bride.
“Sir Maël!” he exclaimed almost jovially, while his leader shouted for his men to attack those running from the inn, then leapt and brought his sword down where Maël stood a moment before.
“Hold, Canute!” Bjorn cried. “Here Le Bâtard’s captain of the guard—a D’Argent of silvered hair.”
Having recovered his balance and pivoted toward Maël, Canute snarled, “An ugly D’Argent and soon dead! Leave this one to me, Bjorn. Get her!”
As thought, they came for the woman Maël was further convinced was the same he had aided at Westminster. Regardless whether she was truly an abbess, she was of import to this Dane. Thus, Nicola was the one taken for interfering with the abduction.
Accursed, deceitful Saxon! he silently rebuked. Accursed, unworthy D’Argent!
Swords ringing out behind and to the sides as Normans engaged Danes, Maël beat back t
heir leader with the ferocity required in battle when facing numerous opponents. But Canute was formidable, so much he could be the celebrated second in line to King Sweyn’s throne.
Whoever you are, Mary Sarah, Maël seethed, you have much to answer for. Fight me, but I shall see what is in your purse.
A shout of pain to the right evidencing were it not first blood drawn it was of such quantity the injured might not rise again, Maël took a chance on his next stroke, momentarily exposing the side of his neck to land a blow to Canute’s lower thigh.
The Dane roared and lurched away from the bloodied blade. Cursing Maël in the name of pagan gods of old, he continued backward to gain space in which to recover.
Maël followed, hopeful the leader’s capture would end the encounter and the man could be traded for Nicola. A glance at the other battling Normans and Danes confirming the injured warrior on the ground was not one of his own, Maël ran at Canute.
“Halt!” the Dane bellowed. “I have Nicola D’Argent!”
Maël faltered and ceased his advance.
Stance defensive, Canute said, “You want your little cousin? Bjorn will not like it, but I shall pay that price for the abbess so no lives are lost.”
His emphasis on Mary Sarah’s title suggesting he believed she deceived not only the Normans but God, Maël’s anger surged as much against her as his sire’s gullible son.
Canute nodded. “Good trade for all, Sir Maël.”
Much like the trade two years past when Maël was forced to yield Cyr’s wife to Saxon rebels in order to save the life of Guarin who had been nearly beaten to death. Though as captain of the king’s guard he was responsible for those under his command and some lives had been lost these past years, they were warriors and, as he did all he could to ensure their safety, it did not feel as if he played God with their lives. But this did, causing bile to stir, as when he had traded Aelfled for Guarin.
This is different, he told himself. Though surely Nicola is yet hale, I have only to trade a deceitful Saxon to preserve the lives of my men and ensure my cousin is not borne across the sea.
No matter Mary Sarah’s value to the Danes, it was a good trade, and all the better since Maël knew the enemy’s destination. Once Nicola was en route to Wulfenshire, he would continue his pursuit and, between here and the Humber, reclaim the abbess. Whatever her tale, he did not believe she wished to go with the Danes. Too, he had told Lady Hawisa he would recover her.
Keeping his sword before him, Maël said in Anglo-Saxon which all his men knew well enough to understand, “Agreed. Command your men to stand down, and I shall do the same.”
Placing greater weight on his uninjured leg, Canute said, “Danes, fall back!”
Maël gave the same order, and soon enemy eyed enemy. Noting all his men were accounted for except Aiken who either remained among the trees or had fallen, Maël called, “Show me Lady Nicola.”
“Nay, this time you first, Chevalier. Show me—”
“Canute! What do you?” Bjorn cried. Standing before an opponent whose sleeve was bloodied, he was the Dane nearest the inn.
“We make trade,” Canute said. “A better wife we shall find you, Cousin.”
Though obvious Bjorn wished to argue, he set his teeth.
“He is young and foolish,” Canute said. “Easily drops in and out of love. Now let me see the abbess.”
“Sir Anselm, bring Abbess Mary Sarah to the door!” Maël ordered.
The chevalier stepped back from a Dane as bloodied as he and entered the inn. Though the woman might not wish to go with the Danes, when she appeared, she did not look frightened nor wary though she must have heard of the trade.
Guessing for this she had insisted on remaining with the king’s men—to gain Nicola’s freedom—Maël said, “Now my cousin.”
Canute whistled.
Shortly, six riders appeared on the dirt road, trailed by the horses of those who had failed to steal upon the inn. By moonlight, Maël saw a gagged Nicola rode center, the Dane directly to her left of good age, the one to her right not a Dane at all.
Exceedingly tall and broad, of long red hair and darker beard, Vitalis aided in escorting Nicola forward.
What is this? Maël silently demanded. And which direction does Vitalis turn? Toward Lady Hawisa whom he told he would aid in recovering her sister-in-law? Or once more toward the resistance who joined with Danes to take the city of York?
“The one you hunt like a dog for defending his country surprises, eh?” Canute said.
Maël narrowed his gaze on the Dane with whom he shared as many years. “Your alliance with Saxon rebels was dissolved last year after my king paid for your warriors to return home.”
“So I am told, but as King Sweyn’s brother did not have the authority to bargain, that silver is lost to England. But fear not, Vitalis does not want to fight. He but seeks the protection of his Danish allies, and he is only one man.” His eyebrows jerked. “Nay, two. I ought not forgot the promise made him I would spend Lady Nicola on both the abbess and the rebel you captured. What is his name?”
Then Vitalis had turned from his lady?
“Zed…” Canute grimaced. “You know of whom I speak.”
Maël looked again to the riders drawing near and curled his hands into fists when he saw how tightly gagged his cousin, the cloth cutting into the flesh beneath her cheeks. It had to hurt, though surely it had been necessary to keep her from shouting a warning. “Bring out Zedekiah, Sir Anselm!”
“Aye, that is his name,” Canute said. “Hard one. Of the Bible, eh?”
Ignoring him, Maël ordered a young chevalier to collect the rebel’s horse from the stable.
“Sir Maël!” Daryl called. “Surely you do not waste your trade of the abbess on your cousin when it is the murderous traitor we came for?”
Amid murmured agreement from those least trusted, Maël thought well on his response, but before he could deliver it, Vitalis said, “Murderous traitor, whelp? Methinks you mistake me for you and your sire.”
“England is William’s now,” Daryl snarled, anger further deforming a face bruised and swollen on the day past. “You are the traitor.”
Vitalis chuckled. “Five years gone, and still I see the sly boy deemed unworthy of defending his country. For lies and thievery, I sent you home. And there you should have remained beneath your sire’s skirts.”
Maël would not have thought it possible to be amused in that moment, but he was. Often Aiken boasted of his son’s training at Wulfen Castle, telling it ended because of the conquering. A lie, the youth cast out before Hastings. Were Aiken alive, he struggled to keep himself hidden.
“You are dead, Vitalis!” Daryl’s face was so dark it appeared he suffered apoplexy. “And you, Sir Maël, betray William in making this trade when we are here for Vitalis.”
Maël raised his eyebrows. “Though sacrificing a woman to work vengeance may be the way of barbarous Saxons, it is not the way of Normans. In such circumstances, first the king would deliver a lady from danger.”
Not all exaggeration. Before rebellion after rebellion kicked William over the edge of patience and the humiliation dealt him in the cave gave those tar-black wings more lift, he would not have yielded Nicola to gain Vitalis. Confident the next time he and his adversary met, he would take that man’s hands and feet—perhaps his head—the trade would have been made quickly to draw nearer their next encounter.
“I do not believe that,” Daryl said. “What I know is you place your family ahead of your king.”
Maël felt his anger rise further, but he kept control as had been more difficult in his youth. “Close your mouth, Saxon who will never be a Norman even do you sacrifice your children as your sire sacrificed your mother’s family, else I shall close it for you.”
Daryl swept up his sword. “Where is my sire? Did you slay him? Is that why you chose him to patrol the wood with you?”
“If the one who should have stood my side has fallen, it was to a Dane. Does he
yet live, cowardice put him to flight.”
“Ah!” Canute crowed. “That is who I saw. Boy, I am grateful your sire lacked stealth and courage, but worry not, he is somewhere out there.” He jutted his chin, then sighed. “This is entertaining, but too long my journey is delayed. Come, Abbess. Come, Zedekiah.”
Acknowledging he would have to watch his back closer around Aiken and Daryl, Maël nodded at the place halfway between road and inn. “There I will deliver them, and you shall deliver Lady Nicola.”
Canute patted his bloodied chausses. “I am injured,” he said, then called, “Vitalis, bring the lady to the middle ground. Warriors mine, this side.”
The Danes backed away, including the most seriously wounded who made it to his feet. Once they were past Maël and spreading out on either side of Canute, Maël motioned for his Normans to do the same, then crossed to the inn where Mary Sarah and the rebel stood, Sir Anselm behind them. “It seems the man you no longer follow still has need of you, Zedekiah.”
“I am all surprise, Sir Maël.” He raised his bound hands.
Maël sliced the D’Argent dagger up between his wrists, then nodded at the young chevalier who led the rebel’s mount forward. “The middle ground,” he directed Zedekiah as the stocky man took the reins and moved toward Vitalis who alone guided Nicola’s mount forward.
Maël looked to the woman he would never again think an abbess even had she taken vows. Finding her eyes lowered, he considered mussed braids she had named her vanity, then a figure shapely despite loose laces.
“I sought to warn you,” she whispered.
“Is that your apology for endangering my men? The only defense available to a deceitful Saxon?”
Her eyes met his. “Because of who you are, what you are, and to whom you answer, I could tell no more were I to keep my word to Nicola. As now you must realize, she is not the one for whom Canute stole inside Lillefarne.”