by Tamara Leigh
If she could believe that, unreservedly she would give herself to Canute, but she recalled Gytha raging over the belief held by her son, Tostig, that his enemy’s enemy was a friend. For that and betrayal of his brother, Harold, Tostig had died before the great battle in a clash of his own making.
“Of course Sweyn will set all aright,” she said what was expected of her.
The man of slightly bowed back and silvered brown hair sighed. “That the hope. Mayhap God have other plan.”
As so often He has these past years, Mercia thought, then said, “You believe we will reach the Humber ere dark?”
“I do, mayhap ahead of Canute if Normans gave chase and follow his or Bjorn’s trail.”
Mercia did not doubt Sir Maël pursued them. Even had Nicola not been recaptured, still he would come, not only for Vitalis but her now it was known she was of value to men who sought to place their king on England’s throne.
Settling against the Dane, once more she retreated behind her lids and prayed, Lord, let it be Nicola and Bjorn whom Sir Maël overtakes, and let it be enough for him to return his cousin to Wulfenshire. No more blood shed over this misbegotten Godwine who ought not care who sired her. But does…
Though hours had passed since finally he spied three horses carrying four riders, still there was no opportunity to isolate the Dane with whom Mercia shared a saddle.
Had not Maël sent one of his two men a different direction when it became obvious the Danes split again, he would have made his presence felt, but even with the older Dane disadvantaged by sharing a saddle, Canute had chosen her escort well. The other two were young and of good build.
If necessary, Maël and the man who followed at a distance to watch his leader’s back would challenge all before they drew near enough the Humber to meet up with other Danes.
A half hour later, Mercia’s escort sought a stream to refresh the horses, drawing him nearer to retrieving her. Or so he believed.
“We are done with this game, Sir Maël!”
Maël’s hand went to his sword hilt, but he left it there. This was not what he would call a game since the chevalier who watched his commander’s back had not watched his own and likely lay dead or dying. Regardless, it was a game to the Dane behind—and played well against one who, unlike Dougray, did not excel at stealth, and unlike Theriot, did not possess senses beyond the natural to sooner alert the predator he was in danger of becoming prey.
Certain were it not an arrow trained on him, a dagger was ready to fly, Maël kept his gaze on the others who drew swords as they swung their mounts around. As the Norman in their midst was well enough concealed only movement would reveal him, they looked past him to Canute with what seemed surprise as though unaware he had followed—as did Mercia whose eyes searched the trees and bushes that provided Maël cover.
Heed the pit of you, he heard his sire again. Heed it, pretty boy, else die the least of the D’Argents.
Ashamedly, there had been nothing to heed beyond the voice urging him to exercise caution to avoid alerting the Danes he followed. Hugh was long dead, but it felt as if he stood near, questioning how faithful the wife who bore a son whose face reflected more her beauty than the ruggedness of his own.
“Go forth, Sir Maël,” Canute ordered. “Let my men see how greatly they disappoint me.”
Maël peered over his shoulder. The leader of these Danes was distant, but not so much he could not land the dagger held at an angle so it flashed sunlight amid what could be the blood of the Norman who first failed himself, next the king’s man.
Just as when Maël patrolled the area around the inn, this day he had eschewed his hauberk, leaving it in his saddlebag to muffle iron links that might betray him the same as the chain mail of those he pursued. Unaware of being followed by Canute who also denied himself armor, better Maël had donned his hauberk and moved more cautiously.
The leader of the Danes waved his dagger. “Go.”
Removing his hand from the hilt, Maël urged his mount into the open. Behind, he heard the advance of Canute who no longer moved stealthily but was wise enough to command forward the younger Danes.
Fight them! Hugh commanded from the grave.
Watch for an opening, Godfroi countered, and Maël recalled his uncle sitting at the high table, offering advice and encouragement. When you see it, think on the odds. Life is too precious and easily severed for every threat to be answered with a blade.
It was true, but great this threat with the blood of his man on Canute’s blade and that Dane closing in behind and his men ahead.
Though the warrior of Maël urged him to draw his sword, he left it sheathed, knowing more than facing three opponents, the odds were against him for his lack of armor.
When Canute came alongside and his men reined in fifteen feet distant, Maël glanced at the bloodied bandage around the Dane’s thigh, an injury that would slow him, then looked nearer on the dagger.
“Aye, your man is dead,” Canute said. “Unlike you, I gave him no chance to give answer.”
“You put it in his back,” Maël scorned.
“Regrettably, easier and faster, but the end is the same—one less Norman.” Smiling, shaking his head as if amused, momentarily he closed his eyes.
The odds having shifted, Maël gripped the hilt of the D’Argent dagger that more quickly cleared its scabbard than would his sword, launched himself sideways, and slammed his forearm against Canute’s that wielded his own dagger.
The man yelped as the force of his attacker’s body carried both over the side of the horse. Between saddle and ground, Maël twisted to ensure it was Canute who landed on his back—he who lost his breath.
The young Danes’ hesitation gave Maël time not only to drag Canute onto his knees, but moments in which to relieve the enemy of his dagger, haul him to standing, and press the D’Argent blade against his neck.
As Canute’s men jerked on the reins lest further advance see their leader’s throat opened, Maël leaned in. “I also weary of this game, Dane.”
King Sweyn’s son coughed, sucked air. “Should have put a blade in your back.”
“And proven more a coward,” Maël said, then walked him back several steps and looked from the nearest Danes to the one whose arm was around the woman who stared wide-eyed. “Here we are again, and this time a trade on my terms!” he called. “King Sweyn’s son for Lady Nicola and Mercia of Mercia.”
The Danes exchanged glances.
Maël shifted his blade higher and pricked the underside of Canute’s jaw. “Tell them to arrange it, Prince.”
“Bjorn has your cousin, not I,” Canute growled. “And Mercia… What kind of man would I be to yield the woman I love?”
Mockery, his only care for her being how she benefitted his sire and him.
“Alas, my dear,” Canute called, “we are of no use to anyone without the other. Thus, we shall be together in death. Ingvar, cut her throat the moment Sir Maël cuts mine—and do the same to Lady Nicola when next you see her.”
Though the young Danes grinned as if certain their leader had won, the older one remained unmoving.
“Your dagger, Ingvar!” Canute ordered.
With what seemed reluctance, the man unsheathed his blade and set it against Mercia’s pale neck.
“Count of three,” Canute ordered.
“You will not kill her,” Maël said.
“As told, she is of no use without me.” He chuckled. “But I have heard of the D’Argents. You will not let her die.”
In that moment, Maël wished his family did not boast so honorable a reputation. Though not entirely convinced Canute would order her death, he balked against testing the man.
“So, Sir Maël, you let me live, I let her live. And you go back to William to fight another day.”
Maël did not believe it was as simple as that.
Canute sighed. “Very well. Ingvar, here the count of one!”
“I will bleed you,” Maël warned.
“He wi
ll do the same to her.” Once more, King Sweyn’s son raised his voice, “Ingvar, here the count of two!”
Maël shot his gaze to Mercia and saw she had closed her eyes.
“Now, Ingvar, here the—”
Maël swept his dagger aside, shoved Canute forward, and reached for his sword. But before it cleared its scabbard, one of the mounted Danes set a blade at his throat, the other at his chest.
“I change my mind, Sir Maël.” Limping between his men’s horses, fresh blood blooming through the bandage binding his thigh, Canute drew fingers across his neck and considered the crimson. “Do I let you go, it will make me look soft. And so death takes you this day.”
“Nay, Canute!” Mercia cried. “You are not so dishonorable.”
He looked around. “Hard things must be done to save England. Trust me, my love, this is for the best.”
“If you kill him, I will not wed you!”
“Aye, you will—for England, your grandmother, and what you want told.”
She shook her head. “Only if you release him as you said you would.”
“I cannot.” He stepped to the side and retrieved the dagger lost during his shameful dismount.
“But he is of value! As a D’Argent and captain of the king’s guard, you can ransom or trade him for captive Danes.”
Maël did not believe Canute would agree, but the man went still, then smiled. “You are of good wit, my love.” His eyebrows pinched. “Or is it you like this Norman more than your betrothed?”
“What I am is sick of death! Do you slay him, then command Ingvar to do the same to me since I will be of no use to your sire.”
He considered Maël, nodded at his men. “Take his weapons and bind him. We keep him alive. For now.”
Maël did not resist, and once relieved of all blades and bound, Canute drew near and delivered a fist to the left eye. Maël heard Mercia cry out as pain and light flared through his skull, and again she protested when Canute struck his captive’s nose, but Maël remained upright.
Blood running onto his lips and tongue, he brought the prince into focus. Though Canute was ready to strike a third blow, he lowered his fist, swept his gaze from the right side of his captive’s face to the left, and said, “I like balance. Soon you will be ugly both sides and my Mercia will not like you so much.”
Even were it true she had a care for this Norman whose sentence of death she had delayed, these were mere bruises and swellings. They would heal, unlike scars that served as reminders of his great betrayal.
The rope so tightly cutting into Maël’s flesh it impeded blood flow, he raised his bound wrists. “So courageous, King Sweyn’s son who attacks from behind with the throw of a blade and faces opponents only when they are bound by his men.”
Dismay skittered across Canute’s face. He was a warrior, his training likely worthy of esteem, but the same as Maël had done at Hastings, he behaved badly, thus of no credit to his sire.
“Get the chevalier astride,” he commanded.
Shortly, the four riders that had become six resumed their northeastern journey, Mercia and Ingvar riding behind Canute, Maël and the two Danes bringing up the rear.
Hours later, with the sun moving toward its rest as they neared the estuary, the scent and salt of the ocean thickening, the Danish contingents became one again—as feared, absent Bjorn and Nicola.
The Humber
Northern England
Mercia paced, reminiscent of her grandmother though many had been Gytha’s strides in rooms sizable enough to accommodate her angst and well populated with servants upon whom she could unleash anger for the slightest offense.
In the small cabin of the earl’s great ship, its occupant had only enough space to stretch her legs three times side to side across the gently dipping floor, four times if she moved diagonally.
Somewhere in the hull beneath her feet was the one who had yielded to Canute under threat to her life and lived because she, in turn, said she would not wed the Dane. Maël was safe, but would he remain so once she spoke vows with Canute? Was it enough the chevalier was of value to his family as well as the tyrant?
Groaning, she turned her thoughts to Nicola and Bjorn. She had expected to be met by one or both upon boarding the ship and being presented to the hard-faced earl. She was not alone in that expectation, Canute demanding to know his cousin’s whereabouts.
The earl’s disavowal of that knowledge had not seemed feigned, and concern for his missing son softened his face before his nephew told Bjorn must be found so the D’Argents’ sister could be ransomed alongside her cousin. So what had become of the two, there surely no safer place for a Dane than where their forces anchored? Had they been overtaken by Maël’s other men? Captured by patrolling Normans whose base was the city of York north of the Humber? Felled by Saxons who would deem a Norman lady and Danish warrior enemies?
“Lord,” Mercia whispered, “let Vitalis be the one to gain on them. He will see Nicola restored to her family, perhaps even Bjorn returned to his.”
The tap of boots brought her around.
Canute opened the door, ducked, and entered. The moment he set eyes on her, his brow lined. “Why did you not do as told? You cannot dine with my uncle and me looking a servant.”
Though she had cleaned her face and hands and made simple braids of her hair, she had not exchanged the heavily soiled gown for another sent by Gytha. She had meant to but been uncomfortable with no means of barring the door against the Dane posted outside.
She ran hands down the gown that had replaced her habit days past, paused over the purse that held her grandmother’s missive. “Methinks this suffices for now, especially as I am weary and prefer to eat my meal here.”
His displeasure wavered then eased. “Remain and rest. On the morrow, don the clean gown so you not dishonor me.”
“Dishonor?”
“The priest rows over late morn to wed us in daylight.”
She caught her breath. “So soon?”
“My sire says we should begin making babies.” When words eluded her, he continued, “As I make good on the bargain with Sir Maël’s life, you will make good on yours.”
Though there seemed no way to escape their union, she was not ready. Too, the longer she delayed, the longer the one given to changing the terms of an agreement—as Canute had done in refusing to free Maël—would keep his side of the bargain. But how was she to delay him?
“We will be husband and wife on the morrow,” he reiterated.
“On the morrow.” Though she nodded, hopefully between now and then she would devise a means of thwarting him. As he turned toward the door, she recalled their other bargain. “Who sired me, Canute? How is it I am not misbegotten?”
He looked around. “You will know soon.”
“When?”
“Once we wed.”
“Nay, I would know now.”
“As told, my sire will reveal all when he comes.”
“Then you yourself do not know the truth.”
“I know it, else I would not wed you.”
“Then tell.”
“My sire says it best you learn from Gytha whose missive he carries across the sea.”
“Then we shall wed when he arrives.”
“Nay, the morrow.”
“But—”
“The morrow, my love.” He stepped outside, closed the door, and commanded her guard to keep close watch.
As his boots sounded a retreat, Mercia sank to the floor. Gripping her head in her hands, she whispered, “Lord, if Sweyn’s coming does not give godly answer to my peoples’ groans, deliver him not to these shores. Let me not be the cause of false hope—more suffering, more blood, more death.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Even if never I know who I am.”
Chapter Fifteen
This the Lord’s answer? That she die?
Mercia fumbled the bucket onto its hook, then on hands and knees backed up to the wall where four days past she had spread her blankets beneath the
hammock she eschewed despite assurances the ship’s movement would be less felt. It was, and yet upon the floor she found more relief from the constant shift and bob. Though she could keep down very little liquid and food and sometimes slid across the floor, here she could toss and turn and that was the cost of her own movement as opposed to the slightest shift setting the hammock to swinging.
Then came the storm last eve whose wind and rain lashed at vessels anchored in the estuary. Lest she suffer injury from being slammed about the cabin, she had gone into the hammock and suffered its careening the night and morning through. Then an hour past, all calmed enough to allow her to once more set feet on the floor. God willing, the storm was nearly worn out so she would not have to return to the hammock.
Easing her rear onto her heels, stretching her arms out before her, she pressed her forehead to the musty blankets thus far spared fouling by the contents of her belly.
“This your answer, Lord?” she whispered into the dusky dark that would be pitch black if not for a gap beneath the door that permitted light to crawl through.
By her second day aboard ship, she had thought herself miserable, so terrible had been the tossing of her belly, lightness of her head, and ache behind her eyes, but that was almost comfortable compared to this. If she did not keep more food and drink down, she would lose what remained of her strength. Of course, did she vastly improve, the priest who had visited several times would wed her to the man who came once a day to see for himself she was incapable of speaking vows.
Scornful of her reaction to what he called a wee rocking, ever Canute departed with the warning to be ready to keep their bargain as soon as the weather calmed, else the king’s man would not be ransomed nor traded.
“Maël,” she let fall from her lips the name of one who, unlike any before, set more value on her life than his own. Emotion tightening her throat, she slid a hand onto the floor whose rough boards pricked her palm. “Be here, be well,” she rasped. “And forgive me, Maël. Pray, forgive me.”