by Tamara Leigh
She eased onto her side and scooted back until her shoulders touched the wall. She knew she should drink from the wineskin, even if only to dissolve the bitterness on her tongue, knew she should nibble at the biscuit, even if only a few crumbs, but first rest whilst it could be had amid pattering rain and rocking that was now nearer swaying.
“Let the storm pass,” she whispered. “Let it not be the death of me.”
Be still, she heard as if in her ear. Wait for me.
That last opened her eyes. She thought she counseled herself, but no need to wait for someone who was present. Might that have been the Lord assuring her when she breathed her last He would be here to receive her regardless of deception worked as much on the Church as Normans? What of Maël? Would Canute put him to death?
Pushing to sitting with one hand, with the other she retrieved the wineskin, then pressed her back to the wall and tried again to force down what was needed to survive.
Had she lost a day or did he come twice in one?
Awakened by the door’s groan, Mercia narrowed her eyes against the light entering with the man who always deeply ducked though he could clear the lintel standing at full height. Were he taller than most men, it was not by much.
That thought surprised Mercia who had no cause for frivolous musings. And as her betrothed strode toward her with wrinkled nose and grim mouth expressing disgust over the scent of her sickness, she was struck by how settled her belly that had not rejected the biscuit eaten in its entirety nor watered wine that had made swallowing possible.
Canute dropped to his haunches and considered her where she sat beneath the hammock. “The storm moves inland, the wind now a breeze. You are better.”
That last was a statement. Since she had been a bundle of misery during his previous visits, it was hard to argue the assumption. “Somewhat better, but still very weak.”
“Then we wed on the morrow so it is done ere King Sweyn arrives.”
She tried—and failed—to moisten her lips. “When will he come?”
“It could be days but no more than a sennight. Then you will know your truth.”
Deciding argument against wedding on the morrow could save, she said, “A truth I am anxious to learn.”
“But more anxious to make a good wife,” he reminded. At her nod, he straightened.
“Canute?”
“My love?”
Her belly tossed, hopefully more over his mocking endearment than further sick of the sea. Though she knew she should not ask, she said, “How fares the king’s man?”
He raised his eyebrows. “As Ingvar has not sent word otherwise, he must yet live.”
Then the older Dane was his jailer—a good thing since he exuded neither hatred nor bloodlust. “Have you delivered a ransom demand to the D’Argents?”
“Nay.”
“Le Bâtard?”
He shook his head. “I wait on Bjorn and Lady Nicola.”
“Still they have not come?”
“Unless my uncle betrays again as he did in taking William’s bribe, they are somewhere upon the land.”
Did the earl hide his son and Nicola?
“I will send more food and drink,” Canute said and departed.
Mercia set her head back against the wall. Regardless of how appealing the viands and improved her appetite, she would eat and drink only enough to begin restoring her health. Thus, she should be able to delay the wedding another day—perhaps two—without threat to Maël. Much could happen in that time, of greatest import the king’s man and Nicola finding their release.
Once again, the silver-haired and bearded Ingvar set a shoulder against the iron bars, confident no harm would befall him as long as he did not keep on his person the key to Maël’s cell. And he was right, it being of no benefit to the prisoner to reach through the bars and overpower his jailer.
“I hear Canute tell she better,” Ingvar said as if delivering information for which he would see a coin flipped into his palm.
Feigning disinterest, Maël took another bite of dried fish that had only sustenance to recommend it and required much drink of poor quality to swallow it—both to be remedied upon King Sweyn’s arrival with provisions, the older Dane assured him.
“Canute say he wed her on morrow, but I think not.”
Maël took another bite, confident Ingvar would finish what roamed his mind as most times he did no matter how impregnable his prisoner’s silence.
He heaved a sigh. “As told, she very ill—all this movement hard for one whose feet know only ground.” He nodded. “It a few days ere they wed, then your duke go back to Normandy.”
Another bite, another swallow.
When Ingvar did not retreat, Maël looked to the man who raised his eyebrows, indicating he required prompting for what he wished to divulge.
The light in the Dane’s eyes indicating he knew something of value and required the payment of conversation, Maël said, “I am guessing you have tidings of my cousin.”
He shifted against the bars. “Speculation more than rumor, but possible earl have Bjorn on another ship with Lady Nicola. Much he love that boy—give him anything, and since Bjorn want lady and lady want him…”
Maël suppressed the temptation to correct him. Though Ingvar said he had witnessed Nicola’s affection for Bjorn and was certain she liked his kisses, Maël would wager she but bettered her chance of escape.
Ingvar nodded. “Methinks earl make it so Canute not interfere.”
“Bjorn is fortunate to have a loving father, which few men possess,” Maël said and, hearing bitterness in his voice, once more raised the wineskin.
“It sound you not like your sire, Chevalier. He beat you?”
Maël took another swallow.
“My father beat me,” Ingvar said, “but I lazy, so it deserved. It make me better warrior.”
Another swallow.
“You not like sire?” Ingvar pressed. “Or just thirsty of a sudden.”
That yanked Maël back to the warrior who had gripped his sword hilt, lifted his ruined face to the heavens, and vowed never again to use drink to numb anger nor sorrow.
Lowering the wineskin, he narrowed his eyes on the man several years older than Hugh would be had he survived the great battle. “Aye, my sire beat me the same as yours to make a better warrior, and much I deserved as well.” He stoppered the wineskin and dropped it beside the pallet the Dane had provided for use when the waters were calm. “He was not affectionate, but I respected and defended him.”
“Defended?” Ingvar made a face. “For what?”
Maël hesitated, said, “Lies spoken against him. Lies that were not all lies, I learned too late.”
“What lies were not lies?”
Refusing to yield to memories of the night before Hastings, he said, “It matters not. What matters is the man I was four years past behaved a boy and for it others suffered.”
More than I, and far more than I suffer now, he thought and looked down. By the light of a lantern suspended above the stout table beyond his cage, he examined his wrists. The rope binding them during the ride to the Humber had scraped the flesh, some places yet red, others scabbed, but they would heal enough that none would ask after unsightly scars other than those upon his face—unlike his cousin, Guarin, whose wrists bore permanent evidence of captivity by Saxon rebels.
“Your guilt heavy,” Ingvar said.
Once more the Dane surprised as first done when he became Maël’s jailer. The key to the cell given into his keeping, the others having departed, Ingvar had drawn near and assured the king’s man he would not have cut Mercia’s throat. Such days were well behind him, he had said—and much of the warrior. Now his value to his liege was mostly in the ghost he could make of himself among the enemy and the quick of his fingers among their treasures.
“Aye, Sir Maël.” He nodded. “You need pray for forgiveness.”
Was he a priest as well? Maël mused.
“Have you?” Ingvar asked.
The Dane gave a grunt of frustration. “And you need ask for forgiveness from those wronged.”
From his mother and cousins, but that would require he reveal the reason he needed grace.
“Next you accept forgiveness, Sir Maël, then air sweeter and brighter and you live again.”
“You err in thinking to know me,” he muttered.
“Possible, but you call to mind friend who die at York while taking city. He not fighting man, but wife angry over death of sons sent to resolve disagreement with his liege. At their graves, she tell him join earl and fight like a man else come to their bed no more. Now his bed English mud, and still his sons dead and wife made a beggar.” He blew out breath. “Were there anything to forgive, better for all he content with God’s forgiveness and his own and stay home.”
Maël stared at the man it was impossible to dislike.
His jailer straightened. “You need anything, I get it for you, hmm?”
As ever he offered and delivered, which would displease Canute were he to discover his captive was that only insomuch as he was unable to depart the ship. Far different from Guarin’s captivity.
“As I am long without a bath,” Maël said, “I would be glad for a basin of water and towel.”
“This eve.” Ingvar said and, eschewing his hammock, crossed to the table secured to the floor and dropped onto the bench fastened to the wall.
He was not long for sleep, and with naught to occupy his prisoner, neither should Maël have been. But though he stretched out on the pallet, over and again he heard the man’s tale of his friend. And wondered how it would feel to forgive himself even if no others could.
Chapter Sixteen
Three more days’ reprieve, but this morn Canute had deemed her well enough to do a wife’s duty and told she would pledge her life to him the next day.
With a long sigh, Mercia returned the breath drawn from the breeze, then propped her arms on the railing, leaned in, and settled her chin atop her hands.
The narrow sea beyond the estuary’s mouth rippled with sunlight, no sign of further churning that would return her face to a bucket. Lowering her lids, she savored the warmth on the deck that was barely felt in her cabin and surely less felt in the hull.
For the hundredth time, she wondered how Maël fared. Through observation she had learned the location of the forward hatch that accessed the ship’s bowels, but as someone was always set to watch her, there was no opportunity to steal down the ladder to verify the king’s man was well.
Just because Canute said he must be did not make it so. Too, it was possible Maël had been moved to another ship—or none. In all these days, he might have been ransomed and was once more amongst his own. Else dead…
“Ships!” bellowed the man atop the mast.
As lookouts aboard other bobbing vessels sounded the alarm, Mercia straightened and swept her gaze over the sparkling sea.
Ships, indeed. Many ships.
Were they of Sweyn as seemed likely, Canute would be pleased the earl’s nearly crippled fleet would soon be strengthened by hale, vigorous men, but also displeased at being unable to present Gytha’s granddaughter as his wife.
“Much I have indulged you, Mercia,” her betrothed said when he appeared at her side. “Now I shall look little in my sire’s eyes. ’Tis an ill start to a marriage.”
She raised her chin. “I would think him pleased to witness his son’s momentous Godwine union.”
His brow lowered further. “Fool woman! He is a king come to give war, not listen to a priest’s ramblings.” He motioned her guard forward. “Go to your cabin. Should the king wish to see you, I will summon you.”
Swallowing a retort, she looked one last time to the sea and fearfully marveled at how quickly dozens of ships became scores.
When they were numbered, would there be enough to remove William from the throne? If so, would life be better for Saxons? The same?
Worse?
The sound of boots were of more than one man.
After waiting all day to be summoned and now with the estuary dark beneath middle night, Mercia had eased into the hammock to which she was determined she would become accustomed.
Was this the long-awaited summoning? If so, why had Canute sent more than one man for her? Or perhaps he did not. Though difficult to believe a king would come to her, those boots might belong to father and son.
When the door opened, she was out of the hammock, hands clasped at her waist.
Canute entered first, followed by an older man of similar face, height, and build, albeit loose around the jowls and thickening around the middle.
The introduction was brusque, then King Sweyn stepped near. “Mercia of Godwine blood and no stomach for the sea, regardless of your grandmother’s spinning, you will not wed my son.”
Torn between relief she would not spend her life on one she did not want and offense at being deemed inadequate, she stared at the man who had surely learned the falsity of whatever claims Gytha made about her granddaughter. It was of no event Canute was born out of wedlock, but of great event Mercia had been.
She looked to her former betrothed, and the relief on his face told he was grateful the storm had turned her belly inside out and her every groaning thereafter further delayed the exchange of vows.
Settling into her heels, she asked that to which she believed she knew the answer, “Lord King, for what am I set aside when you and your son were so eager to make a Godwine the bride of a prince of Denmark?”
His face darkened. “The machinations of a brother I trusted render you useless to my cause.”
Then rejection of her had naught to do with the circumstances of her birth? All to do with the earl who accepted Le Bâtard’s silver? “I am not sure I understand.”
“You would not. You are a woman.” He gave her his back.
She sprang forward and gripped his arm. “What of the truth I was to be told?” Ignoring Canute’s rebuke and sidestepping so he could not catch hold of her, she placed herself in front of his sire. “Where is the missive you carry for me?”
“Nay, Son,” the king said when Canute reached for her again. “Do I wish, I can myself swat this fly.” As the younger man eased back, Sweyn narrowed his eyes on Mercia. “You are years from a girl, but not so old you cannot bear a man sons. Fortunately, you are lovely—more than Gytha’s well-born granddaughters, she assured me. Thus, I believe your future will be tolerable.”
“Tolerable? Again, I do not understand.”
“All you must needs know is I shall do well by both of us.” He removed her hand and stepped past.
“Canute!” Mercia beseeched as he followed his sire, but he closed the door between them.
“Of what do you speak, Sire?” his voice slipped through the gap beneath.
“Great our losses, my son. Hence, the ransoms of William’s man and Mercia are a good beginning to seeing our war chests refilled, and more so raids along the coast as far inland as our warriors can steal.”
Relieved over confirmation Maël lived, Mercia pressed an ear to the door’s seam to make sense of words muffled by footfalls and distance.
“Then all we have done is for naught, Sire?”
“You have your uncle to thank for that. I but make us as whole as possible.”
If she correctly interpreted that and what he had said to her, what Sweyn found upon his arrival had decided him against making a bid for the English throne. And just as Maël was to aid the Danes in recouping their losses, so would she—God help her.
Panic constricting her throat, she commanded herself to think. Was it possible to depart the ship unseen? As her guard left her door several minutes each time he had to relieve himself, the ship was anchored near the shore, and she could swim a little, she might be able to escape.
“And where would you go?” she
whispered. Might the woman she served before King Harold’s death give aid, perhaps allow her to resume her position? Possible, but only if Mercia could discover her whereabouts. Highly unlikely, but it was all she had to hold to in the moment.
Once more gaining the hammock, she closed her eyes, hopeful on the day she was to have wed she could distance herself from those who would make currency of her. But that day came too soon.
As dawn bled across the speckled black sky, she was pulled from her bed and across the deck by a Dane who refused to reveal her destination. When he halted before the hatch down which she had wished to go on the day past, she demanded, “What is this?”
For answer, he tossed back the door and ordered her down the ladder.
Much had changed, and it required no great movement of the mind to fit this piece with that of the arrival of King Sweyn and his fleet.
Maël sensed it was Mercia before she came around the corner into the light of the lantern against which Ingvar knocked his head in his haste to rise. If not that her arm was gripped by a Dane urging her ahead of him, Maël might have thought she found favor with Denmark’s king and had been sent to speak on his behalf, but she was no more in control of her person than he. And fearful, he saw when her eyes swept past where he stretched in his hammock and immediately returned to him.
Breath rushed from her as if she was relieved to see him. Because she hoped to make him her savior again?
Her escort halted near Ingvar. The Danes conversed in a language similar enough to that of the Saxons that Maël understood what was required of his jailer—Mercia would occupy the second cell and there remain until King Sweyn ordered otherwise.
When her escort withdrew, Ingvar retrieved the keys and led her forward.
Mercia averted her eyes, allowing Maël to linger over a face that was thin but no longer gaunt as it must have been days past, hair simply braided and looped only once to restrain its length, and a gown different from the one for which she had exchanged her habit.
“Here, Lady.” Ingvar opened the door fashioned of bars and handed her inside. “’Tis humble, but I see it fit as possible for noblewoman the same as Sir Maël’s fit for nobleman. And I hang blanket to give privacy for…woman things.”