by Tamara Leigh
He crossed to his hammock, and when he returned, passed one of his blankets to her. “Keep you warm.”
She thanked him and, as he locked her in, retreated to the corner farthest from where Maël made his bed. Drawing the blanket around her, she eased to sitting beneath the hammock hung between the cage’s back and a side wall.
“I return soon,” Ingvar said and departed.
Maël swung out of his hammock and stepped to the bars between the cells. “As it seems you are not to be the wife of a king’s son, Sweyn accepts never will he be King of England.”
“You guess well, ”she said, chin lowered between the blanket’s edges.
“More a conclusion based on what I know of William and what Sweyn did not know of the state of his brother’s fleet.”
“His own fleet is of great size.”
“So Ingvar tells.”
She looked sidelong at him. “It will wreak havoc on England ere it returns to Denmark, but return it will, and with many riches. Doubtless, you will be ransomed, and I…” She closed her eyes, shook her head. “Much coin will be gained by delivering this Godwine to your king.”
Here confirmation of what he had concluded of the young and old woman at Westminster.
“Thus, never again can any who oppose Norman rule attempt to use me to rally opposition.” She sent her gaze around the cell, said barely above a whisper, “I begin to believe ever I will be caged, a bird flitting corner to corner, beating its wings against bars too tight to squeeze through.” Her voice caught.
Maël felt an answering catch in the vicinity of his heart. And wanted to resent it. “Did you learn exactly how great your value to the King of Denmark? Was all explained as promised?”
Her laugh was bitter. “Sweyn refused me the missive from my grandmother I was told he carried. Hence, I know no more now than I knew at the inn.” She turned her face to him. “Gytha’s words will be of benefit in setting the price your king shall pay to render harmless the threat I present.”
“Of what benefit?”
Her shoulders jerked. “I know not how true whatever she inked in her bid to avenge her sons’ deaths, but she was to reveal what long she refused me—which of her sons sired me out of wedlock. If it is true I…”
“What?”
“Canute suggested I may not be ill-gotten, but more likely she wished to make marriage to the disposable granddaughter more desirable. But lies or not, I doubt I shall ever know what the missive tells since alongside me it will be sold to William, then destroyed. Perhaps the same as I shall be destroyed.”
“The king does not execute nobles.”
“Then in this Normans are more civilized than the English, though only if that kindness extends to those who have only the word of the enemy to attest to their legitimacy—more importantly, if one can be forgiven for deceiving the Holy Church.”
Once more yielding to the need to reassure her, he said, “He will not kill you, Mercia.”
“Just as it cannot be said I slew the exhausted bird that shall drop from the rafters of Lillefarne’s chapel though my carelessness tempted it inside?” She shook her head, whispered, “Oh, to be forgiven my trespasses, to have been strong not weak, to have said, I will not offend the Lord no matter I offend you, no matter your promise to tell what I ache to know. Better you turn your face from me than the Lord turn His face from a false servant.”
Maël did not know what to say, though a fortnight past he might have spoken cutting words in answer to self pity. But then he had thought her merely a sly, disagreeable Saxon. Legitimate or not, this Godwine was more, and because of his cousin’s suffering over his own illegitimacy, he understood why she had agreed to play an abbess.
She said no more, and when Ingvar returned with bulging sacks to make her captivity more comfortable, she turned into the corner.
The Dane entered her cell, placed a bucket on a long hook, another blanket and a towel in the hammock, and made curtains of thin blankets fixed to the upper bars between Maël’s cell and hers and the bars facing Ingvar’s station.
“You have only to pull them back and tie around a bar do you wish to visit with Sir Maël or speak with me, my lady,” he said as he withdrew.
“I am not a lady.”
Though Maël could no longer see her, her voice was not muffled, and he guessed she had turned out of the corner.
“Why you say that?” Ingvar’s voice was firm as when he spoke to Maël of forgiveness. “You wish I assure that you a lady? Sir Maël say it too? Nay, I speak it already. Now you decide if lady or not.”
There seemed surprise in her silence, then she said, “’Tis unlikely I am legitimate.”
He grunted. “No say have you what mother and sire do, so not your sin. You decide what you are.” Then came the rustle of the curtain being moved aside, the rasp of rusted iron, the key’s scrape.
Stepping to the side, Ingvar peered at Maël. “Sleep now. On morrow, I learn more of what will be.”
And would pass on much of it. Hopefully, Canute and others would never know that though Ingvar yet possessed the strength and skill of a warrior, if ever he had the heart and mind of one, it was barely evident. Here a man who should be sitting beside his wife before a hearth, his children’s children begging tales of young Ingvar’s exploits across land and sea.
One day might warriors in their prime think the same of Maël D’Argent who was not at home nor hearth because he had none?
More possible than not.
Chapter Seventeen
Self pity crippled.
She knew it the same as Ingvar who passed food and drink to her through the opening at the base of her cell door.
Curtained from the two men, Mercia paced her confines as Ingvar spoke and Maël responded with few words, the former sounding an ally as he told what was learned of the newly arrived Danes, confirming what Mercia had revealed and Maël concluded.
Sweyn had crossed the sea believing his men added to those sent last autumn would be sufficient to challenge William for the crown, and it might have been had not the earl withdrawn his support for English resistance in exchange for silver he was to have paid to Sweyn and a goodly portion quietly paid to himself. Thus, when William set to harrying the North, there was none of strength to oppose him, and while the earl counted his silver, the food and supplies required to sustain his men through the winter was mostly destroyed, resulting in starvation, illness, and death. The opportunity for Danes to conquer the conqueror no longer viable, the King of Denmark would recoup his losses with ransoming and raids and return home.
All that told, the sounds beyond the curtains suggesting Ingvar had settled down to eat, once more Mercia assured herself that no matter what happened, she could make a way out were she patient, strong, and watchful. She could be. Must be. Would be.
“This sunrise, it began,” Ingvar spoke thickly as if around food, and once more she stilled. “While Sweyn send brother with many ships down coast to raid East Anglia, men ride to William to offer terms.”
“How long?’ Maël said.
“Until you free? As weather good for raiding, Sweyn patient. The longer he stay, the heavier his coffers. Too, his men need find your king to gain ransom. Could be weeks, could be months.”
The latter, Mercia hoped. Though she hated this cage, more she would hate the one Le Bâtard and the Church fashioned for her. If a cage at all. Aye, better here than—
A sound of disgust parting her lips, she berated her selfish self who would prolong the chevalier’s captivity and raiding to delay her punishment. “Lord,” she whispered, “let William give answer soon.”
“Have you word of Lady Nicola?” Maël asked, and once more she chastised herself, this time for allowing the young woman to slip her thoughts.
“Alas, nay. As angry as Sweyn is with brother, unlikely Bjorn keep your cousin if she found. She be ransomed too.”
“For the best,” the chevalier said. “Otherwise, your king and his kin will know the D’Argents b
etter than they would like.”
Ingvar chuckled. “And Wulfriths, eh? Your cousin of that family now.”
“Guarin has taken his wife’s name as commanded by King William, but ever first he will be a D’Argent.”
“Good blood you have, Sir Maël.”
“It binds us well, though no more than many other families.”
Amid the silence of consideration, Mercia marveled over their exchange in which the chevalier contributed in nearly equal measure. Did he befriend Ingvar in hopes of making a hole in the watch over him?
“Nay, I not believe that,” the Dane said. “Canute and brothers rivals first.”
“Then warriors is all that was made of those crawling around Sweyn’s throne.”
“What else made of D’Argents?”
“Mostly, my sire trained me and my cousins into warriors. If not for my uncle, that is nearly all we would have been.”
“Your uncle a priest?”
“Nay, a great warrior until battle stole the use of his legs. You have heard of Paul of the Bible who persecuted Jesus’s followers—”
“Damascus!” Ingvar exclaimed. “Aye, Jesus come down and change him on that road. Then he become Apostle Paul.”
Mercia heard Maël’s chuckle, and that sound made her heart beat fast as she imagined it near enough to feel its warm breeze.
“You are a learned man, Ingvar.”
“Nay, I but like stories of good come of bad. Tell me more.”
“My uncle, Godfroi, was not a bad man before his injury, but a better man he was afterward. My aunt said his great loss was his road to Damascus. Though fairly well my sire bound his son and nephews with training at arms, tightly my uncle bound us with training in right over wrong. If either of those is in the blood, methinks it must be brought to consciousness before it can be given proper form and strength.”
Mercia did not realize she pressed fingers to her wrist until she felt the coursing of her own blood. And that was all it was were the chevalier to be believed—of little form and strength, regardless were it Harold, Tostig, Gyrth, or Leofwine who sired her.
It matters not, she told herself, but still she longed to know the contents of the missive. Even if what Gytha told was twisted to her advantage, surely there was more truth there than Mercia had now.
“What think you, Lady?” Maël said as if she participated in the discussion. And she did if one counted she had turned over their words as if they were rocks beneath which a treasure might be found.
Though she bristled over his emphasis on titling her a lady, she was grateful he was aware of her presence, next regretful she must seem a self-pitying girl.
She crossed to the bars separating her from the chevalier and drew back the blanket. He was nearer than expected where he stood at the front of his cell across from Ingvar who sat atop the table tossing an apple.
Despite bruising of Maël’s left eye, a reminder of the sacrifice of his freedom to ensure Ingvar did not slit her throat as Canute had threatened to do, so handsome was the side of Maël’s face turned toward her, she stared.
Then he looked around.
Though she could not meet his gaze, she considered the whole of his face and was relieved the fist also delivered to his nose had not broken it.
“Have you an opinion, Lady?” he said, this time without emphasis on the title.
Having begun tracing his scars with her eyes, realizing just as she wanted to feel the warmth and breath of his chuckle, her fingertips wanted to follow the ridges, she tucked them into her palms.
“An opinion besides how ruined this visage,” he prompted.
She flushed. “Better I would have to consider what is in the blood to give an opinion, Sir Maël, but my first thought is you are right. ’Tis not enough for a warrior and godly man to be in the blood. Such honorable character must be summoned forth and a bridge built between them.”
He stared.
“Well you speak it,” Ingvar said. “Does she not, Sir Maël?”
The corners of the chevalier’s mouth tucked as if he might smile. “She speaks it well,” he said and dropped the core of his apple on the platter near his feet.
Sidelong, she watched him stride to his hammock and settle in.
“I get you anything, Lady?” Ingvar asked.
She looked down at the platter of food more fine than what had been given her before Sweyn’s arrival. Doubtless, the Danish king had brought provisions aplenty to feed men now set on raiding rather than battling.
“I need no more than this,” she said. Rejecting the temptation to once more retreat behind the curtains, she hooked back the one between her and the king’s man, secured it, and did the same with the one facing her jailer. Then she carried the platter to her pallet and feigned an appetite.
Being in sight of Maël was increasingly uncomfortable, not for feeling as if watched, though she guessed he must look upon her from time to time, but for the longing—nay, need—to thank him for giving himself into Canute’s hands to save this deceitful Saxon. And she would thank him. Until then, better to think on how to escape Le Bâtard.
The day dragged and, discouraged to find each path her mind traveled to salvation blocked, she told herself, I will be patient. I will be strong. I will be watchful.
As if Ingvar believed she needed more than determination, there was something else besides viands on her platter that eve. “Borrowed from earl’s trunk. He well down coast, so not miss.”
Mercia stared at a psalter smaller and more beautiful than any she had seen. Encased in covers of embossed silver bound with silken cord to a leather spine, center of the front cover was a raised cross, at the intersection of which was a white gemstone beneath whose surface pale colors flashed like the scales of the loveliest fish.
Was this the opal her grandmother had bemoaned for how many slaves she would have to sell to attain one sizable enough to proclaim how precious and costly that which adorned her person? More importantly, might this be the psalter gifted by the ninth-century King Alfred to his daughter when he wed her to the Lord of the Mercians? Gytha had coveted one such as this said to be in the possession of a bishop who refused to part with it.
Mercia looked up. “Certes, the earl will miss this.”
Ingvar shrugged. “If ever he return.”
“You think he will not?”
He glanced at Maël who remained silent though Mercia was certain he questioned what need an ungodly woman had for a psalter.
“Canute say king think to punish earl bad. Mayhap exile.” Ingvar looked directly at Maël. “Still no word of Lady Nicola. As all earl’s ships searched, either she never on Humber else Bjorn get her off before king’s men board.” He raised his eyebrows. “That I think.”
“Have you thoughts of where she could be now?” Maël asked.
“Earl slippery, and as I told, he love that boy. I say if she and Bjorn not on raiding ships gone south, earl send them to Denmark.” He nodded. “Mayhap your cousin gone from England.”
Maël muttered what sounded a curse, then said, “As warned, better the Danes shall know the D’Argents.”
And I will be responsible for the blood shed to retrieve Nicola, Mercia thought. Feeling the chevalier’s angry gaze, she said, “I am aware of my duplicity, Sir Maël, and I am sorry for it.” Leaving her supper, she returned to the pallet made beneath her hammock.
As the men satisfied their hunger and thirst, she slid her palms over the psalter and fingered leaves embossed in silver. She longed to open the book of prayers and delve words with which she had become fairly familiar during her youth when she resided at the convent where she had expected to live out her days. As the false abbess of Lillefarne, more familiar she had become with the prayers, and often they had comforted.
Would they comfort now? Though tempted to close her curtains to take in the word of God lest Maël mock her piety, it would be too dim to read. An hour later, Ingvar wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down. Shortly, the chevalier did the
same.
She gave them time to succumb to sleep, then confirming Maël’s eyes were closed, returned to the door of her cell where her meal remained and the light shone brighter. Clutching close the blanket drawn around her, she lowered into the corner between the cells. After picking at the viands, she opened the psalter.
Finding the inside cover and first page blank—no inscription to reveal its patron nor owner—she turned the page. The left side was also blank but not the right.
As she moved her fingers to the psalter’s furthermost edges to ensure she did not sully precise, elaborate text and colorful illustrations, she concluded it was by thievery the psalter was among the Danish earl’s possessions, the words of the first psalm written in her language. Had this not been the property of the bishop Gytha scorned, it had to have been in the library of a great house of God or that of a high English noble. Lillefarne had several illustrated psalters, all hidden away from grasping Normans, but nothing like this.
Mercia lingered over the single enlarged letter that began the psalm’s first word. It was one-quarter the height and one-third the width of the page, its thick lines and curves inked in shades of blue. Filling its center was an illumination of a crowned and robed man seated on a bench and plucking a harp.
“Alfred,” she whispered, guessing the artist depicted the great man who had worn England’s crown two centuries past.
All around the psalm was a frame of vivid reds and glistening gold, and along the edges various animals, including a deer, rabbit, and boar, while in the bottom right corner of the page was a crowned lady holding a babe. But this was not Alfred’s queen, the little one having a halo around his head. Here was Mary, mother of Jesus.
The page was beyond beautiful, but that was not what tempted her to look upon the others. It was dread of the psalm inked on this page that felt written for her alone as it had since first she donned a habit.