by Tamara Leigh
“When I refused to desist in pursuing ladies, he said I wasted time with noblewomen since those of worth would never wed a landless chevalier. The insult to my mother was unintentional, but knowing how deeply it hurt one born noble but of so few prospects her sire accepted Hugh’s offer of marriage, I struck my father. I hardly felt the pain in my knuckles, and certain he would retaliate for the blood running in his teeth, I determined to make it as difficult as possible for him to beat me to the ground. But he laughed and declared here further proof anger was the cure to my many shortcomings—even my beauty. Then he tossed his purse at my feet and said rather than spend time on noblewomen, better coin spent on…”
Pausing lest he scandalize the wide-eyed Mercia, Maël realized once more boundaries were being crossed, but before he could back away, Ingvar returned. Something in his eyes evidencing he bore grave tidings, Maël gave a slight shake of the head, hopeful Mercia would not be long in finding her sleep this eve.
As the Dane moved toward his bench, she said, “Better coin spent on easily used and discarded commoners—joy women.”
“I was tempted,” Maël acceded, “but seeing the horror in my mother’s eyes and anger in my uncle’s, I kicked my sire’s purse back to him. I did not cease wooing ladies, but I did so with less enthusiasm, fully aware as long as I had only my sword arm to recommend me, I had no hope beyond flirtation, the touch of hands and feet beneath tables, and kisses when possible to slip into shadows unseen.” He glanced at Ingvar who gave a barely perceptible nod. “And now you know as much of me as I know of you, Mercia of the Godwines.”
He heard her swiftly drawn breath. “You should not name me that.”
“As evidenced by the coin sought for you, you are of that family. A lady.”
Staring at Maël, Mercia wondered if, given the chance, he would have pursued her with flirtation…the touch of hands and feet…kisses in the shadows…
In the next instant, she rebuked herself and said, “A lady only if the missive denied me is true.”
“Still you wish to see it?”
He made it sound as if he had the power to secure it. “I do, and yet for what? To believe what may be a lie? To reject what may be the truth? Better my mind spent on finding a way to escape your king ere he can lock me away or worse.” She sighed. “As you tell he does not execute those of noble blood, I can only hope he believes my grandmother’s missive.”
“I will not allow him to harm you.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Will you not, loyal Norman, captain of the king’s guard, one warrior amongst many?” As soon as the words were out, she knew once more she sounded the contentious, disapproving abbess. “Forgive me, Maël. I appreciate your attempt to allay my fears, but they are valid.”
“Then we should both embrace Psalm thirty-one.”
In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust, she silently recited as her heart strained toward a man who was not her enemy in this moment and perhaps none henceforth. But neither was he a friend. What had moved through her on the night past when he held her through the bars was something never before felt.
Is it love? she wondered, then silently beseeched, Lord, let it not be. Let me not feel much for something so unattainable.
“Aye, Psalm thirty-one,” she said, ashamed she needed reminding.
He rose. “We should find our rest.”
He thought her oblivious to Ingvar’s unease. Had she entirely cast off Mary Sarah, she might have been, but years of great responsibility had rendered her observant more for the sake of her charges than herself.
Rising, she scooped up the psalter and blankets, but rather than retreat to her hammock, said, “What tidings do you bear, Ingvar?”
He jerked his shoulders. “Naught of import, my lady.”
She forced a smile. “It is kind of you and Sir Maël to try to protect me, but it is a temporary measure.”
He shifted his gaze to the chevalier.
Following it, Mercia said, “Pray, Sir Maël, do not grant him leave to further the lie. Since whatever he knows involves me as much as you, it is mine to hear as well.”
He nodded slowly. “If you intend to share what you have learned, Ingvar, tell us both.”
The Dane leaned forward. “It comes to pass, Lady, you shall aid in replenishing silver wasted on quest to oust Le Bâtard—providing what Sweyn tell of you is true.”
“Then William was not sent Gytha’s missive?”
“Only told of it. Once verified it from your grandmother, coin will be paid for it, you, and captain of guard.”
“What if it is not believed Gytha wrote it?”
“Canute also ask, and Sweyn say he return you to old woman and she pay him for your keeping—more if he arrange good marriage with one of his nobles.”
Then the inability to verify Gytha inked the missive was her only hope of not falling into Le Bâtard’s hands, hope even were she wed to a Dane. And yet…
“When is the exchange to be made, Ingvar?” asked the one her thoughts had flown to as if he offered greater hope.
“At sun’s rising we sail south to estuary between Lincolnshire and Norfolk.”
“Not far from Wulfenshire,” Maël said. “It is the king who comes?”
“Nay, Le Bâtard’s brother.”
The blankets slipped from Mercia’s arms. Distantly hearing the thump of the psalter atop them, she looked past Maël who had turned to her. “Which of his brothers, Ingvar?” she rasped. “Bishop Odo?”
“That his name.”
Closing her eyes, she sent up a prayer for the winds to change, the rain to slash, the earth to move—anything to see Le Bâtard or his other brother make the trade—then looked to Maël.
He said naught, knowing the same as she the punishment for impersonating an abbess would be greater were she to stand before one of the Church—worst of all Odo who wore the robes of his holy office for personal gain and glory.
She retrieved the psalter and blankets and began making her bed in the hammock. Unless a storm delayed their departure from the Humber, ere this time on the morrow she would stand before a Saxon-hating bishop who professed the love of Jesus.
“Odo bad man?” Ingvar asked.
“Not a good one,” Maël said darkly. He might be confident his liege would do her no great harm, but he did not believe it of the bishop.
A quarter hour later, whether or not they thought she slept, the two spoke so low that only had she strained could she have pieced together some of their exchange, but of what benefit? Better she strain to work a way out of a mess that would become more dangerous when she traded one captivity for another. And was parted from Maël whom she—
Do not think there, she chastised, then reminded herself of Psalm thirty-one. Still, her insides stirred as if to make fire of embers—until fatigue offered the only relief to be had.
Chapter Twenty
The thump of feet awakened Maël. Narrowly opening his eyes, by dim lantern light he saw Mercia stood unmoving at the center of her cell, hands splayed to the sides as if listening to determine whether she had disturbed his or Ingvar’s sleep.
Just as when Maël had quietly conversed with the Dane after she retreated to her hammock, he felt her angst and was tempted to assure her she would not fall into Odo’s hands, but he could not guarantee that. Though he had sought to turn something of an ally into an ally, Ingvar had yet to give answer. However, as the stealthy, quick-fingered jailer had not outright rejected the proposal, there was more hope for Mercia than she thought. The morrow would tell.
She began pacing the confines, and he let her believe him at rest until she rasped, “Thirty-one.”
As he swung out of the hammock, she hastened to their shared wall. “Forgive me for awakening you. I sleep poorly, and more often not at all.” She reached to the curtain.
“Leave it, Mercia. Neither do I sleep well.”
She went very still, then said, “I am afeared,” and stepped nearer.
When his shadow ran down he
r and pooled around her feet, he nearly drew her to him. However, lest in holding her again he kiss her, as was possible with her facing him as she had not on the night past, he resisted.
“It is difficult,” she whispered.
“What is difficult?”
“Being powerless when first we met at Westminster, holding power when next we met at Lillefarne, losing power when Canute came for me, regaining power in escaping him, now again entirely powerless. Mayhap forever.” Her voice caught. “I wish an end to being tossed back and forth like a ball in the games of dangerous men and women. Though I do not want an extravagant life as Gytha thought to give me, I want a good life, and more than ever it seems impossible.”
Choosing his words carefully, he said, “I do not believe that. Bishop Odo is a hard man, but—”
“It is not just him, not just punishment for impersonating an abbess, nor the Godwine in my veins.”
“You fear retribution for aiding the resistance?”
“There is also that. Though I told I knew of only one occasion rebels hid in Lillefarne’s wall, you knew it for a lie. However, as your king has mostly put an end to the rebellion, that is of less concern than what Gytha’s missive could tell besides who sired me.”
Maël reached through the bars and cupped her jaw. “What else have you done?”
“I—”
The creak of a hammock turned them toward Ingvar as he dropped his feet to the floor. “As could be your last night together,” he said, “do you give word you not trick me, Sir Maël, I let lady in your cell and give you time alone.”
The offer jolted for what it implied, and Maël felt Mercia’s disquiet as well.
The Dane snorted. “I not think there. You chevalier, she lady. I but remove bars so you sit and speak comfortable. You want that?”
It was Mercia who answered. “I do.”
As do I, Maël thought, and therein the problem. His attraction for her was more than a stirring of the body. It was the wish to know better her heart and mind as he should not.
“I get keys, Sir Maël?”
He knew he ought to reject the offer, but he said, “Aye,” and moved to the back of his cell as further assurance he would work no trickery on Ingvar.
Shortly, Mercia was handed into Maël’s cell. “You call loud do you want return to your own, Lady,” the Dane said and locked them in. “I walk on deck but never far.”
As he withdrew, Maël thought how small and uncertain Mercia looked and almost wished back the imperious abbess who had peered down her nose at him.
“Will you come to me?” he said. “Or is it better I come to you? Better yet we keep this divide between us?”
She moistened her lips. “I wish to draw nearer.”
“Then come only as close as you trust me.”
She took a single step, hesitated.
“What is it, Mercia?”
“I question how, in so little time, not only has my enemy become an ally, but something more.”
As she had become something more to him.
She hesitated as if to give him time to confess the same, but when he did not, continued forward. “I trust you as far as this, Maël,” she said and halted before him.
Struggling against the longing—or was it need?—to feel the soft of her cheek, dip of her waist, curve of her hip, and small of her back, he gripped his fingers in his palms.
She set a hand on his chest. “I do not believe this could be our last night together. I believe it is. Thus, I refuse to regret not drawing near enough to feel your warmth one last time. Near enough to tempt you to kiss me as I do not think I will be kissed again.”
Had he a chance of winning the struggle to hold himself from her, it was lost when she leaned in and, toes touching his, tipped up her face. “Only a kiss, Maël.”
Loosing his fingers from his palms, he put one hand around the back of her neck, the other at her waist. “A kiss,” he rasped, “as much because you seek to tempt me as I need no tempting.”
She swallowed. “Tell me what to do.”
He drew her to him. “Only what feels right.”
“This feels right,” she said and melted against him.
Desire long packed away beginning to unfold and stretch, Maël pulled her onto her toes, angled his head, and touched his mouth to hers.
“This also feels right,” she whispered.
Though he knew he should end it there, he deepened the kiss, and breath by breath it became as intoxicating as wine and as sweet as honey. Many women he had known thus, but had he ever wanted one as much as he wanted Mercia? Was this great pull merely born of the empty years between Hastings and now? Or did he truly begin to feel what he should not for a woman who was a Saxon—more, would soon be gone from him?
As what was only to be a kiss had moved beyond and might move further, he drew his head back, and when she opened her eyes, said, “Forgive me,” and eased his hold.
She frowned. “For what, Maël? I asked this of you, and I do not regret it, just as I will not regret speaking what is in me.” She breathed deep. “Canute and a kiss I did not like is my only experience with men, but ere you kissed me, I knew hereafter I would wish to be with you as we are now. Is that love or merely loneliness?”
Though he ought to assure her it was loneliness, he wanted to name it love—and be capable of returning such depth of emotion. But he was undeserving of such.
“Now I fear you suffer regret,” she said. “That you are thinking—why did I not push her away?”
Uncomfortable beneath her searching eyes, he pressed her head beneath his chin and settled a hand atop the looped braids at the small of her back. “What I am thinking is best it not be love you feel for me, Mercia.”
She stiffened, surely having hoped he would ease her fear, but then as if with acceptance, she sighed long.
The boat was so still, Maël was less aware of their captivity than the silken strands beneath his fingers and the temptation to loosen their crossings—until words spoken above deck wended downward. The exchange was too muffled to understand, but he recognized Ingvar’s voice.
Lest their jailer return soon, Maël led Mercia to his pallet. “What other thing do you fear Gytha’s missive may reveal?” he asked after they lowered and set their backs against the bars.
Mercia kept her profile to the man she had dismayed with what sounded a profession of love. Though something that momentous was deserving of much consideration before being voiced, the words had been so thoughtless one might believe she merely commented on the weather. Now, just as she knew he cared for her, he knew how much more she cared for him. But if her feelings filled even a corner of his emptiness, it was worth baring herself.
She moistened her lips, turned her face to him. “You recall I told my grandmother took me from the convent ere I made my profession, that I served my family out of obligation?”
“I do.”
“It was not only obligation. The hope of learning more of my family made me do what I found distasteful. You are aware King Harold set aside his handfasted wife, the mother of his many children, to wed a noblewoman more acceptable as England’s queen?”
“Alditha.”
She nodded. “Gytha approved of the alliance, but as she had cause to distrust the lady and her family, she gave me in service to her daughter-in-law with instructions I report anything untoward.”
“You acted as her spy.”
“The same as I did upon Wulfenshire. Blessedly, there was naught of import to divulge, and even had there been, I do not know I could have, for much I liked the sorrowful Queen Alditha.” And sympathized with the woman who, more egregiously than what had been planned for Mercia, was made a tool of powerful men. First wed to the King of Wales, next the widow was wed to Gytha’s son, Harold, to whom had been sent her beloved’s head.
“Is it true she bore Harold a son?” Maël asked.
Remembering the queen’s belly ripening with a child sired by the man responsible for her first hu
sband’s death, once more Mercia questioned if the babe was a half brother or sister, then said, “Alditha was heavy with child when she received word Harold had died, and my service to her ended when her brothers spirited her out of London to keep her from William. Hence, thereafter all I know of her is rumor—that she birthed a son and both survived.”
Maël inclined his head.
“As your king wishes to know the location of Harold’s royal heir to extinguish that threat to his rule, if Gytha’s missive reveals I served Alditha…” Mercia swallowed. “I have heard terrible things are done men and women to force them to reveal secrets, and though I wish to believe I would not betray the queen, I fear it is possible I would—if I knew where she could be found. Thankfully, I do not. Thus, death could prove the only end to my torture.”
Maël set a hand over hers in her lap. “I shall do all in my power to keep William’s and Odo’s wrath from you.”
Thinking no matter his family’s reputation nor his value to Le Bâtard he would be unable to stop either man from abusing her, she nearly challenged him. But better she store up memories of their time together and make of it a place of refuge should she find herself amid utter darkness. “I thank you, Maël.”
He eased her hands apart and set one atop his thigh. “The end of secrets,” he murmured.
“My secrets,” she corrected. “But though I wish to know you better, methinks it best I do not lest it cause me to hurt more than already I shall when I see you no more.”
He was silent a long time, then said, “As I do not wish you to hurt, I will tell what I hold close so you not waste more emotion on an unworthy D’Argent.”