by Tamara Leigh
Maël waited.
“You reported two of the Saxons who set upon you fled,” the man said.
A tale that, had he believed it, he no longer did, Maël mused.
“I am certain those who shall overwhelm me when I rise to relieve myself of much wine are Saxons and, ere I lose consciousness, will speak the name of Mercia.” He nodded. “Certes, they took her and are bound for the coast to deliver her to her grandmother.”
For so sharp and conniving a wit, of great value he has been to King William, Maël thought. And now, the same as I, he risks all.
“Have I your word, D’Argent?”
To attest to his vow, Maël set a hand on his sword hilt. “You do.”
De Grandmesnil touched his dagger’s hilt. “As you have mine.” He stepped to the side, nodded for Maël and Mercia to advance, and added, “Methinks it will be less than an hour ere I am fit to raise the hue and cry. Were I you, I would make haste.”
Though Maël believed the nobleman more than he did not, he pulled Mercia against his side and, firmly holding his gaze to De Grandmesnil, drew her past.
“One other thing,” the king’s companion said as they neared the landing.
Maël paused. “Oui?”
“Share our bargain with your cousin, Baron Wulfrith.”
Once again, De Grandmesnil surprised. “My lord?”
“As I am much about the business of administering the lands King William awarded me, I have decided to send my son to Wulfen to complete his training. I do not ask he receive preferential treatment but that more be required of him than the others as he completes his journey to manhood.”
Since De Grandmesnil was among the most courageous of the conqueror’s men, it did not surprise he wished his son a worthier reflection of him.
“My William has the blood and desire to be a man of the sword,” he continued, “but also the heart of his mother that sometimes causes him to hesitate when he ought to swing as if to part a man’s head from his shoulders.”
Maël’s sire had said the same of his own son and gone to great lengths to correct his wife’s influence. Mostly he had, rousing Maël to anger with taunts that could turn cruel if more was demanded of him than he thought he could give.
De Grandmesnil stepped nearer. “Tell the baron to attend to that weakness.”
That Guarin would do, though he would not resort to cruelty. “I shall, my lord.” At the man’s nod, Maël turned Mercia toward the stairs. “You can walk?” he asked.
“I can.”
“Then follow me, stepping where I step, avoiding the places I avoid.”
She did so, and soon they moved through the hall.
Maël looked to the dais, and immediately a figure crouched between the high table and curtained solar straightened.
Ingvar had much explaining to do, but as now was not the time, no word passed between them inside Stern’s walls. Indeed, none at all until well past the time De Grandmesnil was to raise the alarm.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It having proved impossible for Maël to secure a second horse for Ingvar without drawing notice, his stepfather had arranged for the palfrey he rode to a nearby village late on the day past to be tethered in the bordering wood.
Hoping Fulbert was not forced to speak false to explain his return on foot and grateful only once between Stern and Wulfen was it necessary to rest and water the horses, Maël glanced behind at where he had settled Mercia on a rock. Pleased the newborn sun showed color in her face, he had left her there with drink and viands so he could confront Ingvar over abandoning his watch over the hall.
As he neared the man who hunkered before the stream, forearms propped on spread thighs, teeth wrenching at dried meat, Ingvar looked around. “Sir Maël, you must see what I took from Stern!” He stood and turned to his mount.
A bishop’s ring? Maël wondered as the Dane rooted through his pack. The intricately embroidered belt Odo wore to further set him apart as a holy man? Whatever it was, Ingvar had left Maël and Mercia vulnerable in order to obtain it. Thus, it was not possible for him to serve at Wulfen and best they part ways now.
Ingvar swung around. “For Lady Mercia.”
Maël stared at the folded parchment, then looked into sparkling eyes above a broad grin.
Though pleased Gytha’s missive had been recovered so Mercia could herself read the tale, it did not absolve Ingvar of endangering them.
“For that you abandoned your watch?” Maël demanded.
The man’s joy wavered, but without hesitation he said, “When I hear devil stir, I look behind curtain and see him sit up in bed. I stay shadows, steal behind, and hit back of head—not hard since not wish to kill. Then I bind so he not alert others if soon awaken.” Ingvar shook the missive. “This on table by bed, and only this I take. Since made to look Gytha’s men stole Lady Mercia, its loss believable.”
So great was Maël’s relief that Ingvar had not betrayed his trust, he stepped forward and put an arm around the wiry Dane. “I thank you, Friend.”
Awkwardly, Ingvar patted his shoulder, then he stepped back and held out the missive.
Maël took it, but as he started to turn toward Mercia, the Dane groaned.
“Ingvar?”
The man puffed his cheeks, blew out breath, and reached into his purse. “I lie a little.” He held up a ring with a wide gold band, perched atop it a many-faceted gem of deep red. A bishop’s ring. “Only fool or Norman of great honor not take it,” he said. “So see, must be hated Saxons who further humiliate William’s brother.”
Sound reasoning, even if self-serving, Maël acceded. “It cannot be found upon you, Ingvar, and best not sold in England lest Odo’s men come pounding at Wulfen’s gate should my cousin take you into his service.”
“This I know.” The Dane considered the ring from every angle, heaved a sigh, and tossed it in the stream. At Maël’s look of surprise, he grinned. “It safe there.”
“Indeed,” Maël said, then strode to where Mercia had settled back on the rock over which he had draped his mantle.
Face turned to the sun, eyes closed, it appeared she slept, but as he neared, she rolled her head to the side and smiled though it would be many days before she did so without discomfort.
Reminded of that to which Odo had subjected her, Maël’s own smile was not only for her but the ring at the bottom of the stream. By now, it was greatly missed, men sent to retrieve not only Mercia but the pride worn upon the bishop’s hand. Thus, soon the journey to Wulfen must be resumed. Were it believed Saxons stole into Stern, all the more likely supported by De Grandmesnil’s encounter with one, contingents would be sent toward the fens and possibly York to try to overtake Mercia’s rescuers. But there was the possibility that just as De Grandmesnil had peered behind Maël’s mask, Odo would peer behind that of William’s companion whose beloved son could not hide his distress over a bride he did not want.
Hugh De Grandmesnil would not veer from his tale lest he fall out of William’s favor as he had for a time while his liege was but a duke, but suspicion that landed upon him could merge with suspicion over Maël’s feelings for the former Abbess of Lillefarne. Hence, a contingent might also be sent to Wulfen.
“Ere long we must ride,” Maël said as he lowered beside Mercia whose thick braid stretched beside her. “But first look upon this.”
As her eyes had been all for him, she gasped, sat up, and glanced at Ingvar.
“He retrieved it from the solar when it proved necessary to subdue Odo,” Maël said.
“He did not betray your trust, then.”
“He did not.” Maël reached the missive to her. “Here that which I had him steal from Canute, believing its absence would cause Odo to refuse to buy your wardship. Unbeknownst to me, Ingvar hid it in the psalter to get it off the ship.”
Her eyes widened. “Then I had the missive on me ere I asked your mother to give the psalter into your keeping.”
“You did. When my attempt to keep you out o
f the bishop’s hands failed, causing you to be regarded only as a means of learning about Alditha, I delivered it to Odo with a tale of taking it off one of Gytha’s men who attacked me when I set out to resume my mission for William. Though I could not know how your grandmother’s words would be received, I hoped they would sow enough belief Odo would see your value more as a tool for controlling your people than locating a long-gone queen, thereby ending the questioning and easing the watch set over you.”
Smile small, she said, “And so it did. For that I am here with you now.” She glanced at the missive which he had expected her to eagerly accept. “You have read it, Maël?”
“I have. And now it is for you to know its contents.”
Mercia considered that whose inked words she had longed to hear. They would never be spoken to her now, but there they were, dark lines and curves slightly visible through the parchment’s backside. She had only to take it, and she would know who she was—whether the daughter of a king and the half sister of a prince, or the niece of a king and cousin to a prince. Then…
What? she asked herself. Of what import now? Of what import ever?
“Ingvar’s gift to you,” Maël prompted, and added wryly, “His gift to himself, a bishop’s ring.”
Remembering how proudly Odo had worn that which flashed red during his questioning, she said, “Methinks the ring will be missed more than I.”
“Very possible. For that, Ingvar cast it in the stream.”
Relieved, she returned her regard to the missive. So great was the temptation to know what Gytha had written, she reached, but hardly had her fingers brushed the parchment than she dropped her hand to her lap. “Long I have rued not knowing who I am, believing it more important I learn the name of my earthly father than honor that of my Heavenly Father. It made me clay in Gytha’s hands, and that made me a deceiver in a House of God. Now…” She looked up. “You love me, Maël? Truly?”
“I do.”
“We shall make a life together?”
“We shall, though it will be beyond these shores.”
As was necessary. Blessedly, leaving her country with Maël made her ache far less than had Canute delivered her to Denmark. “Then I do not need Gytha’s words to know who I am.”
His brow lined, but then understanding lit his eyes.
“Not only am I the Lord’s beloved, I am yours, Maël. That is far better than Gytha’s words, even if they are true—and more than I deserve.”
He leaned in and touched his mouth to hers. “As I am your beloved, Mercia.”
“I not like interrupt love,” Ingvar called, “but we ought ride.”
Maël raised her beside him, fastened his mantle around her shoulders, and led her to their mount. Before assisting her astride, he removed the psalter from his pack and tucked the missive inside. “Lest you think different, it is here.”
“I will not think different. It is the present I shall live in, not the past.”
He nodded but closed the missive inside the psalter and returned it to the pack.
She nearly asked him to destroy it, but she would prove stronger than any temptation to read it. With Maël at her side, how could she not?
As he turned their horse toward Wulfen, Mercia tried not to worry over how she would be received by Lady Hawisa whose suspicions about the Abbess of Lillefarne were confirmed, though likely not in any way she had guessed.
Regardless of the Lady of Wulfen’s feelings for the deception worked on all, Mercia was determined she would not further offend. Her tale would be told and forgiveness sought—providing the lady was able to receive her. God willing, she had birthed a healthy babe so she and her husband would not bear greater burdens than those of the missing Theriot and Nicola.
Mercia looked around. “What of recovering your cousins?”
“That needs discussing with Guarin. I will give aid, but first I must deliver you to safety.”
“Where?”
“I will take you to my uncle, Godfroi.”
“But his demesne is in Normandy and Le Bâtard his liege.”
“Thus, we must be discreet and wise in all things, especially in pledging our lives to each other, which we will do as soon as we reach France. Until I am no longer needed in England, you will remain under my uncle’s protection.”
Mercia’s heart hurt in a most splendid way. Of course they would wed, but to hear him speak it as if never was there a question they would be husband and wife was further proof she did not need Gytha’s missive to tell her who she was. The same as Cyr’s Aelfled, Guarin’s Hawisa, and Dougray’s Em, she was to be the wife of a D’Argent.
That last reminding her of a conversation with Nicola, she laughed, and when Maël frowned, said, “The need for discretion is not what amuses me, rather something Nicola said when she learned I was not of the Church.”
His mouth curved. “I am halfway to understanding.”
“She suggested I save you, healing you the same as Em healed Dougray. And he healed her.”
Maël chuckled. “Of course she did. The reckless one, Guarin names her, and rightly so. But when she stills, whether out of curiosity, fatigue, or being given no choice, she delves what others barely glimpse. One would not think her observant, but she is, often seeing things that can be and should be.”
“Only the good, then.”
“So it seems. However, though long she has been shielded by her family, her life free of hardships, I fear much may have changed these weeks.”
Whereas minutes earlier Mercia had savored happiness, now came regret and fear. “Because of me.”
Maël shook his head. “Believing herself invincible, she went the way of the reckless. Had she not done so at Lillefarne, she would have elsewhere, and likely Vitalis would not have been there to keep watch over her.”
“You think he does?” she asked as Ingvar drew his horse alongside.
“So it was told Guarin,” he said, then nodded at the Dane. “Now we ride hard.”
Ere Wulfen Castle was in sight, three riders came at them from out of the wood. After assuring Mercia the men were neither Danish nor of the bishop—indeed, not even men—Maël identified himself and his companions to the knights-in-training who quickly escorted them to the donjon.
Guarin greeted his visitors in the hall, and long he considered Mercia, then he gave his cousin a knowing look and ordered two squires to settle Ingvar at the hearth with food and drink. Once the Dane was distant, Guarin informed Maël and Mercia his wife remained abed following a difficult birthing.
There being an air of joy and pride about him rather than sorrow, indicating both mother and babe fared well, Maël congratulated him on the birth of their child and was about to ask after its sex when his cousin bid them wait.
Likely a son, Maël thought as Guarin went behind the solar’s curtains. The first of the line of Wulfrith-D’Argents.
“He is happy,” Mercia said.
As Maël intended to be with her. “He wed better than first I believed,” he said, “as did Cyr and Dougray.”
She set a hand over his on her arm. “I was thinking the same of Aelfled, Hawisa, and Em.” When he smiled and drew her against his side, she asked, “All is well with you and your mother?”
Realizing there could have been no opportunity for Chanson to reveal to Mercia what had transpired between mother and son at Stern, he said, “I told her what happened the night ere the great battle—of my sire’s wrongs and my own. She said it was not the first time Hugh strayed from their marriage vows. Thus, she was not surprised and surely far less hurt than she would have been had she not wed Fulbert.”
“And your own wrongs?”
“Forgiven.” He nodded. “It is well between us.”
“I am glad, Maël.”
He meant to tell her what else was discussed that night at Stern that led to Chanson’s proposal which, though it decreased the risk of endangering both Mercia and him, would cause him to lose much, but Guarin reappeared and invited both t
o Lady Hawisa’s bedside.
“You have naught to fear,” Maël assured Mercia. “You may have misled the lady, but methinks your fellow Saxon will make allowances for your loyalty to Gytha.”
“I pray so.”
When they passed through the part in the curtains, Guarin and Hawisa’s adopted son turned from the bed, in his arms a babe whose tiny head was fit with one of two caps Nicola had fashioned—this one’s band embroidered with a flower.
Then the baron and his lady’s first child was destined not for the training field but the administration of a household and gifting of children—that is, were the girl born of one other than Lady Hawisa, Maël amended. The training Nicola had received at Wulfen would pale compared to what this wee one would grow into.
“Come, Sir Maël,” the lady called from behind Eberhard. “Meet our Abelard and Wynflaed.”
Had he any doubt he heard right, Mercia swept it away with, “Dear Lord, the blessing of twins.”
Maël’s sire and uncle having been twins, he was pleased she was not of the belief a shared womb indicated the mother had relations with two men—all the more believable were the children not identical in gender and looks—and further pleased at the realization Nicola had anticipated twins. Then there was the irony of it.
Three years past, Hawisa had presented Eberhard, a slave bought at auction, as the twin of her departed son, and with good cause. In the absence of a half-Norman heir, England’s new king would have tried to wed her to one of his noblemen as payment for aid in taking the crown. Now wed to Guarin, she had birthed twins in truth.
Maël halted and looked upon Eberhard’s sister. Though tiny, there was good color in her round face and alertness in eyes that appeared to stare into his. Would the blue-grey become the green of the D’Argents? What of the strands of black peeking from beneath the cap? A dozen years from now, might silver begin to streak Wynflaed’s tresses?