by Tamara Leigh
“She is beautiful,” he said, then realizing Mercia had fallen behind, drew her forward. “Is she not, my love?”
Though the endearment was felt, voiced in the presence of others it sounded stilted. But then, there was naught spontaneous about it. Despite assuring Mercia all would be well, here his declaration—even warning if need be—this woman was under his protection. If Hawisa doubted Mercia was precious to one thought to have lost all heart, it mattered not. What mattered was it be known he would defend her.
“Beautiful, indeed,” Mercia agreed and stepped around Eberhard. “You and your husband are to be congratulated, Lady Hawisa.”
Following, Maël glimpsed surprise on the Lady of Wulfen’s face as she looked upon Mercia whose gown beneath the mantle was visibly shabby. However, the long braid draping her shoulder, its bound end falling below her knees, was surely of greatest note.
“Forgive me for staring,” Hawisa said where she leaned against stacked pillows, upon her chest the babe who wore a cap embellished with a stitched dagger. The bit of hair visible beneath it was dark the same as his sister’s, but compared to Wynflaed, Abelard was far from tiny. The sleeping infant, bound to grow into a formidable warrior, had to have been the cause of his mother’s long, difficult labor.
Hawisa reached to Guarin on her opposite side, and as he enfolded her hand in his, said, “It is just that you look much changed from the Abbess of Lillefarne.”
“Because no longer am I that and never should I have been,” Mercia said. “Thus, I beseech you—”
“Be assured, I require no explanation,” Hawisa said. “As I found deception necessary in the England of William Le Bâtard, I understand why you did what you did, and all the more for the struggle against becoming your grandmother’s pawn. Hence, there are only two things I would ask of you.”
“I shall answer as best I can, my lady.”
“Are your feelings for my husband’s cousin—a Norman—true?”
Mercia raised her chin. “More true than any feeling I have known.”
“You speak of love?”
After a thoughtful pause, Mercia said, “If love is deepest sorrow at the mere thought of being parted from this man, it must be. And you?”
Hawisa’s eyebrows jumped, then she laughed softly. “You express well the heart’s fear, Lady Mercia. Aye, I know it too.”
Mercia’s tension easing, she said, “What else would you know, my lady?”
“Where the abbey’s wealth can be found. Sister—rather, Abbess—Rixende told you hid it when you learned William ordered the plundering of our churches to pay for his army.”
“I did. Though I did not consult you when you paid for the wall to be erected around the abbey, I ordered a cavity built into the lower half where the inner passage ends just beyond the door to the garden. The stones there appear immovable, but they are less than half the depth of the others.”
As realization struck Maël, she looked up. “The rats,” she also recalled his inspection of that passage. “They know that hiding place well.” She returned her regard to Hawisa. “When it is deemed safe to bring out the treasures gifted by your family and others, whether for display or to sell to give aid to our people, all can be found there except two silver sconces sold to replenish food supplies when Lillefarne was first overwhelmed by the great numbers fleeing the North.”
“I thank you for protecting the treasures,” Hawisa said, then gingerly shifted against the pillows, doubtless not only to avoid disturbing her sleeping babe but to ease whatever discomfort she suffered from giving birth. Once settled, she said, “Would you like to hold our Wynflaed, Mercia of the Godwines?”
Hearing her breath catch, Maël said, “As I have much to discuss with my cousin ere we depart England, if it is well with Lady Hawisa, I will leave you with her.”
“I would be glad of her company,” Hawisa said. “Eberhard, pass your sister to the lady and draw near a chair for her.”
The young man slid the babe into the arms of one visibly uncertain one moment, in the next all wonder as she peered at Wynflaed.
Lord, grant us this, Maël silently prayed as he stared at the woman with whom he would spend his life. Let us not only be husband and wife but father and mother—a family so no matter where we make our lives, we have others with whom to grow our love.
As he started to follow Guarin and Eberhard from the solar, his gaze was drawn to the Lady of Wulfen, and he found her eyes awaited his. And knew the reason, it having perched on the edge of his thoughts since first he looked upon her daughter. As his sire was more responsible for the death of her first child upon the battlefield of Hastings than that young man was responsible for Hugh’s death, words yet needed speaking.
“As my sire cannot beg your forgiveness for what he stole from you, Lady Hawisa, know how great his son’s regret and sorrow that it cannot be returned.”
Her throat convulsed and eyes brightened as if a thousand stars fell from the heavens to cool their fire in her tears. As she struggled for a response, Maël felt Mercia’s gaze, but he did not look away.
Giving a nod too slight to tip a tear onto her cheek, Hawisa said, “Never shall I forget my beloved Wulf who took much of my heart with him. Blessedly, the Lord returned a goodly portion by giving me another son and husband.” She glanced at Eberhard and Guarin. “Well they tend this pieced-together heart, and now the Lord further strengthens it by entrusting to me another son and a daughter.” She nodded again, this time spilling a tear. “Though I thank you for speaking where your sire cannot, know I but wish relations better between us, neither holding the other accountable for what a father did to a son and a son to a father.”
Until now, Maël had not realized how great the need to make things right with one long regarded as an adversary, in the beginning because she was a Norman-hating Saxon, then for her son having aided in slaying Hugh, lastly for bewitchment of his cousin.
“What say you, Maël?”
“I say what was wrong has been set aright, my lady. My only regret is the necessity of leaving England means there shall be few, if any, occasions to know each other better.”
“My regret as well,” she said, then frowned. “Do you recall what you asked of me at Darfield ere I wed Guarin?”
He did. What is it about the women of England that so ensnares? he had demanded, desperate to understand how both Cyr and Guarin had been captured by Saxon women. Her answer further frustrating him, he had said she and those of her ilk could prove the downfall of the D’Argents. Rather than be offended, she had suggested otherwise—that Saxon women would be their salvation.
“I recall, and though I did not believe it then, I do now,” he said. “Salvation, my lady. Much-needed salvation.”
She inclined her head. “Until we dine here this eve, I will keep your lady occupied with my new loves and share that tale with her.”
Maël looked to Mercia, savored her smile, then the men left the women to their talk so the cousins could speak of a place being made at Wulfen for the quick-fingered Ingvar—but more, of the painful past, the uncertain present, and the hopeful future.
Chapter Thirty
Castle D’Argent, France
Summer, 1070
Guarin would not forgive him and believed neither would Dougray, Cyr, nor Theriot. Not because they were incapable of extending grace, because grace was not needed, Maël’s cousin decreed.
Albeit a poor decision, it was made under such painful circumstances that any of those trained by Hugh might have done the same, he had excused Maël’s attempt to drown the fire of disillusionment and anger in drink, the failure of which caused him to distance himself from his family during the battle.
His understanding had lightened Maël, but greater peace was sought five days later upon his arrival at Castle D’Argent where he was greeted by his uncle and aunt, Cyr and Aelfled, as well as Dougray and Em whose return to England had been postponed. A good thing, Maël had thought until he learned the reason.
&nb
sp; Three months pregnant, Aelfled had lost what would have been a brother or sister to the son made with Cyr. Thus, Dougray and Em had remained so the latter could tend and comfort her sister-in-law.
It hardly seemed the time to deliver tidings that not only was Godfroi and Robine’s youngest son still missing, but now their daughter. However, it had to be told alongside an explanation of the hooded one who accompanied Maël. He had drawn Mercia forward, and his cousins and their wives stared when she revealed the familiar face beneath her hood. Further they were astonished by revelation of her true identity, and more so when Maël announced they were wed.
Though Cyr and Dougray had asked for an accounting of that in its entirety, the watchful Godfroi had wanted more—to venture further back than Maël and Mercia’s first encounter so he might understand why his nephew had not fought alongside his family. Thus, sooner than anticipated, once more forgiveness was sought.
Now as Maël stood outside the chamber in which Mercia and he would consummate their marriage, he traced the scar’s path from off center of his forehead down to his right brow bone which the blade had jumped before resuming its course at the outer corner of his eye and ending it at his ear.
The flesh had ceased healing, leaving behind a discolored ridge to remind him of that for which he thought never to be forgiven. Yet he was forgiven, even by his cousin who might not have lost an arm had Maël been at his side. Before Dougray’s own healing that had begun with Em, likely the most bitter of the D’Argents would have blamed his cousin for his injury. Instead, after less struggle than expected, much grace.
“Praise, Lord,” Maël rasped, then moved his thoughts to the woman on the other side of the door being prepared for the wedding night it had seemed best to delay under the circumstances.
Though the journey from Wulfen to the nearest port, followed by the channel crossing, had been without incident, Maël had wasted no time lest it was discovered he had not returned to his hunt for Vitalis and it was not Gytha’s men who delivered Mercia out of Odo’s grasp.
After arriving in Calais, they had met with Chanson’s youngest brother who held lands in Flanders. Maël had not seen his uncle in a dozen years, but he whose prosperity was of his own making had aided in discreetly obtaining a legal alias for his nephew that was passed to Mercia through marriage. Thus, it was not Mercia of the House of Godwine who entered Castle D’Argent, but Mercia de Chanson—just as Maël’s mother had proposed that night.
Since first, in between, and in the end, Maël was of the family D’Argent, before he could be known by the surname that afforded Mercia protection, he must aid in recovering Nicola and Theriot. Afterward, husband and wife of the family De Chanson would begin their lives in earnest far from William’s reach. And therein the loss that was more regrettable than any slap to Maël’s pride. Once he forsook the name of D’Argent, it would be dangerous to return to England or Normandy. Were he to see any of that family again, including his mother, likely they would have to come to him and Mercia.
Hearing a door open, he straightened from the wall as his aunt, Aelfled, and Em exited the nuptial chamber opposite. Feeling a youth for how great the longing to push past them, he said, “My lady wife?”
They halted, and he was glad Aelfled’s smile was more genuine than earlier. He had known her reserve had much to do with the miscarriage, but also he was responsible since he had been unsympathetic when first they met, so much he had endangered her life. With good reason, he had believed. And been wrong.
“Your wife, Mary Sarah—” Aelfled snapped her teeth, shook her head. “Forgive me. Too long I knew her by that name.”
He smiled. “I am certain you will become better acquainted with her birth name whilst I am gone from her side.”
“A strange reacquaintance it shall be, so heedful was I of the stern Abbess Mary Sarah, but methinks we will be friends.”
“I am glad. And…” He glanced at her hands clasped at her waist. “…I am sorry for your loss.”
Her smile was tremulous. “Greatly, we have been blessed with one child. We ache for the one we shall never hold, but we hold closer and more precious what we do have than what we do not. That is my prayer for you and Lady Mercia.”
Knowing she spoke of when it came time for him to take the name De Chanson, he said, “I thank you, Aelfled.”
She inclined her head.
When his aunt set a hand on his arm, he peered into her beautifully-lined face. Though she was deeply concerned over the fate of Theriot and Nicola, as her faith was a good match for her husband’s, there was no strain about her joy over this occasion.
“Your wife is ready to receive you, dearest Maël. Is she not, Em?”
Dougray’s wife, whom Maël first encountered when she was a slave, said, “More ready she would be had she permitted us to loose her braids, but she insists it is for her husband to do.”
Though Maël’s beating heart urged him to hasten inside, he paused over the sparkle in Em’s eyes. Of all the survivors broken by the conquest, she more than most should have been unable to recover. And yet she seemed at peace when her beautifully mismatched eyes were not upon Dougray, happy when they were.
Greatly the D’Argents were favored, and Maël did not doubt it had much to do with the faith Godfroi passed to all who had sat at his feet as children and respectfully bent the knee to him as men. More than the injury that deprived him of the use of his legs, it had set him apart from his brother, Hugh. And drawn his nephew to him when spaces a father ought to fill needed filling.
“It is your time to begin anew,” Robine said. “Go to her, Maël.”
He started to step past, paused. “My wife shall require no tending come morn.”
The women exchanged looks, nodded, and when their footsteps faded on the stairs, he pushed open the door. And stilled at the sight to the left of a postered bed hung with sheer white curtains.
Mercia stood with her back to the brazier, its glow lighting the weave of her chemise to reveal her every curve. And of further distraction were the braids draping her shoulders she wished him to loose. And so he would, fashioning from them a mantle to warm them both.
He stepped inside, closed the door, and halted near enough her to breathe in the scent of lavender. “I am told Lady Mercia de Chanson wishes her husband to undo her braids.”
She peered up at him through her lashes. “I do not believe I am wrong in stating long Sir Maël de Chanson has wished to do so. But first…” Her smile parted lips that no longer thirsted, inviting more than the brush of his mouth. “…the kiss.”
He drew her to her toes and closed his mouth over hers.
She sighed, slid her hands over his chest and around his neck, and pushed her fingers up into his hair as if to prevent him from ending the kiss. But there had to be an end to it, though only this one.
The barriers between them needed shedding, and so they were—not frantically but with lingering caresses as, layer by layer, their clothes fell to the floor until all that remained were her braids. Only two, and simply crossed unlike when first he saw beneath her veil. Vanity or not, he was glad of what appeared thick, silken ribbons upon the loveliest of packages.
Turning Mercia to the side to cast the brazier’s light between their bodies, he stepped back.
Breath quick and shallow, she lifted her lids.
They stared into each other, and it was her eyes that first strayed as his longed to do.
“All of you is beautiful,” she whispered, then said in a rush, “Am I truly here with you? If I am not, tell me I am, and I will not drift back to the abbey…the ship…Stern Castle. I will remain here with you.”
“You are with me, Mercia.”
She smiled, and he loved that turn of her lips as much for its appearance upon her face as the feel of it beneath his mouth. “Then pray, Husband, loosen my braids.”
He lifted one from her shoulder, and as he considered its length, let his own eyes stray over a body shaped by the hands of God. Then he be
gan undoing the crossings. At last, the dark shining mantle he had imagined would warm them both caped her shoulders nearly to the floor.
“All of you is beautiful, my love,” he marveled in her language, then added, “My salvation.”
“Maël.” Her voice cracked, not from lack of drink but longing.
“Mercia,” he answered and swept her into his arms, shouldered aside the bed curtains, and lowered her to the mattress.
There, without hesitation, his wife drew him down to her. And covered herself in his shadow.
“Once I thought you loveliest in sleep,” Maël said when he opened his eyes to find Mercia watching him by dawn’s light come through the window unshuttered hours past when the room became heated.
Propped on an elbow, head in hand, she raised her eyebrows. “When was that?”
“Whilst there were yet bars between us.” He slid the backs of his fingers across her brow and down her cheek. “In sleep, the cares worn upon your face eased. Though there is no sleep about you now, you are even lovelier.”
Her mouth bowed.
“And lovelier yet,” he rumbled, moving his fingers to the curve between neck and shoulder where earlier he had pressed kisses, the remembrance of which made her shiver.
“I do not think you are cold,” he said.
“I know I am not. But, alas, as the women will come to inspect the sheets soon, we must needs be less thorough than on the night past.”
He chuckled. “My wife is beautifully brazen. Certes, it is good she was a false abbess.”
Reminded of her deception, she tensed.
His smile eased. “Do not be ashamed of what you were made to do to survive, Mercia. Just as I am forgiven, so are you. As my uncle told, though we ought not live in the past, neither should we lock it away out of sight and out of heart. Far better we allow the dark behind to draw sharp contrast against that to which we aspire.”