Defiant Love

by Maura Seger

  "No, she isn't ill," Guyon assured her hastily. "At least not that I know of. But with all that's going on, Harold may have thought it better for her to stay at home."

  Sure that her husband was simply mistaken, Brenna laughed softly. "If the Earl did think so," she teased, "I doubt he had any more success than you. My sister and I may not look alike, but we share the same temperament. Edythe will be at court."

  The grin Guyon flashed her reassured Brenna that he was at least beginning to forgive her transgression. Secure in that knowledge, she was at last able to sleep. Morning found her greatly refreshed and anxious to be back on the road.

  Her eagerness was not matched by Guyon or his men, all of whom grew increasingly wary as they entered the capital and approached the royal keep. Their progress was watched by a subdued citizenry lacking the usual boisterousness Brenna associated with London. Winter had stripped away more than warm breezes and lush foliage. The Thames was awash with gray and the faces of the guards who admitted them to Thorney were no more welcoming.

  Even Edythe, who just as Brenna predicted had not remained at Winchester, appeared strained. Her astonishment at seeing her sister was so great that for some time she could say little. Only when Guyon went off to pay his respects to the King did Edythe at last draw the younger girl aside.

  "What are you doing here?" she demanded urgently. "How could Guyon have been so foolish as to bring you?"

  "He didn't exactly bring me," Brenna explained. Puzzling over the shadows beneath her sister's eyes and the nervousness so alien to her nature, she gave a deliberately light-hearted account of her journey. Rewarded by a reluctant smile, Brenna concluded, "So apparently the Duke wants Guyon to help smooth relations with the new sovereign. Once the Earl is crowned..."

  "Did Guyon tell you this?" Edythe interrupted. She dropped her examination of Brenna's travel-stained cloak to stare at her intently.

  "Not exactly," the younger girl admitted. "At first he was so angry at finding me on the boat that he would hardly say anything at all. Since then we've talked a little, but not much. Guyon seems to have some strange idea that..." She broke off momentarily, frowning. "You see, he was badly hurt a few months ago. Some men attacked him on a road near the Normandy coast. He... he almost d-died. If he had, I think I would have too. Oh, Edythe, it was so terrible!" Her voice broke, tears of remembered horror glistening in her gray-green eyes.

  Edythe hesitated only a moment before dropping the cloak and embracing her sister. She held her gently, letting Brenna cry herself out. When at last the storm of emotion—made all the more intense by the last few difficult days—had passed, Brenna managed a watery smile.

  "Only the healing skills you taught me saved him, Edythe," she said gratefully.

  "I am glad," her sister murmured sincerely. She dreaded the thought of Guyon's death, although she accepted it as a price that might have to be paid. There would be other costs to Harold's kingship, striking her even more personally, that she could not bear to think about. Gently, she said, "You must be exhausted. Why don't you have something to eat and then rest for a bit?" When Brenna hesitated, Edythe added, "Nothing will happen for quite a while yet."

  That certainly proved to be true, Brenna reflected ruefully several weeks later as she stared out a window of the women's solar at the newly fallen snow. At what should have been the most joyful time of the year, Thorney lay as hushed and still as the aged man gasping out his last breaths in the royal bedchamber. Defying all predictions of his physicians, priests, and eager lords, Edward still lingered. He was not having an easy death. For a man who had lived so reluctantly in the world of the flesh, his spirit was oddly hesitant about departing.

  Brenna shivered as she considered the scene in the room above her head. Edward lay on his hard bed of boards and sacking, his white beard combed over his shallow chest and his thin hands folded in an attitude of prayer. His wife knelt almost constantly at his side. The Queen could only be coaxed away for the briefest periods to eat and sleep. She was not the only member of the court keeping vigil. Earl Harold was rarely absent from the royal chamber. When he did have to be away, one or more of his trusted brothers took his place. They did not speak to or in any way acknowledge Guyon, who also rarely left Edward's presence. Several Norman knights always attended him, as others kept careful watch over Brenna.

  The constant scrutiny of her husband's men prompted her to complain. But on that point Guyon was adamant. "I will not leave you unprotected," he insisted, "and do not let me bear of you attempting to evade your guard. They are there only to protect you."

  Brenna did not ask from what she might need protection. With all the rumors and tensions swirling around Thorney, Guyon could have cited a dozen dangers. Chief among them was the barely credible but nonetheless repeated assertion that King Edward meant to name his own successor in contradiction of ancient law and the power of the Witan. Worse yet, there were even some who whispered that successor would not be the Earl Harold, surely the only man capable of uniting the country and preserving the peace.

  Considering the foolishness of such a gesture, Brenna shook her head. Edward had always been capable of childish stubbornness, but surely not even he would show such utter disregard for the well-being of his people. Not that it would do him any good if he tried. Harold would waste no time rallying the other lords to his cause. With Edward's approval or without it, he would be the next king. Brenna could only hope his succession would go smoothly. Should he encounter difficulty, the Earl might well be forced into a move that would shatter all her sister's happiness.

  Gazing fondly at Edythe, Brenna fought down her fear that they would soon be separated. She and her sister had grown even closer over the last few weeks. Despite the profound differences between the men they loved, their affection for one another was stronger than ever. In a court shorn of even a hint of gaiety, Edythe and Brenna spent almost every waking hour together. They sewed, chatted, and sometimes just sat silently drawing strength from each other. At first their conversation had been stilted, because there was so much they couldn't say without betraying the trust of their lords. But after the first few days their unease wore off and they found many subjects to pass the time.

  The only break in the wearisome routine came some three days after Christmas when the just-completed Westminster Abbey was consecrated. How sad, Brenna thought, that after all the years of waiting and planning, Edward could not see the fruition of his dream. Even as the prayers were chanted and the incense burned, the King lay paralyzed and barely conscious. He showed no sign of understanding when the Queen, returning from the ceremonies, recounted them to him. Nor did he speak again after making his final confession on the last day of the year.

  "They say his voice is gone," Edythe murmured suddenly, looking up from her needlework. "Pray God it is true."

  "Pray God he is taken soon," Brenna amended, still thinking of the shrunken, tormented shell Edward had become.

  Two days later her prayer was answered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "My lord," a low voice called from just beyond the sleeping chamber's door, "it is time."

  Guyon was instantly awake. He sat up, automatically reaching for the longsword set beside the bed before remembering his own man waited just outside. Dressing hurriedly, he was fully clothed and ready to go before he realized Brenna was also awake.

  "It's the King, isn't it?" she murmured, huddled under the mass of down-filled covers that failed to warm her.

  Guyon nodded. "Go back to sleep. I will send word when there is any news."

  His tone was gruff, but Brenna took no umbrage at it. She knew he was exhausted and deeply worried. Gritting her teeth against the icy air waiting just beyond the bed, she rose determinedly. "I would come with you."

  Guyon hesitated. With the crisis now fast approaching its peak, he wanted very much to keep her close. When the end came, minutes might count dearly and in the twisting labyrinth of the court he might not be able to get to her quickly en
ough. Still, he was loath to take her into what promised to be a frightening, desperate scene.

  Seeing his indecision, Brenna threw on her clothes. She gave him little time to consider before marching to the door and flinging it open. "Why do you tarry, my lord? The summons sounded urgent."

  The sight of her slender, delicate form poised so obstinately, back straight and eyes flashing, as though she dared him to again make the mistake of trying to leave her behind wrung a rueful grin from Guyon. "Lead on, my lady. For a change, I will follow you."

  Smiling at his acceptance, Brenna slipped her small hand in his. "We will go together, love," she said softly, "for that is how I would have us always be."

  For a moment, Guyon stared down at the glossy wealth of midnight hair still tangled from her restless sleep. He breathed deeply of her light perfume, fighting down the urge to draw her to him and bury himself against her scented skin. Did her words mean what they seemed? Though they had talked little of the repercussions that would follow the King's death, Guyon guessed his wife understood a great deal. For all her gentle beauty and youth, her mind was sharp and her perceptions keen. In the weeks at Thorney, she would surely have sifted through the rumors swirling about the court. However unpleasant her conclusions must be, he knew she had the courage to face them squarely.

  Loving her as he did, he could only hope that her insistence on accompanying him meant she suspected what was to come. When her hand trembled slightly in his, he was even more convinced that her words were as serious and far-reaching as he prayed.

  The royal chamber was crowded. Tall white candles set at the four corners of the bed cast an eerie glow over the men and women gathered there. Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury, knelt beside the dying king. The prelate was a loyal supporter of the Godwinsons who during his youth had fought beside the old Earl in his ascent to power. Stigand's holy office was the reward for his support. Edward despised him. As the Archbishop murmured prayers, the King kept his face resolutely averted.

  In the last hours of his life, Edward had recovered much of the aura of sanctified dignity which had always surrounded him. Now that the battle was essentially over, his slight body looked relaxed and at ease. Twin spots of red were the only color in a face as pale as milk. His hair and beard were neatly combed. The neck and arms of a soft unbleached robe were visible above the covers, against which his hands rested quietly. Edward's eyes were closed but a slight smile touched his thin lips, perhaps in response to the low sobs of his Queen kneeling at the foot of the bed.

  It could not be doubted that the Lady Edith regretted her lord's swiftly approaching death, although no one could say for sure how much of her grief was for him and how much was for the dangers her family might soon face. If any other member of the Godwinson clan shared her distress, there was no sign of it. Just behind his sister, grim-faced and silent, stood the Earl Harold. On either side of him stood his most trusted brothers, the Earls Leofwine and Gyrth. Nearby, although not so close as to be inextricably linked to the Godwinsons, other of England's nobles waited. Brenna recognized many of them, but it was her powerful kinsman who held her attention. Harold glanced up as she and Guyon entered the room. He said nothing, but his gray eyes flashed angrily.

  Taking Brenna by the arm, Guyon went to join the other Normans already in the room. They were an uneasy-looking group. Despite the King's presence, no man was unarmed nor was there any pretense of reliance on dress swords. The weapons were strictly battle quality, and few men let their hands drift from the hilts for more than an instant. The English were similarly armed, their scowls making it clear they would just as soon dispense with those they considered foreign interlopers. But so long as Edward lived, the men he had always preferred to have around him would remain.

  An hour passed with grudging slowness. The cloying smell of incense made Brenna's head throb. She swayed slightly as Guyon's grip tightened. He looked down at her with concern. She managed a small smile, which faded abruptly as a sound came from the bed.

  Edward stirred restlessly, his blue-veined hands clenching. A low moan escaped him as everyone in the room tensed. Slowly, excruciatingly, the man many had hoped was now mute began to speak.

  "W-woe... over all... blood and grief... my poor land... payment of sins..." Edward gasped painfully. His eyes shot open, yellowed by illness yet still compelling. "I can see it... coming... death... so much... Fire and sword until God's will is done... There will be an omen... in the s-sky..."

  "Pay no attention to him," Stigand snapped. "The ramblings of a dying fool mean nothing."

  Brenna gasped at the cruelty of such a remark but few others in the room made even a pretense of surprise. They all knew that Edward's hatred for the Godwinsons and their supporters was more than amply returned. Still no one was prepared to take the Archbishop's advice. There was a collective indrawing of breath as Edward continued.

  "Must try... stop it... Do right... England's next king..." As one, Norman and English alike leaned forward intently. The air above the King's bed became filled with straining heads eager not to miss a syllable. "... must keep God's peace... not bring war. W-William... good man... strong... keep the peace."

  A dark flush suffused the Earl Harold's rugged face. Brenna watched in unwilling fascination as her kinsman's hard, callused hand tightened on the short sword he wore. For a terrible moment she thought he meant to silence the ranting King.

  With a tremendous effort of will, Harold refrained from any action. He stood stone-still, listening as Edward drew upon the last of his strength. The yellow eyes looked directly at him before moving slowly to Guyon. "William... William must be King." A pale, blue-veined hand reached out shakily. "Tell them... my will... William is my heir... t-tell t-themmmm..."

  Guyon took a quick step toward the bed, his path instinctively cleared by the stern-faced Normans. The King's trembling hand was clasped warmly in his. Very quietly, he said, "It shall be as you will, my lord."

  Edward stared at him a moment longer before slowly nodding. A low sigh escaped him. His eyes closed. Beneath the covers, his narrow chest rose... fell... and was still.

  For all that the death was expected, it took some seconds for everyone to realize it had at last occurred. In that time, Guyon moved. He dropped the King's hand, his own going unerringly to his sword, which he drew without hesitation. Catching the glint of steel, Brenna gasped. Around her, the other Normans had also drawn their weapons. Several moved toward the door, assuring that their departure could not be stopped. Through the open passage, Brenna could see other Normans, with swords drawn, lining the corridor. Such a concerted action could only have been planned well in advance. There was no doubt as to who was responsible.

  Guyon smiled humorlessly as he confronted the Earl. "You will understand, I am sure, that we prefer to leave now."

  Despite what must have been immense rage at having been so caught out, Harold spoke softly. "You may certainly try." His hand moved in a silent signal to his men, restraining them from attempting to fight in the small, crowded room where they could be quickly outnumbered and slain. The English stirred restively, but for once obeyed.

  Guyon's smile deepened. "Follow us if you will, but I should tell you the stables have been fired. Your horses were set loose and will need rounding up before you go anywhere."

  Harold stiffened, appreciating for the first time just how thoroughly Guyon had planned. As her husband backed toward the door, Brenna instinctively moved with him. The Earl's gaze fell on her.

  "Leave the girl. She will come to no harm. But if she goes with you, I cannot guarantee her safety when you are caught."

  There was no mistaking the genuineness of his concern, nor could Guyon doubt the Earl's pledge of safety. Reluctantly, he halted. His stomach clenched as he gazed at his wife. Much as he dreaded it, she had to be given a clear-cut choice. Gently, he murmured, "Brenna...?"

  There was no hesitation in the firm step that took her to him. Her expression was calm and her voice steady as Brenna sa
id, "I have already told you once, my lord. We will go together."

  Guyon dared not relax but he did allow himself a warm smile. One hand in hers, the other grasping his sword, he moved quickly from the room. Surrounded by the other Normans who formed a phalanx back and front to discourage any hot-headed Englishman foolish enough to attempt to follow, they hurried down the corridor. Brenna's breath caught in her throat as they passed the bodies of several English guards dispatched while the King lay dying. Despite the choice she had not hesitated to make, she had an instinctive urge to try to aid those she still thought of as her countrymen. Only Guyon's firm grip stopped her. As they hurried from the stone keep, the stench of burning wood assailed them. That and the frantic shouts from the stables confirmed what Guyon had told the Earl. Harold's horses were scattered panic-stricken through the town, but their own mounts waited saddled and ready at the foot of the staircase.

  Tossed onto her saddle, Brenna held on for dear life as the party galloped across the bailey and over the lowered drawbridge. She had barely an instant to register the bodies lying beneath the portcullis before that sorrowful sight vanished behind her. Oblivious to the January cold whipping at her slender body, Brenna concentrated on keeping pace with her husband and his men. She rode beside Guyon, who kept a careful eye on her to make sure she was in no difficulty. Her horse was large and powerful, as well as superbly trained. She had only to keep a firm grip on the reins and let him do the rest.

  Brenna had expected them to turn south toward the river road that skirted London and led eventually to the coast. But Guyon surprised her. At the first crossroads, he headed west.

  "W-why?" Brenna managed to gasp, though she doubted he could hear her above the pounding hooves and wind.

  Drawing closer to him, she repeated the question. This time Guyon heard. "Because Harold will expect us to go south. He'll follow in that direction, and send outriders to close the ports. Meanwhile, we'll lie low until we can reach the coast safely."