by Maura Seger
Brenna nodded to show she understood, but did not speak again. Their headlong flight through the pitch-black darkness required all her attention. As during their arduous journey to London, Guyon maintained a gruelling pace. But now they traveled only at night, making camp deep in the woods during the day or taking shelter in Norman-controlled households or abbeys. Every precaution was taken to keep their presence a secret. Hidden rooms suddenly came into use. Servants who might be tempted to carry word of them to nearby English lords were sent away on seemingly innocent errands before they arrived.
Such evidence of advance planning astounded Brenna, even as it left her ruefully amused. Trust the men to turn an unfortunate aberration into a full-blown crisis. Edward's deathbed testament, lacking as it did the support of either law or tradition, was hardly the stuff of which history is made. Yet Guyon and Harold both acted as though the fate of kingdoms hung in the balance.
Stretching out on the narrow pallet that was her bed for the night, Brenna shook her head in exasperation. She was drifting between sleep and wakefulness when Guyon entered the small room. He lay down beside her without speaking and gathered her into his arms. Holding her close, as he had every night since their abrupt departure from Thorney, Guyon stroked his wife's silken hair gently. Beneath his touch, Brenna lay quiet. She waited until she felt the tension begin to ease from him before brushing soft fingers across the hard planes of his face. Wordlessly, even passionlessly, she offered what comfort she could. Guyon breathed deeply. His large hand cradled the back of her head. Securely nestled in the curve of his body, Brenna was almost asleep when he murmured, "If all goes well, we will sleep tomorrow night on Norman soil."
Brenna knew they were near the coast, somewhere in the region of Hastings, but she had not guessed that Guyon intended to leave the country so soon. In light of the news just received from London, she had even hoped he might reconsider and stay to patch up his misunderstanding with Harold. Now that the Earl was King, and had been since being crowned the day after Edward's death, surely their differences could be resolved.
"I had thought," she began tentatively, "you might perhaps go back to London."
Even in the gray winter light filtering through the room's shutters, she could see his eyes widen in astonishment. "Go back to London? I would be seeking my own death."
"Your death? Oh, Guyon, I'm sure you're exaggerating! Since the Witan has already assembled and named Harold king, and he is crowned, what Edward said no longer matters. You must understand that." Propped on an elbow, Brenna gazed at her husband entreatingly. "Go back to London. Talk to Harold. Now that he is King, he will certainly want good relations with Normandy."
For a long moment Guyon did not respond. His hand caressed the length of her back absently. His expression, at first stern, slowly softened to one of deep regret. Sadly, he shook his head. "What you ask is not possible, my love. Harold could be crowned a thousand times over and it would not make any difference. Edward named Duke William as his heir. I must relay that message, just as your kinsman must try to stop me. Between us, there can be no accord."
"B-but... you sound as though you think William will take this news seriously."
So softly that she could barely hear him, Guyon murmured, "Very seriously."
"Why? I know that in Normandy a ruler may name his heir as Edward did. But it is different in England. The Witan decides..."
"The Witan comprised strictly of Harold's supporters," Guyon interrupted. An icy edge came into his voice. "Word was sent to those members of the council Harold knew he could count on, and only to them, several days before Edward died. It was all arranged that they would be in London, that Harold would be hastily named the heir, and crowned with speed that can only be termed unseemly. God's blood, the man took the throne before Edward was even buried! He knew he had no time to waste, because William will naturally move to protect what is his."
"England!" Brenna exclaimed, refusing to believe what she was hearing. "England is not William's. William is a foreigner... a Norman... he cannot rule here."
"He can and he will," Guyon insisted. As an afterthought, he added, "It was all arranged years ago."
Brenna froze against him. Old rumors, never credited, were surfacing in her mind. "You don't mean when William came to England."
"That's exactly what I mean. Fifteen years ago, when the Godwinsons were in what unfortunately turned out to be temporary exile, the Duke visited
Edward. They were already friends, knew each other well. Edward had no doubt in his mind even then who he wanted to succeed him. Why do you think he's always kept so many Normans at court? Given them land, wealth, encouraged them to share his rule? He was simply preparing the way for William's ascent to the throne of England."
"No!" Brenna denied fiercely. "Edward must have been mad if he thought he could dictate England's future. The nobility will never stand for it."
"Many of them are loyal to Harold," Guyon agreed, "but many others have long envied the Godwinsons' power and would not mind seeing it diminished, if not destroyed. Further, when it becomes known that Edward left his throne to the Duke, all Christendom will rally in support of William. The will of a king cannot simply be ignored without destroying the very fabric of society."
"When it becomes known," Brenna repeated slowly, struggling to come to terms with what she had just learned. "You mean, when you tell William?"
"Exactly." Guyon turned on his side, gazing at her gently. "Now do you understand why Harold was determined I should not leave Thorney? If I had not seized the initiative from him, I'd be sitting right now in an English prison awaiting his pleasure."
"I don't believe you," Brenna insisted, though her voice wavered. "Harold wouldn't..."
"The good Earl," Guyon broke in vehemently, "has already tried once to kill me. Whose men do you think attacked me? They followed the Duke's messenger from Thorney but were unable to catch him before he left the country with word that Edward was failing fast. Harold hoped William would not find out until it was too late, and if that meant killing me, he was quite willing to pay the price. So don't try to tell me now that he would receive me in London or that there could be any chance of an agreement between us. Unless Harold repents and swears loyalty to William, there is only one way this matter can be settled."
Brenna's throat tightened convulsively as the full import of what Guyon was saying struck her. If he was right, her kinsman had tried to murder her husband. And her husband might very soon be engaged in a war against her homeland. Conflicting loyalties tore through her as her eyes filled with tears.
Seeing her distress, Guyon relented. He regretted his harsh words. There would have been time enough to tell her the truth once they were safely back in Normandy. That was what he had intended, but her innocent suggestion that he return to London had so provoked him that he lashed out indiscriminately. His anger stemmed, he knew, in large part from the fact that she had chosen to come with him without truly understanding the significance of that choice. In doing so, she might well be considered to have turned her back on her homeland. As he listened to her heartbroken sobs, Guyon was tormented by the thought that she must bitterly regret her actions.
In fact, Brenna did not. She loved Guyon far too much to have any greater loyalty than to him. But she was horrified that his would-be murderers were sent by a member of her own family, and terrified that the danger surrounding him would only worsen. Deep shame filled her as she wondered how much he must be regretting their marriage.
"Don't cry," he murmured, reaching out a gentle hand to draw her back into his embrace.
His tenderness made Brenna weep all the harder. She did not deserve it. In her despair, she recalled her own shortcomings with merciless exaggeration. She had fled from him without concern for his honor, falsely accused him about the Lady Elene, railed at him as shrilly as any fishwife, disobeyed his orders, and blindly misunderstood the perils confronting him. How could he bear to be anywhere near her, let alone touch her so lo
vingly?
"Brenna," Guyon pleaded, fearful she would do herself some injury, "it will be all right. I promise. Somehow, all this will be resolved. Don't cry, my love. I cannot bear to see you so."
As he spoke, Guyon instinctively eased her under him. His mouth trailed a line of gentle kisses down her cheeks and along the slender column of her throat before at last finding her lips. His touch was infinitely soothing. Coaxed gradually from her pit of despondency, Brenna could not help but respond. They made love with poignant tenderness made all the more acute by the danger surrounding them. Both gave of themselves to the utmost, drawing out their pleasure until neither could endure it a moment longer. Only then did Guyon release himself inside her. Brenna received him joyfully. The nearness of death, seeming to press in against the very walls of their sanctuary, made their love a reaffirmation of life itself. Lying still and content in his arms afterward, Brenna uttered a silent prayer that what they had just shared would result in a child. Only by nurturing Guyon's seed within her would she find any protection from the fast-approaching terrors she could no longer deny.
They awoke toward dusk. Guyon stirred first, easing himself carefully from the bed. He gazed down at Brenna lovingly, but frowned when he noticed the shadows beneath her eyes. For all the eagerness of her lovemaking, he knew she was close to exhaustion. Her delicate body possessed strength which never failed to amaze him, but even it was not without limit. More determined than ever to get her safely and quickly back to Normandy, Guyon left the room in search of food.
As soon as the protective shroud of darkness settled over the frozen landscape, the small party set off once again. Guided by the full moon, they made good progress along the narrow road bordering Pevensey Bay. The ruins of an ancient fort loomed above the calm waters long valued as a natural anchorage. Crossing the high ridge to the east, they slowed their pace. The last few miles to Hastings were covered with great caution.
Drawing rein on the cliff above the sleeping port, Guyon surveyed it carefully. His arrival was well-timed. The waning moon was still bright enough to reveal any unusual security measures that might have been taken. But it would set soon enough to allow him to move unseen to where the Norman boatmen waited.
Guyon was not unfamiliar with Hastings. The previous summer, before he was so enchantingly distracted by Brenna, he paid the town a visit ostensibly to discuss trading practices but in fact to reconnoiter the port facilities and surrounding waterways for the Duke. He knew the area as far north as Telham Hill well enough to find his way through it under the most adverse circumstances. He also had no difficulty discerning the changes that had taken place around the town.
Harold's men had clearly been busy. The new king must have lost no time sending outriders to the coast to seal all the ports. A hastily erected guardpost stood just outside the walls. Patrols were in evidence along the jetties and an English longboat rode at anchor, ready to follow and overtake anyone attempting to flee.
Very thorough, Guyon considered admiringly, but not sufficient to stop him. Unlike some, he had never made the mistake of underestimating Harold Godwinson. From the first moment the two men met, he accorded the English lord top marks for intelligence and ingenuity. In that respect, he was not unlike the Duke. Guyon knew a fleeting moment of regret that the Harold and William would never meet as friends. Who knew what two such remarkable men might have been able to accomplish acting in concert? He forced that thought down, focusing all his attention on the last hurdle between him and Normandy.
"You will stay here," he whispered to Brenna, "while we take a look ahead."
Nodding, Brenna soothed her horse who had begun to shy nervously. "You will not be gone long?"
"Not very," Guyon reassured her. "The boatmen are due to meet us at the entrance to Bulverhythe inlet. I just want to be sure the way is clear."
Guyon touched her hand gently. Leaning across their saddles, they shared a lingering kiss without concern for the watching men. She thought he hesitated a moment afterward, as though reluctant to leave her. But in the next instant he had torn himself away and was giving orders to the two knights who would remain behind. Taking the rest, he disappeared over the rise toward the shallow lagoon lying just west of Hastings.
The wind picked up. Blowing out of the north, it carried the bite of ice-locked wastelands. Brenna drew her cloak tighter around her. At least the wind came from the right direction, she thought wryly. So far Guyon's luck was holding. A contrary wind could trap them on the coast for days, perhaps even weeks, during which their presence would surely become known. As it was, another hour or so should see them gone.
Huddled in her cloak, Brenna was at first unaware of the sound which brought her guard instantly to attention. When she recognized their concern and straightened warily, it was to hear the unmistakable thud of fast-approaching hoofs.
"Quick, my lady," one of the knights hissed, "into the bracken. We must hide."
About to obey, Brenna hesitated. The moon was almost set, but by what little light remained she could make out a party of horsemen approaching the cliff. By the shape of their helmets and the dull shine of their chain mail, she knew them to be housecarls in service to Harold, warriors even more adept and feared than the highly skilled thegns who usually carried out his missions. If he had sent these men, he must have good reason to believe their special brand of ferocity and loyalty would be needed. As Brenna watched, the leader paused, turned in his saddle, and gazed in the direction Guyon had taken. Bile rose in her throat. A cloud, momentarily drifting across the moon, obscured his path. But in another instant the wind would blow it on and he would be discovered.
The knight, not understanding her delay, reached for her reins. Brenna evaded him. The sharp heels of her boots dug into her mount. Desperation gave her strength, and blotted out any thought except the absolute necessity of protecting Guyon.
"Help!" she screamed above the wind. "Over here! Help me!"
There was no mistaking the genuine terror in her voice, or the fact that she was an English woman in distress. As one, the housecarls turned and galloped toward her.
Brenna met them halfway, far enough to leave the Norman knights obscured by the shadows. Reining in, she gasped, "I am the Lady Brenna, kinswoman to King Harold. I am alone here and require your protection."
This announcement was met with some skepticism. The housecarls certainly knew who she was and that she had been traveling with Guyon D'Arcy. Further, they were aware that she had apparently gone with him willingly. Eyeing her narrowly, the leader demanded, "Where is your husband, lady?"
"Gone," Brenna declared steadily. From some hitherto unsuspected source she found the strength to speak calmly and authoritatively. "When I discovered he meant to tell William of the late king's will in order to promote an invasion, we argued. He left me and sailed with his men. They left some two hours ago. I am sorry I could not stop them, but being only one lone woman..." Her voice trailed off regretfully.
"Gone?" the housecarl repeated angrily. "He cannot be. We have watched too carefully."
Brenna shrugged. "I can only tell you what I have seen, sir. Guyon D'Arcy and his men sailed two hours ago for Normandy. By this time, they are well beyond the reach of even your swiftest boat." Daringly, she added, "You have failed, my lord. I suggest you do not add to your dereliction by delaying my return to court. King Harold will surely wish to know all I can tell him."
It was a bluff that almost did not work. The housecarl was loath to believe his quarry had escaped. Beyond even the inevitable threat of the King's rage was his own pride in himself as a warrior. It seemed incredible that Guyon D'Arcy would have slipped through the noose so carefully set to catch him.
Yet just that claim was being made by a kinswoman of the sovereign. A woman, moreover, about whom Harold was deeply concerned. He had given strict orders she was not to be harmed. His men might privately joke that he feared the Lady Edythe's anger should her sister be mistreated, but they would not dare to disobey their
lord. She had to be returned with all speed to the bosom of her family.
Glowering at the slight figure whose remarkable beauty would normally have had him on his mettle, the housecarl snarled, "I will escort you to the King, lady. But if you lie..."
"You dare much to question my honor," Brenna said frostily. "Rather you should hope I can explain your failure. Mayhap I will simply tell the King that Guyon escaped because no one was watching for him____"
The housecarl relented. He did not dare risk being so ridiculed before the court. Death itself would be preferable to such disgrace. Giving in resentfully, he ordered his men to form up. So the lady wanted to go to London? So be it. No one would be able to say he delayed her in any way.
Three days later Brenna stood before King Harold in the council chamber at Thorney. Her clothes were filthy, her face ashen, and her legs so weak that she doubted she would be able to stand very long. Pride, coupled with her desire to get this meeting over with, had prevented her from protesting the merciless pace set by the housecarls. Pausing only to change horses and eat, they reached London in record time. Immediately upon their arrival, Brenna was ushered into the new sovereign's presence. She was given no time to bathe or change, much less rest.
Hard gray eyes surveyed her inscrutably. "Where is he?"
"In Normandy, I suppose," Brenna murmured hoarsely. She was too weary even to be afraid, but nothing could blot out the knowledge that Harold Godwinson was enraged. Kingship had changed her kinsman. Clad in a magnificent blue tunic over a snow white shirt, with gold bands stretched across his chest and at each wrist, he had said farewell to the last vestiges of his youth. No longer the Earl Godwin's son or King Edward's lieutenant, he was King. And so he clearly intended to remain.
"You saw him leave."
"Yes," Brenna affirmed dully. Harold had not invited her to sit down, nor did she expect him to. Dimly, in the back of her mind, she considered what he might do with her. Whereas before she had always thought him a ruthless but fundamentally just man, the knowledge that he had tried to kill Guyon changed her perceptions drastically. It was not impossible that Harold would order her imprisoned or even tortured if he suspected for a moment she had information she was not revealing.