by Maura Seger
"From where?"
"Bulverhythe inlet." Brenna thought it was best to stick as closely as possible to the truth. Given her success in drawing off the housecarls, Guyon probably had carried out his original plan. She shivered, thinking of how he must be cursing her. His men would have reported her flight to the English. Guyon must believe her a traitor to their love, a disloyal wife who chose country over husband.
Perhaps it was just as well, she told herself despairingly. Who knew when they would meet again? Better for Guyon to be fired by anger rather than brought down by sorrow.
"Who sheltered you?" Harold demanded.
Brenna hesitated. She did not want to inform on the Norman residents of England who opened their homes to them. Somehow to betray them would be almost as bad as betraying Guyon. "We camped in the forest," she said at last.
Harold did not believe her. He thought it likely the vast, thickly wooded Weald might have protected them part of the time. But there were too many reports of sudden activity in Norman households, servants sent away, and the like to believe Guyon had been without aid.
Neither did her story about an argument and angry parting ring true. Another woman might turn away from her husband under such circumstances, but not Brenna. She was too much Edythe's sister. Faithfulness even in the greatest adversity would be second nature to her.
Silently damning the housecarls who had so easily fallen for her ploy, he said, "Guyon planned well. I take it there were boatmen waiting?"
Puzzled by his mild tone, Brenna could only nod silently.
"How many?"
Frantically she scrambled to calculate what a likely crew would be for an escape boat. "Five... six... I'm not sure."
"So you weren't right on the beach with them?" Harold continued pleasantly. He supposed he really shouldn't be playing this game with her but it was mild revenge indeed for the damage done to him.
"N-no... I watched... from the cliff where your men found me."
"Oh, yes, my men. Do you know," he went on, strolling over to the table to pour himself a goblet of wine, "not one of them has been with me less than ten years. Absolutely trustworthy and as loyal as you could find anywhere. I can't tell you how amazed I am that Guyon got past them."
"He was l-lucky..."
Harold turned back abruptly, his piercing eyes raking her. "Lucky indeed, my lady. I just wonder if he knows how much."
Brenna did not dare respond. A terrible fear grew in her that Harold was in no way misled by her lies. Taking a deep breath, she told herself it did not matter. Guyon would certainly be in Normandy by now. What happened to her was not important compared with his safety. Yet she could not prevent herself from asking, "What are you going to do with me?"
"Nothing like what you obviously expect," Harold snapped. Enraged he might be, but it would do no good to direct his anger at Brenna. No amount of suffering on her part could undo that fact of Guyon's escape. There would be enough pain and grief all too soon without wantonly adding to it with his own kinswoman.
"You will return to Winchester," he said. "The Lady Edythe leaves tomorrow. You will join her, and remain there." His face tightened. "I know your penchant for disobedience. Do not think for a moment that an escape attempt will be met by less than the harshest punishment. Give up any idea you may have of trying to join Guyon. You would not survive the effort."
"But I told you," Brenna protested in a last-ditch effort to make him believe her, "we argued and he left me. Why would I try to join him?"
Harold did not bother to reply. Instead, he said, "Make the most of the hours between now and morning, my lady. You will have little chance to rest before reaching Winchester."
Through the haze of her exhaustion and worry, Brenna wondered why it was necessary to make the trip in such haste. There was only one reason she could think of that would explain Harold's determination to have her sister speedily secluded within the walls of his keep. What little color remained in her face vanished as she stared at him. "You intend to marry."
Harold's head shot up. His eyes met hers, if only for an instant. Time enough to see the terrible pain within him. "I have no choice."
Torn between sympathy and outrage, Brenna opened her mouth to speak. The King raised a hand, as though to ward off a blow he thought well-deserved. "Go to your sister, Brenna," he said softly. "Perhaps you can comfort each other."
Chapter Fifteen
"Come and sit down," Edythe called. "All that standing can't be good for you."
Brenna turned reluctantly from her contemplation of the verdant fields and woods surrounding the keep. Summer was lingering a few weeks longer than usual. The crops were plentiful, the rivers and streams overflowed with fish, and there were signs the winter would be mild. God seemed intent on making up for the months of fear and dread earlier in the year.
The terrible streak of fire that had hung in the sky week after week, so bright that it could even be seen by day, was gone. The long-awaited invasion by Duke William had not yet come, and as the year waned it looked as though there would be no such action. People had a great deal to be thankful for and would seize the harvest time to do so.
True, King Harold still kept England's land and sea forces at full readiness. The fyrd remained in the field, supported by housecarls sent to train the army made up essentially of peasants. But everyone expected the men to be allowed to go home soon. They were needed to bring in the crops. There seemed little point in continuing to prepare for an invasion that each day seemed less likely to come.
Joining Edythe on the bench set before their sewing frames, Brenna patted her bulging stomach fondly. "He was kicking again last night, but now he's quiet. When he is born, I must talk to him about his refusal to sleep when I want to."
A smile touched the deep blue eyes that of late had been far too sad. "You're right to call the baby 'he'," Edythe assured her. "In my experience, it's boys who kick the most. Girls are far better behaved."
Since Edythe had three sons and two daughters, Brenna could only bow to her expertise. Privately, she prayed the child she was convinced had been conceived on that last night she shared with Guyon would be a boy, one who resembled his father. A tiny replica of her distant husband might ease at least a little of the remorseless pain whose burden she felt far more keenly than the child itself.
"Whichever it is," Brenna sighed, rubbing her back, "I hope it is born soon. I feel ripe enough to burst."
"It shouldn't be much longer," Edythe agreed. Her calm tone belied the silent concern with which she surveyed the protruding belly of her slightly built sister. Brenna was a small girl carrying a large baby. The birth would not be easy. Edythe had brought many children into the world, but this was one delivery she would not attempt alone. Without saying anything to her sister, she had summoned to Winchester those women she knew to be most skilled at birthing and healing. Every possible precaution would be taken to assure Brenna came safely through the trial of childbed.
"Did I see a messenger arrive this morning?" Brenna asked, eager for any distraction.
Edythe nodded. Eyes on her sewing, she murmured, "He came from London. Harold says he is well and hopes to spend part of the fall here."
Brenna absorbed this information without comment. Since his coronation more than nine months before, the King had somehow contrived to spend several weeks at Winchester. Considering the vast demands on his time and energy, his devotion to Edythe and their family was surprising. Even more so in light of the fact that Harold now possessed a Christianly wedded wife who might properly expect his exclusive attention.
Edythe had said little when she learned of her lord's marriage to the sister of the Earls Edwin and Morcar. She did not have to be told how desperately Harold needed the support of the only men who held significant land in England outside his own family. If there had been no threat of invasion, the marriage would probably never have taken place. But as it was, Harold had to do everything possible to secure his power.
There was s
ome consolation in the fact that Queen Aldyth, called by that title although Harold had not bothered to have her crowned, was some forty years old and regarded as plain. She was the widow of
King Griffith of Wales, killed by his own men after being defeated in battle by Harold. Aldyth seemed to bear her new lord no grudge for his role in her widowing, but neither did she pretend any great affection for him. They were reported to see each other rarely, and then only in the presence of others. The Earls Edwin and Morcar were known to be hoping that Aldyth would conceive. They envisioned a nephew who would be Harold's successor, with themselves as the true power behind the throne. But few believed their hopes were likely to be realized.
Harold himself had said, in the presence of witnesses, that he was not eager to impregnate Aldyth lest he find himself having to guard his back from her rapacious brothers. There were enough threats already to his life and power without adding more. To emphasize his distrust of Aldyth's kin, Harold kept his eldest son with him and together they returned as often as possible to Winchester and the woman who would always hold his heart.
"Has he had any more messages from William?" Brenna asked, picking up the tiny shirt she was stitching.
Edythe's lovely features darkened. "No, that upstart has kept his silence the last few months. When I think of the lies he dares to tell... How anyone could believe him, much less follow him..." She broke off, remembering that as far as anyone knew, Guyon D'Arcy was still very much in the Duke's service.
Brenna sighed, her own thoughts following a similar line. In the slightly more than nine months since she had last seen Guyon, there had been no opportunity for communication between them. She was still far too carefully watched to send any messenger of her own and, although Duke William did not hesitate to dispatch communiqués to England, Guyon apparently was not of like mind. He maintained a stubborn silence which increased Brenna's fear of what he must be thinking of her.
The child stirred within her, bringing a smile despite her worry. A hand on the enormous bulge sheltering her child, she said, "I don't think William cares if anyone believes him or not. He's just trying to manufacture an excuse for carrying out Edward's will. This claim of his that Harold swore an oath of loyalty to him is so preposterous as to be funny."
"Harold did not find it funny," Edythe declared. "Not when that absurd story was spread just as Tostig decided to come back. It's clear he and the Duke are acting in concert."
Brenna knew little of the King's exiled younger brother, but none of what she had heard was favorable. Tostig was the black sheep of the Godwinson clan, worse even than the first son, Sweyn, who had died in exile after seducing an abbess. Tostig's vices were not of the flesh. He loved power without understanding the responsibilities it carried. His tenure as Earl of Northumbria was marked by such hideous torment of the peasantry that not even Harold had been able to prevent the revolt against him. Bowing to the inevitable, he agreed to his brother's exile and by so doing made a lifelong enemy of him.
Tostig had spent the spring months harrying the southern coast of England, using men and ships believed to belong to William. As he burned and pillaged in lightning attacks intended to soften English resistance, the Duke was busy on the diplomatic front. His people spread the story of an entirely fictitious journey by Harold to Normandy during which the Earl allegedly swore an oath of loyalty to William. If true, the oath would forever bar Harold from the English throne and make his assumption of it an act of the grossest impiety. But everyone in England knew the tale for a lie. Only in Rome was it listened to seriously, where the Pope welcomed any opportunity to bring the independent English into line. If William ever did invade, it would be under the papal banner.
"Where is Tostig now?" Brenna asked, after glancing around to be sure no one else could overhear their talk. Though Edythe's servants were undoubtedly loyal, it did not do to be careless.
"In Norway, Harold thinks. He believes Tostig has given up on William, who still does nothing but sit at the mouth of the Dives and build more ships. Harold suspects Tostig will try to convince the Norsemen that this is their last opportunity to take England. God knows they're crazy enough to try."
Brenna shared this assessment of the savages who had killed her mother. Never mind that she, like the majority of the English, was at least partially of Norse stock. Everyone knew the Vikings liked nothing better than to go to war. They would fight on the smallest pretext. "Hardrada," she said, referring to the Norwegian king, "would not ally himself with William, would he?"
"It isn't likely. They're both too fiercely independent and arrogant to work together. But just having Hardrada as a threat makes it more difficult to defend against William." She hesitated before adding, "I fear the Duke is only waiting, building his strength and counting the days until Harold must release the fyrd. If Hardrada should also attack..."
"Don't think of that," Brenna said swiftly. It was inconceivable that England might be threatened on two fronts just when her defenses were weakest. "This balmy weather can't last. Soon there will be storms in the North Sea and Channel. No one will be able to get near us. We will be perfectly safe and Harold will be able to come home."
Edythe shot her a grateful look. It was on the tip of her tongue to say how much she missed her lord, but she stopped herself in time. Such a comment would be bound to remind Brenna of her own loss. Edythe knew her sister longed for her husband, her yearning all the more acute as her time came. Yet Brenna asked for no sympathy. She bore her grief bravely, making Edythe love her all the more.
The talk turned deliberately to household matters as each woman sought diversion from her thoughts. By midafternoon, Brenna felt unusually weary. She welcomed Edythe's suggestion that she lie down for a while. The small bower she occupied was one of several single-room structures surrounding the main hall. Their privacy and relative comfort was reserved for family and honored guests. Simply furnished with a narrow bed, wood chest, rough-hewn table, and two copper braziers, the room was nonetheless warm and cheerful. Bright hangings in intricate Celtic and Norse motifs enlivened the walls. A lush sable throw lay over the bed. Drying herbs hung from the roof beams, their fragrance mingling with that of wood and smoke.
Stripping back the fur cover, Brenna lay down on the bed. She hoped to sleep, but found she could not. No position was even remotely comfortable. The dull ache that had begun that morning in her back worsened. Her belly itched, despite the oil she rubbed onto it each day. Her legs and feet throbbed, as though their burden was finally too much for them.
Wearily, Brenna padded over to the basin of fresh water left by her serving woman. Hoping the coolness would ease her headache, she splashed liberally at her face and throat. Clad only in a thin shift, she returned to the bed.
If she could not sleep, Brenna thought an hour later, she should get up and do something to occupy her mind. There was a new book she had yet even to open, and another she was barely halfway through copying. There was sewing to be done and weaving. Edythe would always welcome her help in the kitchens, where preparations were already underway for preserving the harvest. Knowing all this, she still did not move. Lethargy engulfed her even as sleep remained at bay.
The pressure in her belly continued to increase until Brenna could no longer ignore it. Somewhat concerned, she decided she needed company. She would go find Edythe, whose mere presence had a calming effect. Rising unsteadily, Brenna was almost dressed when a rush of water suddenly surged from between her thighs.
The tunic she had just donned was instantly soaked. Water ran down her legs and around her feet, soaking through the rushes laid on the floor. Without even knowing that she did so, Brenna cried out.
Her serving woman, who had just been sent by Edythe to be sure everything was all right, heard her. Pushing open the door, she found Brenna standing dumb-faced in the center of the room, the dark stain on her clothes mute evidence of what had happened.
Not one to waste words, the serving woman snapped, "Back into bed, my lady.
Nothing to worry about. Perfectly normal. We'll have you dry in no time."
Brenna stared at her mutely. She knew, of course, that the breaking of waters was a natural occurrence as childbirth neared. But knowing that and associating it with herself were two quite different matters. The life within her had suddenly become stunningly real. Biting her lip, she did as the woman said.
A shout from the servant brought several more running. One was sent for Edythe while the rest busied themselves easing Brenna's clothes from her and slipping her into bed. By the time her sister arrived, she was in the throes of the first contraction.
White-faced, Brenna gasped, "He seems fiercely determined to be born. This shouldn't take long at all."
"Of course not," Edythe agreed, although she actually believed the opposite. Speaking too quietly for Brenna to hear, she gave orders to the serving women. A braided rope was hung above the bed for Brenna to pull on. A knife, honed to razor sharpness, was slipped under her pillow to cut the pain. Clean linen was spread beneath her and fires lit just outside the bower to keep water heated. Some distance beyond the keep, away from prying eyes, the throat of a ewe was slit and the animal's blood allowed to seep into the ground in the hope that the gods would be thus appeased.
When Brenna had been made as comfortable as possible, Edythe sat down beside her with her needlework in her lap. From time to time, she rose to sponge off Brenna's forehead, hold her hand, or murmur what encouragement she could. But there was little anyone could do as the hours passed and the pain grew.
"It is going well, my lady," the eldest of the midwives assured Brenna as lamps were lit against the gathering darkness. Taking Edythe aside, the grizzled old woman who had birthed thousands of babies explained that while the young girl was dilating slowly, the child was well-positioned. "Head down, he is, but big. Give her a few more hours, then we may have to cut."