King's Blood

by Judith Tarr

  “I’m not sure God minds,” Edith said.

  “That’s heresy,” said Sister Gunnhild, but she sounded more bemused than appalled.

  “Heresy is what old men in Rome say it is,” Edith said. “What do they know of women in Britain?”

  Sister Gunnhild stared. Suddenly she laughed. Edith had never heard her laugh before. It was a remarkable sound, light and young. “Sweet saints! What would the abbess say to that?”

  “Are you going to tell her?”

  Sister Gunnhild shook her head. “Not a word. Did you think I would?”

  “No,” said Edith. “We have a bargain, I think.”

  “I believe we must,” Sister Gunnhild said. “I hope you can escape before the vows bind you. I wouldn’t wish my fate on anyone.”

  “I never knew,” said Edith. “I’m sorry for that.”

  “Don’t be. It means I’ve played my part well—and I’m still safe. The abbess still believes me to be her ally.”

  “Were you ever?” Edith asked.

  “I wanted to live like a real woman,” Sister Gunnhild said. “I wanted a husband. Children. A household to manage and a life to live. Not this living death.”

  Edith found that her fists were clenched. She knew better than to ask why Sister Gunnhild had not refused to take vows. She was the daughter of a conquered king—enemy by blood and breeding. What could she hope for in the world but dishonor or worse?

  Or so the abbess would have told her. The truth would have been less simple. Maybe she could have had the life she wanted. Now . . .

  “I can’t help you,” Edith said. “I don’t even know that I can help myself. But if I can, I will.”

  Sister Gunnhild spread her hands. “You have a generous heart. Don’t fret for me. I’ve burdened you with more than you need to carry. If you can get out of here, by all means do. Don’t hobble yourself with trying to save me.”

  “I will try,” Edith said. “I promise you that.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The world was heavy on Edith’s shoulders. All the deceptions, the games she had to play, the preparation for vows that she hoped—even prayed—she would never be forced to take, weighed her down until she could hardly bear it. Her only hope was the message she had asked the Norman king to give her father—and there was no surety that he would do any such thing.

  She began to think that she should slip over the wall and find her way to her father—wherever he was. Or if the wall was guarded, she might venture to the Otherworld. It was not so perilous if one merely passed through it on one’s way between mortal place and mortal place. Maybe Sister Cecilia could help her. Or maybe . . .

  But Sister Cecilia was nowhere to be found. No one knew where she was. Sister Gunnhild had returned to her veiled and shrouded self, and the instruction that both she and Edith knew was, in its way, a lie. The rest of the nuns and novices went on as always.

  A fortnight before the feast of the Virgin, while Edith was still wavering over what to do, Ethelfleda vanished. This time she was alone, and this time she made good her escape.

  Edith envied her bitterly—both for her cleverness and for her courage. But more than that, Edith was furious. Any hope she might have had of mortal escape was gone, now that Ethelfleda had so effectively tested the abbey’s defenses. The nuns and novices were under strict discipline, and all the doors and windows were watched.

  The only way out, such as it was, was through the Otherworld—and even that would not be easy. None of the novices was allowed to go off alone. They were to do everything in pairs, and there was a nun watching over them always—even in the garderobe.

  After a week, Edith was ready to go mad. Another week and she would be bound. She was going to have to resort to the Otherworld, and do it in front of her watchers—there was no other way that she could see.

  Each morning she woke and told herself that today she would do it. Each night she went to her bed as desperate as ever. The folk of air had fled; she could not ask them if they had seen her father in England, or if they knew how far away he was. They were all gone, wise creatures, escaping the strangling clouds of unmagic that were swallowing more of the abbey with every day that passed.

  Six days until her binding. Then five. That was the day when she discovered that the Otherworld was out of her reach. The magic had drained out of the abbey. When she tried to part the veils, there was nothing there.

  She had waited too long. Even the magic that was in her was starting to fade. She felt like a cracked jar with water seeping slowly out of it—and she had not even noticed until she was all but empty. It had been going on . . . how long? Years?

  It was a spell in its way, a sapping of will and sense until there was nothing left but to do what she was forced to do. Sister Gunnhild had succumbed before her. Others would after her—unless by some miracle this destruction of magic could be stopped.

  No wonder Sister Cecilia had fled. This must have been deadly for her; and she needed all her power to be a Guardian of Britain.

  Four days. Edith could barely bring herself to get out of bed in the rainy dark before dawn, to wash her face and hands in the basin and pull on her habit and shuffle to chapel with the rest. They were all subdued this morning. Even their prayers were dulled, and their plainsong seemed muffled and flat.

  Sister Gunnhild had no stomach for lessons, either. She set Edith to copying lines in Greek—trifles and bits of poetry, and a passage from the Greek Gospel of John.

  Somewhere between the entry into Jerusalem and the Last Supper, a commotion brought Edith somewhat awake. People were shouting—men’s voices, and women remonstrating. The men were winning, from the sound of it.

  That was unheard of in this house of holy women. Edith glanced at Sister Gunnhild. She sat stiffly upright. In her face was something terribly like hope—though for what, Edith was almost afraid to wonder. Death? Rape? Worse?

  Edith was not afraid. Maybe she was too numb. The shouting was coming closer. The women were not screaming as if in terror. They were arguing, loudly. Edith could almost make out words.

  The door to the library burst open. There were nuns, fluttering and squawking like a flock of jackdaws, but the men in mail took little notice of them.

  Malcolm of Scots had changed little since Edith saw him last. There was a new scar seaming his cheek, and as in her vision, his beard had gone completely white; but she would have known him in the dark by the rough sweetness of his voice. “I’ve come for my daughter,” he said, as he must have been saying since he thrust his way through the gate.

  “Your daughter is here,” Edith said. Her voice was steady. That surprised her. She did not throw herself into his arms, though the urge was almost irresistible. She stood and faced him, and let him see what she had grown into.

  He did not seem too terribly disappointed. He looked hard at her, searching her face until he must have memorized every line of it. “You’re safe?” he asked at length. “I’m not too late?”

  She nodded. Her throat was too tight for words.

  He held out his hand. “Come, then. Get your things. We’ve a fair way to ride before nightfall.”

  As easy, as simple as that. Cold iron, she thought, and colder steel; and a king’s will that even here, so far from his own country, was strong enough to turn the abbess’ will aside.

  Or so she tried to tell herself. He had taken the abbess by surprise. She could never have expected anyone to dare what he had: to bring weapons into an abbey and snatch away one of its novices.

  She ran as fast as she could. The novices’ dormitory was deserted. Her bag of belongings was where it had been all along, packed and ready to go. The scent of roses wafted around her as she snatched it and spun and ran.

  Her father was in the corridor, running to meet her. He caught her hand and drew her with him, pulling her in his wake. Speed, yes—that was their best defense. They had to be out of there before the abbess gathered her wits and the terrible bindings of her will. Edith would not put it
past her to bind Malcolm as she had his daughter; and all his men, too.

  They had to go back past the library. Sister Gunnhild stood at the door. As they passed, she fell in with them, close behind Edith. Her face was white and set.

  Malcolm nodded sharply to the man nearest him. It was hard to tell through helmet and mail, but Edith thought he was an older man, too, though quick on his feet and strong. There was something familiar about the scrap of face that she could see: the sharp tip of a nose, the fierce gleam of eyes.

  He caught hold of Sister Gunnhild and braced to thrust her back toward the library.

  She braced and thrust against him. She was as tall as he, and even with armor to give him bulk, she was nigh as broad. When he firmed his grip on her, she cried out, “Majesty! I beg for sanctuary!”

  Malcolm checked his stride. “What—”

  “Let her come,” Edith said. It was not wise at all, and it certainly was not safe, but she had to say it. “She hates it here. Besides,” she said with belated intelligence, “she might be useful as a hostage. She’s old Harold’s daughter.”

  Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “Is she now?”

  Edith held her breath. That could have been completely the wrong thing to say, but she had cast the dice. Now it was for him to make the choice.

  He nodded abruptly. “Bring her with us. We’ve already kidnapped one nun. Why not two?”

  The knight barked laughter. “As well hang for two sheep as one. Or is it a sheep and a lamb?”

  “It’s mutton either way,” Sister Gunnhild said sharply. “Are you going to stand here nattering or can we go?”

  That took both men aback. Edith was gaping, too. This was a side of the good sister that she had never seen.

  It was rather terrifying. She decided she liked it. So, from the glint in his eye, did the knight who had captured Sister Gunnhild. He let her go, except for a grip on her hand. They all ran together through hall and cloister, past wide-eyed staring nuns, out into the courtyard where, a bare ten days ago, another king’s men had waited as Malcolm’s did now.

  Those had been, if neither invited nor welcome, at least tolerated. These were invaders, and they were mounted and ready to ride.

  They had a horse for Edith. There was none for Sister Gunnhild, but her abductor pulled her up behind him on his big-boned bay. The beast barely seemed to feel the doubled weight.

  Already Edith could feel walls of the soul closing in. Some of the men were wavering, their horses starting to wander. She forced her mind to clear, and turned her horse’s head toward the gate. It needed no more encouragement than that. It was a fine and sensible creature, and the open air, in its mind, was infinitely preferable to a crowded courtyard. It sprang into a gallop.

  They were well out of sight of the abbey when at last Edith’s horse consented to slow its headlong gallop. Her father and his escort were strung in a long skein down the road, which on this day of mist and rain was happily deserted.

  She had not even noticed the rain. It fell out of a sky without walls, onto earth untainted by empty holiness. And nowhere was the abbess’ presence. Those walls enclosed it.

  Edith had escaped. As she turned her face to the dripping sky, folk of air came flocking, leaping and swirling, singing in their eerie voices. She spread her arms wide and laughed for joy.

  Malcolm had not been jesting when he spoke of a long ride before nightfall. Edith continued to delight in her escape, but within the hour she was reminded all too forcibly that she had not sat on a horse since she was six years old.

  She gritted her teeth and endured it. It was no worse than a day’s penance in chapel. The mare she rode had soft paces and a level head to go with them; Edith had little to do but let her find her own way down the long road.

  For all her father’s joy in the rescue and her own far deeper joy in the escape, Edith became aware soon enough that this was not a victory ride. Her own rescue had gone well, but Malcolm’s embassy had not gone at all.

  “He wouldn’t see me,” Malcolm said that night. They had stopped in a manor that owed fealty to a Norman lord, but the lady of the manor was Saxon, and her sons, though half Norman, spoke Saxon with a pure accent. The king of Scots, whose queen was Alfred’s descendant, was sincerely welcome there. That queen’s daughter, once it was known who she was, was greeted as if she were a queen herself.

  Edith could grow to like that. But once dinner was over and the Lady Aelfgifu had gone to bed, Malcolm still sat in the hall, drinking mead and snarling at the dogs. Edith should have been in bed, tucked away in an alcove off the hall, but she was wide awake, drunk on freedom. She listened at the curtain as her father talked to the man who had captured Sister Gunnhild. Alain, his name was—and he was Breton, which rather surprised her. Bretons ran in a pack with Normans, and shared the Conquest. It was a Breton, or so it was said, whose arrow had killed King Harold.

  This man’s son’s name was Alain, too, and he was equally Breton. Yet they were clearly good friends to the Scots king.

  “He let me sit like a beggar at his gate,” Malcolm said, growling into his mead. “He turned my messengers away. When he rode out hunting, he ignored my very existence. What does he think he’s trying to do? Has he gone out of his mind?”

  “William’s preoccupied these days,” Alain the elder said. “That illness of his in the spring—it addled his brain. I don’t think even he knows what he wants of the world, now he’s back in it. I’ll wager he wasn’t ignoring you, exactly. He just couldn’t make up his mind what to do about you.”

  “What he’s going to do,” snapped Malcolm, “is give me back the lands he wrested from me. I’ll give him something to think about. I’ll give him a bloody war.”

  “Do you reckon that’s wise?” Alain asked.

  “Wise? What’s wisdom got to do with it? I’m his brother king. He shamed me in front of the world.”

  Edith peered through the crack in the curtain in time to see Alain spread his hands and shrug. “As you say. You’re a king. You’ll do what a king must do.”

  Malcolm bared his teeth at him, but Alain only broadened his shrug. He had no fear of royal wrath.

  He looked old, with his white hair and lined face, but he felt young. His teeth were still good—maybe that was part of it—and his eyes were keen. He drained his horn of mead, adept with it as foreigners almost never were, and rose with none of the stiffness one might expect in a man of his age. “I’ll leave you to your reflections, sire. If you take time to pray, add a bit for me.”

  Edith distinctly saw him wink. Malcolm flung a gnawed bone at him. He danced aside lightly and went off laughing.

  CHAPTER 23

  When Edith went to bed, Sister Gunnhild was there already, asleep on a pallet by the wall. After Alain took his leave, Malcolm gnawed his grievances for a while, as the fire died in the great hearth, but in time he rose—creaking a great deal more than Alain had—and made his way to his own bed.

  Edith was still awake. She could not seem to fall asleep. The air was too free, even in this small and firmly enclosed space. She did try: she lay on her own pallet and closed her eyes, and thought drowsy thoughts.

  A stir and a rustle put them hopelessly to flight. She cracked an eyelid. Sister Gunnhild had risen. There was no more sleep in her face than there was in Edith’s.

  She peered toward Edith. Edith shut her eyes quickly and tried to breathe long and slow.

  It seemed the ruse succeeded. Sister Gunnhild sighed. “Good,” she breathed. “Sleep till morning, and may God bless you.”

  That was kind of her. When Edith peered beneath her lashes again, Sister Gunnhild was already through the curtain.

  She must be going to the privy, no more. But Edith could not help herself. She slipped out of bed and made herself a shadow, flitting in Sister Gunnhild’s wake.

  It was a brief chase. The ordinary ranks of men were bedded down in the hall, but the higher ones had alcoves like the one the women shared. Sister Gunnhild passed by several, t
hen paused. Her hand trembled as it rose to the curtain. Edith watched her waver back and forth in her mind: the body reflected it, now leaning forward, now half turning as if to go back.

  Abruptly she slipped through the curtain. Edith should have fled then. But she had always been a curious creature, and she was lastingly astonished to find Sister Gunnhild so different than she ever suspected.

  She crept closer, hardly daring to breathe, and craned her ears to hear.

  “Sister!” That was Alain the elder. He sounded surprised, but not unwelcoming. “Is there trouble? Have you lost your way?”

  “I was lost long since,” Sister Gunnhild said.

  There was a slight pause. “Where do you need to go?” Alain asked. “The privy? Your chamber?”

  “I am where I need to be,” said Sister Gunnhild.

  “Sister,” said Alain, “this is hardly—”

  “Messire,” Sister Gunnhild said, “you are being deliberately dense. What should I do? Ask for sanctuary?”

  “I’m not a church,” said Alain, “and certainly I’m no churchman.”

  “Precisely,” Sister Gunnhild said.

  This pause lasted considerably longer than the one before it. “Ah,” said Alain at length. “So. Why me?”

  “Because,” said Sister Gunnhild, “I take you for a man of sense. And also of property, and courage. You’re a good son of the Conquest, yes? Would you spite a Saxon abbess?”

  “That depends,” said Alain. “Are you a spiteful woman?”

  “Not by nature,” said Sister Gunnhild, “but after a lifetime in that woman’s care, I would be more than happy to cause her grief.”

  “I hear she’s a hard woman,” Alain said. His tone was musing. “Having met her sister of Scotland, I can believe she’s not easy to live under. But this that you do, breaking your vows, proposing to sin mortally—I won’t have it said that I corrupted a bride of God. I won’t have you taking me as the lesser of great evils, either. I’ve never yet raped a woman, nor have I been accused of it. It’s a matter of pride.”