The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  The furrow on Lucán’s brow deepened. “I still say I can get her down. My wrist isn’t that bad, Ailénor.”

  “Absolutely not.” She glanced to his arm, immobilized with a narrow board and suspended in a linen sling at his side. “It has barely begun to mend from the spill you took from your palfrey yesterday morn.”

  Lucán cast her a prickly look, plainly annoyed that she should voice aloud that particular embarrassment.

  Several more piercing squeals issued from the girls as the kitten misstepped, now looking for all the world ready to drop from the tree any instant. Michan whimpered and tugged afresh at Ailénor’s dress, while Lucán darted her a sharp glance.

  “If Galen were here, he’d have the kitten down in the wink of an eye,” he said of the oldest of their brothers, younger to Ailénor by two years. “At least he’s not afraid of heights, and he has a man’s strength to make the climb as well.”

  Ailénor ignored Lucán’s verbal jab at her aversion to heights and of his reproof of her gender. Lucán was at a mulish age, believing females — except their beloved maman and aunt — were only competent at cooking, sewing, and tending babies. Certainly not at climbing trees.

  Still, Lucán’s words nettled. Ailénor knew her brother provoked her apurpose, but she refused to be baited. Surely the kitten could manage the branch and then back herself safely to the ground.

  Lucán gave a snort when Ailénor failed to respond.

  “Girls,” he muttered. “I’m going to find Richard and Kylan. They should still be in the practice yard. Best gain their aid before Cricket drops out of the tree and splats on the ground like overripe fruit.”

  Lucán emphasized his last words, giving Ailénor a pointed, just-see-if-I’m-not-right look, then hastened back toward the practice yard where their older twin cousins were likely engaged in swordplay.

  Ailénor simmered, irritated with Lucán. But Michan’s high-pitched whine drew her attention back, as did the gasps from the girls as Cricket shifted her position once more.

  Michan’s lips quivered, his eyes now brimming with tears. “She’s going to fall, Ailénor, and bust open just like Lucán said — like ‘overripe fruit.’ Then she’ll be dead, and it will be your fault.”

  “My fault?” Ailénor blurted, taken aback.

  “You could climb the tree and save her, it you weren’t so afraid.”

  “Felise will know what to do,” Adelis declared in a rush, referring to their nursemaid. “We passed her in the flower garden when we came to the orchard.”

  Pale with concern, Adelis grasped little Ena by the hand, and together with Brietta, their cousin, the three hurried off toward the palace gates.

  Michan, watching the spasmodic attempts of the kitten, began to cry in earnest, rubbing his fists into his eyes.

  Ailénor vented a breath. Why did the little beast have to get herself stuck up in a tree? And so high? A cat should be able to get itself down as easily as it got itself up. But, non. This one would probably fall just to spite her.

  As Ailénor shot a glance up at the white fur-puff, she couldn’t help but soften. She knew she was more vexed with herself than with the kitten. ‘Twas not that she was afraid of climbing trees or too feeble to do so. She’d done that enough times as a small girl, much to her parents’ dismay. ‘Twas the height itself that frightened her so.

  But as Ailénor continued to gaze on the stranded kitten, her concern increased that the kitten might indeed fall. When Cricket stared straight at her with her perfectly round golden eyes and gave forth a small, distressed “mew,” Ailénor’s resistance melted along with her heart. She could not abandon Cricket in such a moment of need.

  Shoring up her courage, Ailénor studied the tree to determine how best to pull herself up onto one of its lowermost branches. At the same time she engaged her mind with a constant, emboldening chatter. She was older now, she told herself, not the girl who once scaled trees without care. She would be cautious. Being overtall for a female, with long legs and a long reach, mayhap she need not climb so very high after all. Whatever was required of her, she must face. She would not have the demise of this little creature on her conscience, nor would she endure her siblings’ and cousins’ ridicule for failing the kitten in so simple a rescue.

  Ailénor pondered the lowest branch. ‘Twas a trifle high, even with the advantage of her height. Likewise, there was no place to gain footage to boost herself up. The aged pear tree reached to a remarkable height, its girth equally exceptional in width.

  Ailénor refused to be defeated so easily. Glancing about the orchard, she saw that most of the workers had already departed. ‘Twas late afternoon, the harvesting finished for the day, and near to the dinner hour. At a nearby tree, she observed one workman in the process of lugging off a basket of golden pears, his ladder left behind, still propped against the tree trunk.

  Ailénor smiled with grim determination. Mayhap this rescue would not prove so difficult after all.

  “Come along, Michan, we shall save your kitty. But I shall need your ‘man’s’ strength to help me with that ladder.”

  Michan palmed the wetness from his cheeks and followed Ailénor, animated by her words.

  Procuring the ladder, Ailénor caught up the front to midsection, bearing the greater part of its weight, while Michan held the back as best he could, the end dragging.

  “Hold it steady for me now,” Ailénor instructed Michan moments later as she supported the ladder against the trunk of the pear tree.

  Ailénor looked to the kitten in the upper limbs with a bit of dismay, then lifted her foot to the first rung. Immediately she stepped into the material of her dress.

  Ailénor mumbled beneath her breath as she retrieved her foot, then glanced around to assure she and Michan were alone. Bending down, she reached through her legs, grabbed the hem of the back of her gown, and pulled the material through her legs to the front and upward. Securing the fabric in the leather cord of her girdle, she created breeches of sorts, baring her legs up to her midthighs.

  Michan stared, wide-eyed. “Ailénor . . . What will Pere Bruno say?”

  “Don’t you dare tell anyone, Michan. Most especially not the priest. Nor maman or papa, either,” she instructed sternly.

  Ailénor removed her slippers, deeming them too slippery for the task, then once again set her foot to the ladder rungs and began the climb.

  Sweet Virgin, do not let anyone see me, she prayed silently. The pain across her instep reminded her that she had not partaken of such sport for a very long time.

  Ailénor spied the kitten above. Cricket had made her way along the limb to the trunk and now sat in the curve of the tree, where the two joined.

  “Good, stay there,” Ailénor commanded as if the cat could understand.

  Planting her foot firmly on the first branch and grabbing hold of the limb directly above it, Ailénor pulled herself off the ladder and up into the tree. She steadied herself a moment, then stepped over and up again, onto another branch, at the same time exchanging her grasp of one limb for another.

  Ailénor found herself immediately surrounded by leaves. Leaves in her face, leaves in her eyes, leaves swatting against her mouth. She blew at them and tackled the next branch.

  “I’ll get you, little one,” she called to the kitten, as much to calm her own nerves as she braved the climb and mounted steadily higher. “Un moment, minette,” she prattled with forced cheerfulness, avoiding even a single glance downward. Gazing up, she saw that the little varmint had moved again.

  “Restes! Stay put, I say!” she scolded.

  Cricket gave a soft “mew,” then, disregarding Ailénor’s command, tested the trunk of the tree, sinking her sharp, needlelike claws into the bark, and ventured out. Ailénor ground her back teeth. Filled with determination, she lay hold to another branch and pulled herself up, scraping her foot in the process.

  “Dratted cat,” she muttered.

  “Hurry, Ailénor,” Michan cried out from below as Cric
ket disappeared around to the back side of the tree.

  A branch tore at Ailénor’s dress, and another snagged her hair. Her temper warmed as she freed herself. She had no wish to get into a chase — with a cat — in a pear tree. Where would it end? She shuddered to think, glancing to the uppermost limbs. Ailénor continued to work her way higher, ignoring the insects she encountered and trying not to destroy any fruit.

  Another “mew” told Ailénor that Cricket was just to the opposite side of the trunk. Carefully Ailénor made her way around, thankful for the sturdy limbs on the old tree. Gaining sight of the kitten once more, she smiled. Cricket was scarcely more than an arm’s length away.

  Mindful, Ailénor held on to the branch with one hand and leaned forward, stretching out her torso and free arm to grasp the white fur-ball. But even as she did, the kitten shied from her reach. Blinking her golden eyes, the kitten gave a placid “mew,” then began backing down the trunk of the tree.

  Ailénor gazed after the cat aghast. Cricket picked her way down without mishap, then, while still a third of the way above the ground, turned herself around and dashed down the remainder of the trunk. Reaching the ground, she scampered a short distance, plopped her bottom on the ground, and started lazily licking her paw as though nothing of consequence had just passed.

  Ailénor boiled, feeling as though steam issued from every pore on her head.

  Squeals of delight burst from Michan, startling the kitten as he rushed with open hands to snatch her up. Cricket bolted, with Michan trotting joyfully behind, intent on capturing her. Ailénor pressed her lips to a thin line as the two headed out of the orchard, abandoning her in the pear tree.

  “Wretched little beast,” she grumbled after the cat. “Both of you,” she tossed after Michan as well.

  Ailénor felt hot and dirty and very disagreeable, especially as she spied ants and then a leggy spider on the underside of several leaves. Pushing back wayward strands of hair from her face, she made the mistake of looking directly below.

  Ailénor clutched the branch, her knuckles whitening as the ground moved beneath her. She shuddered, her heart and stomach suddenly in her mouth. She’d climbed far higher than she’d realized. All too vividly, Ailénor recalled the reason she had ceased climbing trees as a child. Likewise, she realized, ‘twas not so much the height itself that terrified her, but the fear of falling. That she had nearly done at age five, from high in an oak tree. Papa climbed to her rescue in that instance, she herself a lost kitten!

  Heart thumping madly and fear congealing the marrow of her bones, Ailénor began a shaky descent.

  “Cricket, you better have nine lives,” she muttered. “You are going to need all of them when I catch up with you.”

  »«

  Garreth of Tamworth elongated his stride, greatly enjoying the stretch and pull of his muscles.

  After having been cramped aboard a stocky little trading cog for three days, he now relished the simple act of walking, the stiffness diminishing from his joints and spine with each new exertion. He was amazed that his legs hadn’t folded beneath him, knotted and benumbed, when he first set foot onto the dock.

  But now, as he made his way through the twisting streets of Rouen, his muscles loosened, and the tension flowed out of them, replaced with a fresh surge of energy. He hoped his time here would meet with the same success he had just achieved in Paris.

  Officially he traveled through Francia as an agent for his lord and sovereign, England’s celebrated king, Athelstan. Like numerous other royal envoys currently scouring Europe and eastern lands, his task was to procure sacred relics and hallowed articles for the monarch’s renowned collection.

  The guise allowed him to travel inconspicuously, without garnering undue attention. Moreover, in his capacity ‘twas most natural and without suspicion that while in Paris he should serve as courier and deliver greetings to the king’s sister, Eadhild, and to her husband, the Count of Paris — also known as “Hugh the Great” and “Duke of the Franks.”

  Count or duke, Hugh also happened to be the most powerful baron in the Frankish realm.

  Garreth’s lips lifted into a faint smile. His mission to Paris — and now to the ducal court of Rouen — had less to do with sanctified bones than with the future of the throne of Francia.

  Garreth proceeded along the narrow street, inhaling the pungent scents of the city and scanning the crowds milling there. Wattle-and-daub houses lined the way, decorated with a profusion of flowers, brightly colored pennants, and fluttery ribbons.

  Clever of the duke to hold these festivities and demand his barons to be in attendance — given the events of the past months Garreth thought. ‘Twas convenient for himself, as well, that he might bear King Athelstan’s wishes for the duke’s rule — and all he might accomplish through it.

  The street wound gently upward, reminding him that Rouen spread along the foot of high, forested hills. Garreth continued to follow the meandering lane, having been assured it cut through the heart of the city and would lead him directly toward the grounds of the ducal palace.

  Progressing on, his gaze paused over a particularly flirtatious maid who lingered in an open doorway. He skimmed her shapely curves, giving her an appreciative smile.

  He certainly wouldn’t mind a dalliance while in Rouen. It had been sore long since he enjoyed a good tumble. His visit in Paris had been too brief and too guarded to seek his pleasure in the softness of a woman. There would also be little chance to do so when he returned to England, for then he must choose a wife. Or rather, announce his choice of one.

  With a sigh he gave a parting glance to the maid and pushed himself on, regretting his present mission must eclipse such indulgences for the moment.

  A wife. The thought sent a prickle down the back of his neck. He held no complaint that he must betroth himself on his return, for at that time the king intended to reward his long service and friendship with handsome titles and lands, righting the wrong done him so many years past.

  But being elevated from the status of royal thegn to the privileged rank of ealdorman would necessitate that he take a wife and begin seeding his own dynasty. To that end, Athelstan, king and matchmaker, who had seen all his sisters wed to high places — save the ones who had escaped to monastery — had already proffered two distant cousins for his consideration.

  Garreth had jested with the king at the time that he himself should take a wife. But, in truth, he was deeply honored and flattered by the king’s gesture. Not only was his admiration for his sovereign unbounded, but no more steadfast a friend, nor truer “brother” — even of blood — could he ever hope to have than Athelstan.

  Still, this business of a wife. As a royal thegn attached to the king’s household, unencumbered these years by titles and lands and the need to make an advantageous marriage, he had entertained thoughts of choosing a mate for love rather than status. Despite his lack of lands, the king had seen him amply rewarded with wealth and privileges aplenty, advancing him to a high station within the royal circle.

  Garreth looked on another fetching maid who flushed under his gaze as he passed. With a small flutter of lashes, she smiled at him with a shy, pretty seductiveness.

  Rosalynd and Mora, the king’s kinswomen, were not so pretty, he reflected, though acceptable enough and seemingly intelligent and capable. Mayhap affection would come with time, though from his few encounters with them, he suspected he would have little in common with either one he might choose beyond the marriage bed itself. Would that suffice through the years? A corner of his mouth pulled downward. Truth be known, it left a barren feeling in his heart.

  Garreth shook the thoughts away as he passed through the postern gate of the city, the street turning from cobbles to dirt. In the far distance, left and right, he could make out the continuance of the wide, yawning ditches that surrounded Rouen, said to be filled with wolf traps. Along the banks of the Seine, of course, ‘twas not ditches that protected the city, but miles of barbicaned walls, a legacy, pr
esumably, of earlier Roman endeavors.

  But now the road stretched on before him, winding and climbing the hillside, cutting through a sizable orchard, and terminating before the high limestone walls of the ducal palace.

  Garreth leaned into his stride as the land sloped steeply upward, warming his leg muscles. Presently he traversed the distance and approached the orchard. It looked to have been long-standing, the trees mature and healthy in size, the foliage of the pears, apples, peaches, and plums densely full.

  As he neared the edge of the orchard, an amusing sight caught his eye that of a lad roughly five years of age, chasing after a small white kitten. The two trotted onto the road, dodging around an old man entering the grove — a laborer from the looks of him.

  The boy and kitten scampered ahead, while the man trod on and stopped in the midst of the trees. Doffing his cap, he scratched the thin wisps of hair on his head, looking from one tree to another as though he had misplaced something. He halted his motions as he spied a ladder leaning against a trunk several trees away. With a shrug and shake of his head, he trudged over and took hold of the piece. Hooking his arm and shoulder through the rungs, he carted off the ladder and departed the orchard.

  Garreth watched the man with a mixture of amusement and compassion. Obviously the old fellow’s faculties were slipping.

  Garreth proceeded on, his gaze lingering a moment longer on the retreating back of the orchard worker, then drifting back over to the tree.

  ‘Twas an exceptional tree, an ancient pear, lofty in height with a stout bole, its leaves a glossy green. His stomach growled beneath his belt. As his gaze strayed over the tree, he wondered if it offered anything ripe for the plucking.

  He started toward it, then halted as a long, bare, and very shapely leg appeared from the canopy of leaves.

  Garreth stared in outright surprise, his boots taking root in the earth, his breath trapped in his chest. Slowly his gaze traveled over the trim foot and ankle, up the slender leg with its pleasingly rounded calf, on to the smooth knee and what promised to be the beginning of a tempting and equally bare thigh hidden behind the foliage.