The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  Ailénor’s thoughts vaulted back to the palace garden, her last memory being that of the pock-faced man who attacked her. A second man aided him. He had grunted and clutched at her with clumsy hands, his features shrouded in shadow.

  If the two meant to despoil her, why had they not done so before now in the garden and been done with it? Why had they taken her captive and sailed with her from Rouen?

  She shoved the questions to the back of her mind. ‘Twould be a futile, sapping effort to even begin to reason it out. Instead she gave her thoughts over to the great Seine that surely flowed beneath the hull. It offered only two possible courses — upriver toward Paris, or downriver toward the coast, and from there La Manche, the Channel, and the open sea beyond.

  The image brought her up short. Was she to be enslaved in a foreign land?

  Her heart sprinted. Composing herself with effort, her thoughts turned to Garreth. Had he waited in the vacant garden, thinking she had forgotten or rebuffed him outright? Worse, had he encountered the scoundrels as they removed her from the grounds? Had they dealt him some harm?

  Concern welled in her breast, but the scuffing of feet and rumble of male voices arrested her thoughts. Two men approached and halted nearby.

  Ailénor took a tiny swallow. She held herself perfectly still, alarm skidding along her nerves. One of them spoke in a gritty voice. Her inner ear sharpened as she caught his words — Gaelic words. He spoke the native tongue of her mother.

  Ailénor concentrated, attuning her ear. She was grateful her parents had insisted on raising their children to speak the tongues of their own birth lands — Ireland and Danmark — as well as that of Francia. Ailénor sent up a quick prayer of gratitude that they had, her attention shifting to the second man as he made a reply.

  “She should have awakened by now. You hit her too hard, Grimbold, and probably suffocated her in that sack in the bargain. I say we open it and have a look. She best be alive.” His voice took on a tone of warning.

  “Quiet yourself, Wimund. You draw the others’ attention. True, I slogged her good and solid, but she’ll not smother in the sack. ‘Tis a loose weave with breathing holes aplenty, and I cut a few extra. I suspect she’ll be blacked out a time longer being a noblewoman, fragile and all. Less trouble for us, I say. Now, leave Lady Ailinn to her rest. She’ll be needing it soon enough, eh?” He gave a coarse, suggestive laugh, and the other man sniggered as well.

  Ailénor stiffened at the implication, then again as she realized they knew her name.

  The second man’s humor driveled away. “She’s a pretty piece, she is. You said I could have her first, Grimbold. On a vow you did, and I’ll be holding you to it. I ride Lady Ailinn first.”

  Ice shot through Ailénor’s veins as she realized ‘twas not her name but her mother’s they spoke. Shocked and horrified, her whole being revolted. The thugs believed they had abducted her dear maman and had done so with every intention of ravishing her!

  Why, why, why? her mind screamed. ‘Twas too appalling to compass.

  “How long might we keep her? The princess warned not to tarry overlong or she’d give over the treasure to another.”

  “Wimund, you worry like an old woman,” Grimbold groused. “There is sufficient time to take our pleasures, deliver our prize, and reap our reward.”

  Wimund fell silent a moment. “What do you think of Rhiannon? Is she truly a princess, as she claims? A real one, I mean.”

  “Does it matter?” Grimbold riposted. “The treasure is real enough.

  Rhiannon. The name spread its tentacles through Ailénor’s mind, then coiled around her heart. ‘Twas a name rarely uttered in her parents’ household, a name filled with dark and grievous memories for them both.

  Could it be the same woman? Had Rhiannon survived the perils of the Steppe?

  Rhiannon was one of her mother’s three stepcousins — princess of the Eóganacht clan. All four had been seized that ill-starred day when the Norsemen ravaged Clonmel.

  By her own connivances, Rhiannon devised for Ailinn to be mistaken for herself during the attack so that she, Rhiannon, might be spared. But her schemes failed, and Rhiannon suffered no less than any other — save Ailinn who, due to a twist of fate, remained undefiled.

  Later, during their transport to the East, Rhiannon brought about the death of their cousin, Deira. Later still, Rhiannon sought to save herself once more at Ailinn’s expense. Amid a fierce Petcheneg attack, Rhiannon cast Ailinn into the path of oncoming horsemen while she herself fled for safety. But Lyting rescued and defended Ailinn. Meanwhile, the heathens snared Rhiannon and carried her off into the immense plain of the Steppe.

  Ailénor knew her parents assumed Rhiannon to be dead. She had overheard them speak of it with Lia, her mother’s other stepcousin and Deira’s surviving sister. Given the harsh conditions of the Steppe and the nomadic life of the tribesmen, they agreed ‘twould be a miracle for Rhiannon to survive.

  But Ailénor now knew she had survived and had returned to seek some distorted form of vengeance upon her mother. As impossible as it might seem, who else could it be? The men spoke of an Irish princess named Rhiannon, who promised them treasure to specifically abduct her mother. It had to be the same woman. Ailénor felt it in her soul.

  “How much longer do we have?” Wimund’s voice broke through her thoughts.

  “We shall make the Frankish coast tonight, England’s late tomorrow,” Grimbold advised. “Then we need sail on to Erin and round the southwestern coast. Our time is good, so we can keep the baronne to ourselves a few days longer before taking her on to the hill-fort at Cahercommaun.”

  “Can I have her tonight, Grimbold?”

  “Patience, friend. The boatswain has yet to discover the true nature of the goods he carries. Though I expect no great trouble from him, our other companion concerns me more. Best wait until we put him ashore tomorrow, or leastwise until we are partway across the Channel and away from land. We can make our own rules then, eh?” He chuckled.

  Ailénor strained to hear more but only caught the hollow sound of boot falls fading across the boards of the ship.

  She digested the men’s latest exchange, then folded her thoughts inward and tried to calm the rapid beat of her heart. She must let them continue to believe they held the right woman. As long as they did, there would be no danger they might return to Rouen to seize her maman or attempt to barter the daughter for the mother.

  Ailénor doubted that they would free her once they discovered their mistake. At least this way she could protect her mother and, for the time, place her out of danger — no matter the personal cost. Ailénor determined to take on Rhiannon herself, if need be. The witch would not harm her mother again!

  Ailénor continued to lie very still, hoping Rhiannon’s hirelings would believe her to be yet unconscious. ‘Twould be best if they did not see her in the light of day — if it were day — and risk their realizing their error. Even so, she and her mother favored one another. Mayhap they would not immediately realize the difference.

  Somehow she must escape. Or get word to her family. There was little hope for either while she was trussed up in a sack in the bottom of a ship, sailing down the Seine.

  Ailénor lay motionless, aware of the pitch and roll of the ship. ‘Twas best to reserve her strength and fortify herself with rest for the time to come. Could she depend on the boatswain’s help? Or that of the other passenger mentioned? The cold truth was, she had only herself upon whom to rely.

  Lord, I need a miracle, she prayed silently as she closed her eyes and inhaled a breath of stale air. If only Garreth were here.

  »«

  From beneath his lashes, Garreth watched the man with the bulbous eyes sniff about the cargo hold for an untold time this day. Predictably, he stopped before the sea chest and the parcel that contained the Psalter. Rubbing his jaw, he cast a glance back in Garreth’s direction.

  Garreth dropped his lashes to give the appearance he dozed. When he cracked them open
a moment later, he observed the man squatting before the chest and reaching behind it.

  Garreth restrained his impulse. Hours past, he realized ‘twas neither the trunk nor the Psalter that elicited the Irishmen’s interest. ‘Twas the sack that lay hidden behind them.

  What had the men smuggled aboard? What could draw so much concern, demand so much vigilance? The two were as restless as ants, ever crawling about the hold and inspecting the sack as though it contained something . . . live.

  Garreth’s eyes flew open before he could halt his reaction. God’s breath. Of course.

  Having revealed himself to be awake, he straightened upright and made a show of stretching and yawning. As he stood to his feet, he gauged the deepening blue sky overhead, then ambled casually astern to where the boatswain sat at the tiller. He engaged in small talk while keeping an eye on the Irishmen, and learned they were to reach Harfleur in the coming hour. Meanwhile, the man with the enormous eyes climbed from the hold and moved off to join his companion.

  Garreth strolled toward the fore of the ship, exercising his legs and slipping several more looks at the other two men. For the moment they busied themselves with a skin of drink and hard-baked biscuits. Mindful they would mark his movements, Garreth dropped down into the hold and strode toward his chest.

  Crouching down, he withdrew the wrapped Psalter from behind the trunk and set it aside. He then took hold of the trunk and dragged it out from beneath the decking. Garreth could veritably feel the Irishmen’s eyes spearing holes in his back as he unlocked the chest and opened its lid.

  He spent several more minutes rummaging inside the piece. At the same time, he continued to steal glimpses at the hemp sack. He felt a cold knot form in his stomach as he realized, from the look of it, ‘twas likely no animal in the sack, but a human.

  Garreth decided his course, then closed the lid and shoved the trunk back under the decking, purposely ramming it into the sack. A feminine yelp escaped the sack, and it jerked sharply.

  A woman! Garreth’s thoughts jolted in surprise. Relinquishing all thought of the other men, he shouldered the trunk aside, pulled on the knife at his belt, and slit the drawstrings securing the sack. Hastily he yanked open the sack’s mouth and next spied the top of the girl’s head, her disheveled tresses spilling out. Their color remained indeterminate in the deep shadows, and still . . .

  The knot in his stomach went to ice as he yanked the hemp down farther, exposing a pale forehead, then familiar eyes.

  All flashed in a blinding white light as the back of Garreth’s head exploded in pain. The light died, and he toppled forward into a black abyss.

  »«

  Garreth groped his way to consciousness. The rhythmic rise and fall of the ship heightened the throbbing in his head. Still he fought on. Breaking through the shadowy barrier, he hauled open his lids.

  The ribs of the ship’s hull came slowly into focus, then the wood planking overhead. Judging by its outline, he knew he lay beneath the ship’s foredeck.

  Garreth started to rise but came instantly aware his hands and feet were tied. Twisting to one side, he forced himself up on his elbow. A pair of slippered feet came into view, issuing from beneath a lady’s skirt.

  Garreth froze. His gaze traveled upward over the gowned legs to a slender waist, the lady’s arms being drawn behind her back as though bound. His gaze traveled farther to high, round breasts and slightly broad shoulders, all framed with a bountiful spill of dark red hair. His gaze vaulted to the woman’s face, and his breath left him.

  “Ailénor!”

  Ailénor’s heart beat hard and fast as Garreth’s eyes locked with hers and he spoke her name. Fiercely worried about him these many hours, she smiled for joy. “Garreth, you are all right?”

  “What are . . . How did . . . ?” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Please. Tell me I am dreaming. Tell me you are not here but safe in Rouen.”

  “Alors. We are on La Manche now. We sailed before dawn and are partway across.”

  Garreth opened his eyes, wincing as he moved his head.

  “Attention. Careful. Wimund hit you quite hard.”

  “Wimund?”

  “One of the men who abducted me. The other is called Grimbold. He is the more dangerous one, I believe.”

  “Sweet Jesu, Ailénor. Have they hurt you?” Garreth dragged himself upright, concern filling his features.

  “Non, thanks to the boatswain. He saved us both.” At Garreth’s puzzled look she continued. “The other two would have killed you outright, but the boatswain argued you are a nobleman and worth a healthy ransom. This led Grimbold and Wimund to open your trunk and the package beside it. When they saw the weave of your garments and the magnificent book you transported, they realized the boatswain spoke true.”

  “The Psalter of Metz?” He stiffened. “Where is it now?”

  “Wimund has it.” Ailénor leaned forward and nodded toward the rear of the ship. “There, on the deck astern.”

  Garreth followed her line of sight leaning forward. His pulse jumped as he beheld the chinless, bug-eyed churl bent over the Psalter with a knife in hand, prying the jewels from their settings and slipping them into a pouch at his belt. Garreth swore blackly beneath his breath.

  “Grimbold, the one with the scarred face, seemed to recognize you.”

  “Probably from the ducal hall,” Garreth muttered without explanation, drawing his gaze back to Ailénor. He stilled, seeing the bruise spread along her jaw. Anger shot through his veins. “They did hurt you.”

  “Shh. They will hear,” she calmed. “I am all right. I gained this when they first seized me, but they have dealt me no harm since. Actually the boatswain abetted me — in his own way.” A smile tugged at her lips. “He made a great complaint of my presence onboard, grumbling ‘women bring bad luck at sea,’ and ‘had he known they had a female in the sack,’ he would never have allowed them aboard. He warned if they gave any trouble he would put them ashore at Harfleur to find another ship.”

  “And they did as he said and left you alone, without argument?” Garreth asked, incredulous. “They seem naught but cutthroats.”

  Worry creased Ailénor’s eyes. “Oui. But I suspect they know little of ships and need the boatswain. As to myself, I feigned illness from the ship’s constant motion. They have not bothered me. Wimund appears to suffer a touchy stomach himself, and Grimbold has been busy keeping watch of the boatswain. We anchored off the shores of Harfleur last night and sailed before light.”

  Garreth glanced again to Wimund who now scrutinized the book’s ivory plaque and gold covering as though looking for a way to pull them off. Garreth ground his teeth.

  “There is naught we can do for now,” he conceded finally. “Best save our strength for the trials to come.”

  Garreth scanned what he could see of the bright sky overhead and the tops of puffy white clouds visible in the distance. Easing down on his side, he worked at the ropes binding his wrists and pondered their situation.

  Ailénor dozed lightly for a time, then came suddenly awake as she sensed the ship moving rougher, swifter.

  “We’ve picked up a good clip of wind. Do you feel it?” she asked Garreth, leaning forward to glimpse the sky from beneath the decking. Clouds skated overhead, stringing out before the wind, naught but wisps of white.

  “You know of ships and the sea?” He followed her gaze.

  “My father is a master seaman.

  “Ah, the ‘Sea Fox,’ Sjorefurinn. Your cousin Richard said I should ask your mother of how he came by the name.”

  “You should.” She tossed a smile, then returned her attention skyward. A bud of hope expanded in her heart.

  Hours slipped past. As Ailénor expected, the clouds grew gray, the water choppy. If only she could look out over the water to gauge its swell and see whether wavelets had begun to form or if they showed white.

  Garreth, too, watched as the clouds darkened further. His efforts with his ropes had proven futile. Now, as he sat hunched be
neath the half deck, he hoped for a miracle. Wimund, he noted, had abandoned the Psalter to join Grim-bold. They stood astern with the boatswain who frowned deeply as he gazed to the south.

  “Move the goods beneath the decks and lash everything down,” he barked above the din of the sea. “We’ll soon have a witches’ brew.”

  Grimbold took exception to the seaman’s orders, but Wimund’s eyes grew to saucers as he stared at the horizon. He plucked at his companion’s sleeve. “Best do as he says.”

  Grudgingly Grimbold joined Wimund and began shifting crates from the mast and stowing them underneath the half decks. As he looked on Garreth and Ailénor, he drew his knife from his belt.

  “Out.” He gestured with the tip of the blade, then cut the ropes binding their ankles.

  “What are you doing?” Wimund cried and rushed over.

  “Wouldn’t want our prize captives to be crushed should the chests come loose. Tie them to the mast.”

  Ailénor tucked her head down, lest they realize by her youth she was not the Baronne de Héricourt. Wimund tugged her and Garreth to their feet and forced them to move. As she emerged from the hold her hair began to whip about her in the wind, further veiling her features as Wimund prodded them with the point of his dagger toward the mast. As he bound them, she looked south.

  “Merciful Jesus,” Ailénor uttered as she saw the bank of black clouds scowling on the horizon. She shifted her gaze to the water and saw how the swells were long, carrying sizable waves atop them, capped with white. As they broke, they threw up spray, wetting anyone near the ship’s sides.

  Grimbold and Wimund finished securing the goods as the clouds darkened to iron-gray.

  “Reef the sails!” the boatswain bellowed.

  “Reef them yourself!” Grimbold snarled. “I’m no seaman. ‘Tis why we paid you to take us across.”

  “Then say your prayers if you remember how,” the boatswain snapped back. “This vessel may be naught but a sentine, but she still requires two to sail her, and you’ve trussed up the man who was to assist me. Now cut him free or aid me yourself, but be quick about it. These storms barrel up the Channel fast and turn the waters into a boiling cauldron. They’ll drag a ship straight to the bottom if not handled right. We need to reduce the sail area now, unless you want to be feeding the creatures down below.”