The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  “I see,” she said softly. Her brows knitted together. “En vérité, I do not see. But I shall hurry.” Ailénor gave a quick squeeze to Kylan’s arm. “Merci, cousin.”

  Hastening from the orchard, Ailénor headed toward the bailey and, once through the gate and defense walls, proceeded to Valsemé’s great manor house.

  As she quickened her pace she thought how extraordinary that King Athelstan should direct his message to her father. How could he know of the Baron de Héricourt?

  Except by Cynric’s missive, came the answer. The one issued from Winchester, twisted in its accounts to advance Cynric’s — and Barbetorte’s — purposes.

  Tendrils of fear twined about her heart. Cynric was no admirer of Garreth. She shuddered to think what lies he — and the Breton — might be now whispering into the royal ears.

  Would Athelstan strip Garreth of his titles and position? Might he order him shackled should he return, or exile him permanently?

  But did the king even know Garreth was here? If his and her movements had been traced to Lundenburh, perhaps the king presumed Garreth sailed with her to Normandy, not knowing of their abduction to Ireland.

  The more Ailénor pondered the matter, the more she dreaded the tidings the missive carried.

  Her heart thrumming in her chest, she mounted the steps of the manor house and entered the main hall. There servants moved quietly and efficiently about, setting up trestles for the coming meal. At the far end, Garreth stood with her mother and aunt and uncle.

  Ailénor whisked a glance over the hall but saw no sign of her father. Presumably he still secluded himself with the courier.

  Crossing the distance, she drew the gazes of the others. She could read naught in their looks — not in her maman’s, nor her Aunt Brienne’s nor her Uncle Rurik’s. But as Garreth turned, her breath caught at the somber intensity in his eyes. In their dark brown depths, she read the torment tearing at his soul.

  Ailénor moved quickly to his side and slipped her arm around his waist, offering up a solacing smile. For all the world, she wished she could ease his cares and assure him everything would be all right. But how could she know the mind of a king or that which he might decree?

  The sound of boots drew Ailénor’s attention. She saw her father emerge from a side chamber, followed by the royal messenger.

  Her father’s smooth features did not betray his thoughts, but for one brief instant his gaze shifted to her. Some concern shadowed his clear blue eyes and immediately gave her unease. Joining them, he directed his gaze to the others. Still, for a moment he did not speak.

  “Well, broðir,” Rurik prodded in his deep, rich voice. “Are we to stand here the day, strung taut with curiosity? What says the king?”

  Lyting skimmed a look to Rurik, then to the ladies and Garreth.

  “I believe some explanation is first due on my part. Before leaving Héricourt to, ah, accompany Garreth to his wedding, I dispatched two missives. One, of course, to you, Rurik, apprising you of my decision and requesting suitable preparations be made.”

  “And see the bride readied and waiting on the church steps,” Ralik added with a decided grin.

  A smile touched Lyting’s lips as well. “Já. That, too. But I also felt compelled to inform the English monarch of the impending marriage of his royal thegn and sent a second missive to King Athelstan.”

  Ailénor and Garreth exchanged startled glances, but Lyting continued.

  “Though I offered no explanation for the suddenness of the ceremony, I did recount for him the events that preceded it — beginning with Ailénor’s abduction from Rouen. The missive detailed what I had learned from Garreth, particularly that of Ailénor’s detainment at Winchester and those involved. I also included why, to my understanding, Garreth chose to contradict his sovereign’s direct orders and took her to Lundenburh with the purpose of freeing her and sending her back to Normandy.”

  Lyting faced Garreth, meeting his gaze evenly. “Providentially, my missive reached the king at Winchester without difficulty. I can tell you, by his reply, he was most gratified to receive its contents. He also includes in his letter a pronouncement concerning yourself. Rather than my restating his directives, ‘tis best you hear the king’s own words.”

  Stepping aside, Lyting motioned the courier forward.

  As the young man unrolled the parchment, Ailénor felt Garreth stiffen beside her, steeling himself to receive his king’s judgment. She glimpsed his rigid stance, then gave her attention back to the courier who at the moment was reciting the formal salutations and wishes for God’s blessings. Her father bid the young man to skip to the heart of the letter.

  “. . . God preserve you always . . . indebtedness for enlightening . . . solved many perturbing questions . . .” He fumbled through the lines.

  In exasperation, her father pointed to where he should begin. The courier cleared his throat.

  “’Tis my hope, when this letter finds you, it will likewise find Garreth still in your company. I would ask that you give him to know, when first I received word of events at Winchester — as related by the wicgerefa Cynric — I found them sorely perplexing. Doubly so, having received no word from Garreth himself. In ordering Lady Ailénor’s transference to Andover under Garreth’s escort, ‘twas my intent to remove them both from the authority of the high reeve, providing them the protection of a royal decree. When still no word came from Garreth, I further distrusted the situation. Having finished my purposes in the north, I headed with my troops for Winchester, believing Lady Ailénor to be safe at Andover.

  “As to the matter of Garreth’s countermanding my orders, I have decided to address that particular transgression by issuing a new charge — one that he is warned not to ignore, but to follow without deviation. As his sovereign lord, I, Athelstan, King of all Britain, do command Garreth of Tamworth, royal THEGN and officer in the Hird, to return to the royal palace at Winchester where, in my presence, he will immediately relinquish his place at court and rank in the Hird . . .”

  Garreth pressed his lashes tight.

  “ . . . that he might thereupon be elevated to the position of Ealdorman of Hamtunscir and endowed with those lands and titles entailed. At that time he shall also be conferred a place in the Witan. Long have I desired to reward him in this manner for his years of faithful service and many deeds of valor, yet never has it been more deserved than now.

  “‘Again, I enjoin Garreth to come with all speed to Winchester, that these honors might be bestowed on him and that his bride might be graciously welcomed and their union fittingly celebrated.’“

  The courier paused and looked to Garreth. “Sir, there is an added note of a more personal nature. Would you prefer we step aside?”

  “No,” Garreth’s voice came roughly. “You may read it here. But do so in Saxon.”

  “As you will.” The young man cleared his throat once more and began. “King Athelstan writes thusly: ‘Most worthy and loyal friend, your instincts continue to serve you well. Thank you for your ordeals on behalf of Lady Ailénor and my crown. Your unswayable opposition against the intrigues at court and your many pains to right the circumstances have, with no doubt in my mind, averted direct conflict with Normandy. It may interest you to know that Cynric oversees new duties on the Welsh border, and that my sister, nephew, and Alain de Barbetorte have withdrawn to distant estates for an indefinite time.

  “‘One thing more need be stated, my friend. Long has it grieved me that, even as king, by law I could do naught to restore your birthright, so unjustly taken from you. Be satisfied in the knowledge that no Kentman in this time — including those who have aggrieved you — have gained such distinction or worth as you. You have eclipsed them all — in honor, lands, title, and wealth. And in matters of what is right and virtuous, you stand heads above them. I am constantly amazed at how much keener is God’s justice than man’s — mayhap not always what we expect, but ever brimming with surprises and a thousand times more satisfying in the end. I w
ait expectantly for your return, Garreth, and look forward to you and your bride beginning your new lives together as Lord and Lady of Hamtunscir.

  “‘Given this day at Winchester, August 31, in the year of our Lord 933. Athelstan, Rex To Bri.’“

  Ailénor wiped the moisture from her eyes and saw that Garreth’s eyes shone as well. He stood silent a moment, absorbing the missive’s words. She wondered if he yet realized that she — and likely her father and uncle — could understand the last of it.

  Just then, he raised his eyes to hers. She could not help but meet his look with a brilliant smile. Garreth smiled, too, then gave a relieved laugh. Impulsively he swept her off her toes, his hands at her waist, and twirled her twice around before setting her to her feet again. He then proceeded to kiss her soundly and joyously on the lips before all.

  Breathless, Ailénor tottered momentarily, holding on to her husband’s arm, her heart overflowing with happiness for him. Her parents and aunt and uncle quickly offered Garreth their congratulations, then others came forth who had been silently gathering in the hall.

  As everyone was caught up in the exuberance of the moment, well-wishing Garreth, Ailénor looked on, excited that all had come to such a happy conclusion. She anticipated accompanying Garreth to England where they were to become the “Lord and Lady of Hamtunscir,” and oversee lands across the waters.

  The thought struck Ailénor like a thunderbolt. Suddenly she understood with painful clarity the earlier look in her father’s eyes. No longer would she dwell in Normandy, but on the other side of La Manche, leaving her family and homeland.

  The moment turned bittersweet. Ailénor’s gaze stole to her father, and she found his eyes already upon her. He gave her a nod as if to say he understood. Ailénor felt a piercing in her heart as she faced the full ramifications of her marriage. Why during the blissful week since her wedding had she not once thought on this inevitability that would change her life forevermore?

  The thought consumed her as she looked upon the beloved face of her maman who smiled happily now as she spoke with Garreth. Not wishing to spoil the moment, Ailénor lifted her smile back in place. She loved Garreth with all her heart and would willingly make her life with him wherever that might lead. Still, she would miss her family terribly.

  The excitement carried over through dinner, which became an occasion for more feasting. As Ailénor sat beside Garreth at their place of honor on the dais, she looked out over the hall.

  Many relatives and friends gathered there, having arrived at Valsemé throughout the past week of festivities. She gazed on the familiar faces of those she had known all her life and with whom she had grown up — her brothers and sisters and many cousins and, of course, dear Felise.

  There were also Ketil and Aleth, long-time family friends, arrived from Ivry. With them sat Lia and her husband and children. Nearby, Brother Bernard appeared to discuss the merits of the wine with Richard and Kylan. The youngest children shared the end of one trestle — Brietta, Adelis, and Ena huddling together over one trencher, Michan enjoying his own, and the infamous Cricket peeking from beneath the hem of the table linens.

  A lump formed in Ailénor’s throat. As her gaze drew to the high table — to her parents and aunt and uncle — emotion overcame her. She felt heartsick at the prospect of being severed from them all and living so far away. Her eyes misted.

  In need of fresh air and time alone to deal with her melancholy, Ailénor rose, explaining she wished to stretch her legs with a brief walk. Concern filled Garreth’s eyes, but she bid him stay and finish his conversation with her father, for they had been engrossed discussing the horses of Hamtunscir. Masking her true feelings with a smile, she made her way from the hall.

  Garreth’s gaze followed Ailénor as she departed the hall. Something troubled her, but he was at a loss as to what that might be. Excusing himself, he left the dais and quit the hall.

  Stepping outside, he spied her immediately, standing at the base of the motte, an immense mound of dirt from which Valsemé’s great keep rose. Ailénor gazed up the long flight of steps that stretched to the tower’s entrance on the second level. To his astonishment, she began to mount them.

  “Ailénor! What are you doing, my heart?” he called out, catching up with her moments later.

  She smiled softly as he joined her. “I thought to climb to the top of the keep.”

  “Is this your way of ‘stretching your legs’?” He flashed her a grin, though in truth her words took him totally aback. “What of your fear of heights?”

  The corner of her lips curved upward. “When I was trapped on the cliff ledge, I realized something I have known deep inside all along. ‘Tis more a fear of falling I possess than a fear of heights. I also learned that from such an elevation one can see to a fabulous distance. And just now I would like to see all I can of Normandy . . . before I must leave it.”

  Garreth began to understand her mystifying mood. “Of course,” he said gently. “I would like to see it with you.”

  Garreth took each step with her, placing an assuring hand at the small of her back. Whenever he felt her tense, he whispered distractions in her ear, speaking lightly of diverse things and encouraging her to keep her gaze uplifted. On gaining the top, they entered the imposing tower and mounted the interior stairs. These Ailénor managed without difficulty.

  Moving ever upward through the various levels, they came at last to a small low-ceilinged room in the very top of the keep. There a ladder stood braced in place, rising to a small door in the ceiling. Garreth mounted the crosspieces and opened it, then stepped back down. Looking to Ailénor, he held out his hand.

  “Are you sure you will be all right, love?”

  “Oui.” She placed her hand in his. “Just hold me tight, Garreth.”

  As Ailénor and Garreth emerged on the top of the keep, the sweeping view took their breath away. Layers of clouds stacked the sky, while the evening’s long light fell across the green rolling hills. In the distance the River Toques coursed westward, a sparkling silver thread that would soon carry them to their future in England.

  Garreth stood behind Ailénor, his arms wrapped securely about her. At first she held herself stiff as a plank. But as they continued to absorb the beauty and serenity of the scene, she gradually relaxed against him.

  “Did I tell you I was born at Valsemé and raised here the first years of my life?” she asked quietly, reflectively. “‘Twas before Duke Rollo awarded my father the lands of Héricourt.”

  Again she fell silent and when after several minutes she still did not speak, Garreth shifted to look at her.

  “Does something trouble you, love?”

  She bit her lower lip, then finally lifted her hand and pointed toward the hills.

  “See how the trees are touched with crimson and gold? Summer draws to a close. As do my days in Normandy.”

  Comprehension seized him fully, brilliantly. Ailénor belonged to a large, close-knit family, something he had never enjoyed. At Rouen she had been abruptly ripped away from them. Now, having barely returned, she must leave them once again, but this time in a more permanent way.

  He had not thought of the effect all this would have on her. Or what it cost her. While his life would continue in much the same vein, her entire life was taking a new direction. Garreth chose his next words with care.

  “Consider, love, the trees will leaf and blossom again, nature’s promise. And a foretoken that we, too, shall return here. And often, I promise you.”

  Ailénor turned in his arms and searched his eyes. He embraced her with the warmth of his smile.

  “Has it escaped your notice, love, how much time your father and I have spent in conversation these past days? ‘Twas our intent — before the courier arrived — to tell you our plans this eve. We are entering into a joint venture, so to speak — breeding horses. ‘Tis my own hope to improve the horse stock in England which runs to the small side. Your father is gifting us with a stallion and six mares.”


  Smoothing a wisp of hair from her brow, he gazed earnestly into her eyes. “I hope you will grow to like your new homeland. ‘Twill require some adjustments, I know. But do not fear. We shall travel back and forth to Normandy quite frequently, as will your parents to England.” He gave her a wink, eliciting a smile. “In truth, considering the size of your family, I would not be surprised if we need enlarge our hall to accommodate their many visitations.”

  “Oh, Garreth, is all this true?” A bright smile replaced the pain in Ailénor’s eyes, and she hugged him mightily.

  “Upon my oath. ‘Tis my intent to make you the happiest woman in all of England.”

  “I shall be happy wherever you are, my husband.” She slipped her arms around his neck. “My home is with you.”

  “And there may it ever remain.” Garreth embraced Ailénor, his lips descending over hers. He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, and deeper still.

  Their hearts entwined, their love reached out toward all the tomorrows and beyond.

  Author’s Note

  Restoration of the Carolingian throne: Louis d’Outremer gained Francia’s throne in 936 A.D. with the support of William Longsword, Duke of Normandy, and Hugh, the Count of Paris. Rather than being grateful, the young king remained distrusting and suspicious of both men. When William Longsword was assassinated in 942 A.D., Louis kidnapped William’s son and successor, ten-year-old Richard I. Thanks to the gallantry of the duke’s squire — who escaped with the boy in the dark of night and raced back to Rouen — Richard survived the ordeal and ruled until 996 A.D.

  Place names: Translations for the Anglo-Saxon names (in King Athelstan’s day) are as follows: Lundenburh — London; Lindum — Lincoln; and Jórvík — York.

  The dowager queens, Eadgiva of England and Eadgifu of France: To ease confusion in the text, I have used a variation of Eadgifu (Eadgiva) for the English dowager queen, King Edward’s widow. In reality, both she and her stepdaughter, Charles the Simple’s queen, bore the same name.