"Stop that!" He banged down his empty cup as the little girl passed, satisfied when she jumped and slopped ale down her robe. He laughed as she sat down in the middle of the hall, still gripping her jug, and began to wail.
"You made her cry!" It was the middle, awkward one, slamming her jug down onto the trestle with such force that Cena heard it crack.
"That is not yours to break!" he grumbled.
"It is not yours, either!" she answered back, flouncing down beside her sister, pulling the ends of her sleeves back from her wrists; a new trick and one she had certainly learned from his brat.
"Father, please, where is your wit? Isabella is little more than an infant and unused to being spoken to so harshly." Sunniva crouched and swept the snivelling child into her arms, calling her ridiculous names: sweetheart, baby, curly. Then the mettlesome, middle one hurled herself against Sunniva, dragging on her headrail — the only useful thing that had happened, since Orm Largebelly and the rest of the men in the hall strained forward on their benches to stare. Twenty years old or not, his daughter was still a prick-teaser.
If she was his daughter.
Was Father Martin right? Cena knuckled his fingers into his eyes as he tried to consider the question that had been plaguing him since halfway through this pilgrimage, when Edgar finally admitted what the fool of a priest had said. He had been disbelieving, then furious, and he was still angry.
By God, if her mother had played him for a fool, then Sunniva would pay. By God she would!
"Get me more beer!" Disgusted by his thoughts, Cena stuck to what he knew, old habits. He leaned over the table and lashed out, striking Sunniva in the middle of her back. "Serve me, damn you, girl! It is the custom here, obey it!"
He wrenched back his arm again, but his second blow was blocked by a hand as large and thick as a trencher. Hard as oak wood, too: Cena flinched and sucked his knuckles, glowering indignantly into the unyielding face and narrowed eyes of his assailant, Marc de Sens.
"Look to your own, man, and let me deal with mine!" Cena bellowed, heartened to see, farther along the main table, that his three sons were standing up, fingering their sword hilts. Only Ketil looked less than eager, but then, according to Told, he had taken a tumble in the hunt and smashed his nose.
Thoughts of the hunt prompted Cena to goad some more, especially when the fellow picked up his nieces, one in each arm, and began to walk away. "Where were you, this day, de Sens? Skulking with the womenfolk? Afraid to get your clothes muddy?"
The man's broad shoulder's tensed: otherwise he gave no sign of having heard. He stalked through the quietening hall and out into the gathering darkness, the two younger girls wrapped about him like creepers and the third trotting rapidly behind.
Sunniva watched Marc go, longing to go with him. Or was her father right? Was Marc "soft"? It was true he had not gone hunting: he had spent the day between sewing room and stable, his girls clustering with him.
"Does it matter what Cena thinks?" Hilde asked softly beside her, gathering up the cracked and discarded vessels. When Sunniva turned wondering eyes on her, she smiled.
"I could see that it bothered you, my dear," she said.
"Marc is his own master," Sunniva muttered.
"That is so." Hilde passed the cracked pitcher to a serving maid and observed in a low voice. "Have you heard the news? The beacons on dragon hill have been lit. It is a call to arms for the menfolk here."
Sunniva's mind flashed to her own desperate struggles with Magnus Longnose, the whore-master who had attacked her in church. And Marc had saved her: he had not been soft then.
"All men of age who can bear arms," Hilde went on, implacably clear. "My son does not wish to announce it yet and break up the feast but soon he must. The beacons are for our King. He will be marching north."
King Harold in new danger, thought Sunniva. It was well known that the King had mustered most of his fighting force in the south of England, waiting to repel the greedy forces of William of Normandy. So what had happened here, so far in the north, that he must come?
In a flash, she understood. It was an old, feared enemy. "Vikings!" she gasped.
Hilde nodded, warning her with a finger to her own lips to keep her voice down. "Where will Marc be in such a fight?" she asked. "Which side? I do not think he is English. And I know he would not desert his young ones."
"No." Sunniva was proud in her denial, proud of him for that, although Hilde's words brought no other comfort. Which lord would Marc de Sens choose to follow if William of Normandy did cross the narrow sea and land in England?
"And what will you do, my dear, if your menfolk leave to join the King's army?"
She would be stranded, friendless. Sunniva's heart beat hard at such a prospect but she rallied quickly. "I will find a place," she said, hoping that perhaps Hilde would offer one. "My maid and I have skills."
"Think you of your maid?" Hilde gave her a very old, knowing look. "I do not feel she is so interested in your well-being." She nodded her head slightly along the dais and the high table to where Bertana was standing, her empty pitcher by her feet as she gnawed on a slice of roast venison handed to her by Edgar.
"But I see you already know this," Hilde went on. "Let me add something you do not know. I will be happy to have you —”
Whatever she was going to say was lost in a new bellow from Cena.
"We must travel on! A pilgrimage is a sacred trust." He was up and swaying on his feet, his face red and sweating as he appealed to the lower-ranking pilgrims gathered on the benches farthest from the fire. "Each of us swore to undertake and complete it. We cannot stop now, so close to our goal. Think of the saint's anger! Think of Saint Cuthbert!"
A few pilgrims, mainly the halt and infirm, murmured their agreement.
"I believe your father has just heard about the beacons," remarked Hilde, throwing a large deer bone to the two hunting dogs lately fawning round her feet.
"So I see," said Sunniva, glancing swiftly at Edgar and the twins. At home the three of them had been loud in their praise of war and fighting, now they were strangely silent. She touched the daggers at her belt, wishing that she could answer the summons instead, defend her land and king.
On the dais, Orm Largebelly shrugged, his eyes not quite meeting Cena's. "If that is truly your choice," he said, "I suggest you prepare to leave as soon as possible on the morrow. My men and I must ride to battle."
The feast broke up quickly then. Sunniva was glad: though she did not want to admit it, she was ashamed of Cena and the others. Slipping away from the hall, she made for the stable. Only to check on their horses, she justified to herself, her spirits lifting none the less at the prospect of seeing Marc again, of perhaps speaking to him. She could be a messenger: he might not know of the lit beacons, and he would need to know.
"Wait, girl." An unwelcome voice from the darkness behind her. Sunniva whirled about, suddenly tired of all kinds of things.
"My name is Sunniva, Edgar. Henceforth, I will not heed you unless you address me by my name."
"Pah!" Edgar said, sounding exactly like his father, "Very high and noble, I am sure! He hawked and spat, scowling and rubbing his lower jaw. "Can you get me some salve for my teeth?"
"Ask Bertana, she should know where I packed it. What else?" There was always something else with Edgar.
"That man you fancy. Do you realize he is Norman?"
"He is Breton. And he told me."
"Breton, Norman, they are close enough to make no difference. They are both French." He made it sound like a disease. Edgar tugged on his long fair moustache, a further sign of his displeasure. "You have spoken to him! When did you sneak off to do that?"
Sunniva said nothing. Edgar enjoyed being the bearer of disturbing news: she sensed there was more to come.
Sure enough, when his question failed to provoke her, Edgar added, "Did he tell you why he is on pilgrimage?"
"Of course."
Edgar, who could have been a good-looking,
even-featured man if he would refrain from either sneering or scowling, now gave her his third most common expression: a self-satisfied smirk.
"You really do not know!" he crowed. "My stupid Sunniva, your girlish day-dream of Marc de Sens will have to end. The man is a murderer. What is more, he killed a woman. He is here in England because the shrines of his land cannot bring him absolution or peace. He is not for you, or any one."
He laughed at her stricken expression. "Now I must take my leave of you, stupid Sunniva. Next time you meet your murderer, do not send him my good wishes, for he deserves none. Farewell."
He turned his back on her without a bow and strode off, still laughing.
Chapter 9
Stunned, she tottered to the barn with none of her usual grace, retreating swiftly when she realized Marc's nieces were also there, and awake. The questions pressing down so hard on her tongue, making her feel as if she had a dozen rocks piled onto her chest, would have to wait. She had to talk to Marc — but not in front of his children.
Ketil and later Told prowled past, the rising stars behind and above them making them look incongruously heroic, like Orion the hunter. She kept to the place she had found: a narrow nook between stable and kitchen where the roofs overlapped and dipped low, creating a curtain of thatch she could hide behind. Standing and then crouching in her den, thirst and hunger making her feel light-headed, she waited for the yard and stable to grow quiet.
Finally the pilgrims and men-at-arms crossing to the stable, checking on their horses, rechecking their weapons, dribbled to a slow halt. Bertana came calling for her but Sunniva let her go, dipping her head so her face would not catch the glimmers of star-light. Holding her breath, she listened as her maid returned, grumbling, to the hall. Torchlight spilled into the yard as Bertana pushed open the side-door, throwing a beam of light into the stable where Sunniva waited. The beam illuminated a large moving shadow, then a figure, draping a cloak over an arm and hanging a flask around his neck.
It was Marc. Sunniva found herself trembling, could feel her eyes widening to take all of him in. She was alone out here and he was so big, so very tall and strong. His wrists were thicker than her forearms. He could pin her down with one leg, let alone any other limb.
He was a possible killer and he was making straight for her hiding place.
He is Orion, she thought wildly, her shivering growing worse as she shrank back, feeling no comfort when her rump hit the wattle wall of the stable. She knew she should reach for her knives but her arms were frozen, her legs threatening to give way beneath her as he stopped, lowered his head and asked, "Do I join you in your den or will you come out to me?"
She ran out, not away but straight at him, hurling her questions. "Did you kill a woman? Is that why you are on this pilgrimage? Why did you kill her? Was she your wife?"
"Hardly!" He grinned, as if the idea was the height of folly. "I have no wife, nor betrothed. Unlike you."
"What mean you by that?"
"Your elusive betrothed. And I am surprised Largebelly is not looking for you. He has stared enough and stripped you with his eyes."
"What are you talking about?"
"You must know this: a lass as comely as you always knows." He grinned again, adding, "Shall we both keep our hands where we can see them?"
"Never mind our host." From being afraid, Sunniva felt close to boxing Marc de Sens' ears: the man was deliberately trying to divert her! "What of these rumours I have heard of you?"
Marc folded his arms across his chest. "You should not believe everything you hear."
"So you did not kill a woman?"
He shook his head. "Next time you wish to hide, tuck those knives of yours well away. They catch the light. Where did you learn the skill with them?"
"From a tumbler and knife-thrower who stayed a summer at Cena's house when I was twelve. What was the woman's name?"
"A summer? That is long time for a traveller to stick in one place."
Sunniva smiled. "He loved my cooking," she admitted, "and I did save him from a mob."
Marc's clear, deep eyes widened. "How was this?"
She shrugged, relishing her moment. "Tell me of this woman first."
"Little tease." He gave her a slow, strangely sweet smile and unfolded his arms, touching her cheek lightly with his fingers. "Come, let me take you back to the hall. It is late for you to be out alone."
Sunniva felt close to bursting with frustration. "But you have told me nothing!"
"And I intend to keep it that way. Shall we go, before Ketil looks for you again?"
"That is unfair," she replied, wondering as she fell into step with him. "I do not understand." She tried again. "How is it I can feel safe with you, if you did this thing?"
He stopped on the track and looked at her, his features as rigid as stone. "You should keep asking yourself that question," he said. "And ask, too, how much your betrothed means to you when you also seek me out."
He pointed ahead. "The way is clear for you, and I must return to my three before Judith and Alde quarrel, or Isabella has another nightmare. Go."
Angered and ashamed by what he had just said, Sunniva left.
Chapter 10
The rain continued, grey rain falling from grey clouds on grey hills and drab, still trees. The old Roman road scored through this desolate landscape like a running cross stitch, Sunniva thought, pulling her hood tighter about her numbed ears. Her ungloved fingers were wet with the rain, her feet cold and damp.
"Hey, girl, pass me a flask!" Cena ordered, the rain plastering his beard to his scowl so he looked like an angry troll. Wordlessly, Sunniva did so, aware that Cena — she could no longer think of him as her father — was angry. Although she rode beside him, she was wrapped in a voluminous cloak that hid her. While they were on the road, with the possibility of meeting other travellers who might be rich or useful to him, Cena wanted her displayed. He would have ripped the cloak off her back, had he been able to do so without questions from the pilgrims.
Sunniva glanced behind, spotting Marc riding next to the carter and his wife and their load of earthenware pots. His nieces were nowhere to be seen, which must mean they were in the covered wagon. Or had Marc left them behind, or worse?
"No!" Sunniva breathed, refusing to believe that. Only last night, Alde and Judith had thrashed themselves awake, writhing in sleep from some dream or memory too dreadful to contemplate. Marc had talked to them for a long time, crouched by their rough pallets in the corner of the hall. Then Isabella stirred, dissolving instantly into noisy weeping, but Marc was so patient with her. He taught the child a game with string, saying he had learned it from an old friend called Karl. Sunniva herself had fallen asleep beside Bertana, feeling secure not because of the presence of her maid but because of Marc's deep, sympathetic voice.
"He cares for them," she said aloud. "As deeply as a father for a daughter."
"Cease your prattle!" Cena was rubbing his knee again, wincing at the smooth paces of his horse.
Sunniva said nothing, aware of but refusing to look at Cena's sons, who were cantering alongside and listening. She tried to think of some childhood song to lift her mood, waved at the carter's wife, who stolidly remained fixed and still on her seat, tried to remember her mother's smile. In all these things, she failed. The sound of rain, the smell of rain, the scent of chilled horses and cold men, the smell of sickness that always hung about the straggling party, the groans of the limping, bandaged penitents, seeking a cure at the shrine ahead, filled her world.
I will not look at Marc again, she promised herself. He may care for his own, but for the rest he is merely a fellow traveller under the shadow of God, a bearded brute, a woman-killer, not handsome, not worth looking at. Desperately seeking something to study during these dreary miles, Sunniva stared off into the east, away from the chain of northern hills.
There were the tall pennants, flopping in the rain, the sign of an approaching war-party carrying their standards before them.
Cena prodded her back with his whip. "Smile!"
"At whom?" Sunniva indicated the shrouds of rain through which the riders emerged as flashes of colour and movement. She saw a round shield with the sign of a charging boar painted upon it; a raised mailed fist; a battle-axe whirled above bearded heads. Closer now the dark, shadowy war-band came: Sunniva could see a scarlet flapping cloak, more round shields with their belligerent painted boars, a man shouting, his words lost in the weather. As Cena shoved her again and repeated his instruction, she deflected him by the remark, "Be glad, sir, that we have not to fight these strangers."
"You? Fight?" Cena's scorn was total, swiftly transforming to insincere approval as the smallest, stockiest member of the two-score-and-three mounted men pushed his piebald stallion through the pilgrim escorts.
"Cena, my dear friend!" the rider bawled, "What are you about, crawling along with this band of holy cripples? King Harold marches for York against Hardrada and we must join him!"
He pulled off his helm and thrust a gloved hand at the bemused Cena. "You are a sight for these old eyes of mine! Do you not recognize me yet? Alric of Thornwyke. We and your brother rode together in Earl Morcar's war-band against the Scots nine years ago. We rode out many times against them."
Sunniva kept a steady countenance, though her memories of Cena's absence from their homestead were not happy ones. It had been the year her mother Ethelinda had died, fading away, pale and coughing, shrivelled and in pain. She had stopped doing anything — cooking, ordering the household, even the sewing that she had loved so much. And what had happened to her embroidery? Sunniva strained to remember but had to accept that Cena had probably given away her mother's sewing — or thrown it away. He had been in a rage all that year, while her mother was sick, as if Ethelinda had chosen to be ill on purpose. Her brothers had been no better. Edgar had gone raiding with his father and uncle but bullied her mercilessly whenever he returned home, and the twins -
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 35