Or was it worse? Had she changed towards him?
As if she had seen and understood his fearful doubt, Sunniva laid a hand upon his chest. "I am so glad you came for me," she whispered.
"I have missed you so much." They spoke their thought together and then smiled at each other, the moment as delicate and magical as a spider's web. Neither wanted to break the mood as they gazed into each other’s eyes.
"You have a lighter-coloured cross in your left eye," Sunniva observed at length. She was lying on top of him like a golden shadow, her unbound hair covering and warming them both. "It is like a mirror image of the tattoo on your arm," she went on, resting her chin on top of her hands, on top of his chest, "except that it is light."
"Your eyes sparkle with flecks of green and blue," Marc answered, revelling in her close notice, and even in the feel of her sharp knuckles against his ribs. "They are true sea-eyes, my mermaid."
Sunniva kissed his arm several times, her lips tracing the blue cross of his tattoo. "I am glad you had this put on you," she said. "It saved me a deal of grief and pain."
Curiosity and desire warred in Marc, but the thought of his sun-light in any grief was too much for him: curiosity won. "What mean you?"
She told him then, of Bertolf's terrible tableau, where she was forced to confront the corpse of a murder victim. "The clothes were Norman and foreign-made," she went on, in a flat, tense voice. "His head and face were unrecognizable. I thought the worst."
That bastard Bertolf had put her through this. Fighting down his fury, Marc was staggered by how ruthless her uncle had been. "You think he dressed one of his own dead folk in Norman clothes?"
She nodded. Her hands touched her own throat and she swallowed. "Then I saw the man's tattoo, upon his arm. A blue tattoo. A spiral tattoo."
"And knew at once it was not me. King Christ, what a blessing you have quick wits!" He stroked her back, longing to obliterate that foul memory altogether, loathing the fact she had suffered. "I wished I had found you sooner, before then. No woman should have to go through such a sight."
"No man, either," Sunniva said quietly.
"Bertolf treated you well, otherwise?"
"Yes," she whispered, but her sea eyes were stormy and now she rolled off him, covering her naked breasts with her hands.
In another moment she would be asking him if her clothes were dry and their intimacy would be gone. Marc sat up quickly. "Wait, you have cut yourself on your back," he lied — in truth he would have said anything to keep her close. "Let me see if it still bleeds."
She twisted herself into a spiral trying to look. "I cannot see!"
"It is the fog," Marc said, straight-faced. "We will not be able to move yet, not until the mist breaks a little." Bertolf and his men would not be moving, either, and a day's forced stillness would do him and Sunniva good — or so he fervently hoped. Cautiously, he stretched a hand to her. "May I?"
She turned at once, presenting her smooth back to him. Lust parched his throat at the sight of her trim legs and firm buttocks and he swayed a little, feeling as if he had drunk a belly-full of mead.
"No, the cut is clean enough," he said, unable to prevent his fingers from tracing the lines of her shoulderblades. How could Bertolf and his sons have lived so near to this delectable woman without attempting to touch her? His imagination raged with violent images of revenge as he curbed his voice. "It is healing well."
If she had been touched against her will then it was his duty to help her, not impose himself upon her. If she wished to speak of it, then he must hear her. If she did not want to talk of her captivity then he must respect her silence. He felt her tremble and his guts clenched in frustration. How could he help her? How?
"It is a little stiff, though," he heard Sunniva say. "The cut on my back."
"I can make you a salve," he said at once.
She half-turned. "You are certain we are safe here?"
"Very sure. Even without the fog." He had chosen the island of low, dense-seeming scrub and reeds with great care and disguised the log-boat.
"Your youngsters are safe?"
Marc smiled at Sunniva's habitual inquiry.
"Very safe. For sure I would not leave them otherwise."
"For sure you would not," she nodded, her eyes brightening. "Good! How did you find me?" she asked after a moment.
"I heard your pursuers and knew you would keep away from them." For the first and only time, Marc felt a certain gratitude to Bertolf for giving some sign, even if it were a negative sign, of Sunniva's whereabouts. "I knew you would keep to the smallest water channels that you could, not for speed but to hide."
"I could not risk a chase on open water," Sunniva agreed.
A silence fell between them, pierced only by the soft lapping of water as a water-rat splashed somewhere out in the streams. Sunniva hesitated and licked her lips. "A salve would be good."
He could see she was blushing and knew at once that she had guessed his lie and yet was still playing along with it. Hope charged afresh in him, making his heart race.
"Rest." He touched her arm gently, guiding her back to their bed of rushes and furs. "Let me will make up the fire and then make your salve."
Her golden eyebrows drew together. "What do I do?"
"What every lady does," Marc answered, his intuition sweeping him along in a happy blaze of confidence. "You comment on my efforts and tell me where I am going amiss."
She smiled at his jest, but frowned as quickly. "Marc, I am no lady," she said in a rush. "I know you were angry with me because I did not tell you I was an heiress, but I swear by Saint Freya that I did not know! And even if these lands exist, how can I claim them? In truth, I do not know what I am. I cannot even be sure that Cena was my father. What if Ketil and Told were right?"
"I do not believe them," Marc answered, giving her a light push to sit her down on his furs. He had forgotten the twins and it was no pleasure to remember them. "Your brothers had dirty mouths."
"And the priest? The priest in my own homeland?"
"Forget this for the moment," Marc said, exasperated that she should be worrying at the matter now, when they were finally reunited and he was trying to make her happy. "I care not what status or kin you have, only that you are Sunniva."
"I care, though, and I cannot dismiss it."
He wanted to yell at her that he loved her, and he almost did, but the campaigner in him knew that such a shout would bring Bertolf down on them for sure. "Give me some peace, woman," he growled. "Let me feed the fire before it burns out."
She glowered at him and he was glad to see her flare of spirit after what she had been through. Trying not to smile as she flounced about on her bottom on the furs, drawing sheepskins around her narrow shoulders, he tended the small blaze and then left her to find the herbs he needed and the fish he wanted.
He was back quite soon — this was a tiny island, and he knew there were enemy forces abroad, becalmed by the mist as he and Sunniva were but alert and eager to make trouble.
The fire, he noticed, still burned clearly, without that black smoke that could give away their position. Sunniva was a small, unmoving lump in the furs, rather too still for sleep.
"I could not find my clothes," she murmured from beneath the sheepskin.
"They are still drying on a bush," Marc answered, glad he had stuffed them under his cloak when he left her alone. He knew it was a shabby trick but he felt no guilt. "They will be dry when we have eaten."
He saw the tip of her nose emerge at the mention of food and had to fight down his desire to kiss it. Sunniva was no wild horse but she was as wary as one at present: he must go carefully.
He busied himself with preparing the crayfish and eel, talking meantime of the mist and how he had gone sprawling in the mud at one point and of the sleek, fat otter he had seen swimming past their island; tiny, everyday details that he hoped would make her feel safe. As the eel and crayfish boiled in their stone "basin" — a naturally hollowed-out sto
ne that he could use as a cooking pot — he turned to making the salve.
This was nothing new. He had made many salves — for horses.
He was vividly aware of his short-comings as a human healer, but he had gathered what he could by guesswork. Every woman he had ever known, including his mother and lately his nieces, loved sweet-smelling things, and to that end he had found some rose petals — incredibly he had found several fistfuls still surviving this winter on a sturdy rose-bush growing in the middle of their island — some yellow-headed coltsfoot and, rarest of all, a clump of sweet fen-violets, flowering very early.
The scent should please her, if nothing else, he thought, as he placed the flowers together on a flat stone. And though I am very glad she is not truly cut, putting the stuff on her will please me.
"How beautiful."
Even bundled tightly in sheepskin he had not heard her approach: she was so nimble and light-footed.
"I gathered them with you in mind," he replied, and on impulse, he took a few rose petals and scattered them in her hair. "Now they are beautiful."
She blushed, her cheek more glowing than the pink petals falling between them from her sunburst of hair. "Marc?"
He smiled encouragingly, about to ask her if she might prefer the violets as a posy, when she stumbled to her knees, speaking swiftly.
"I am sorry for what I did at Westminster Palace and for sneaking behind your back to the king and taking your place. I had no right and you were right to be angry, Marc! I am sorry, really sorry, and please believe me when I say I never meant to shame you. I made a stupid mistake —”
"Enough!" Marc tried to stop this flood of words. "You did nothing wrong, woman! I was the one who was too arrogant." He tried to clasp her shoulders, to hug her, but she slipped out of the sheepskin, evading his loving capture like the mermaid she was and, to his astonishment, cast herself over his lap. "What, by King Christ, are you about?"
"Here I am, Marc," she gabbled, "I know I wronged you. Please, if you are still angry, chastise me as you see fit. Across your lap or over your knee, 'tis your choice."
"Enough," Marc said again, without heat. This was the consequence of his threat of "later!" I must never do it to her again, he thought, appalled at himself as he lifted her hair so he could see her screwed-up face. I must vow to try.
"I was also wrong, Sunniva, far too stubborn in my pride," he admitted, brushing her forehead with his thumb. "When you meet her, my mother Matilde will tell you it is my abiding sin. I would say that she is also stubborn, although my mother would not agree."
He stroked the side of her face as her pretty features relaxed, trailing his fingers down the taut tendons of her neck. "We are both still learning each other, sweeting, and I must warn you, I am no saint."
"Saints can be angry," she replied, as if not entirely convinced.
"Maybe, sweeting, but I am not. I vow I would have done exactly as you did, had I been in your place." He leaned closer to her, ignoring the dull ache in the base of his spine, and whispered in Breton, "I love you."
She understood the sentiment, if not the words, and now, as she sagged over his knee, he risked glancing over her, admiring the sweep of her flanks and her mottled, blushing skin. She was warm under his hand.
He patted her bottom and she gave a tiny sigh that reassured him more than a thousand words. Whatever Bertolf had done to her, he had not injured her in that worst way. She would not be so yielding over his lap had Bertolf forced himself upon her. "Little sun-maid," he murmured, feeling less and less saintly by the instant.
She sighed again, then wrinkled her nose. "What is burning?"
Marc cursed and scooped her off him onto the bed of rushes but was too late: the water in the stone cooking "pot" had boiled away and the crayfish were half-scorched.
They ate them anyway, and then the eel. Sunniva delighted in teasing Marc by telling him the story of the Saxon king Alfred, famous even in her northern homeland for burning good food. Marc grinned at the tale and she smiled, pleased to see him pleased. She had been so afraid of that stubborn pride he had admitted to, but in the end his understanding had surprised her.
I would forgive him much, she thought, as Marc disappeared into the fog to dispose of the remains of their less-than-perfect meal. Perhaps he is the same with me. The idea pleased her as she fed the fire again then took a drink of mead from the small leather flask that Marc had carried with him from London.
There was a crack of dry reeds behind her.
"Is there any for me?" Marc asked, reaching over her shoulder to take the flask. He had stripped off his clothes and, as he climbed into bed beside her, pulling the furs over them both, she sensed the shock of his long hard body even before they touched.
"We should rest while we can; sleep out this mist."
He kissed her lightly on the lips and sank onto his belly, his arousal obvious. He did not close his eyes but continued to look at her.
"Sleep if you wish, Sunniva. 'Tis your choice."
She smiled and reached for him.
Their first time, after so long apart, was fast, glorious and almost too noisy. Marc longed to bellow out his moment of release but dared not and Sunniva recognized the ever-present danger: she clapped her hand over his mouth as he came. Her warm, slippery fingers clasped over his lips made the moment even more intense.
Afterwards, they lay sprawled like horses in a sunlit meadow, limbs akimbo, their bodies sheened with sweat and spoke loving nonsense to each other as their breathing steadied.
"We should sleep," Marc said at length. "Tomorrow, fog or no, we
need to move."
Jubilation of spirit had made Sunniva wakeful. "Could we move now?" she asked, gratified when a look of disappointment crossed his face. "To sleep together is wonderful," she reassured, "but can we not steal a march?"
He smiled. "You think like a warrior: plans and campaigns. But it is too risky."
"You searched the marshes at night."
"Not in fog." Marc's bushy eyebrows locked as he frowned. "You could not endure another session in these chill waters."
At times, Marc was over-protective, Sunniva decided, charmed none the less. "We can take care," she said. "It will mean we see your youngsters all the sooner."
"Humph!" Marc flicked her bottom and crawled from the furs. "You drive a hard bargain, mistress." He tossed her clothes to her from somewhere: they were dry and warm.
"I will earth over the fire and clear the camp," Sunniva replied, caught between laughter and sympathy as she saw that Marc was aroused again. She was tempted to tease, delay their departure, but the thought of Bertolf and his followers sobered her down. It was hard, though, leaving their misty reed-space. They could no longer be lost in each other. Her breasts and the space between her legs ached as she dressed and dismantled their bed, dragging the reeds here and there, trying to make it seem that this tiny island had been inhabited by nothing but mice.
Soon the boat was ready and they were, too. Marc had packed the boat with rushes and stowed their things. They set off into the mist-bound waterways in utter darkness, without moon or stars to guide them, but Sunniva had never felt more light.
There was one bad moment when Marc, a dark, shifting shadow in the prow of the boat, motioned with his hand for her to duck. His hand was gripping his sword as they waited, at stretch like leashed hunting dogs scenting quarry, and heard a soft splashing coming closer. Still they waited, bobbing like a leaf on the sluggish current, unable to row or pole in case that very action gave them away.
Sunniva spotted a tiny face rising out of the water by the side of their boat and bit down on a yelp of surprise, but Marc whistled softly through his teeth. "Otters are playful creatures and fearfully inquisitive," he whispered. He waited until the otter swirled and dived away and then handed Sunniva a stick of alder he had split in two. "Not much of a paddle, I know, but it will serve."
She nodded, glad to be able to help, and, both of them rowing, they sped forward once
more into a larger channel, moving against the current.
She was a good traveller, Marc thought, kneeling up in the log boat to row. As the darkness faded to a dusky rose and the sun began to burn off some of the river-fog, she began to ask him riddles.
"This is one way we English pass the long winter evenings, so it is a skill you need," she said.
"Ask away," Marc answered. It passed the dull time of rowing and he could still listen and keep watch. Her voice lilted to him over his shoulder, teasing and playful.
"A giant, now toppled,
hollow and dead,
still glides where it never would
when alive."
That was easy. "This boat," Marc answered.
"Here is another," Sunniva paused to wrap her own head-square about her alder paddle to save her hands against the knobbly bark. She had offered to tear it in two for him to share but, when Marc shook his head, she cleared her throat and declared,
"This knave creeps and clings,
A friend to mischief, the enemy
of sight. The sun may drive him off —”
"You cannot claim fog is male," Marc interrupted. "It is a woman. Listen." He listened himself first, checking all about was still and reedy, no dogs or busy hunters, then spoke.
"She winds her promise of mystery about you,
Endlessly deceiving and beguiling. Softer than dew."
"Not so," Sunniva replied at once. "Listen —”
And so they went on, moving slowly but steadily through the fens until they reached a point where the mist seeped away and they found themselves on a river, rowing to a fording-place.
Chapter 34
Once away from the ford, Marc and Sunniva walked all day along paths and tracks, flattening themselves into the dead grass whenever they heard horses. Sunniva saw no one, although Marc told her a troop of armed men had passed within a bow's length of their last hiding place, beside a single lime tree. Crouched under the lime's low branches, they could see little, but Marc counted a score and two horses from the rush of galloping hooves and said it was probably a levy of the king's. Sunniva agreed, although she guessed that Marc was trying to disguise the truth from her: that the men on horseback were Bertolf's warriors, searching for her.
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 53