Redemption (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  He now knows he’s naked.

  “I am…my name is…er…I don’t seem to recall…my name,” he stammered. “Perhaps it’s because I’m tired. Every bone in my body feels like it’s broken. Where am I?”

  “You’re in the infirmary of the abbey under construction near Alnwick. We brought you here after we found you wounded, on the battlefield.”

  “I was in a battle?”

  How could he not remember being in a battle?

  If only she could forget her terrible memories.

  “Yes. You were badly hurt. Besides the blow to the head and the wound on your face, you have a gash in your thigh, the damaged ribs and several deep bruises. You became feverish after lying on the muddy ground for hours before we found you.”

  “And you’ve nursed me?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on where she supposed his feet were under the blanket.

  There was an uneasy silence. Then he asked her, “Who won the battle?”

  “The Earl of Northumbria. He defeated the cursed Scots and killed their king, Malcolm Canmore, and his son. Perhaps, we’re finally rid of their attacks.”

  He became pensive and she could see he was trying to put the pieces of information together.

  “You’re hoping I’m not a Scot,” he said finally.

  “Yes,” she admitted, then against her better judgment added, “But you sound like one, though you look like a Norman nobleman, except your hair is long—”

  She stopped, aware she was babbling, bothered by a twinge of foreboding that she hoped her eyes didn’t betray.

  He glanced around the room. “I should stay silent,” he murmured.

  She nodded slightly. “Sip more ale.”

  At a loss for what to say after several minutes of awkward silence, she ventured, “We retrieved your sword. You were grasping it tightly. We might never have discovered you, if not for your horse. But your hauberk and helmet are not in good condition. We had to cut off most of your clothing.”

  She blushed. He would now suspect she’d helped to strip him. Should she ease his embarrassment by assuring him she’d looked away? Or would trying to find the words increase the discomfort for them both? In an effort to change the subject, she bent beneath the pallet to bring out his sword with both hands.

  He laughed, which caused him to wince. “A delicate nun, wielding such a large sword.”

  His laughter warms me.

  He took the sword from her with both powerful hands, and held it up in front of him, examining it in the dim candlelight. A spasm of pain ripped through him as he raised the weapon, though he tried to masked it.

  She risked a glance. Was there a glint of a memory in his blue eyes? The sword swayed, and she had to take it from his hands. She brought out the damaged helmet.

  He examined it, laid it on his belly, closed his eyes, and fell asleep with his hands on top of it.

  He dreamed of a desperate battle, an intense struggle.

  But who was his enemy?

  He felt the gut-wrenching despair of a cause lost.

  Mangled bodies, severed limbs, shrieking horses.

  Blood, a river of blood.

  Axes, clubs, daggers.

  Metal striking metal.

  Screams of terror.

  The rank smell of death.

  A suspicion of betrayal.

  A sword raised high against him. He turned his body and the blow glanced off his helmet. He fell, his opponent’s weapon slicing into his leg and pain searing through his chest.

  He awoke sweating and calling out, disturbing the handful of other patients.

  Perhaps my little nun should have kept me tied up.

  How long had he slept? Agneta was gone. His befuddled mind sensed something important was missing. He longed to lose himself again in those intriguing eyes.

  “I suppose nuns are instructed to keep their eyes downcast,” he muttered. “Pray God I’m not a Scot. She hates Scots.”

  He wondered about the cause of her deep hatred? What had happened to make such a beautiful woman sound cold, distant, and bereft? What kind of man became aroused by a nun. Who was he?

  Deep Regret

  The warrior watched her approach, carrying the usual bowl and flint razor. “How long have I been here, Agneta?” he asked, scratching the stubble at his chin.

  She smiled briefly. “Ten days, and you seem much improved.”

  “Aye. Only thanks to you. And the food.”

  “I’m surprised you enjoy the food. Men don’t usually like vegetables. My father—”

  She stopped abruptly, staring at him, her lip quivering.

  “I love cabbage, and garlic and leeks, and onions,” he interjected, sensing her unwillingness to continue.

  The tension seemed to leave her. “And we throw in the occasional salted herring.”

  He laughed, and now there was less pain. He liked the way she smiled when he laughed. She didn’t smile enough. “I do feel better. When I first got to my feet with the help of the monks, it took all my strength to relieve nature’s needs.”

  He smiled, remembering how discrete the pious monks were when they removed the vessels filled with urine. “They carry the jordans away as if they held gold,” he jested.

  “In a way they do,” she explained timidly. “They use the contents for making vellum.”

  The silence stretched between them as he digested what she’d said.

  “Now I can walk, albeit slowly, with some assistance. I want to remember who I am. It’s infuriating, like a tapestry with all the wrong threads. But, enough about me. If I stop trying to remember, mayhap it will come back. Tell me how you came to be here while you shave me.”

  She was nervous when she shaved his beard. At first he’d been afraid she might cut his throat, but her hand was steadier now and she’d evidently come to accept she would actually have to look at him while she performed the task. If he kept her talking while she worked it seemed easier for her, though that was risky in itself. He was strong enough now to shave himself, but didn’t want to give up the pleasure of having her do it.

  Taking a deep breath, she wet his face, began the ritual and shared with him in whispers how she came to the nunnery. “My parents and brothers died in a raid carried out by Scots and their Saxon allies. I watched them butcher my father and brothers.” She swallowed hard, and it was a few minutes before she could continue. “And then my mother—she—she died too.”

  She trembled, making him nervous.

  He reached out to still her hand.

  She pulled away. “I’d nowhere to go. The few villagers who survived were taken in by this religious community where work has been underway for years on the building of an abbey. The orphans are still here and they’ll become nuns or monks. Most of them are simple folk from the village. I’m the only one of genteel birth, and Mother Superior has high hopes and big ambitions for her protégé.” She smiled bleakly. “I’m a young woman alone in dangerous times. The Church will protect me.”

  He wondered why she felt it necessary to add, “I pray daily for a true vocation.”

  “I understand now your deep hatred of Scots,” was all he could say.

  Agneta nodded, and turned his face to shave the other side. “Here in Northumbria the people are a mixture of ancestries, some Danes descended from the Vikings of the Danelaw, like my mother, some Anglo-Saxons, like my father’s family, the Kirkthwaites, and now Normans after the coming of the Conqueror.”

  He rubbed his hand over his newly-shaved chin, wishing her hands were still on him. “But you said Saxon allies killed your family?”

  She nodded. “They were most likely Saxons who had fled to Scotland after the Conquest.”

  He shook his head. “Northumbria?” he murmured.

  “Alnwick is in Northumbria, in the northeast of England.”

  “Go on,” he said, wanting to keep her by his side as long as he could. “When did the Normans come?”

  “In the ye
ar of our Lord, One Thousand and Sixty-Six.”

  “And what year is it now?”

  She stopped in her task of gathering up the shaving materials, and thought for a moment. “It’s a score and seven years since.”

  “Seven and twenty?”

  Agneta wiped his face with a drying cloth. “Yes, and now Normans hold all the power. Roger de Mowbray is the Earl of Northumbria. His castle is nearby in Alnwick. The Conqueror wanted to hold Northumbria against the Scots. The Scots consider it theirs. King William Rufus, the Conqueror’s son and now the king, hasn’t stopped the incursions by the Scots, who are often aided by the exiled Saxons. We’re caught in the middle of the conflict. But we’re not Scots.”

  He admired the pride with which she spoke about her people, her heritage. He regretted she’d suffered such pain and loss and he wished he could offer solace.

  Agneta Kirkthwaite. I love the sound of her name.

  He had a sense she wanted to impart to him why she had such strong feelings, but none of it resonated with the warrior—though the name Rufus niggled at the back of his mind, one of the tangled threads of his forgotten life, but why? “I was obviously involved in this important battle, but on whose side did I fight?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied wistfully. “I don’t want to know.” She reddened and left abruptly.

  His name eluded him, but he had no doubt whatever about his feelings towards the young novice who tended him. “I can’t remember who I am, but I’m unable to hold chaste my thoughts about a nun.”

  He berated himself that the sight of her aroused him and his imagination ran amok when she touched him with her cold hands. If only he could draw those cold hands to his manhood.

  He loved to breathe in her clean scent. The ugly habit hid her body, and he had no idea of the color of her hair. But those eyes—oh, her beautiful eyes—he still couldn’t decide if they were green or brown, or both? Those eyes had him imagining. “Whoever I am, I seem to be a man without honor. A man who lusts after nuns.”

  But she’d admitted to not having a true calling. She would become a nun because she had no choice. It was a great loss and, for some reason, a personal one.

  When she deemed him fit enough to walk outside, she brought simple clothing from the alms cupboard—a linen shirt, woollen tunic and hose, braies, and a sheepskin jacket to protect against the December wind blowing off the North Sea. “They’re rather worn,” she apologized.

  “Better than no clothes at all,” he laughed, then saw her blush.

  “The boots are your own. We cleaned them.”

  He tugged them on, feeling only a slight spasm in his ribs. In an effort to ease the tension, he said, “They feel good.”

  She braced his arm and helped him walk to the knot garden. There was strength in the small fingers pressed around his bicep. The weather was cold and the garden barren, but he was happy to be in the fresh air. She shivered involuntarily and he put his arm around her waist to warm her, drawing her close to him. She flinched away, looking around nervously. “Sir,” she stammered.

  “I’m sorry, Agneta,” he replied, cursing himself for a fool. “I wanted to warm you.”

  But touching her had aroused him, and he couldn’t stop. He enfolded her in his arms, pulled her body to his arousal, and rested his forehead on hers. The feel of her breasts against his chest was as he’d imagined it a hundred times. He wanted this woman, and breathed into her ear, “I want to warm you forever.”

  Feeling his hard body pressed against her, seeing his warm breath on the frigid air, Agneta reddened and pushed him away, mortified in case anyone should see, and shocked that her own body had responded to sensations she’d never felt before. Despite the chill, she was on fire. She should have been outraged. It was blatant, yet enticing. She scurried away in confusion and left him standing alone in the garden.

  After that, she avoided accompanying him, and he spent hours outside alone, sitting on a stone bench in the bitter cold wind. She was afraid he would catch a chill if he stayed outdoors too long, but had seen how the tedious hours of inactivity frayed his nerves if he stayed indoors. He fell into the habit of taking his sword out with him, sitting with it in his lap. As he grew stronger, he practiced movements, slicing and thrusting at an imaginary enemy. She winced when he flinched at the lingering discomfort in his ribs. Though the deep wound to his thigh hampered his stride, it was evident he’d been an agile warrior, a man to be reckoned with.

  One day, after Yuletide, he limped in hurriedly from the garden, very excited. “I’ve remembered my name,” he shouted. “I am Caedmon Brice Woolgar.”

  It surprised her that she was thrilled at his progress and happy for him. “That doesn’t sound Scottish to me,” she laughed.

  “It’s good to hear you laugh, Agneta.”

  She sobered, but he was right. It had been a long time since she had laughed. “I’m relieved for you—but—”

  “—But I still sound like a Scot, right?”

  “Aye,” she whispered, mocking him. Relieved as she was he’d recalled his name, she still felt uneasy about his identity. “Have you remembered where you’re from?”

  He took her hand, his touch gentle, his eyes full of kindness. She wanted desperately to believe in his innocence.

  “No, but it will come. I’m confident now that it will.”

  That night, in her dormitory, she prayed, “Dear Lord, I’m confused about this man. I pray my feelings not turn to hatred if he’s a Scot. Help me. Kyrie eleison.”

  Two days later, Caedmon sat in the garden bemoaning his ludicrous fate. His heart was heavy. He would have to tell a woman he was drawn to what he’d recalled, and it would devastate her. He went back inside and sat on the edge of the pallet, bracing his feet on the stone floor, his thighs tense. The injured muscle throbbed.

  Agneta looked up from the invalid she and Brother Manton were tending.

  He strove to sound more confident in the outcome than he felt. “Agneta, may I speak with you?”

  She nodded and approached him. “You sound serious and your tone is formal. I won’t like what you have to say, will I?” she asked nervously.

  He was afraid to share with her the memories that had rushed back. The tapestry had rewoven into an image he’d rather forget. “Agneta, I need to tell you some things I’ve recalled. My name is Caedmon Woolgar. I’m the son of Lady Ascha Woolgar. I was named for my father who died at Hastings, fighting against the Conqueror.”

  “You’re a Saxon then?” she whispered hopefully, swaying slightly towards him.

  He wished she would look at him. “Aye, but I was born in Scotland. My mother lived in Ruyton in England, in the Welsh Marches. She was alone, expecting a child. She had a brother, Gareth, who decided to flee to Scotland. She went with him. They couldn’t abide living under Norman rule. Then King Malcolm married the Saxon princess, Margaret, Edgar the Aetheling’s sister. They nurtured Saxons at their court in Edwinesburh.”

  She moved away. “I’m nervous. That’s why you speak like a Scot. You were born there.”

  “Aye, but I’ve remained a proud Saxon. However, I need to tell you—I fought on the side of the Scots in the battle here. We’ve naturally been their allies against the Normans.”

  He held his breath. She was silent. Perhaps she knew what he had to tell her next. He took her hand in his. His heart thudded so loudly he was sure she could hear it. “I also need to tell you, Agneta, with deep regret, that I took part in the raid on Bolton.”

  “No,” she gasped with an anguished sob, looking directly into his eyes for the first time. “Why, why would you do such a thing?”

  She pulled her hand away from his firm grasp, but he wouldn’t let go. He’d longed to look into the depths of those intriguing eyes, but now he was ashamed and had to turn away from the condemnation and hatred burning there.

  Forcing himself to keep his voice low, he ground out, “Agneta, I’m a landless Saxon knight living in Scotland with nothing to offer to anyone.
I’d hoped if the Scots were successful in wresting some of the border lands from the English, I might benefit from a reward of land for myself, for my heirs. It’s the reason many men take up arms. I swear, on my honor, I killed no one that day. I plundered, I destroyed, I created mayhem, but I didn’t kill. The bloodlust sickened me. I didn’t know it was a Saxon manor. You must believe me.”

  Anger contorted her beautiful face; through her tears she stammered, “Your honor? Whether you struck the fatal blows or not matters little. You were there. You abetted the crime.”

  Suddenly, in a whisper so low he barely heard, she said, “I saw you. It was you. You looked up at me, you and your companion. I was in the barn.”

  His heart broke. Should he fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness? She would deny him that. He let go of her hand.

  She stood and lifted the edge of her habit slightly, but stopped suddenly and turned. “It would be better for you to leave. You’re fit enough to ride. People here will be angry when they find out who you are. Go to the kitchens, ask for food for your journey. Your horse has been taken care of in the stables.”

  “I’ll go, Agneta, but—” he faltered, stunned by her icy demeanor. “I don’t want to leave you. You’ve become important to me. I owe you my life.”

  “What do you expect me to do? Leave with you? I’m a nun, Caedmon Woolgar, Saxon traitor. I’m the only survivor of a family you had a hand in annihilating. Go now. I can’t bear to look at you any longer. I hate the sight of you.”

  She fled.

  Dazed, Caedmon did as she’d commanded. He slowly gathered up his belongings from under the pallet, made his way to the kitchens for provisions, saddled his horse and rode out towards Scotland.

  Old Friends

  Agneta filled Caedmon’s thoughts as he rode as fast as his weakened condition would allow to reunite with his mother in Edwinesburh. She would be devastated to believe he’d died in battle. She had no other relatives and had devoted her life to his upbringing.

  The few people he saw in the desolate winter landscape fled when they espied him. After several grueling days in the saddle, he reached Lothian and rode into the courtyard of the only home he’d ever known, his mother’s house, the dwelling she’d inherited from her brother. A hue and cry went up from the servants, one of whom ran inside to share the news.