HEARTLESS: A Medieval Romance (Age of Conquest Book 4) Page 11

  That gave Maël pause. Due to illness, had Vitalis left William in possession of his life? Though more easily he could have slain the king than cut away a piece of the royal mantle, in view of what Maël knew of Lady Hawisa’s man, he was not one to put a blade in a man’s back. Thus, it made sense he had been ailing. Were he in full possession of his health, surely he would have challenged the conqueror at swords.

  Ever, it seemed, the Lord favored William, which made one question the mind of God who surely knew the man who had taken England’s crown was more given to wrong than right, especially these six months when thousands of Saxons paid for rebellion in which they had no hand.

  “Le Bâtard may call it whatever soothes his slashed pride,” Zedekiah said, “but we both know ’twas no meeting.” His grin broadened. “Was it his wife who fashioned that fine mantle? Stitched those flourishes and the letters W and R?”

  Of course he knew of the piece cut from it. Because it had been shown him afterward? Or had he been in the cave with Vitalis? Though William had indicated there were others there, he had named only the rebel leader.

  Deciding it was of no import in the moment, Maël said, “I read the missive sent Lady Hawisa that told of the abduction of my cousin and the Abbess of Lillefarne, and to which Vitalis added words of assurance he would pursue the abductors. So I ask again, where is he?”

  Zedekiah’s brow beetled. “The abbess was abducted, you say? And your cousin as well? You speak of Sir Theriot?”

  He knew it was Nicola, just as he knew of the abduction. “You waste time better spent bringing the knaves to ground. As Vitalis surely has a care for the well-being of Lady Hawisa’s sister-in-law and the head of the abbey founded by her family, the sooner I find your leader, the sooner the women can be retrieved.”

  Zedekiah shrugged. “If Vitalis pursues the Danes, methinks the women better served by his efforts than those of William’s men.”

  Now Maël grinned. “Danes, Zedekiah? I did not name the men who took Lady Nicola and the abbess. With great purpose, I did not.”

  Those discolored teeth went behind the rebel’s lips.

  “At this time, Vitalis and I want the same thing, Zedekiah.”

  “But you want more,” he growled. “You would see the worthiest Saxon in all of England dropped at the feet of the least worthy Norman.”

  As was Maël’s duty, and though he ought to shrug the same as Zedekiah—and could have before the harrying—he could not now.

  “You surprise,” the rebel said.

  Belatedly, Maël masked his face.

  “You do not like the task given you, do you, king’s man? You know what I think?”

  “I care not what you think, only what you know. Where is Vitalis?”

  “I think there is enough of your cousin, Sir Guarin, about you that if you joined forces with Vitalis, sooner the women would be rescued.”

  It was the same as Lady Hawisa suggested before reminding him his loyalties lay first with the D’Argents. Though tempted to scorn Zedekiah, Maël said, “Ere such an alliance could be formed, first I would have to be told where to find your leader.”

  “Unfortunately, I know not his whereabouts.” Zedekiah sighed. “Now, what will you do with me? Cut that vein?” He shrugged his mouth, reminding Maël of William who often did the same as if his shoulders were too weighted to raise them though swift their fall. “Likely for the best.”

  Maël knew he ought to agree, but the cold of him that had become almost comfortable was increasingly afflicted by soft spots like those of a summer apple struggling to make it through autumn without going to rot ere winter.

  He would not take this rebel’s life, but what was he to do with him? Relieve him of his every weapon and release him? Set men to follow him in the hope he sought out Vitalis?

  A moment later, the first consideration became unsustainable. Peering across his shoulder, he confirmed his men rode toward him and his captive.

  “I do not mean to sound a coward, Sir Maël,” Zedekiah said, “but if those of the usurper think naught of torture to discover what I do not know, cut that vein now.”

  “No torture,” Maël said. “But I will make bait of you to bring Vitalis to heel.”

  “You assume I am of value to him. But, alas, my rebel days are over—as are his. Disbanded all.”

  Maël glanced at his approaching men. “I have a lesson for you, Zedekiah. When your gut tells you to cease speaking, heed it lest too much protest reveals the lie.”

  The man hiked his upper lip.

  “What have we, Sir Maël?” called the one who tried hard to be a Norman, including forsaking his own language. Though his imprecise accent revealed the tongue of the conquerors was not his own, he grasped it better than most Saxons.

  Maël increased the pressure on Zedekiah’s wrist and took the sword from resistant fingers. “What I have, Aiken, is one of your countrymen.” He stepped back and looked around as that one and the others reined in. “A Saxon the same as you.”

  The man snorted. “Not the same. That is common at best”—he jutted his chin—“and as often you forget, and to which my loyalties attest, I am also due the title of Sir.”

  Maël returned his sword to its scabbard and slid Zedekiah’s beneath his belt. “I do not forget the title given you, just as I do not forget it was awarded for reporting your father-in-law supplied rebels with food and drink, resulting in forfeiture of his lands.”

  Aiken glared, as did his son whose grandfather, uncles, and aunts had been reduced to the ranks of the peasantry. It had to be a blessing his mother passed before the invasion so she not bear witness to her husband’s betrayal of her family.

  Though tempted to further needle the two by stating neither did he forget Aiken was denied the forfeited lands, he let it be. “I cannot be certain this Saxon is one of Vitalis’s men,” Maël began the lie, “but too much he resembles one I fought at Stafford to allow him to go free.” He shifted his regard to the man’s son. “Daryl, choose two to aid in getting Zedekiah of Wulfenshire bound atop his horse.”

  Though such service was believed beneath one who thought himself due greater consideration the same as his sire, he would do as told.

  As Daryl called for others to assist, Maël strode to Zedekiah’s mount, removed the scabbarded sword affixed to the saddle, next the packs. As expected, one held the personal effects of a man whose home was the countryside over which he traveled and included a mantle, tunic, and chausses. As not expected, besides dried food, the second pack held garments, but not those of a man nor ordinary woman.

  Heart pounding, Maël turned toward the rebel who remained unmoving though Daryl commanded him to stand.

  As if awaiting Maël’s gaze, Zedekiah raised his eyebrows. “Surprising what one finds in an abandoned camp, eh?”

  Maël glanced from the habit in one hand to the veil in the other and knew the rebel had first discovered that place where the Danes passed the night. That Abbess Mary Sarah was shed of these portended ill, not only for her but Nicola. But there was hope in the holy woman’s habit being left behind absent their broken or dead owner—that it was merely exchanged for another garment which would draw less attention.

  “Surprising,” Maël agreed, “and quite the coincidence you happened on that for which the man you deny following searches.”

  “The formidable Vitalis seeks a nun’s habit?” Zedekiah made a face. “Not the warrior I knew.”

  Maël ground his teeth, then ordered, “Get him up and secured.”

  Daryl kicked the rebel. “On your feet!”

  Slowly, Zedekiah rose. Despite rough handling, he proved less easily humiliated than Daryl. Though tightly bound and an attempt made to put the rebel over the back of his horse, the young Saxon who showed no good regard for his countryman was dealt an elbow to the face. So vicious was it, Daryl was knocked onto his back and further angered when Maël refused to allow him to retaliate and ordered Zedekiah to sit the saddle.

  During the ride that
followed, often Vitalis’s man grinned when he looked to Daryl whose lower face swelled and bruised. He flirted with fire, but even if he fell to its flame, Maël believed the man’s only regret would be he had not done worse to the traitorous Saxon. And again, Maël felt a kinship he ought not.

  Rather than protection of a rebel whom Lady Hawisa would welcome back amongst her people, he must set his mind on the Danes and Vitalis—and freeing Nicola and the abbess before what was done them accelerated and no amount of blood satisfied the longing for justice.

  Chapter Nine

  More rain, hopefully of sufficient strength and duration they would pass what remained of the day and coming night sheltered by the rock ledge they had hastened beneath an hour past. The longer it took to reach the Humber, the greater the chance of Nicola escaping.

  So little was spoken between the women since awakening and departing camp that when restlessness finally moved Bjorn out of hearing distance, Nicola spilled words as if they had been backed up for days. “At last! You know not how hard it has been to wait until we could not be overheard.”

  Mercia, who had put herself to sleep last eve by whispering her given name over and over, sank deeper into her mantle in search of greater warmth. She liked her slender figure that permitted quick and efficient movement, but in this moment wished more fat on her frame.

  Spring had warmed the land, but as she had become damp before Canute yielded to Bjorn’s petition they take shelter for the sake of the women, she could not entirely cast off the chill as Nicola seemed to have done. But then, this quivering was not all from the rain. The further north they progressed, the greater the evidence of Le Bâtard’s harrying. Blessedly, though the absence of life in burned and abandoned places was sinister, the Danes avoided riding near them, even it if meant going the long way around. Thus, Mercia was spared looking upon whatever death would be found there.

  Nicola scooted nearer. “In the excitement of all that transpired yesterday, I neglected to tell what delivered me to your side when Canute abducted you.”

  Mercia had assumed she simply refused to accept the rejection of her offer to accompany the abbess to the shed. “What was it, Nicola?”

  She glanced all around, wiggled nearer, and opened one side of her mantle to reveal a swatch of cloth. “Look upon this, Abb—er, Mercia. I had it down my bodice.” She gave a little laugh. “I am curious if that would offend or amuse the one who entrusted it to me.”

  Wondering who that was, and why she had been given a scrap of wool, Mercia said, “Pray, explain.”

  She opened her mantle wider, and greater light revealed intricate embroidery worked with thread nearly as dark as the wool but for a single strand of gold. “You have not seen this before?”

  “I have not. For what would you think I have?”

  “Because the one who gave it to me is known to you.” Nicola bobbed eyebrows above bright eyes and a mischievous smile.

  “You speak of Sir Maël?”

  The young lady snorted. “Nay, though he is the one to whom I am to deliver it.”

  “Riddles, Nicola,” Mercia bemoaned. “I am too worn and chilled to unravel them.”

  She leaned in. “Late one night I saw you carry something to your apartment, and curious me in the cloister below heard your voice through an open window. It sounded as if you spoke with someone.”

  Mercia tensed.

  “Thus, when you accompanied the wine merchant to the shed, once more I yielded to curiosity, for which I have yet to repent—though I shall—and entered your apartment.” She drew breath. “He knew it was me and let me in your bedchamber. Though I was shocked to find him there, he told the reason, and methinks I believe him.” Another nod. “I do, just as I believe you would do naught untoward though you are not an abbess in truth.”

  Mercia cleared her throat. “I appreciate your faith in me, but I am confused. Answer this and no more so I may think what to ask next—why were you to deliver the cloth to your cousin?”

  “Vitalis told it is for this the king’s man hunts him—that Maël is tasked with retrieving it and—”

  Sharply, Mercia shook her head, silencing Nicola. “Of what import a piece of cloth cut from… What? A gown? An altar covering?”

  She shrugged. “He said my cousin would know the truth of it.”

  “Then he gave no indication of what that truth is?”

  “He did, but I could not work it through. Vitalis spoke of an encounter the biblical David had with one who was king before him, then tossed this at my feet and said my cousin would be grateful were it delivered to him.”

  Mulling the stories of David, King of Israel, Mercia bent her head to the cloth. The wool with its one finished edge and three frayed sides was exceptionally fine, as was the embroidery that included the paired letters W and R. If these letters stood for that which the Norman king titled himself—William Rex—this had been cut from the same lavish mantle he wore when he entered Westminster to claim the crown.

  Though her interpretation of the riddle was nearly unbelievable, it seemed at some time Vitalis made even more an enemy of William by doing to him what David had done to King Saul.

  Of course Le Bâtard would want this back, so distinctive was it his enemies could humiliate him by presenting proof of how it was taken unbeknownst to the wearer of the mantle. Had it also happened in a cave the same as King Saul? Under similar circumstances?

  “Have you unriddled it, Mercia?”

  “I believe so.” She returned the cloth, and when the lady put it down her bodice, related that tale of David.

  Nicola beamed. “That story was distant to me, either because I was quite young when I heard it, else my mind was adrift, but now I make sense of what Vitalis did.” She blew out a breath. “So bold! How it must have enraged King William, and yet he ought to be grateful he lives. To draw near enough to do that, Vitalis could have made lethal use of the blade. I wonder why he did not.”

  “Because he is not a murderer,” Mercia said sharply, causing Canute and Bjorn to look around where they and others stood back from rain streaming off the ledge. When they returned to their watch of the wood, she continued, “Not all men who seek to end a murderer’s reign are well with themselves becoming murderers to achieve that end. Alongside courage, Vitalis has honor. Were there more Saxons like him…” Her voice broke.

  Nicola set a hand on her knee. “I am sorry for what my people took from yours, but if the Danes can be kicked back across the sea, surely what continues to ail these lands will heal.”

  Would it? Or would that hope be doused like all other hope? Would it become worse for the English? Would it be better to place a Dane on the throne? And was that even possible? If not, the attempt to eject William would end in more bloodshed. Likely so much the Saxon race would not survive.

  “It was obvious Vitalis was unwell,” Nicola returned her to the present, “and for that he told he lingered at the abbey. With what was he afflicted?”

  “A relapse of the flux that struck him and his men weeks earlier.”

  “Dysentery,” Nicola gave it the name by which she better knew it. “Terrible that.” It was said with genuine sympathy, the lady having tended refugees laid low by belly cramps, muscles aches, loose bowels, and fever. She frowned. “I understand why Vitalis would be loath to put a blade in the king’s back—honorable, aye—but perhaps here the answer to why, after humiliating William, he did not challenge him at swords.”

  Mercia also found it difficult to believe he would have been content with shaming the persecutor of their people when it was possible to forever end Le Bâtard’s cruelty—albeit only his.

  Since the great battle, the Normans had become so firmly entrenched it was unlikely the death of their king would remove the yokes from Saxons—even if the Danish king took advantage of unrest among Normans who sought to succeed the conqueror. And quite possibly among those contenders would be William’s brother, Bishop Odo, who had fought at Hastings and proved an equally brutal leader ea
ch time William left England in his care to return to his duchy of Normandy.

  “Do you not think illness the reason Vitalis allowed the king to depart unscathed?” Nicola asked.

  “I do.”

  The young lady nodded, opened her mantle, and examined her wrists. “The rope chafed. You as well?”

  “It did. Blessedly, we are not bound here.”

  “Because all are awake and it is not possible for us to steal away.” Nicola smiled. “But perhaps this eve.”

  “Likely, they will bind us again,” Mercia said and shifted on the damp ground, drew up her knees, and wrapped her arms around them.

  “Ah, but I have a plan.”

  “Tell,” Mercia said wearily.

  “A woman’s wiles.”

  “Wiles?”

  “Surely you have them, Mercia—must only pull them out from behind the abbess’s back.”

  Though Mercia was fairly certain of what she suggested, she said, “Speak clearer.”

  “Remember I told I transformed the rebel, Em, into what appeared a lady so she would find favor with the king and release from slavery?”

  “A memorable tale,” Mercia said. As though she were as young as the one who told it, she had been enthralled with the means by which Sir Dougray won a bride denied him—by the sword, the aid of a man whose blood coursed his misbegotten son’s veins, and a woman’s wiles.

  “If it moved a shrewd, conquering king,” Nicola said, “surely it will move a young, thieving prince.”

  Mercia was less certain, but even if whatever she proposed merely delayed the Danes’ journey, it would allow their pursuers to draw nearer and sooner return the noblewoman to her family. And, hopefully, move Mercia closer to her truth.

  “I pray I do not regret this,” she said, “but do with me what you will, Lady Nicola.”

  Canute, second in line to the Danish throne, knew how to smile beyond mere amusement. To Mercia’s surprise, she did not shy away from shows of teeth that appeared following suggestive sidelong looks.