RECKLESS: A Medieval Romance (Age of Conquest Book 5) Page 3

  He had sensed her anger toward this Saxon rebel for siding with her abductors, and more impassioned that anger when he advised the prince to trade her for the abbess. Though Vitalis had suggested she be gagged ahead of the exchange lest she alert Sir Maël and his men to the Danes’ approach before they gained the higher ground, his real reason for quieting her was the belief if she revealed to Bjorn she was to be traded, he would run with her—just as he had done in the end. Until Vitalis was able to explain himself to the lady, she would not make it easy for him to deliver her from her persistent captor.

  “What do you think the earl will do?” Zedekiah asked.

  “Were he wise, relinquish Lady Nicola to Prince Canute and ransom her to her family, but he is not. Had he more time, likely he would send Bjorn home to Denmark with the lady, but since the prince will soon arrive with the abbess—”

  “The false abbess, do you not think?” Zedekiah asked.

  Vitalis nodded. “I believe the earl will conceal Bjorn and Lady Nicola on a lesser ship beyond the estuary until he can determine the cost of once more indulging his son—and how true the lady’s feelings for an enemy of the Normans.”

  “What are we to do, my lord?”

  “Keep watch.”

  And so they did, following at a distance and confirming Vitalis’s prediction when Nicola and Bjorn boarded a boat and were rowed toward one of a score of ships distant from the earl’s grand vessel anchored near the shore. They were almost beyond sight when the prince’s men arrived. And well beyond sight when Canute appeared.

  Not surprisingly, Abbess Mary Sarah accompanied the prince. Surprisingly, Sir Maël as well. Not surprisingly, the king’s man had given chase when the exchange went wrong. Surprisingly, he was now their prisoner.

  Since he was William’s man and of the family D’Argent, thereby worthy of a sizable ransom, Canute had Sir Maël taken aboard the earl’s ship. Whereas the chevalier had been caged in the hull, talk among the Danes was that Mary Sarah was given a cabin as befitting the future wife of a Prince of Denmark.

  “What if we must choose between aiding Lady Hawisa’s sister-in-law and the abbess?” Zedekiah asked as night swept across the sea and crept over the estuary.

  Wondering the same where he sat against a tree, eyes narrowed on the earl’s ship whose torches were being lit, Vitalis drew a hand over the fullness of his beard and down his bristling neck. “We may have to leave the abbess to Sir Maël. Until then, we watch and listen to sooner discover how all unfolds.”

  “Accursed Vitalis of the Saxons!” Nicola pivoted, made fists of restless hands.

  “Accursed Vitalis of the rebels!” She stepped forward, snapped arms to her sides.

  “Accursed Vitalis of the Danes!” She splayed fingers, pivoted again.

  “Accursed Vitalis of ungodly height and breadth!” She threw arms wide, gave a squeak when imagination placed her palms on those shoulders.

  “Accursed Vitalis of red hair and beard!” Imagining the soft and coarse of both, she dug nails into palms, kicked the wall, and pivoted again.

  “Accursed Vitalis of…everything!” She halted center of what Bjorn named a chamber.

  “And accursed Nicola D’Argent who thinks herself clever,” she hissed, then cleared her scowl. “Not that I am not clever,” she defended herself to calm anger and frustration more due Vitalis than her. “But fie on this lady for allowing vexation to land her here.”

  Breathing deeply, she considered this place whose floor was less inclined to stand still than she. The damp, planked walls of her chamber were the left and right sides of the ship’s stern, whereas the third wall was fashioned of sailcloth whose upper end also served as a ceiling to prevent rain and restless waves from soaking her should the weather turn foul.

  “Oui, fie on me. Not only is Mary Sarah—” She snorted. Mary Sarah the abbess was, in truth, the illegitimate Mercia of the Godwines from whose family the Duke of Normandy had taken the English throne. Not that the Saxon woman had willingly confided her deception. It was Prince Canute who forced the revelation when Nicola rebuked him for abducting a holy woman.

  Still, Nicola had aided her fellow captive in escaping the Danes, believing Mercia more valuable to them than this lady who had believed she could affect her own escape. The trade made, once more the false abbess was in the hands of Canute who believed wedding a relation of the departed King Harold would gain his sire Saxon support in unseating King William. Nearly as terrible, once again Nicola suffered the smitten Bjorn, and she was mostly to blame for allowing anger to delay her dismount during the trade.

  She had tried to contain her roiling—truly she had!—but so vexed was she with Vitalis for siding with the Danes and insisting she be bound and gagged, she had failed.

  “For naught!” She lifted her eyes to the canvas which the last of day’s light struggled to penetrate. “Now what think you of this adventure, Nicola?” she demanded of the young woman who had assured Mercia her own abduction was more interesting than working needle and thread. And it had been.

  “Still is,” she told herself, though it was less interesting now she was aboard a ship which the earl’s whim could cause to sail for Denmark. Anchored outside the estuary, the shore was too distant to reach even were she a strong swimmer.

  Hence, perhaps it was not a bad thing the earl did not like her. When Bjorn had unbound her, she had played the equally besotted Norman lady, but after the earl greeted his son, he had turned suspicion upon her.

  “Nicola!” Bjorn’s call preceded the snap of canvas that granted him and the light of dusk admittance without permission.

  Were her back not turned to him, he would have seen what took much effort to mask.

  Find your opponent’s weakness and exploit it, her sister-in-law had commanded when her instruction in wielding quarterstaffs landed the younger woman on her back. And not only when weapons are at play, Lady Hawisa had added as she raised Nicola’s chin with the end of her staff. Even better when the mind is at play.

  The latter far more difficult, Nicola silently grumbled, then forced a smile and turned. “As you did not alert this lady to your entrance, something must be amiss.”

  The handsome young man let the canvas fall behind him, once more dimming her chamber. On one side of it, she was grateful it aided in hiding her falsity. On the other side, she did not like how much more vulnerable it made her feel.

  “All is amiss,” Bjorn began in Danish, then blessedly switched to English. Though the two languages were similar, her increasing facility with that of the Saxons allowed her to more quickly translate it into her Norman-French. “But be assured, my sire will do right by us.”

  She set her head to the side. “Have you word from him?”

  “He tells Canute arrived with his betrothed, as well as your cousin.”

  Nicola gasped. “Maël?”

  “Shocking, eh? The king’s man gave pursuit, and when he tried to recover Mercia, was himself taken captive.”

  Fear tightened her throat. “Was he injured?”

  “Beaten, but not badly. He is imprisoned on my sire’s ship.”

  Lord, protect him, she silently entreated, then added, and me.

  As much as she wished to extricate herself to prove worthy of Lady Hawisa’s training, she had little chance of doing so without aid. “What of Mercia, Bjorn? Is she imprisoned as well?”

  “Nay. Canute is unhappy she fled him, but since they are betrothed, he accords her much consideration.”

  “Is she on the earl’s ship?”

  “Aye, though now it is my cousin’s ship.” He grimaced. “My sire is not pleased.”

  “What of your ally, Vitalis? He is with the prince?”

  Bjorn frowned. “The messenger did not say, so likely not.”

  Might the Saxon have fallen during the clash between Danes and Normans after the trade went awry? If so, had Maël slain the rebel who shamed the king?

  “Your heart hurts, my lady?”

  She had not realized she grasped her bodice. Releasing it she said, “I am concerned for my cousin.”

  Bjorn’s smile was all assurance. “As he is the king’s man and a D’Argent, he is worth more alive than dead.” He stepped closer. “Worry not, Nicola. Canute will not ransom you.”

  She moistened her lips and wished she had not when his gaze pounced on her mouth. “But if he finds me—us—here? What then?”

  “If he seeks to search this ship, my sire will give warning so his men can move us to another. Do not fear, we shall stay ahead of him.”

  He drew nearer, and she allowed him to kiss her. Grateful it was no more passionate than his other kisses, though this one lingered as if to coax a response, she closed her eyes.

  Bjorn drew back. “Truly, you like my kisses, Nicola?”

  Not at all, she thought. “I do, but as told, since a maiden and noble lady ought to have no experience with such, I had none before you.” A lie, as evidenced by her presence in England rather than Normandy from which she had been—

  Not exactly exiled, she corrected, but it was thought best she depart her father and mother’s home.

  She smiled. “When we wed and I have more experience, better I will like such intimacies.”

  He grinned. “I should get us supper?”

  “I am hungry.”

  Once he departed, she clambered into the hammock, a contraption she had enjoyed years past when she made the crossing from Normandy to England.

  Though another woman and several men on their ship had become violently ill when the sea turned temperamental, not Nicola D’Argent. Her stomach had tossed a bit, but that was all. And greatly her brothers had been impressed, as they would be now if they could see how well she dealt with this setback.

  If they could overlook the fool you were that landed you here, an inner voice reminded. And there was no way to hide it from them. Once her cousin, Maël, was freed, they would have the tale in full.

  She raised her eyes to the sailcloth ceiling over which light and shadows convulsed, evidencing torches were being lit. Thoughts drifting first to Maël, next Mercia, then Vitalis who might have perished, she slipped fingers into her bodice and withdrew the piece cut from King William’s mantle.

  “Accursed Vitalis,” she whispered as she eyed the embroidery. “Knave,” she grumbled as she traced the embroidered letters of her king’s name and title. “David lived and took the throne. You…”

  She closed her fingers around the cloth. “You had best live, Vitalis. Much you have to answer for.”

  Chapter Two

  East Anglia, England

  Late Spring, 1070

  Ten days after Bjorn hid the lady aboard one of his sire’s vessels, finally it was possible to draw near enough to form a plan that allowed Vitalis to keep his word to Hawisa regarding her sister-in-law—providing Lady Nicola had, indeed, arrived in East Anglia.

  As for restoring the abbess to Lillefarne, it had been necessary to leave her to Sir Maël who was still held on the same ship when Vitalis and Zedekiah departed the Humber to ride south to East Anglia where King Sweyn had sent his brother to raid that region. Once the war chests emptied by the quest to oust William were refilled, would Sweyn and his forces shake off the dust of England and return to Denmark?

  Likely, Vitalis concluded for the dozenth time and returned his attention to this day. Hopefully, Lady Nicola and Bjorn had been aboard one of the raiding ships that earlier dropped anchor beyond the gaping mouth of the Great Ouse River where it emptied into the sea.

  “’Tis too distant to be certain,” Zedekiah said, leaning forward in his saddle, “but on the fourth boat I caught a flash of silver amid black.”

  Hoping Lady Nicola was seated among the men rowing to the marshy shore, Vitalis considered that boat. Minutes later, he glimpsed what his man had. Though Danes were partial to long hair, most were fair unlike Nicola.

  The horse shifting beneath him, Vitalis patted its neck. “Patience, my friend. We wait on the vixen.”

  “Termagant,” Zedekiah muttered.

  Unable to argue the man’s right to look ill upon the lady responsible for the long watch over the Danes and the merciless ride south, Vitalis returned his regard to the fourth rowboat nearing the shore. If that was her, here proof that whatever her attempts to escape Bjorn, she had failed.

  “I am fair certain it is her,” Zedekiah said.

  As was Vitalis, and relieved since one of the ships anchored outside the Humber had disappeared one night following a great storm. Having stolen upon Danes camped near the shore, Vitalis had learned the vessel lost its moorings and was at the bottom of the sea. Just as it had been possible the lady had perished beneath the waves, he had considered the earl made use of the storm to send Bjorn back to Denmark with her. If the latter, the D’Argents would retrieve Nicola no matter the bloodshed.

  “What say you?” Zedekiah prompted.

  In this area of the fens bordering the narrow sea, there was too little cover to closely spy on those who would soon make land, and more difficult with half a dozen warriors seated ahead of the one whose dark hair might or might not be silvered.

  When once more the sun parted the clouds, it ran its light down those strands as the woman lurched upright. And was snatched back down.

  “Aye, Lady Nicola,” Zedekiah said, “and methinks she no longer plays Bjorn’s willing betrothed.”

  Vitalis tensed. Often he mulled what had transpired in the days since the young Dane carried Nicola from the inn. Had she lost patience playing a part without benefit to her? Or had Bjorn trespassed beyond abduction?

  Once more, he rejected that last. He did not know the young man well, but since the fall of Norman-held York by a joint effort of Saxons and Danes, on several occasions he had taken measure of Bjorn.

  Unless he read the young man very wrong, impulse might cause him to snatch what he wanted in the hope of charming reluctance into acceptance, but unlike some who had sought training at Wulfen and been refused for unbecoming behaviors and inclinations, such abuse did not seem in Bjorn’s character. But that did not mean he had been able to protect Lady Nicola from others. Hopefully, as the earl’s son and King Sweyn’s nephew, no Dane long from his home and woman had attempted to take the lady for himself.

  “And so, my lord?”

  “Though I found favor with Prince Canute,” Vitalis said, “I do not believe the earl trusts me enough to rejoin his ranks. Hence, we watch from a distance and await an opportunity to retrieve the lady.”

  “What of Hereward?”

  The outlawed Lincolnshire thane turned rebel who gathered Saxons to his side, a great number of whom were victims of the harrying with less to lose than before. Would what remained to them—mostly their lives—be sacrificed for another failed attempt to send the Normans back across the sea?

  Little in life was certain, but that nearly so. Even if King Sweyn had not yet accepted his bid for the English throne was doomed, too great the disappointments, losses, and signs to believe Saxons could take back their country.

  “I believe Hereward the best means of drawing nearer the Danes,” Vitalis said, fairly certain the man he had met years past would welcome him and Zedekiah among his rebels. As Hereward had made East Anglia his base, he would be aware of the Danes’ arrival, though hopefully not Vitalis’s.

  “Hereward will think them allies who will aid in returning England to Saxon rule,” Zedekiah said with disgust.

  Such was the desperation of one losing a battle he yet hoped to win, Vitalis thought but could not fault his countryman for clinging to what he himself had embraced when the forsaken English had believed the fate of this country was more firmly in their hands than those of a silent God.

  “I believe you are right,” Vitalis said.

  “Do you think the lady still possesses the mantle piece?”

  “I do.”

  Shortly, the boat conveying her to sodden ground banked on the silt from which reeds sprang. As the rowers drew in their paddles, once more she shot upright, and this time Vitalis saw the one who had dragged her down the first time was King Sweyn’s brother, the earl, who now rose beside her and gripped her arm.

  The vixen’s head snapped around, and as Bjorn gained his feet behind her, she loosed words that caused the young man’s sire to step back and the boat to shift. But the earl was not in retreat. He but gained space in which to assert his dominance. And punish.

  She knew what she had wrought before the blow landed, and that knowledge gave her just enough time to raise an arm to protect her head as taught by Hawisa, but what her face did not suffer her forearm did.

  Pain jolting bones and muscles, the force knocking her sideways, she accepted the muddy water was her destination when her thigh struck the boat’s lip. And it would have been had not a hand turned around her arm.

  It belonged to Bjorn who, days past, claimed a broken heart when his sire delivered the priest to her and demanded she wed his son to prove she did not make a fool of him. Unable to maintain the pretense of feeling for Bjorn, she had refused to speak vows.

  More than expected, it had hurt to be honest with the hopeful young man, but she had said that though there was much to admire about him, she did not love him. When he assured her she would return his affection in time, she had kindly disagreed. And what the earl had done to her this day, he had nearly done then.

  “Father!” the young man protested. “She is a lady.”

  “She is a liar and a Norman!” the earl snarled. “And soon we will be shed of her.”

  Just as he had said when she refused to wed Bjorn. She had yet to learn what that meant, but she had not been given to the Danish king nor prince for ransoming—likely because the earl had lied to his brother and nephew when he claimed he did not know the whereabouts of Bjorn and Nicola following her second abduction.