Kim Iverson Headlee Read online

  Although no one could ever replace Del, here knelt a man that Waldron would be pleased to call son.

  He raised a hand, and his people fell silent. With a wary glance at the dog, he bent to address the knight, one question straining for release: “Why?”

  Sir Robert looked up, confusion darkening his features. “Why the deception, my lord?”

  Waldron shook his head. “Why, in the name of everything holy, did you leave her?”

  AN INSISTENT tugging on Kendra’s hands broke her grip on the wounded man. Her head ached abominably. She massaged her temple, surprised by how gritty the skin felt. As if from a long distance away, she heard herself groan.

  “My lady, will you be all right?” Kendra thought she recognized Ethel’s voice, though lassitude had robbed her of the will to open her eyes. “Shall I summon the physician?”

  “Nay.” Her voice’s huskiness startled her. She cleared her throat. “No need for that.” And no need to share the knowledge of her special talent with anyone else. “I shall be fine.”

  It was far more than could be said for the man she had tried to heal. When she opened her eyes, she found him slumped over to one side and slack-jawed. Drool trickled from the corner of his mouth, which Ethel was daubing with her kerchief. Perspiration matted his hair. The exposed flesh of his face looked as waxy as a death mask.

  Kendra touched her own head and realized that it too was damp. Again she felt that odd grittiness. She examined her fingertips and found more ash.

  “I am so sorry, sir,” she murmured, stroking his cheek, the portion not obscured by leather. “I wish I could do more to help you.”

  “And so you shall, my dearest Kendra, through more encounters of this nature.”

  She snapped her head up to find Ulfric standing on the threshold of the open door, hands resting on his hips, a smug grin seeping across his face.

  WHY HAD he left Kendra with someone he’d sooner spit upon than trust? An excellent question. He studied the dirt at his knee. “I should not have, Thane Waldron.”

  “Damned right,” said her father.

  An open hand thrust into Alain’s field of view, a gnarled hand bearing more scars than the sum total of nicks on Alain’s blade. He glanced up in time to see Waldron give a slight nod. He grasped the thane’s forearm and hauled himself up, signaling Ruaud to stand too.

  “My lord, we must talk.” Alain pumped urgency into his tone. “Privately, if possible.”

  Waldron looked over his shoulder at the stream of people filing into and out of the hall. “Not in there.” He turned and strode toward the living quarters, beckoning the Normans to follow him. Alain paused to ask Lofwin to secure the recovered gold. Waldron overheard and expressed profuse gratitude, which Alain accepted with a shrug; he considered the act as yet another facet of his duty.

  With Noir trotting at Alain’s heels, they crossed the yard and climbed the outer staircase in silence. Outside the door to Ruaud’s chamber, Waldron halted. “Sir Ruaud, you are welcome to rest and refresh yourself while…” He rounded on Alain. “Sir Alain? Sir Robert? What in heaven’s name should I call you, son?”

  Son.

  It had been far too long since Alain had heard that title directed at him, and it surprised him to realize how much he’d missed it. Since he was not his father’s heir, he had no right to the patronymic fitz. Alain’s sibling nemesis, Philippe FitzHugh, enjoyed that distinction and never wasted the chance to flaunt it in front of Alain. Hence he had chosen to affiliate himself with the village of his birth, Bellencombre. Alain had never thought of himself as being the “son of” any man until this moment.

  The feeling wasn’t at all unpleasant.

  Waldron’s raised eyebrow reminded him that the thane awaited an answer. Alain cleared his throat. “Formally, my lord, I am addressed as Sir Robert.” Even after all the years spent with his English mother, he still used the Norman-French pronunciation favored by his father, “hro-bear.” He continued, “My friends, like Ruaud and your daughter”—a tentative smile curved his lips—“call me Alain.”

  Waldron resumed his pace down the corridor. “Come, then, Alain.”

  The thane didn’t see Alain’s eyebrows hitch upward.

  AFTER COMMANDING the monks to remain on duty outside, Ulfric slammed the door and stalked into the cottage.

  Images of blood and battle whirled within Kendra’s throbbing head, and she fought to steady her thoughts. “This man’s condition is far worse than my poor skills can remedy.”

  Ulfric’s grin broadened. “You underestimate yourself.”

  “What makes you believe I can cure him? That is, if I consent to try again.” She touched her forehead and winced, though the pain did lessen a bit. “This is not easy for me.”

  “I am confident that you shall give your consent.” He withdrew an object from the pouch at his waist. From a heavy chain swung an ornate gold cross. “I know several men who would be most interested in this uncanny healing touch of yours.” His grin took a sinister cast. “Highly ranking men itching for a spawn of Satan to burn.”

  She recoiled as if he’d struck her. “You wouldn’t dare! My father—”

  “Of course I won’t, my dear, if you carry out my wishes.” He stepped closer, leering. “All my wishes.”

  WALDRON LONGED to call the Norman knight son. Sir Robert—Alain—was bound to marry his daughter by royal decree. Welcoming Alain into the family in this manner felt so natural, so right…even though it sharpened the ache he felt whenever he thought of his own lost son.

  Kendra mourned Del in her way, Waldron in his, and no less keenly, just not as openly.

  And yet Alain’s flash of anguish, when Waldron bestowed the title a few moments ago, made him wonder what might have transpired between the lad and his father. Waldron had no wish to cause this man any more pain.

  He reached the door to his chambers, opened it, ordered the servants out, and beckoned Alain to follow him inside. The knight obeyed, escorted by that massive hound. The dog trotted about the chamber, sniffing here and there, before turning thrice upon a spot near the hearth and scattering rushes as he flopped onto the floor with a grunt.

  According to Waldron’s standing orders, the servants had left a well-stoked blaze in the hearth, a brimming pitcher of mulled wine, and one pewter goblet. As the last man prepared to leave, Waldron asked him to fetch an extra goblet and food. The servant bowed, eyeing the dog, and shut the door behind him.

  Waldron filled the goblet and offered it to Alain. “I insist,” he said when the lad put up a hand in polite refusal. “You will need this far more than I. You have much to explain.”

  The knight’s mouth cracked into a half smile. “Indeed, my lord.” He accepted the goblet with thanks and took a long swallow.

  Waldron expelled an exaggerated sigh. “And you, lad, may dispense with the ‘my lord’ and ‘thane’ nonsense since you will soon become my son by marriage.”

  Alain’s smile vanished. “Not if Kendra has any say.”

  “What? But the king’s decree—”

  “I have promised her that I shall seek to have it nullified. William may choose to grant her wish if I can convince him that the people of Edgarburh will cause him no further trouble. I do stand highly enough in the king’s favor to offer her this hope.”

  With a twitch of his eyebrow, Waldron noted the lad’s choice of words. “Her wish, not yours?”

  “My lord—” He raised a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “Waldron. I have braved death to see Kendra delivered from that outlaw band. I would have braved the fires of hell itself for her—would rather do that, in fact, than be parted from her again.”

  “But you did part from her.”

  Alain stared into the goblet. “Not willingly.” He drained the cup and set it down with a heavy thump. “She does not realize who I am.”

  The servant returned with the extra goblet and a platter of beef, bread, and cheese, which Waldron accepted and dismissed the man with thank
s. The dog raised his head, pricking his ears, and Waldron tossed him a hunk of cold boiled beef. It expressed its gratitude with noisy chewing and soft growls of canine pleasure.

  While Waldron filled both cups, Alain explained what had happened, including the hound’s role, in gut-wrenching detail.

  Good thing those outlaws were already dead, or Waldron would have galloped after them himself.

  “And she told me why she cannot marry a Norman.”

  “That foolish girl!”

  “Please don’t think that, sir. She is determined to obey the king’s command, believing that Sir Robert and I are different men.” Alain thumbed the goblet’s rim as if using it to shape his thoughts. “But if her brother’s memory means this much to her, I shall not force her to dishonor it.” He bowed his head for a moment before regarding Waldron. “I am very sorry for your loss—yours and Kendra’s—and I regret that one of my countrymen was responsible.”

  Smitten by a wave of grief and not willing to trust his voice, Waldron patted Alain’s shoulder, his gaze drifting, as it so often did, toward his newest chest.

  Inspiration swept aside the grief. “I may know a way to circumvent that vow of hers.”

  He stood and motioned Alain to accompany him, and they crossed the chamber to stand before the chest. Waldron pulled the thong holding the key from beneath his tunic, unlocked the chest, and together they lifted the heavy lid.

  As Waldron pawed aside several layers of wool, he said, “Here is the murderer’s shield. If you recognize it and can help me bring the man to justice, it might persuade her to change her mind about you.”

  “It is a large army, sir, but I shall—” Alain paled, shook his head, and blinked hard. “No…it—it cannot be.” He reached toward the shield, seemed to think better of it, and twisted to look at Waldron. “May I?”

  Waldron nodded his assent, and Alain withdrew the kite-shaped shield from the chest. He peered at the device, a prowling saffron leopard, and reverently ran his fingertips over the wood’s green paint, pausing at certain gouges as if he had expected to find them.

  “You recognize it?” Waldron scarcely dared to hope that his months of frustration might be nearing an end.

  Alain’s nod was terse. “Did your son die at Hastings?”

  “Nay. On his way home, several days after the battle, he was ambushed and suffered a mortal wound. Only by a miracle did he linger until Cristes mæsse.”

  “Then it’s impossible that the man for whom this shield was crafted dealt that stroke.” The lad tightened his jaw, but Waldron noticed a tremor in his chin.

  “Why?” He refused to be denied an answer when he stood closer to one now than in the last nine months combined.

  Alain’s hand convulsed around the shield’s iron rim as he stared at its face. “I watched him die by a Saxon’s hand at Hastings. The Saxon took his shield. This shield. And I tried—God, how I tried! But I couldn’t reach him in time. I was too far away, powerless to prevent his death.” He inhaled a ragged breath. “I couldn’t even prevent the looting of his body.”

  He hid his face with the arm holding the shield. The dog rose and padded over to nudge Alain’s other hand, whining. Alain rested his hand on the dog’s head.

  Waldron gripped Alain’s shoulder. “I know how much it hurts, son. I have lost far too many companions-at-arms over the years.”

  Alain stiffened and raised his head to regard the shield, grasping it with both white-knuckled hands. “But how many vows did you break to your dying mother when you failed to protect those men?” His glare, when he turned it upon Waldron, radiated raw fury.

  “How many,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “called you brother?”

  ETHEL’S MINISTRATIONS seemed to have revived the injured man, and he straightened in his chair. His good eye conveyed grief, but something new glimmered there too: appreciation.

  Pointing at the half-masked man, Kendra leveled her glare on Ulfric. “Tell me why his healing is so important, cousin.”

  “Ha…h-hold…ha, hold…” muttered the man, rapping his fist on the table.

  Kendra said, “Is he someone of note? Is that why you’re so anxious to see him hale and whole?”

  Ulfric nodded, fingering his chin. “That would be one way of describing it.”

  “But who—” Someone grasped her hand. She turned to find the man lifting it to his lips. He completed the gesture with surprising grace.

  “Ha. Old go…go in sin. Thankee, lay dee.” He released her hand, squared his shoulders, and inclined his head in a regal gesture.

  Old go in sin? Kendra shook her head, mystified. “What?”

  “You have made excellent progress, Kendra,” Ulfric declared. “He has chosen to reveal himself to you, which is far more than any physician has been able to achieve in the nine months he’s suffered this condition.” Ulfric waved the cross. “A few more healing sessions with you shall do him—and England—a world of good.”

  Chuckling, Ulfric strode away. As he opened the door and stepped outside, twirling the cross, it flashed ominously in the waning sunlight.

  WALDRON RELEASED his grip on Alain’s shoulder and stepped back. “I’ve lost no brothers in battle,” he replied quietly. “Please forgive me, son—Sir Robert.”

  Son. Alain felt his rage drain. The ironic yearning to call this Saxon father hit the Norman with astonishing force.

  Lord willing, he would refer to Waldron as father one day, after claiming Kendra as his bride.

  But much had to transpire before that day’s dawning, beginning with another unpleasant admission.

  “Sir, you have done nothing wrong, save unwittingly revive a painful memory. I apologize for my outburst.” He laid the shield inside the chest. “And I apologize for something I must tell you, for it concerns one of your kinsmen.”

  “Ulfric.” Not a question but a statement.

  Alain’s eyebrows quirked upward. “You know?”

  “What he’s plotting?” Waldron grunted. “Sometimes I wish I did, but usually I’m thankful I don’t. He’s been sniffing after Kendra for years. He no doubt hopes to gain control of Edgarburh through her once I’m gone.”

  “Would that be such a bad thing?”

  Waldron barked a laugh. “For you, most assuredly.”

  Alain couldn’t help but smile. Noir nudged his hand, and he stroked the dog’s ear. “Forget about me for a moment. If there had been no Sir Robert, no royal decree regarding Kendra’s future, would it be detrimental to Edgarburh to have Ulfric governing it?”

  “Lad, he has a hard enough time with the small estate he’s got. Think of that outlaw band. They built their encampment under his nose, and he couldn’t do a thing about it.”

  “Couldn’t…or wouldn’t?”

  “What, exactly, are you implying?” Waldron’s tone turned as flinty as his stare.

  “I have no proof yet, my lord, but I suspect the outlaws were working for him.”

  “’Tis a most serious charge to lay upon my kinsman. I presume you have good reasons?”

  “I do, sir.” Alain held up a finger to discuss the first of many points he had omitted from his earlier recounting of what had happened at Glastonbury Tor. “The cavern I mentioned was stuffed to bursting with treasure.”

  “From the outlaws’ raids, of course. So?”

  “It appears to have been left untouched, even the mountains of coins, as if the outlaws had been ordered not to use it.”

  “How much are you talking about?”

  Alain closed his eyes to summon the memories and had to squelch the sweet memory of Kendra’s kisses and curves. “Enough, perhaps, to pay a sizeable army for a year.”

  “Sizeable?”

  “An army large enough to put a Saxon back on the throne.”

  He omitted his speculations about where that army might be mustering; no need to alarm the thane about that just yet.

  Waldron gaped as Alain continued, “Then there is the matter of Kendra’s locket. Ulfric clai
med he recovered it off the body of one of the outlaws, but who’s to say the man didn’t give it to him because he was in Ulfric’s employ?”

  “Pure speculation. You cannot build a case on that.”

  “No, I cannot. But if Ulfric is innocent of what I suspect, then why would he have tried so hard to kill me?”

  “What!”

  “Twice.” Another memory intruded, and Alain felt his eyes stretch wider. “Perhaps even thrice. Ruaud and I were attacked at an inn on the way to Edgarburh.” He recalled the odd packet of dried petals he’d found on the guide’s body. That had to have been what Kendra had used to heal Alain’s wounds: the Glastonbury thorn, she’d called it. Not to mention the large animal prints Alain had found afterward—the same prints, he realized, that had surrounded the man who’d been murdered on the moor. “I am certain the guide we’d hired in Sarum led us into an ambush. Somehow Ulfric must have found out about my other mission.”

  “Other mission? What other mission?”

  “Regent Odo received several complaints from the outlaws’ victims, and he charged me with setting the matter to rights.”

  “Hence your disguise,” Waldron concluded. “And your avidness to trail the outlaws by surrendering to them.”

  “Kendra figured into both plans too.” Alain drained his goblet and poured another cupful. “I wasn’t keen on the marriage idea at first, so I embraced the disguise as a way to buy time before making my final decision.”

  “You would have disobeyed the king?” Waldron sounded aghast. “And rejected my daughter?”

  Shame fixed Alain’s gaze upon the goblet. “I had my reasons.” Reasons that seemed petty compared with his burgeoning feelings toward her. “Please forgive me, sir. I intended no disrespect toward either of you.” He looked up. “My decision to accompany the outlaws was motivated by my fervor to rescue your daughter.”

  Waldron rose, crossed to the window, and looked out over Edgarburh’s bustling thoroughfare. “Now you believe she needs rescuing again and have returned to enlist my help.”