Kim Iverson Headlee Read online

  Her unworthiness provided the only possible explanation.

  Ashamed of her failure, she had concocted a story about falling into a bed of nettles to explain the lurid rash on her palms.

  She turned her hands to catch the fickle torchlight. Though the discoloration had faded, and the pain had long since subsided, the effects remained visible after nearly a decade.

  Endure the thorn.

  Her mother’s dying request wrenched Kendra’s heart with renewed shame and guilt and fear.

  Mayhap, now that she had gained more experience in the healing arts, she could avoid suffering the same consequences. She doubted whether she had grown any more pure of heart, but she had to try this remedy for Del’s sake. She turned her thoughts toward how many petals she’d need and how much her request would cost.

  “Lady Kendra?” She glanced up at the worried face of her maidservant, Rowena. “My lady, he asks for you.”

  No need to ask which “he” Rowena meant. Kendra rose. So did the rest of the company, but she forced a smile and bade them to be seated and enjoy the entertainment. The bear and its handler yielded to a troupe of brightly clad jugglers whose feats and ribald jokes soon had the people laughing again.

  Just as well, Kendra thought. The time for tears would arrive swiftly enough.

  She donned her cloak trimmed in rabbit fur and left the hall, stopping first at the kitchens. While Rowena prepared a hot onion poultice, Kendra brewed a tisane of lungwort and lady’s mantle. Not that, after all these weeks, she had much faith left in either remedy, but she had nothing else to offer.

  Cradling the lidded terra-cotta mug against her chest to preserve the warmth of its contents, she scurried along the roofed walkway toward the manor house. After navigating the building’s slick exterior staircase, she ducked inside the upper story’s door and hastened down the rush-lit hallway toward Del’s quarters. Only by the extra set of footfalls echoing off the walls did she know Rowena was keeping pace.

  Inside the chamber, Kendra almost dropped the tisane.

  To say that Del’s condition had declined since tierce, when she’d torn herself from his bedside to oversee the final preparations of the Cristes-mæsse feast, was an understatement. His face, already pale, had developed a waxy sheen. Sweat-darkened blond hair framed his sunken cheeks and pain-furrowed forehead in a damp halo. His eyes were closed and his lips parted, his chest moving erratically.

  She shut her eyes against the sting of unshed tears. Inhaling to compose herself, she blinked and rounded on her maidservant, fighting to keep exasperation and fear from dominating her tone. “Rowena, why did you not fetch me sooner?”

  “Not her fault.” The voice sounded hoarse and frail, not like her brother at all. “My wish.”

  Upon setting the mug on the tray beside the onion poultice and shedding her cloak, Kendra strode to Del’s side. She directed the maidservant to clear a place amid the clutter of bandage rolls and half-empty potion vials and salve pots on the nearby table. The candles’ flames wavered in time with the women’s hasty movements, throwing restive shadows against the wall. Rowena shifted the tisane to the table and piled the discarded items onto the tray. After reviving the fire by turning the logs and heaving on another, she picked up the tray, dipped a curtsey in response to Kendra’s murmured thanks, and left the room.

  Hefting the poultice in one hand, Kendra loosened the ties of Del’s tunic with the other.

  His hand gripped hers with unexpected strength. “Don’t bother.” When she began to protest, his face cracked into the lopsided grin she loved so well and would miss so much. “Please. I’d like to leave this world not reeking of the kitchens. If it’s all the same to you.”

  To combat her alarm, she adopted an aura of mock haughtiness. “It most certainly is not the same to me, Delwin Waldronson. The poultice will help you breathe.” She hoped.

  His bark of laughter sparked a cough that made him release her hand. She abandoned the poultice on the table so she could help him sit up, rubbing his back and feeling otherwise useless, until the fit subsided. When it finally did, he lay back against the pillows, wheezing. Blood spattered the coverlet. Her stomach twisted. Their mother had died so, though not because her body had been weakened by a festering sword wound.

  Refusing to surrender, she snatched the mug, removed the lid, and lifted it to his lips. He took a swallow, though whether just to humor her or not she couldn’t tell. Kendra told herself his wheezing had eased, but of that too she could not be certain. She felt certain of nothing.

  She left the mug on the table and perched on the stool beside his bed. He caressed her hair, her cheek, her lips. His fingers felt too cold. She grasped his hand and kissed it, wishing yet again for the gift their mother was rumored to have possessed, the ability to heal with but a touch.

  Gently she laid Del’s hand down but did not let go. His smile seemed laden with as much sorrow as affection.

  “Promise me something, dear sister.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Anything, Del! You know I would give you…” As she cast about for an absurd example, she glanced out the slotted window and noticed the weather’s bleak turn. “If it were within my power, I would give you snow in July.” If only he would live that long, she prayed. Long enough for her to obtain some of the Glastonbury thorn’s petals and overcome her fear of using them.

  He smiled. “You’d find some way to do it, Kendra. I know.” The smile vanished. “Promise me you’ll strive to find happiness.”

  She withdrew her hand to cross her arms, irritation over their old argument rising despite her worry. “And how am I to do that, pray tell me, if I am fated to marry a man of the accursed race responsible for doing this”—she waved her arm over his body—“to you? I would rather die! And Father knows it. But he cares for naught save his own status, that he retains some vestige of control over our lands.”

  “Do not speak so. Father loves you and is doing what he can to ensure that you will be provided for. You and all the folk who look to Edgarburh for protection.”

  Stung by the truth of his rebuke, she bowed her head. “I know, Del. It’s just that…” She clenched her jaw. “I shall never marry the retainer of a king who lets his knights attack men returning home under the banner of truce.”

  Del’s lips twitched in an unreadable grin before his piercing blue eyes adopted a frank look. “Even if such a vow would deny you your heart’s contentment?”

  She was on the verge of repeating her vow when he gasped, beset by another bloody coughing fit. After helping him get through it, grieving at how light his once-robust body felt, she dipped a cloth in the water to swab the sweat from his brow and blood from his lips.

  “Please, Kendra. I need to know…” The wheeze returned, along with an ominous rattle. “Seek happiness. Promise me that.”

  “Oh, Del.” Her voice caught, and she swallowed. She dropped the cloth into the basin and grasped his hand in both of her smaller ones, thankful that the ravages of injury and illness had spared this much of the powerful knight he had been. “If there is any way to fulfill both vows…” Doubts laid siege to her tongue.

  “You will, dearest Kendra.” He closed his eyes, nodding slightly. “I know you will.”

  Surrendering to the trembling of her chin, she fell to her knees and laid her head beside him. His hand came to rest upon her hair. He drew a long, shuddering breath. The rattle stilled. Her heart hammering, she raised her head. His hand slid away. His eyes were open, staring; his chest, unmoving.

  She collapsed over his body, keening and hugging him to her as if sheer force of will could bring him back. Knowing she craved the impossible, she railed at God for taking the person who loved her best, at Del for letting himself be taken, at his demon-spawned Norman murderer, at her mother for failing to bequeath Kendra her rare healing gift, at her father for condoning her barter to a Norman knight. And at the architect of her misery, whose crown, bought by Saxon blood, was being set upon his head this Cristes-mæsse da
y: the Bastard of Normandy.

  Kendra rose, dried her face, and set her jaw. Tenderly she closed Del’s eyes and folded his arms across his chest. Bending to kiss his brow, she affirmed her promise to find happiness wherever she might.

  But it would never be in the arms of a man whose race was responsible for her brother’s death.

  Chapter 2

  SIR ROBERT ALAIN de Bellencombre despised being noticed.

  Being noticed wrought problems in myriad forms: a matron’s lewd grin, a priest’s glare, a Saxon’s spear, a king’s unwanted boon.

  For a scout, being noticed wrought death.

  Grimacing, he leaned his good shoulder against the church’s rough stone wall, the stench of urine and offal from the nearby tanneries so heavy in the air he could taste it.

  A king’s boon. Most men would kill for estates as rich as Edgarburh was reputed to be.

  A knot of worshippers left the church, casting surreptitious glances his way, doubtless wondering why a Norman knight had chosen this dingy backstreet church rather than offering his petitions at the Minster with Winchester’s affluent residents.

  Alain wondered the same thing.

  He’d attended vespers mass to pray for a way out of the predicament King William had thrust upon him. Since a woman lay at the heart of the problem, he had chosen St. Mary’s Church in hopes of placing his petition before the Blessed Mother. But the worship service had been a nightmare of poor Latin, worse singing, restless parishioners, the tanneries’ stench, and sundry other distractions.

  Alain wished he’d yielded to Ruaud’s insistence that he accompany him to the tavern instead.

  Cutting his reverie short with a rueful shake of the head, he set off toward the prearranged meeting place. Mindful of the planking that crossed the brook bubbling down the center of the road, he strode south along bustling Tanner Street. At High Street, he turned right, continued for a block to the Sign of the Rose, and descended the stairway to the underground tavern while a plan coalesced in his mind.

  The darkness, relieved by a few rushlights, provided stark contrast to the evening sky’s summer brightness. He squinted into the gloom.

  “Ici, Alain.” The deep Norman voice pierced the background hum of English. “À gauche.”

  As directed, Alain turned to his left, took a few steps, and stumbled into Ruaud. Ale splashed onto Alain’s tunic. He bore his frothy baptism stoically. Ruaud’s laugh shook his paunch, and more ale threatened to fly forth as he pounded Alain on the back, near the wound he’d taken at Hastings nine months before.

  Alain massaged his shoulder, wondering when its pain would cease. He had long since resigned himself to the fact that the pain of failure never would abate.

  Several years Alain’s senior, Sir Ruaud d’Auvay had become Alain’s mentor and friend at Duke William’s court at a time when Alain had stood in sore need of guidance. Comte Philippe FitzHugh, Alain’s elder half brother, had looked upon Alain with suspicious dislike, always fearing Alain coveted their father’s title, never believing Alain’s fervent and sincere denials.

  Philippe had undercut Alain at every opportunity, the most recent blow being Alain’s intended bride, whom Philippe had lured into his own bed.

  No. Marie had gone willingly, lusting after Philippe’s wealth and title. They deserved each other. Ruaud had helped Alain recognize that. Afterward he had implemented Ruaud’s suggestion to transfer from the scouting corps to the cavalry, following William to England to let battle cauterize the wound of Marie’s betrayal.

  If not for Ruaud’s agreeing to accompany Alain on this personal mission to Edgarburh, he doubted he’d have undertaken the journey.

  The more he pondered it, in fact, the more attractive the idea of turning back became.

  “Did the Blessed Virgin look with favor upon your request?” Ruaud’s breath exuded ale, and Alain detected a slur to his words. “Do you think the Holy Mother will grant you a wife worthy of such a fine and pious young knight?”

  Alain’s eyes had adjusted sufficiently to note that only two other Normans numbered among the tavern’s patrons, the crimson cross emblazoned across the front of their white tunics marking them as men employed by Bishop Odo, who had been appointed coregent and charged with governing the affairs of southern England while the king held court in Normandy. King William’s other close friend and adviser, William FitzOsbern, had been ordered to establish his headquarters in York to serve as the bishop’s counterpart for governing northern England.

  Odo’s men greeted Alain with friendly nods and continued sitting near the back, drinking ale with a passing fair Saxon woman. If they had heard Ruaud’s remark, they didn’t respond to it. The Saxon patrons most likely would not understand a word. Alain knew many Englishmen in London who spoke fluent French, but in Winchester he had met few men with command of the language.

  In answer to Ruaud, he shrugged. “I could not concentrate.”

  “What, Sir Robert the Pious having trouble at his prayers? Did a pretty pair of eyes distract you?” Ruaud laughed again—a bit too loudly, Alain thought. He wondered how many flagons his friend had consumed. Despite his bulk, Ruaud’s ability to hold his alcohol remained tenuous.

  “Sit.” He took Ruaud by the arm and steered him toward an out-of-the-way bench. “I must discuss something with you.”

  As they seated themselves, a short, ill-featured serving woman appeared with a flagon, which she thrust into Alain’s hand. “From your companions, my lord,” she said, nodding toward Odo’s men. Returning her attention to Alain, she offered him a provocative smile.

  He understood all too well the implications of such a smile, and even if the woman had been a peerless beauty, he had no wish to accept her unspoken invitation.

  Mercifully, she retreated to attend other men clamoring for service. Alain saluted the Normans with the flagon and took a long pull.

  The brew’s bitter taste compounded the bitterness frothing in his heart. Months of resentment roiled to a head. He lowered the flagon and met his friend’s bleary gaze. “I have a plan. I need your help.”

  “Plan? We do not need a plan,” Ruaud scoffed. “All we need is a guide across the plains of Somerset. Our friends”—he tossed a nod at the bishop’s knights, who sat too engrossed in their conversation to notice—“have said the road to Sarum is easy. We would be wasting our coins to hire a guide here, when cheaper and more reliable service is available in Sarum.”

  “I am not going to Edgarburh.”

  “What?” Ruaud roared the word, attracting the attention of a pair of burly Saxons seated a few tables away. “You drag me from London to this armpit of a city for no purpose? You ignore King William’s command? Do you yet suffer battle fever? Or have the vapors of this accursed dung heap robbed you of your wits?”

  The Saxon men were frowning. Alain gave Ruaud a warning stare. “I am sorry,” he said. “But I refuse to be William’s pawn in his chess game with the English.”

  Ruaud rolled his eyes. “You have a choice?”

  Alain curled one hand around his flagon and the other into a fist. “I will travel to Anjou, hire out my scouting services and my sword, and outwait William’s wrath. I need you to buy me time. Go to Edgarburh, introduce yourself as my spokesman, and make excuses for my absence as long as you can.” He drained his flagon and set it down with a solid thump.

  His decision didn’t make him feel a fraction as satisfied as he’d hoped.

  Puffing his cheeks, Ruaud blew out a sigh. “Merciful Mother of God. Your brains would make the flowers grow. What am I to tell the thane or his daughter? That your wound still troubles you? This long after the battle, do you think they will believe it?”

  Alain gave a stiff shrug. “It does, sometimes.”

  Ruaud snorted. “You have brooded about this wedding for half a year. William rewards you well. Forget this Anjou lunacy. Take the rich estate and the woman, and be done.”

  “Easy advice for you to dispense.” The echo mocked Alain from the
bottom of his empty flagon. “You did not have to marry into your English estate.” He held the mug aloft to signal the serving maid, which she acknowledged with a gap-toothed smile, took his penny, and hurried off. After downing half of the replacement brew, he eyed Ruaud over the rim.

  “I am already married.” Ruaud grinned. “Or have you forgotten?”

  “I have not. But by the way you consort with the London women, it seems you have.”

  Ruaud let out a hearty laugh. “And that is the best part of being a knight, lad. Marry the wench, get some sons on her, and do as you please with other women.”

  “Trouble visits a married man who dallies.” And their children, Alain mused, recalling William’s rocky rise to power because Duke Robert had never married William’s baseborn mother.

  The absolute last thing Alain wanted was an army of bastards scattered about the world.

  Ruaud ran a hand through his hair and canted across the table, his gaze as earnest as his state of inebriation would permit. “Dalliance has never caused me any trouble. And it need not cause you any, if you are careful. Marry the Saxon and leave her in Wessex to bear your sons. Then hie yourself to France or Normandy or Jerusalem—or hell itself, for all I care.” Ruaud finished his ale and brandished the empty flagon. “Ale of more!” he yelled in his atrocious English.

  “Some friend you are.”

  Ruaud remained silent as the serving maid approached. Mumbling something Alain couldn’t hear, she extracted the flagon from Ruaud’s hand and vanished with it into the shadows at the back of the tavern.

  “You do have another option.” Ruaud gave Alain a long stare as though taking his measure for the first time. Alain felt his brow furrow. “You could go to Edgarburh in disguise.”