A Man of Value (7 page)

It’s good to hear you laugh, Agneta.

The memory of his husky voice washed over her. “I’ll never laugh again,” she whimpered, awakened once more by her dreams, curling up, hugging her body, trying to get back to sleep.

She was ashamed when she dreamed of Caedmon touching her, holding her, stroking her hair. Sometimes his presence felt real enough that her own sighs woke her up.

Pray God no one heard me.

She fought to still the aching throb arching into her core, and often awoke hot with shame, her hand between her legs, her pillow wet with tears of longing. Whenever she shaved a patient, her hand shook and she had to abandon the task, often to Brother Manton. She craved Caedmon’s return, and hated herself and him for it.

“You look unwell, Sister Agneta,” Brother Manton whispered to her one day, keeping his eyes on the patient they were tending.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she replied.

The monk shook his head. “It’s more than that, isn’t it child? You’re unhappy here.”

“I’ve nowhere else to go.”

“That’s not a reason to take final vows,” the old man whispered softly.

Agneta felt her whole body tense. She wanted to scream, but murmured, “I’m trying my best, brother. I’m trying to be a good nun.”

“You should speak to Mother Superior. She can perhaps help you with whatever is making you unhappy.”

Agneta shook her head, panic in her eyes. “No, she can’t help me.”

“It’s the Saxon knight, isn’t it?” There was no accusation in the monk’s voice.

Oh God, is it so obvious?

She gasped and their eyes met for the briefest moment. He’d seen the truth. She felt the tears welling.

“I will pray for you, Agneta.”

“Thank you, Brother Manton. Please excuse me, I must see to the child with the broken arm.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Your Majesty.” Edgar Beasant bowed low to the new King, Duncan. He effected a slightly less deferential bow to Duncan’s half-brother, seated in the lesser throne beside Duncan’s. “My Lord Edmund.”

He turned back to Duncan. “May I introduce my comrades who have accompanied me on this mission from the Saxon community to bring our good wishes on your accession to the throne?”

“Proceed,” Duncan replied. Edmund nodded.

Edgar indicated the two knights who’d accompanied him. “Sir Caedmon Woolgar and Sir Leofric Deacon are both Saxons born in Scotland after their parents fled the Conqueror. Both fought valiantly for your Father, King Malcolm
Cenn Mór
at the Battle of Alnwick, and, as you see, both bear the scars of their sacrifices for Scotland.

While Edgar talked, Caedmon watched the new King Duncan. He seemed ill-at-ease and obviously aware of his half-brother seated beside him. Though they shared the same father, they didn’t look alike. Caedmon wondered if they trusted each other. What had they done with their uncle, Donald the Fair, whom they’d deposed?

When his own name was mentioned Caedmon bowed with great deference, aware his actions and those of Leofric and Edgar, would have an impact on the exiled Saxon community. As Edgar continued to extol the loyalty of the Saxons, Caedmon sensed Edmund growing impatient and suddenly King Duncan raised his hand.

“Enough, Sir Edgar. We’re already aware of your efforts over the years on behalf of my Father. Sir Caedmon, Sir Leofric, we thank you for your bravery and your sacrifices for Scotland. However, we must also respect the feelings of our new allies, King William Rufus and the Northumbrians who have aided us to regain the throne. We must have assurances there will be no further attacks by Saxons against Norman holdings and interests.”

“I, like my fellow Saxons, seek only to protect the interests of Scotland, the land that has afforded us protection since the Conquest,” Caedmon replied.

“Aye, well, we all seek to protect Scotland’s interests,” Edmund suddenly interjected. “We need your oath there will be no attacks against Normans.”

Caedmon raged inwardly, but he had no choice, any more than the two royal princes who sat before him. What price had Rufus exacted for his support?

“On behalf of the Saxon community, I swear there will be no attacks on Norman interests and holdings,” Edgar solemnly intoned, his hand on his heart.

They were dismissed. As they left, Caedmon whispered to Leofric, “I predict the reign of Duncan the Second to be a short one.”

~~~

As the days blurred into each other, Agneta lost track of how old she was. She wouldn’t be required to make her final vows until she reached her majority, but exactly when that would be wasn’t clear in her mind. Since she didn’t want to think about the finality of that event, she made no great effort to clear the fog. She was grimly certain Mother Superior had the matter in hand.

One day, in the early autumn, a man came to the infirmary with a deep sword wound to his upper arm. It wasn’t a new wound, but had been poorly treated and there were signs of putrefaction. He was feverish. Agneta quickly had him assigned to a pallet and she and her helpers tended him.

“Where did this happen? This blow came close to cleaving your arm in two. Who sewed your wound?” she asked him.

“Edwinesburh,” he rasped. “One of my comrades did the stitching, just so’s I could get back home.”

“You’re from Northumbria?”

The man nodded, wincing at the pain.

“What were you doing in Scotland?”

The man looked around nervously, then seemed reassured. “Helped with the siege.”

Agneta’s had to wipe her sweaty palms on her habit. “Siege?”

He nodded. “Went with Rufus’s army to help depose King Donald.”

She swallowed hard. “Was the siege successful?” Her hands shook and she had to stop her ministrations. She saw the questioning look of concern in Mayda’s eyes.

“Are you all right? You look like you might swoon,” the novice whispered.

Agneta nodded, and wiped her brow with her sleeve.

The injured man continued, “Duncan’s king now, but more or less shares the throne with his half-brother, Edmund. They’re the sons of King Malcolm, you know, the one killed near here, at Alnwick.”

To Agneta’s surprise, it was Mayda who asked, “But you say the Normans helped them capture the throne?”

The man nodded, gritting his teeth against the pain. Agneta could see he was close to swooning as they laved the putrefaction from his wound.

“Was it a long siege? Did many die?” she stammered.

He had to wait for the spasm of pain to pass. “No, it was enough that we threatened. Donald the Fair couldn’t withstand our army and gave up quick. Saved his own neck. I was unlucky. Too cocksure of our success.”

Agneta had to get away, before she did indeed fall to the stone floor. Caedmon wouldn’t sit idly by if he had a cause to fight for and he hated Normans. “Sister Mayda can finish taking care of you. Hopefully, the wound will heal properly now. Watch his fever, Mayda,” she whispered, unwilling to look her friend in the eye. She fled to the sanctuary of the chapel, and fell to her knees.

“
Pater Noster
,” she sobbed. “Please—please protect him. Keep him alive. I can’t bear the thought he might be dead. Please.”

CHAPTER NINE

“Many Saxons have already left, mother. We must do the same. This country is no longer safe for us. We have no future here. Duncan’s flimsy hold on the crown won’t last now that his foreign allies have had to return to their own lands to put down a rebellion.”

“You’re right, Caedmon. I’m too old to start again,” Lady Ascha replied sadly, slumped in a chair. “This house has come to be home for me.”

“But you have another home. In Ruyton. We must go there.”

Ascha shook her head, apparently unwilling to think about it, but said, “Shelfhoc is your birthright, Caedmon. I suppose you’re right. I’ve been away for a long time, and the memories—”

He took his mother’s hand, and bent his knees to hunker down beside her. “It won’t be easy. You already know it’s a long, hard journey. But I’ll be there to help you and Leofric has already said he’ll accompany us. There’s no reason for him to stay, now both his parents are gone. I believe many more will want to accompany us. We’ll seek shelter in monasteries and abbeys along the way. We can make a new life in the Marches. From what I hear, your
valiant
Norman protector, the Earl of Ellesmere has the area under control, and you’ve said yourself his stewards have kept up Shelfhoc.”

“Yes,” Ascha whispered.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it? The Normans stole everything from us, yet it’s thanks to a Norman we have a manor to return to in England. I’ll set about organizing our departure.”

Ascha looked around, her eyes wandering over the furnishings, the drapery, the warm wooden panelling. “What about this house? Can we sell it?”

Caedmon clenched his jaw. This was the only home he’d ever known. “We can try. I’ll speak to some people at Court. Though in these unsettled times—”

He pondered the possibilities. “Edgar Beasant
might
be interested. He’s decided to stay here, and has mentioned buying a house for Kendra and Eivind, now they’re married.” He shook his head. “What is Eivind thinking? Being married to Kendra would drive me mad.”

“Perhaps he loves her,” his mother said.

Caedmon shook his head. “Eivind isn’t a man who would marry for love.”

“Not like you, my son? Will you not choose a bonnie Saxon girl to take with us as your wife? There are many who would wish you as their husband.”

“Mother, there’s only one woman I will consider marrying, and that’s Agneta.”

“But she may have made her final vows already.”

He shook his head. “She’s not old enough yet. Anyway, when we travel through Northumbria, I’m determined to try to change her mind about me.”

“She may not be glad to see you.”

“I have to try, if it’s only to say a last goodbye.”

~~~

Caedmon and Leofric set about making clandestine arrangements for their departure. The three surviving members of the Brightmore family, Coventina and her mother and aunt, had decided to join the Woolgars in their flight. The three women had come to assist Ascha with packing.

“The morrow will see a twelvemonth passed since Alnwick,” Leofric observed, as he and Caedmon were examining the latest charts they’d procured, planning a route. “Hard to believe a year has passed since that bloody day when life changed completely.”

“Aye,” Caedmon agreed. “And isn’t it ironic the same thirteenth day of November is the feast day of Saint Brice?”

He turned to his mother. “Why
did
you pick that as my middle name, mother?”

Lady Ascha reddened, muttered something about having to finish packing, and left abruptly. The elder Brightmore women went with her.

“It’s more than a fitting day for us to leave this cursed country, make a fresh start,” Enid, Lady Ascha’s maidservant said. “I’d better go help your mother.”

Caedmon wondered exactly what Enid meant by her unusual outburst, but his thoughts were interrupted.

“You have to admire Enid’s loyalty. She’s not a young woman and yet she’s been willing to follow your mother and serve her for many years.”

Caedmon looked at the person who’d spoken. Coventina Brightmore was a shy, quiet girl, not beautiful, but pleasant, with a good figure, and what Leofric described as
voluptuous tits
. It was rare for her to offer an opinion. Caedmon nodded, and then happened to notice Leofric also stared at the girl, clenching his good fist nervously.

I wonder.

“Let’s go over the plan again, Leofric,” Caedmon suggested.

“What? Oh—yes—the plan. Everyone who is assembled here at dawn will be making the journey. Each traveller has been told they must have their own healthy horse and sufficient provisions for a sennight, at least. There will be only one wagon, which has been generously provided by Edgar Beasant, and each family will be allotted a space in it. No furniture, chattels or the like. Warm winter clothing and boots. Sufficient funds to support your family—well concealed, of course.”

“How many have committed?”

“Fifteen.”

Caedmon was about to reply when he was interrupted by a commotion, and Eivind Brede burst into the room. Lady Ascha, the Brightmores and Enid followed right behind. “They’ve butchered Duncan.”

Lady Ascha’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. “The King?”

“Aye. The treacherous Edmund has joined forces with his uncle, Donald the Fair. They’ve had Duncan murdered, and Donald the Fair is back on the throne. The old man has named Edmund his heir.”

“Rufus won’t be happy about all this,” Leofric suggested.

“Will we still leave on the morrow?” Lady Ascha asked worriedly.

“We must,” Caedmon replied.

I hope my little nun is praying for me.

~~~

Agneta’s patient with the putrified sword slash proved to be an excellent source of information about the goings-on north of the border. He recovered after a fortnight in the Infirmary and she visited him and his family often in their cottage near Alnwick, on the pretext of making sure his wound had not reopened. She always took another novice with her. As she carefully examined the scar, she learned, one cold November morning, about the murder of King Duncan a sennight before.

“Ironic it was on the eve of the twelvemonth anniversary of the battle here, when his father Malcolm and his half-brother died,” he told her.

Agneta was startled. “Twelve months? Since Alnwick?”

Oh God. Has it been that long?

“Yes. Feast Day of Saint Brice.”

It suddenly came to her she’d been immersed in the ritual of the divine office and paid no attention to which saint they were honouring. Her head spun.

My name is Caedmon Brice Woolgar.

She made a great show of examining the man’s scar. “What’s happening there now? Has there been bloodshed?”

The man looked at her strangely. “You’re mighty interested in all this.”

“I have a friend who lives there, a Saxon.”

“They say the Saxons are leaving in droves.”