Chapter 12 #3
“I see. You carry his child but he will not have you for your lowborn status. Can you really be that foolish to love such a man? I care not that you may have agreed to lie with him, Merewyn. You were innocent and he took advantage. How can you stay to face the shame of a fallen woman when in Wales you could be the wife of a prince?”
She remembered the seven sins vividly portrayed on the walls of the stone church. Which had been hers? Surely not lust. Nay, it was love. And that was no sin. The vow she had spoken to Alex had been sincere. I would have you be mine.
Owain believed he was doing right by her, but a marriage should be based upon more. If she could not have the man she loved, she would have no one.
He leapt to his feet and grabbed her arm, wrapping his fingers tightly around her sleeve. “Come, we are leaving.”
“But Owain, I told you I would not go!”
His jaw was set, his eyes dark pools. “I know what you said, but in time, you will see, I am the one who cares for you. I am the one who is looking out for your welfare. Not him.”
He pulled her along behind him toward a copse of oak trees. For the sake of the babe, she did not struggle. Owain was so much stronger than she was it would have availed her little.
They arrived in the copse where Ceinder stood saddled next to his pony. “You were planning to take me to Wales were I willing or no?”
“I did not intend to leave without you,” he said, quickly tying her wrists together and lifting her to the pony’s back. Gathering up Ceinder’s reins, he mounted his own horse and headed south, leading Merewyn’s pony behind him. “I will go slowly for the sake of the babe.”
“What about my clothes?” She had worn a simple gown of dark green wool and her heavy cloak to meet him, but she had nothing else.
“I have your archer’s clothing. You can change whenever you will.”
“And my bow?”
“That, too.” And then she saw it, tied to the back of his horse. Her bow and her quiver of arrows tied with his. Owain had planned this well. He had spoken truly when he said he had come for her. He had always meant to take her with him when he returned to Wales.
* * *
“It was probably best William settled on terms,” Alex told Rory and Guy when he returned to camp and they were gathered around the fire, chewing on what remained of their dried venison. “The Scots were ready for us. Malcolm’s army appeared strong and eager for a fight.”
“And William without his ships,” said Rory.
“Aye, and little food for his men,” Guy put in. Alex shot him a glance, thinking the youngest knight among them was looking rather wane. They had not had a good meal in weeks.
“We leave at dawn for Durham,” encouraged Alex. “Mayhap the townspeople will see fit to sell us some of their winter food stores this time.”
The king drove his army hard, but none of Alex’s men complained as it meant returning sooner to better weather and, hopefully, better provisions.
The barons had not been unhappy to turn away from war. Sir Nigel had told Alex his men were as cold and hungry as the rest of the army.
When they arrived in Durham three days later, the king supped with William de Saint Calais, Bishop of Durham, who had returned to the city in September, the day after William had marched his army north.
Alex had been invited by the king to join Sir Nigel and the barons to hear the old bishop’s explanation as to what had happened to the king’s ships.
Alex was impressed by the simple manner of Bishop William’s attire, his long green robe over white linen and his brown tonsured hair threaded with gray. He was obviously aged but his dark eyes reflected a keen intelligence.
As the men around the table grew quiet, all eyes focused on the bishop.
“My understanding,” he began, “is that your ships arrived at the mouth of the Tyne a fortnight after you left Durham. With you gone, My Lord, the seamen decided to plunder Tynemouth.” The bishop cast a disapproving glance at the king.
“They took many goods and precious items. They even robbed an old woman of a cloth she was weaving.”
William listened half-heartedly. Alex could tell from the king’s restless stirrings that he was growing impatient.
The bishop continued. “The woman appealed to St. Oswin, whose shrine, I suppose you know, is in Tynemouth Priory. The next day the ships ran aground on the rocks of Coquet Island.”
“We know the ships ran aground, good bishop,” said the king, tapping his fingers on the table.
“What you may not know,” said the bishop, “is that the bodies of the seamen and the pilfered goods washed ashore around Tynemouth, the same town your seamen plundered. The people emerged from their hiding places and reclaimed their stolen property. They believe St. Oswin answered the old woman’s prayer, granting a miracle and rendering judgment upon your ships. I, for one, cannot disagree.”
William’s countenance grew troubled, his face turning ruddy as his brows drew together.
Sir Nigel cast a glance at Alex, who took it as a warning that the king’s temper was about to loose itself on the bishop. While the king was not a man who accorded much weight to the teachings of the church, he was superstitious.
“By the face of Lucca!” William swore. “The saints dare oppose me?”
The men of the church sitting around the bishop began murmuring to each other. Even Ranulf Flambard expressed concern. He was, after all, a priest, though he seldom acted the part.
Duke Robert shook his head. “A very regrettable incident, but the seamen paid for their rash acts with their lives.”
“And I have lost my ships!” William pounded the table and sent a stern glower at the bishop. Then his face turned bright red, making his blond hair appear even lighter, as he rose and stomped from the chamber.
War had been averted and the Scots reined in for the moment, but it was a somber evening in Durham as the barons planned to take their leave.
The king was still in a dour mood the next day, his every word sharp and accompanied by a frown, barking at his barons and his guards for the smallest thing.
Alex waited for a lull in the king’s shouted orders in which he could broach the subject of his intention to formally make Merewyn his wife. But given William’s current state of mind, he decided to tread carefully, speaking only of his dislike of the choice of Lady Adèle.
“My Lord, might I have a moment of your time?”
Still brooding, William gestured Alex to the side of the large chamber where he had been attending his barons. “What is it?” he snapped.
“Sire, I know you had in mind a match between Vermandois’ daughter and me, but I would prefer another.”
“Another? You would risk my displeasure by rejecting a Norman bride I have proffered?”
Alex opened his mouth to speak but the king cut him off.
“I must have my lands in Normandy tied to England, sir wolf. Remember that. If you care not for the Lady Adèle, I will find another. But I will see you wed to Normandy. Doubt it not! Now, leave my sight lest I consider you out of favor.”
Alex bowed and turned away from the king’s wrath. It had not been a good time to try and gain William’s approval. Finding Sir Nigel, Earl Hugh and the other barons speaking together, he bid them goodbye. “My men and I are departing for Talisand.”
Ranulf Flambard inquired about Merewyn. Alex shrugged him off with a scowl.
“So, the Black Wolf disdains my interest in the girl? You cannot keep them all for yourself, Sir Alex.”
“And you cannot have that one at all, Ranulf!”
In reply, Ranulf just laughed.
Relieved to see the back of the king’s advisor, Alex and his men turned their horses toward home. A few hours later, they were free of the black mood of the king and sharing the laughter of men who are glad to be alive and returning from the brink of war to the people they love.
Only one face lingered in Alex’s mind as he led his men home: A slender archer whose blue-hazel eyes beckoned. To have her by his side, he would find a way to defy his king.