Snow in July (31 page)

Waldron, his hand resting over his heart, bowed double. “Your Majesty, nothing would please me more.” Not one trace of sarcasm corrupted his tone.

Odo strode toward the corner where the company’s saddlebags had been stowed, chuckling to himself. That canny Saxon could give many a young Norman courtier lessons in diplomacy.

Chapter 18

S
WIRLING THE WINE at the bottom of her crimson glass goblet, Kendra languished on her tall-backed chair in Thornhill’s feast hall, wistfully listening to the rain pummel the roof timbers. The sound reminded her of her beloved Edgarburh, but it also reminded her how foolish it would be to attempt traveling under such unpredictable conditions.

If Ulfric would let her leave.

Thus far she’d been unable to complete King Harold’s healing, and although this didn’t seem to anger Ulfric yet, she suspected that could change without warning.

Just as, without warning, more thanes arrived each day to take counsel with Ulfric.

Four days ago, following Sunday’s High Mass, the burh had experienced the largest influx yet. Some thanes she recognized; most she didn’t. Some looked handsome enough to flirt with if she’d been of such a mind; most ogled her whether she appreciated their attentions or not.

Hence, Ulfric had made a point of parading her upon his arm before the assembled crowd at mealtimes, during mass, and for every other excuse he could devise. Even though no plans had yet been made—and she was not about to press Ulfric on the issue—he made it clear to everyone that she was his intended bride.

Inwardly, she cringed at each mention of the word.

The man whose bride she wanted to become was probably entrenched at his favorite tavern with a wench in his lap and a flagon of ale in his hand.

Nay, that was unfair. Alain wasn’t the wenching type.

With the heel of her hand she rubbed the spot over the source of her ache, closing her eyes and tipping her chair back against one of the hall’s vertical timbers.

“My dear, are you ill?”

She didn’t need to open her eyes to know who’d addressed her. “Merely fatigued, Ulfric.”
And heartsick.
She righted her chair and regarded him, not bothering to disguise her weariness. “I thank you for your concern.”

He patted her hand. “Perhaps you should retire to your quarters and rest in preparation for this evening’s”—his smile turned avaricious—“event.”

She suppressed a groan. These “events,” as Ulfric publicly called her secret healing sessions with King Harold (and she refused to regard the man in any other manner, regardless of the current political landscape), were taking a toll on her. Each time she finished, the king appeared to rally, but Ulfric would enter the cottage and order her outside. And the next day His Majesty would seem to have lost whatever ground he’d gained.

Kendra would have given her eye teeth to know what Ulfric did inside the cottage after she left, but the king’s monk-bodyguards rendered any effort to eavesdrop impossible.

Casting her cousin a grateful smile for the reprieve, however small, she rose, stepped down from the dais, and began threading her way past the lower tables toward the door.

A messenger entered and rushed toward the head table, knocking a platter of roast pork from a manservant’s hands and almost colliding with a woman pouring ale. The messenger scarcely noticed Kendra as he hurtled past her, except to nod an apology for jostling her arm. Believing his message was none of her concern, she continued out the door.

The rain had ebbed to a drizzle. She still felt obliged to pull up her cloak’s hood, but the lighter rainfall permitted her a change of plans.

Rather than the manor house, she headed toward her favorite retreat at Thornhill: the bee garden. Gratefully, she discovered the bench had been kept dry by the apple tree’s canopy. Congratulating herself for having escaped the feast hall’s cloying atmosphere, she inhaled the garden’s earthy fragrances.

The problem of Alain she felt powerless to remedy. Unless he returned to her—and she wished for that moment with her entire being—she would never see him again, for it would be unseemly for her to seek him out if she ever left Thornhill.

If.

She shook her head to dispel the disturbing notion.

Her mind wandered to other questions that had been nagging her for several days. Why was Ulfric being visited by a constant parade of thanes? Why, despite her best efforts, was King Harold’s condition showing no improvement? And why did Ulfric insist upon the king’s recovery?

Perhaps it was the association between the fruit-weighted boughs overhead and the wine she’d imbibed with her midday meal, wine bearing the familiar taste of apples. Perhaps the king’s healing sessions had drained her far more than she’d realized, and her mind was losing touch with reality. Or perhaps the garden’s herbs wrought a special brand of healing magic.

Whatever the reason, ludicrous ideas began to form…

She recalled where she’d tasted that unique wine before: as the outlaws’ captive. They could have stolen it, true. But the cavern had contained only gold, silver, jewels, and objects crafted from those materials, nothing as mundane as wine casks. Nor had she seen such stores inside the tower.

While the outlaws could have kept plundered wine elsewhere, she couldn’t shake the impression that Ulfric was connected to them. In retrospect, it seemed too convenient that he’d been standing on the hillside as she and Alain had finished digging out of the cavern, as if he’d known where they were going to emerge.

And why didn’t the dog bark a warning when he’d defended them so vehemently before? The animal had to have seen Ulfric. Could her cousin have been familiar to him and thus not perceived as a threat?

What if Ulfric knew about the fortune in the cavern, how it had been acquired, and he had plans for its use?

Kendra chewed her lip and frowned, certain the visiting thanes factored into those plans, but their contingents seemed far too small. Unless most of the men were being quartered elsewhere.

One by one the pieces fell into place, and she did not like the picture they formed.

She rose, gathered her skirts in her fists, and pelted from the garden, heedless of the many puddles. She had to turn her cousin from the mad course he’d chosen. Her chances for success would be slim at best, but she had to try.

If she didn’t, the consequences unleashed by his perilous plan would consume her and everyone she held dear.

ULFRIC CRUSHED the parchment in his fist. With his other hand gripping his chair’s carved armrest, he leaned forward, feeling a fierce scowl drag at his mouth.

“Tell Dragon he shall ready his followers to commence another ‘pilgrimage’ as best he can in this accursed weather. He is to await my signal to depart,” he told the messenger.

The man saluted, turned smartly, and strode away, snatching a mutton joint from one of the far tables before quitting the feast hall.

Ulfric narrowed his eyes upon the retreating figure. Under other circumstances, he’d have taught the whelp a lesson for displaying such insolence. But time had allied itself with William the Bastard.

He stood, and so did the other thanes. With a word to the men-at-arms to continue their repast, Ulfric motioned their leaders to join him behind the dais. Menservants hurried to bring forth enough benches for Ulfric’s distinguished guests.

“What has happened, Ulfric? Why have you ordered another”—Oesc’s grin showed more gaps than teeth—“pilgrimage? And to where?”

Ulfric kept his tone low and even. “His Majesty’s orders,” he lied. “It seems the Norman usurper has gotten wind of a stench he doesn’t like. He is mustering troops at Sarum.”

Wihtred muttered a curse. “We’re not ready, are we? How can we be? We cannot hope to move until this rain lifts. Besides”—the old thane cast a nervous glance toward the servants’ entrance—“His Majesty isn’t ready, I’ll wager.”

“We shall have to be ready, His Majesty included.” That last bit he uttered for his listeners’ benefit; the only man privy to the full extent of Ulfric’s plans and powers was commanding the “pilgrim” camp outside Glastonbury.

His pronouncement was greeted with assorted mutterings but no real dissent. Yet.

Time to lay the matter to rest.

Ulfric stood and regarded each of the thanes in turn. “Does anyone here wish to return home and become enslaved under a Norman yoke? If so, then do it now.” As he had suspected, no one was willing to admit to cowardice. “Good. Leave His Majesty to me. When the weather breaks, he shall march with us.”

More than a few thanes wrinkled their brows in obvious skepticism, but Ulfric ignored them and continued, “I need each of you to return to the encampment and help Dragon prepare our men for the ‘pilgrimage’ to meet the Bastard of Normandy on the Salisbury Plain.”

HALFWAY TO her destination, Kendra saw Ulfric striding toward her.

“Ah, cousin, well met.” Ulfric’s smile seemed tense. He slipped his hand beneath her elbow and began escorting her toward the king’s cottage. “I—that is, my honored guest has need of your services much sooner than anticipated.”

Kendra stopped. When Ulfric tried to tug her along, she refused to budge. “That is why I came looking for you, Ulfric.” Planting her hands on her hips, she pumped disapproval into her glare. “This isn’t right.”

“What? Healing a man who’s wounded in body and spirit?”

“You shouldn’t use him to foster a dead political cause.”

Ulfric’s laugh sounded genuine. “You think I’m trying to get him well enough to put him back on the throne?”

“Aren’t you?” When he refused to respond, she asked, “How else do you explain your noble visitors—visitors with a well-known dislike of King William?”

“As have you, my dear.” He clutched her arm and bent so low that his lips brushed her ear. “You are involved too deeply to start growing a conscience.”

She looked at him, aghast. “Involved—in what, exactly?”

“Why, returning England to Saxon rule, of course.”

She noted his choice of words but felt it safer to remain silent. He appeared to mistake her silence for acceptance and pushed her onward.

“Remember, Kendra, I will make a lot of trouble for you with the Church if you refuse to comply.”

That, she could well believe. Better to feign obedience while formulating an escape plan. She allowed Ulfric to resume their course with no further resistance.

“My lord Ulfric,” said Brother Oswald with a stiff nod as they drew near. “Lady Kendra, your appearance is most fortunate. I was about to send for you.”

All concern for Ulfric and his schemes fled. “Why?” She pulled free of her cousin’s grasp. “What has happened?”

The monk cast a worried glance toward the cottage’s door. “He has had a seizure, my lady. One moment he was sitting in his chair, talking—or trying to. The next moment, he was writhing on the floor, clawing his chest and gasping for breath. Ethel and Brother Eric are tending him.” Palpable relief washed over his face. “But I am glad you’ve come.”

She burst through the door, shed her sodden cloak, and hastened across the room. The monks had heaved the king onto his bed, but sloppily, as if even in his emaciated condition his frame was too large for them to handle. His pallor and labored breathing alarmed her. Brother Eric twisted around to glare at the intruder, but the moment her identity registered he surrendered his seat.