Blood Sword Legacy 04 - A Knight to Remember by Karin Tabke

One

    Wessex Coast, February 1068

    Mercia trounced along the path to the jagged cliffs overlooking the churning Irish Sea. Frustration dueled with a deep sense of melancholy. Frustration with her father, Lord Cedric, for not only losing the family’s fortunes, but also for packing her off to the nuns at Drury Abby. “I have not a piece of silver to offer for your hand, Mercia. A bride of God, ye’ll be!”
    Angrily she kicked at a stone in her path. “Jesu!” she cursed when she stubbed her toe. She had the decency to make the sign of the cross and ask the Lord for forgiveness, but she also asked for forgiveness the next time. There was always a next time.
    She did not want to spend the rest of her life on her knees, her hands clasped, repeatedly whispering prayers and vows! She was a child of the earth, of the senses. Aye, and a noblewoman without so much as a milk cow to offer a potential groom.
    Her gaze spanned the silver-white beach below. Dark chunks of wood wrapped in seaweed and other debris had washed ashore from the recent storm. The harsh winter wind tore at her braid, freeing the long golden strands from the worn velvet ribbon. Her threadbare cloak did naught to warm her, yet she did not want to bide her day at Wendover. ‘Twas her home, but it had lost its luster, though her father tried to hide the fact.
    Indeed, he toiled tirelessly to keep up the appearance of prosperity. Prince Rhodri of Dinefwr was on his way to claim his bride, her sister, the beautiful and ethereal Rowena. Would he want her when he learned she came with only the clothes on her back? Rowena’s beauty was renowned and her blood among the finest in all of Saxony. She would make any man a worthy wife. She would beguile the prince for sure. He would not care that she came to him destitute.
    Mercia’s anger waned. She could not begrudge her sister anything. She prayed for her daily, and hoped that once she was settled into her new home in Wales, she might call upon her only sibling for companionship. But knew she would not. A single woman was an added expense. Nay, she would remain at Drury Abby, and this summer take her final vows. ‘Twas a small victory. When all of England bled, she would be safe and go to her bed each night with a full belly.
    Aye, when she became the rational girl she knew she must be, even with all of England’s woes aside, she would force herself to be content at Drury Abbey. The Abbess Avril was kind, and while Mercia found it hard to pray on her knees for hours on end, she tried. She tried very hard to be a good servant to God. But there was that wildness in her still, the wildness to ride bareback along the coast, to run barefoot through the loamy forests, to dance and laugh and be merry. ‘Twould pass, the Abbess told her, it always did. God only tempted her with these pleasures of the flesh; she must not succumb to them, ever , for God would be harsh in his penance. ‘Twould be her undoing if she were not more obedient.
    Obedient!
    She shook her head as the devil speared the angel in her, and looked over her shoulder for her nursemaid, Agatha. From the moment Mercia told her of her desire to see the beaches, the old woman had complained and had not stopped until finally, unable to listen to her mewling, Mercia set off at a brisk trot. She shrugged at the empty path behind her. She would catch up.
    She gave no heed to the churning water below as she angled down the steep trail like one of the shaggy ponies she’d ridden as a girl. Her frustration spurned her forward, and she gave no more thought to Agatha, who no doubt stumbled through the forest. The old woman did not understand that she wanted out of the stuffy old manor house. She’d been aghast at its dilapidated state when she returned home just four days past. Father’s fortunes had dwindled considerably since the coming of the Normans. He hoped that by the marriage between the house of Wendover and the great house of Dinefwr, not only would his