“Give me a chance,” murmured Adelais, brushing her lips over Tate’s.“We could make this work.Together.”
Together.
When Adelais had been keeping the truth from her this entire time.
With a sharp breath, Tate tore herself away and walked to the gate.She couldn’t find the words to tell Adelais it was too late for anything like that.
The Duke of Normandy was tall, broad, and clean-shaven.He wore his hair short, had on well-made but simple clothes, and kept his large hands on the hilt of his sword and his dagger as he talked.Tate had seen enough warriors in her time to recognize one standing in front of her; she could also recognize fervor when she saw it.This was a man who believed down to his marrow—and what he believed was that he was God’s chosen ruler of England.He believed that it was his destiny to strengthen the church while he was king.
But he wouldnotbelieve the inner secrets of Far Hope were a good thing, so Tate wouldn’t mention them, and she prayed Adelais wouldn’t either.A prayer she wasn’t sure God would answer, given how much scowling and frowning was happening in the corner of the tent where Adelais now stood with her arms crossed, listening to the duke speak.
“I trust that you will be obedient to God in this, as in all things,” William was saying in Norman French.“It is my will that Adelais should have these lands, for herself and for her son.They would no longer belong to the abbey, but to her, and your abbey’s income would instead come from her patronage, whatever that might look like.”
“Your Majesty,” Tate said, looking at his feet.It was one thing to be in a room and talk civilly with him, but looking into the eyes of the man who’d hacked and burned his way through her country scared her.Not because she was afraid for herself, but because she was afraidofherself.She hadn’t felt anger and desperation like this since the day she picked up the poker and swung it at Cafnoth’s head.“I beg you to reconsider.This abbey was founded by the great King Alfred himself.We are quiet, small, out of the way.We won’t be a bother to you, and all we ask is to be left alone.”
“Is that any way to speak to a king?”William said, but he only sounded irritated, not truly angry.“Come closer.I want to see your face.”
Tate’s very bones revolted at the order, her muscles and tendons, too, but she made herself step forward, and then step forward again until William could take her by the chin.
There was nothing sexual about his touch, nothing desirous in his gaze as he inspected her.Tate had heard he was almost obsessively devoted to his wife Matilda, that he didn’t take mistresses or concubines or force himself on people.Those were all good things, except that he still forced himself on herhomelandwithout mercy.So it was hard to admire him for his fidelity, however rare.
“Tate the Pious, they call you,” the king murmured.“When I told Archbishop Stigand what I planned to give to my wolf, he told me that you were on the path to sainthood.A more faithful nun there never was, he said.”
Tate hated that his breath smelled clean, that his face was smooth and strong, that he was reasonably handsome.Monsters should look like monsters.
She slid her gaze over to Adelais, who was scowling at the floor, red hair glowing like copper in the slowly brightening tent.
Well, some monsters looked fine just as they were.
“We are devoted, Your Majesty,” Tate whispered.“We are a holy abbey, dedicated to God’s will, set apart so we can bring peace to his people.Please don’t tie us to the fate of the world by doing this.”
William held her chin a moment longer, and then shook his head.He released her.“I believe you.I think you are holy—maybe even holier than Lanfranc, the holiest man I know.But it is already done.”
Tate had that iron poker feeling again, the tremble of rage so profound that she could swear she was shaking the earth with it.“But whyhere?”she managed to ask without screaming.“Why not anywhere else?”
“Because the West Country isn’t loyal enough, because it is filled with rebels, and because I need my wolf here to keep my new subjects in line,” the king said.His neutral tone hadn’t changed and neither did his expression, but Tate sensed the rising conviction in him, the anger that froze and burned at the same time.Under that soldier’s face was a man who truly believed these people had betrayed him by not being easy to conquer.“I need her between Exeter and the rest of Devonshire, and I also need her only a day or two’s ride from the sea in case I want her in Normandy.So you see, abbess?You are not the only one whose life is not your own.Even I cannot enjoy a single Christmas in peace without some new nightmare interrupting me.”
As if those things were at all the same.As if a conqueror being rebelled against by the unhappy conquered was the same as having Tate’s home and her life’s purpose ripped from her hands and dangled from someone else’s grip for no other reason than where their abbey was built.
“No,” said Tate.She met his eyes, his hateful eyes, which looked so much like the eyes of a good and proud man.“No.I cannot let you do this.This is not God’s will.Archbishop Stigand?—”
“Has already given me his blessing,” William cut in.“I am free to move the abbey into Adelais’s patronage without any fear of the church’s unhappiness or God’s wrath.”
Stigand.That opportunistic simonist.Why was Tate surprised?
She would have to find another way.There had to be another way.She cast around for a solution, trying to think, mentally railing at God for making his church so flimsy that the word of one cowardly ballbag could determine the fate of an entire abbey.
But what could she do?They couldn’t move the abbey to a new location—the valleywasFar Hope and Far Hope was the heart of the valley.She had nothing to threaten the king with, not money or violence—or even God’s displeasure, now that Stigand had already told him what he wanted to hear.Being an abbey was supposed to protect the blessings of Far Hope, shelter it from the concerns of worldly powers.But there was no recourse if the church itself acted just as selfishly as a worldly power.
“You’ve trapped us,” Tate heard herself say.“We cannot leave our…holy spring.We cannot gainsay you or the archbishop.But Far Hope has always run itself, has always kept old ways, its own ways.I don’t know what will happen to the abbey if we aren’t allowed to do that, but whatever happens, it will be on your hands.”She looked at Adelais, who finally, finally looked up at her.
“Your hands too, Adelais of the Maine,” Tate added softly, with as much malice as she could muster.
She was gratified to see that Adelais flinched.
A glimmer of cold anger was shining in William’s eyes, but he gave her a smile nonetheless.“I shall remember, Tate the Pious.God can add it to my roster of sins when I reach my judgment.Now perhaps you should return to your prayers, and within a few weeks, you will know what your new mistress will do with you and your sisters.”He turned away, clearly dismissing her.
Tate didn’t respond, didn’t make a courtesy, even though she knew people had been exiled for less.But she wouldn’t pretend that she saw him as anything other than a demon.
