by Tamara Leigh
During winter, warming fires were built large providing they posed little threat to their travelers. Now only embers remained, meaning he was on the side of night nearest day.
For some minutes, he rested senses weakened by whatever had been done him, then called on another sense as natural to him as it was unnatural to others. And found it closed to him, and no matter how much he pried, he could not open it.
Loathing this helplessness, once more he tried to delve the past. Though the pressure in his head increased, silently he commanded, Go back…back…
Was that fire in the night? Burning buildings? Smoke wending toward clouds obscuring the moon?
Consciousness wavering, he recalled assuring his horse he would not be long, the cry of what sounded a child, the scream of a woman, and a clash with warriors, one a Scotsman and the other one of his own countrymen.
What words had the latter spoken as he bled out? They eluded, though there had been something familiar about them.
Next, he recalled the slam to the back of his head, the Scotsman’s grip on his throat, the dagger in his hand, the woman’s pleading, her partially shadowed face he had thought familiar, and—
Sudden shattering pain determining utter darkness was a better place for Theriot D’Argent, his last thoughts were, I failed her. If she lives, ever she will suffer what was done her. Unforgivable.
Chapter Four
Dunfermline, Scotland
Home,” Marguerite breathed where she had reined in atop one of many hills that held at the center of their outstretched palms her beloved Dunfermline situated inland of the sparkling Firth of Forth that emptied into the North Sea. The last of winter lingered, but soon an abundance of green would make the eyes ache.
“It looks a cold place,” muttered one of her three escorts who had accompanied her to savor the sight free of the wagon’s bump and rattle.
She looked from him to the others and paused on the Saxon who had been injured early in their journey from Derbyshire. He was pale, and more evident that with cheeks brightly spotted by cold. When she had tended his shoulder this morn, she had seen signs of infection. Blessedly, soon the king’s physician would tend him.
“Aye, a cold place, but not much longer.” She jutted her chin. “You see the tower on the ridge above the glen?”
“Impressive,” one said.
She nodded. “King Malcolm has other palaces, but though this one is of no grand size, it is his jewel.”
“It does not look well fortified.”
“It is, albeit more by God who made the place on which it stands than by man who set cut stone upon it.” She sighed. “Now I am home, your duty is done.”
“Nay, Lady,” the long-bearded one said. “Baron Roche commanded us to deliver you into King Malcolm’s hands.”
She longed to argue the weather was good and might not hold, but there was stubborn about their faces.
Peering over her shoulder, she saw Edgar’s entourage moved along the road gently curving down from the first hill that permitted a glimpse of Dunfermline. After confirming the Aetheling remained at the fore, she turned back and considered the hill that rose up after the descent of this one.
“Do we go a bit farther, better we shall see the glen below the tower of Malcolm Canmore,” she said.
The three agreed, and soon she glimpsed movement of those who lived in the town near the palace. Happiness in that, and yet sorrow stung her eyes.
She was not returning with her mother as intended when last she was here peering back at what she left behind. Never again would Cannie nor Malcolm’s men slain by her kin look upon this. And after trying to do some good in an England crippled by the conquering, she had been given a heinous parting gift beyond that of the harrying—the burning of the village, the death of Stephen, and the clash of Hendrie and Theriot D’Argent that could put one or both in the grave.
“Though I ache to give this horse my heels,” she said, “I have strayed too far.”
Without further word, they walked their mounts back up the hill toward Edgar and his men.
Had the sense closed to Theriot opened? Or had something other than the feeling of being watched with great enmity snatched him out of darkness?
Eyes yet pained by grit, he raised his lids halfway. Still he could see no light though the sun was warm upon his face. Either the cloth was very dense or several layers thick. And the scent…
He breathed deep.
“Will you ever awaken?” asked one whose voice Theriot had only before heard at a distance—most recently while tracking the Aetheling camp to camp while awaiting an opportunity to set a Norman contingent after he who had left Scotland to test the waters of rebellion amid the harrying.
“I would have you conscious just long enough to know the wrath of one whose blood is of the royal line unlike that of your liege whose nobility was halved by a common woman free with her favors.” Edgar gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Soon I shall be king.”
As Theriot confirmed the movement beneath him was that of a wagon and he continued to share the straw bedding with one whose head was opposite, the Aetheling continued, “I am most interested in knowing what you think of the trap I laid for you.”
Trap? Theriot searched backward and found himself in the village, memories and sensations of that night more clearly flashing through him than when first he returned to consciousness. But he could make no sense of Edgar’s boasting.
Idle boasting, he determined and wondered how much longer the fearsome King of Scots would suffer this one to whom he granted sanctuary. Not much longer if it was only rumor Malcolm was to wed the young man’s sister. But even if the princess did become his queen, reins would have to be drawn on the Aetheling before he endangered Scotland beyond saving.
I am thinking better, Theriot congratulated himself on the speed and depth of thought which had been plodding and shallow.
“Ah, the Norman dog awakens!”
Theriot checked his body to discover what had revealed him. He did not smile, but the muscles of his mouth were engaged, satisfaction tautening what should have remained slack.
“I wager you are in much pain.”
He was, though less so than when last he was conscious.
“Alas, it is only the beginning of what you shall suffer. When we reach the palace, Malcolm will recognize my claim upon you.”
Scotland, Theriot silently named the land over which he was conveyed. As for the palace, was not the one nearest the border a league distant from the great estuary? As for Edgar’s claim on this Norman, why did he not already have first right?
“When he weds my sister—with my permission—Malcolm shall be my brother-in-law,” Edgar confirmed the rumor. “Then his forces and mine will kick your William back across the sea.”
Theriot let his mouth curve.
“You think it funny?” Edgar snapped. “What is funny is how easily a warrior with your family’s reputation put both feet in my trap.”
Doubtless, his silvered dark hair was responsible for him being identified as a D’Argent, but still the question of the trap of which he spoke…
“I know you Normans. Give you a woman to chase and you will put her to ground, use up the good of her, and swell her belly with a babe best left to the wolves.”
The whelp had cause to believe that of many Normans, but not this one, Theriot reflected a moment before he made sense of the trap. If Edgar had set one, then he and some of his men had remained in the village, sending the majority ahead to draw the Normans away—and quite possibly those were sacrificed the same as much of the village the Aetheling should have gone around.
Theriot must have been seen when he was forced to leave the cover of dark to save what proved a cat. Hence, a screaming woman had drawn him out and onto the swords of men Theriot had believed fellow Normans.
“You would have made a misbegotten child on her, eh, Theriot D’Argent?”
It surprised his Christian name was known, there being D’Argents aple
nty with claim to the surname. The only explanation his fatigued mind could root out was that one or more of the Normans in pursuit of the Aetheling had been captured and forced to reveal how the contingent learned of Edgar’s movements.
“You fear me,” the young man said, “and you should, as evidenced by the fine dagger ever I shall carry to attest to having bested a D’Argent.”
Just as Theriot was aware he lacked sword and armor, so too the dagger earned alongside spurs upon the attainment of knighthood. But knowing that fine weapon was on the belt of one so unworthy…
Though he would reveal more of his state of consciousness, he said, “You bested me, pup?”
He heard the Aetheling’s sharp breath and his mount grunt in response to tension.
“You merely threaded a trap, little Edgar, sending a woman to risk her life as you dared not yourself—just as you sacrificed the men sent from the village to lead the Normans away whilst you shook in the shadows. And I have enough wits about me to recall it was a Scots who put me to ground, not one who will never be king no matter how much he dreams, schemes, and prays—even if he makes his sister a purse of gold good for the trading.”
Above the sound of the entourage’s ascending progress that caused the blood in Theriot’s lower extremities to move toward his head, he felt the wrathful words the Aetheling longed to pour out.
As he waited, he assessed his circumstances. Since his life had been spared, possibly he would be ransomed—if his family did not come for him before then. And they would when they learned he was missing and where he was held.
Unfortunately, since he had very little contact with his own these past months beyond alerting contingents to pockets of resistance, it could be many weeks before any questioned his whereabouts. And even then, how would they know he had been taken to Scotland?
Ciel, he thought. Providing the horse left outside the village had not been discovered by the Aetheling, it might lead his family to him. Not only was the steed of fine markings—its body the color of pewter, mane black, and face white—its unusual blue eyes marked it as belonging to Theriot. Eventually a villager would find it, and if it was seen when the D’Argents came looking for the king’s scout, they would learn what had happened there when he who wished to be king endangered his people.
“Aye, the Scotsman did my bidding,” Edgar finally spoke. “Poor Hendrie.”
Then that one was dead? Those thrusts of the dagger ended his life?
“You are a fool to underestimate me,” the Aetheling said, then came the scrape of a blade exiting a scabbard. “A fine weapon this, but more than the lovely sapphire, I am impressed with how sharp the blade and precise the point—good for scooping out eyes.”
Theriot grunted. “Certes, in that I do not underestimate you—that you, whole of body, could succeed in putting out the eyes of an injured, weaponless man.”
The silence seethed, then Edgar said, “Were I to finish what Hendrie began, many would consider it merciful.”
Theriot’s first thought was he meant to use the D’Argent dagger to end his enemy’s life, but a memory unfolded and more intensely he felt the grit in his eyes as he saw again the Scotsman’s hands ahead of feeling thumbs press against his eyes.
Almighty! Not grit but damage. But so greatly he was blinded? For that he could not see light through the cloth?
“Aye, merciful,” Edgar drawled. “Methinks even my pious sister would agree ’tis best to put a blind dog out of its misery.”
Theriot’s breath came hard and fast, but though he commanded the warrior to think before acting, panic with which he was unfamiliar caused his control to snap. He cast aside the blanket, wrenched off the eye covering, and saw light. At first that was all, as if he peered through watered milk, but as he began to rise and move toward the Aetheling, dark smudges appeared.
Then the pain in his head exploded, all went black, and a Scottish voice snarled, “Fool, Edgar! Fool!”
When Marguerite reached the top of the hill and saw Edgar was no longer at the fore of those ascending that side, she spurred her mount forward. But she could not reach Theriot D’Argent soon enough to prevent further injury being done him.
“What have you wrought?” she demanded as Edgar sidled his horse away from the wagon whose driver had reined in only when she and her escort neared.
“Not what was due him!” The Aetheling returned the D’Argent dagger to its scabbard, jutted his chin at Hendrie. “Worse I would have done had he not gotten to him first.”
Marguerite looked to the Scotsman whose face was contorted with pain where he lay half covered beneath blankets, then to the prisoner whose upper body draped the wagon’s rear gate. Though she had been unable to see all that transpired, doubtless it began with Edgar.
“Leave us, knave!” she snarled.
“Know you to whom you speak?” the prince demanded.
“Aye, one who is so courageous he works ill on the injured!”
With a jab of spurs, he urged his mount toward her, but her escort inserted themselves between them. Cursing her, Edgar reined around and sped away.
As the entourage resumed its advance, Marguerite stepped off her mount’s stirrup into the wagon. The wheels once more in motion, it was no easy thing to ease the muscular weight of Theriot D’Argent off the edge without further injuring him, but at last she settled him on the straw.
When his head rolled to the side and she saw his injured eyes were exposed and jaw reddened, she looked to Hendrie who pressed a hand to his side. “Should I tend you first?”
“Nay, lass. This old Scots has less bend in his steel than that young Norman.”
Marguerite retrieved her medicinals from behind the bench, settled alongside the chevalier, and shrugged back her mantle. “Tell what happened, Hendrie.”
“D’Argent turned violent—not that Edgar did not give him cause. Thus, I landed a kick ere the Aetheling could use the dagger on him. And see, the Norman is quiet again and yet breathes.”
She knew Hendrie was hurting, but as she tended the chevalier’s new injury, she pressed, “What passed between them?”
“Taunting, at which Edgar is adept.”
“What words, Hendrie?”
“When I came right, he was boasting of taking the dagger from D’Argent—though he did not reveal the manner in which it came to him.”
Marguerite remembered, having nearly slapped Edgar when he dismounted alongside the fallen men and, without asking after Hendrie, snatched up the weapon drawn from the Scotsman’s side.
“What set the Norman to raging was when he learned the reason his eyes are covered—of the trap that may permanently blind him.”
Once again stabbed with guilt over what she had wrought, Marguerite smoothed salve over a jaw beginning to swell.
“A trap Edgar claimed was of his own devising,” Hendrie added.
She faltered. These past days she had worried over revealing to the chevalier what could prove a terrible fate and claiming responsibility, but now that Edgar had…
Having also salved the chevalier’s abraded lids, she folded the binding cloth and worked her mind over what could be done with this day’s ill. Shortly, she had her answer.
Relieved Hendrie’s face reflected an easing of discomfort, she said, “I will be the one to restore the chevalier to health. And easier that shall be if he does not know I am responsible for what was done him.”
Disapproval bent his mouth. “How do you plan to hide that? He saw you—” He broke off. “Ah, I know yer thinking.”
She inclined her head. “If night did not deny him the ability to recognize me, providing his eyes are as damaged as they appear, he will be unable to look near upon me until he recovers his sight.”
“If he recovers it.”
“As for my voice…” She searched backward to recall what Theriot D’Argent might have heard. “Since I spoke very little and it was in Saxon, my voice should be unknown to him.”
Too, though this long unused throat
softens, she thought, there is yet the rough about the words come off my tongue.
“As added precaution, I shall address him in his language, and if I must speak in my own in his presence, I shall be mindful.”
“Malcolm will not like it.”
He was protective of her, and more he would be after her ordeal over the border. However, there was hope he would yield when he learned of the D’Argents—had he not heard of them already.
She considered the chevalier’s face that greatly resembled his oldest brother’s, then finished binding his eyes, tucked the blankets around him, and crawled the planks to Hendrie.
“Will you not give aid in persuading our king to allow me to tend D’Argent?” she asked.
He snorted. “As you speak of one who twice stuck me with a dagger, I will not.”
Heart sinking, she eased the bandage off his injury. “With or without your aid, that is how it must unfold, Hendrie.”
“Ah, wee sparrow, do you not see that Norman is kindling for the fire, his nicked edges keen for the sharpening?”
Relieved Hendrie’s stitches had not torn through, she reached for salve. “I see it, but not only am I responsible for that kindling and those edges, I am knit to his family by kindnesses shown me and the rebel, Em, who has wed into them. I understand why you wish him dead, but by way of the D’Argents, I see the good of him.” She pressed the bandage in place, lowered his tunic, and turned the covers over him. “Hence, best he is commended to my care than that of others who will regard him as the enemy.”
“He is the enemy.”
She drew her mantle around her and flipped the hood over her head. “Only because he answers to a liege different from ours.”
He peered at the one he had kicked unconscious. “You said he was the only Norman found in the village. Do you not think that strange?”
“As told, I believe he sought to give aid to what sounded a child.”
“Be that so, still the question of why he alone turned back. As all know, Normans run in packs for the wolves they are.”
