by Tamara Leigh
Almighty, did this begin with her? Cyr silently bemoaned. Did she confront them over desecration of one of her own?
Red rising up Campagnon’s neck and face, hand on his hilt convulsing, he snarled, “Saxon whore!”
Watching for the moment he and Merle dared as they ought not, Cyr perfected his stance and angled his sword to once more judge lives on the edge of a blade. “Return to your scavenging, Campagnon.”
The man glanced at Merle whose yellowed teeth crowded and overlapped such that it appeared he had twice as many as needed. He nodded, then both drew their swords.
“Back, Saxon!” Cyr shouted across his shoulder, then charged.
It was Merle with whom Cyr first crossed swords, that one reaching him first, but only in speed was he superior to Campagnon. A single meeting of blades sent his sword soaring and him scrambling backward lest Cyr’s next swing slice open his unprotected belly.
Then came Campagnon.
Cyr’s recovery was relatively sluggish and further delayed when he glanced across his shoulder to confirm the woman was in retreat. She was not, though she had distanced herself.
“Go!” he commanded and gave his attention to his opponent, sweeping his blade up and deflecting the blow coming at him from on high. With a roar, he broke the crossing of their swords and thrust, setting Campagnon back two steps.
The miscreant recovered his balance, bared his teeth.
Cyr bared his own, but in a smile. As mercenaries, the two had met during the private wars plaguing much of France—most often fighting on opposite sides—but for all Campagnon’s skill and treachery, he had yet to best Cyr.
He raised his sword again, as did his companion who had recovered his own. “Non, Merle,” Campagnon said. “D’Argent is mine.”
“Truly?” Cyr raised his eyebrows. “We both know this ends as ever it ends. Save your strength for the defenseless from whom you can steal far more than ever you shall have of me.”
Campagnon beckoned with his blade. “Come!”
Hardly had Cyr begun his advance than something drew his opponent’s regard, causing him to lower his sword.
Cyr followed his gaze. In the distance, at the head of a dozen chevaliers and flanked by several more, Duke William moved in their direction.
Campagnon sheathed his sword, gestured to Merle. “Our reward awaits,” he said, then to Cyr, “The Saxon wench—I give her to you.”
As if she were his to give…
Cyr watched them depart and was not surprised they left their sacks. Though many were the plunderers and such was accepted in the aftermath of war, it would not garner the duke’s kind regard. When the two returned for their plunder, by all that was holy, the Saxon woman would be long gone.
Cyr turned, strode to where she stood with the knife at her side. “For this, I warned you—”
“I am not his to give!”
In different circumstances, he would have liked that he first thought words she spoke, a sign they were of compatible minds. But these circumstances would never be other than what they were now—a great divide straddled by the conquerors, the conquered strewn across the jagged depths.
Peering down into a face bright with defiance, he demanded, “Did you invite their attentions?”
“I did not!”
“What did you do?”
“I came for another boy and found those two nearby. They knelt over a young man.” She swallowed loudly. “I know not why, but it was more ghastly it was one of their own they…”
“What?”
“Bantered as if over a tankard of ale, one holding his hand while the other—Campagnon—cut off the finger to take a ring.” She shook her head. “I knew I should run, but I commanded they cease and named them the foul things they are.”
Eyes that had shone with defiance now smoldering with fear as if a gust of breath would move it to flame, she closed them. When she lifted her lids, she repeated, “I am not his to give.”
He grunted. “But fool that you are and with one such as he, you were his to take.”
Once more, defiance overwhelmed fear that she would do better to heed. “What of one such as you, Merciless Cyr?”
Did her question not so offend, he might have winced. “After all I did to prevent this from happening, though I have my own to account for, you ask this of me?”
Her lashes fluttered, shoulders sank, then with a note of pleading, she said, “How can you have slain so many on the day past and now aid those you slew—those who have more cause than ever to name you the enemy?”
“I am a soldier. A soldier slays that he not be slain. It was battle. And that battle is done.”
“Done?” Her laugh was mirthless. “You think it ends here? Non. A great number we have lost to your duke’s greed, but still we are many. If ever the fight to hold our country is lost, that loss will be long in coming.”
He prayed not, that resistance would quickly wane so never again were so many lives sacrificed over the rule of England. “Regardless, the Duke of Normandy shall wear the crown.”
Her eyes flashed. “Does he, never will it sit easy on the brow of William le Bâtard.”
Cyr was not easily given to fear, that weakness trained out of him, but it sprang upon him—for her sake.
Though the duke and his party were yet distant and the growing din allowed none but the dead to attend to their exchange, he gripped her arm. Hearing her breath catch, feeling the rise of her knife-wielding hand, he put his face near hers. “Do not name him that. Never in his hearing or otherwise. Do you understand?”
“It is truth! All know his noble father did not wed his common mother, that he is duke only because there was no legitimate issue.”
“What is your name, Woman?”
She seamed her lips.
He sighed. “It matters not. Just know many are the hands and feet lost by those who dared speak as you speak.”
Her upper lip curled. “Barbarian.”
“That he can be. And do not forget it.” He glanced across his shoulder, saw Campagnon and Merle had joined the ranks of William’s party. Though their advance was slow, they continued to move in this direction. “You must leave.”
She shot her gaze to where the boys lay. “I have two more to take to the wood, then I must search for my lady.”
He wearied of the argument. “Not in William’s sight whilst he has yet to grant permission for your people to remove their dead. Thus, leave else suffer the indignity of being carried over my shoulder.”
“But—”
“Decide!”
Her jaw shifted, and between her teeth she said, “I will go.”
“And you are not to return until the duke grants permission, and only then in the company of others.”
She jerked her chin, looked to where he held her.
He followed her gaze to smears and flecks of dried blood on the back of his hand. Though most belonged to Saxons, some had been flung by fellow Normans alongside whom he had fought.
Once more moved to guilt, he released her and looked to the duke. There was much on the battlefield to occupy the observant William, whether he happened on it himself or one vying for attention pointed out something of note. Thus, it was unlikely Cyr and the woman had come to his notice, but they would.
“What do you wait for?” he growled.
Her gaze wavered. “Who is Cyr D’Argent?”
He tensed further. He knew who he had been before and during the contest for England and wanted to believe he was as familiar with that warrior at battle’s end, but never had he felt so raked and plowed—as if being prepared for seed never before strewn across his soul.
“Who?” she pressed.
Though he knew what his Uncle Hugh would say did he witness their exchange—words that would shame—he said, “Until all of England yields to Duke William, I am your enemy, little Saxon.”
Was that hurt flickering amid rekindled anger?
“And I am sorry for it,” he heard himself say as if new seed were already
cast.
Had he wished her to express a similar regret, he would have been disappointed. “In the hope God yet gives ear to those He forsook on the day past,” she said, “I shall pray for you.”
It would serve until he forgot her, and he would as quickly as possible. He had a brother to find—God willing, alive, in which case Cyr would seek from William the reward promised for aiding in wrenching the crown from the usurping Harold.
“And perhaps one day it may be possible to forgive you, Merciless Cyr,” the woman added with a glance at hands evidencing those he had slain. Then she looked to the two remaining boys and started toward the wood.
Cyr turned from the one whose name he would never know, but had taken only a half dozen strides toward the approaching duke when compelled to look one last time at the woman.
He should not have, for she also looked around as if to gaze at him one last time. Despite compressed lips whose curve he would only ever imagine, he was drawn to this woman as he could not remember being drawn to another. Was it her strength and resolve, though he professed to prefer the fairer sex soft and easily swayed? Or was he merely too long outside the company of women?
The latter, he told himself and resumed his stride. Wishing it were possible to avoid his liege without offending him so he could resume the search for Guarin, he adjusted his sword belt.
As he drew level with the youths, he took in their pitifully slight bodies sprawled amid armored and helmeted men, some of whom were nearly twice their height and twice as broad. “Boys,” he rasped, and though he set his gaze on William, his thoughts remained with the two he had forced the Saxon woman to abandon to trampled grass, bloodied mud, and feasting flies.
More than Hugh, more than Guarin, the boys should not have been here. More than Hugh, more than Guarin, they ought to have remained home with their families. More than Merciless Cyr, they deserved to walk away whole in body and mind.
He ground his teeth, growled, “It is done,” and wrenched his thoughts off the path that sought to deliver him to the wood.
It was the path to William he must take, showing himself and giving account of services rendered to ensure when the new king determined who among his followers would be rewarded with English lands, Cyr D’Argent would be landless no longer. But though it was what he must do, what he wanted was to find his brother and take his kin back to Normandy.
Determinedly, he reminded himself he was a warrior, that by mastery of sword, spear, dagger, and destrier he excelled at feeding, clothing, housing, and entertaining himself. Still, the pride earned on the day past was so restrained he might almost think he had been but a bystander.
Fatigue only, he told himself. Were the Saxon woman’s belief the crown would not sit easy on William’s brow realized, in the days, weeks, and months ahead he would prove as formidable a warrior as ever.
England was Norman now, its people—perhaps even the world—forever changed.
Chapter Four
She deserved worse than the back of a hand that would have sent her sprawling had it not stopped inches from her cheek. There it had remained, quaking so violently the air fanned Aelfled’s face. Then a scream of grief. It dropped the lady over the neck of her horse where she convulsed and gripped and wrenched at the mane of the beast who suffered in silence as if in accord with the escort of six warriors that this was a mother’s due.
Now, an hour after happening on her lady and delivering tidings more horrific than the recent loss of a husband, Aelfled led the way through Andredeswald toward three of the five boys who waited to be returned to their mothers’ bosoms. Having dismounted minutes earlier, the small party went on foot, leading their horses to stealthily negotiate the wood.
Though thus far they had encountered only Saxons—soldiers fleeing Senlac with as much of their lives intact as possible and kin desperate to recover loved ones—they dare not risk announcing their presence lest any Normans who had followed their prey into the wood yet lurked.
“How much farther?” her lady demanded in a voice so raw it was unrecognizable.
“Just over that rise near where we left our horse,” Aelfled said and ventured a look across her shoulder at Isa who in that moment could be said to be beautiful—albeit darkly so—though only flatterers said she was beyond pretty.
Before wedding a Norman who, unlike Saxons, often adopted distinct surnames, Hawisa Fortier had been Hawisa Wulfrithdotter—daughter of Wulfrith. In keeping with her family’s formidable reputation as warriors, as the last of their line she had not indulged in adornment of her person. Though it was told she had wed with her hair loosed as was custom, the tresses had been wildly disarrayed and in need of washing. And beneath a gown so simple she had looked more a slave than a noblewoman, she had worn chausses and boots.
Before this day, Aelfled could only imagine her lady in such a state. Now she could see how she might have appeared ten years past though, surely, her face had not been marked.
What had happened to her on the battlefield? she wondered again. How had she gained bruises on face and neck, a cut lip, scratches down her throat? Had a Norman laid hands on her? If so, she had to have prevailed. Being a woman, she had not been trained into a warrior, but better than many a man she was acquainted with that training and could defend her person.
Certain whatever had been done her during her search for her son had caused her to depart—and likely on foot since the horse the two women had ridden to Senlac was not amongst these—Aelfled nearly asked how she fared. But she bit back words that would not be welcome now that, once again, Wulf’s mother was the last of her line.
“I am sorry, Isa,” she spoke more words she ought not.
The woman’s head snapped around. “Isa? That I was to you, but never again. Henceforth, you shall address me as Lady Hawisa—do you speak to me at all.”
Aelfled did not need to be told that. She had known it ere revealing the death of Wulf. It was the habit of years of friendship with one twenty and five years to her ten and eight that made her speak it.
She inclined her head, returned her gaze to the wood.
“Hold!” rasped the most formidable of their escort.
All stilled, waited for Vitalis to command them forward. When the stirring amid the trees proved a doe and her leggy fawn, the party resumed its trek. Shortly, Isa’s escort set themselves around the perimeter of the ancient oak before which a fairly nondescript mound was covered over with leaves.
Standing alongside her lady, staring at it through tears and steeling herself for the possibility a hand would be raised to her again, Aelfled thought the shallow grave was larger than she had left it. Was it only imagining or…?
She caught her breath, did not realize she spoke his name until her lady gripped her arm. “What say you?”
“I…”
“D’Argent. You said D’Argent!”
Aelfled gulped. “I did.”
“Why?”
She had not told of being aided by the enemy. There had been no opportunity amid her lady’s response to her son’s death, but had there been she did not know she would have revealed it for how much more it would pain and anger the grieving widow now mother.
Isa gave her a shake. “How did you learn that Norman name?”
Failing to swallow the lump in her throat, Aelfled said past it, “After I found Wulf, as I was holding him ere…” She gulped. “A chevalier came looking for kin and nearby found the man methinks slain by Wulf and the other boys.” She nearly revealed she had the opportunity to put a blade in Cyr D’Argent’s back, but that tale would be welcome only had she done the deed. “It was from amongst those atop his dead kin I pulled Wulf.”
“He who slew mere boys ere drawing his last breath!” her lady cried. And shook—how she shook! Slamming her eyes closed, she drew shuddering breaths, and when the last went down, asked, “Did the chevalier desecrate my son’s body?”
“Nay!” Aelfled was horrified over the suggestion, then recalled she had also feared the
Norman’s grief would cause him to take sword to Wulf’s companions. But that need not be told. “Cyr D’Argent—”
“Cyr! You know his given name.”
Determining how she had come by it also need not be told—nor that other terrible name by which he was called—she said, “He but gave aid, my lady, and I—”
“You paid his price?”
It took her a moment to decipher Isa’s meaning, and it offended. Never would she offer sexual favors. Unable to keep anger from her own voice, she said, “He asked naught of me, and naught would I have given. He was…”
“What?”
She had nearly named him honorable, he whose sword arm had contributed to bathing the meadow in Saxon blood.
“Honorable,” Isa revealed she knew her maid’s mind.
Now she will do unto me as never has she though this day I give abundant cause, Aelfled once more prepared herself for a slap. Or worse.
But her lady laughed—if one could call a sound far from what Wulf had most easily roused from his mother. At the end of that false thing, she said, “I wonder how many silver-haired D’Argents fought for that thief.”
Aelfled nearly stumbled where she stood. From the chevalier she had learned there were at least three of that family at Senlac, including his slain uncle and missing brother, but her lady’s knowledge of silvered hair—no fit for a man perhaps aged twenty and five—told she had also encountered one. Cyr? The brother he sought? Another? Of greater import, had a D’Argent marked her face and neck?
“You knew the name ere I spoke it, my lady.”
Isa released her. “I did. I do.”
“How?”
A smile no more genuine than her laughter curved her lips, but she did not answer.
Thinking in this moment she was not even pretty, Aelfled asked, “What is it, my lady?”
Isa raised her eyebrows. “Private amusement born of a hating heart. And longing—so much longing to be worthy of my father and his father.” She raised a hand, opened it to reveal a palm scored with crescents fingernails had pressed into her flesh. She stared at it, then once more curled her fingers inward—loosely, as if around a hilt.
