by Tamara Leigh
“I am taken ill,” Isa whispered.
“’Tis grief, my lady.”
“Nay, revenge. It makes my head ache, throat burn, belly roil. Do I allow it, and I do not know why I would not, it will put me in the ground alongside my Wulf. But not until I feed it to bursting.”
Such words from another lady would not have frightened. But this was Isa with the blood of warriors in her veins. And now vengeance.
She breathed deep, with what seemed effort moved her gaze to the mound. “So this is the Norman chivalry we are to esteem,” she scorned. “Mere afterthought, but how very kind.”
She delayed the inevitable—had been since before voicing her longing for revenge. But her next words told she believed herself ready to sweep aside the leaves. “Be gone.”
Aelfled knew she ought to obey, but the friendship they had shared made her loath to leave her side—even if the only comfort she might provide was someone upon whom to beat out her anger.
“Hear me!” Isa snarled. “I am near the end of myself. And there will be no celebrating my arrival.”
Aelfled inclined her head, whispered, “My lady,” and withdrew a dozen paces.
When she turned back, Isa was on her knees beside the mound. She remained unmoving a long time, then said, “God give me strength,” and began pushing aside the leaves.
In seeking to uncover her son, she also uncovered those on either side of him—four village boys though there ought to be two.
Aelfled sank to the ground and buried her face in her hands. Recalling when she had asked who Cyr D’Argent was, she saw him again and heard him tell he was her enemy until all of England yielded, then add he was sorry for it. She had longed to believe that last as she peered into eyes she had thought would ever be black to her. They were not. The eyes of the warrior who put England’s defenders to the sword were green.
“I will forgive you, Cyr D’Argent,” she whispered. “One day I shall.”
A muffled wail brought her head up, and she saw her lady pull her son from the shallow grave. “Beloved Wulf!” Isa cried and, hunching over him, began rocking him as though he were an infant at her breast.
Hardly able to breathe for the guilt stuffing itself down her throat, Aelfled longed for the psalter gifted by her lady years past—the same now marked by Wulf’s blood and rejected by Cyr D’Argent.
Thinking to retrieve it, she pushed upright and started toward the trees bordering the battlefield.
“Aelfled!”
Wrenched by the wrath with which her name was flung, she turned. “My lady?”
Bruised face flushed and moist, Isa peered across her shoulder. “Never shall I forgive you. Never!”
Aelfled caught back a sob. “As you ought not,” she said and lowered her head and quietly wept for Wulf, Isa, her people, and an England she feared ever beyond recognition.
Chapter Five
Wulfenshire, England
Summer, 1068
In the space of a fortnight, all had come together in a clash as of cymbals, the reverberations felt in every corner of Cyr’s life. Hence, he had returned to England as he had known he must though he thought it would be many years before he ran short on excuses to stay out of the country he had helped conquer.
The first corner of his life to be jarred was that in which his brother, Dougray, slammed his bitter self time and again until commanded to leave their sire’s demesne. The second corner was that in which Cyr’s sister should have sat demurely, but having been far from reserved was now her brother’s responsibility. In the third corner prowled Raymond Campagnon who had made Cyr regret the English lands chosen as his reward. And the fourth corner to be jarred—the only one he did not begrudge—was occupied by Guarin who might yet live if the one who professed to have seen him had seen right.
Did he live? Had Theriot found him? Was he at Stern Castle? The possibility made Cyr long to defy the king’s command he deal with Campagnon before presenting at the castle whose construction the youngest D’Argent had overseen in its lord’s absence—could it be called absence since never had Cyr set eye or foot on the demesne upon which the fortress was raised. It was the name Wulfenshire, first heard spoken by the Saxon woman at Senlac, that caused him to choose one of several pieces of land carved out of that relatively small shire as his reward for being among William’s worthiest followers.
Unfortunately, Campagnon had also been awarded a demesne here, though not of his choosing. According to Theriot, it was a relatively undesirable piece of land William tossed to one whose family name was likely responsible for him gaining favor. Fortunately, the tidings to be delivered Campagnon at Castle Balduc would eventually see him depart this shire, if not all of England.
“Mother Mary, Lord Jesus, Almighty Father, Heavens above, I am sore as sore can be,” bemoaned the woman riding at his side. “We ought to have paused at that abbey.”
Lillefarne whose imposing stone walls they had glimpsed in the distance a quarter hour gone where the abbey touched the borders of three baronies—Stern, Balduc, and Wulfen.
A heavy sigh. “How much farther, Cyr?”
Moving his gaze from the land he did not want, though it was where he would pass the remainder of his life if Guarin lived and was hale enough to reclaim the heir’s mantle now worn by the second-born, Cyr looked to his sister.
Nicola the Reckless, the title teasingly bestowed by their eldest brother years past, raised her eyebrows.
As with each time he regarded her since his return to Normandy, he was struck by her physical transformation from girl to woman. If not for her scandalous behavior, a month hence she would have wed. As she had been pleased with the match made two years past, her intended being hale, hearty, and attractive despite the twenty years age difference, it had surprised she gave him cause to break the betrothal that left her with two choices—the convent or England where it was possible to pluck from among recently-landed Normans what their sire called an unsuspecting husband.
“As already told, at so leisurely a pace we ought to arrive at Balduc by early afternoon.” He gauged the sun’s position. “An hour and a half.”
She groaned, dropped over her saddle’s pommel, giggled, and snapped upright. “I am a D’Argent! I shall endure though much my delicate seat protests!”
“Nicola!” he rebuked as the regard of their escort too often upon her made itself more felt.
She rolled her eyes, tossed her head, and settling back in the saddle began humming.
Cyr narrowed his eyes at the soldiers, and when they returned to keeping watch over the road and bordering wood, once more assessed his surroundings. Those who followed their progress from the cover of trees were adept at stealth, remaining unseen and unheard, but he felt them.
Assured his party was in no immediate danger, Cyr considered Father Fulbert to his right—odd in appearance as well as pedigree. In looks, the only evidence of his godly profession was a tunic whose length was near that of a habit, skimming ankles rather than ground. Exceedingly tall and broad-shouldered, vast of countenance and deep of voice, so imposing a figure was he that children often named him Goliath. Of gentle soul and true to God, the man of near on two score years was no warrior—except in defense of innocent lives. As for his pedigree, he was a portent of things to come were William able to keep hold of his kingdom. Fathered by a Saxon, birthed by a Norman, he had been sent from England at a young age to receive training for priesthood in France. Most odd, indeed.
Surely sensing he was watched, he smiled but kept his gaze on the road. “You think it too quiet, Cyr?”
“I do, much like the day we met.”
“I agree. And pray these do not dare as those dared.”
Also Cyr’s prayer. Having returned to Normandy months after the fight that saw thousands of Saxons and Normans bleed out their lives at a place now known as Battle and—more broadly—Hastings, he had delivered Dougray home. And brought with him tidings no different from those earlier sent by missive informing his parents
that no body having been found, it was possible their eldest son was captured by Saxons during their retreat at battle’s end and would be ransomed. After so long, it had been too slight a hope, and the shadows cloaking his parents had not shifted.
Weeks following Cyr’s return, he had gone on pilgrimage hoping to gain some measure of forgiveness for those felled by his hand over more a matter of land than God. Absent his sword, having thought it sacrilegious to carry that which spilled so much blood, he had traveled alone until halfway through the journey when he joined a dozen others on pilgrimage. Days later, as dusk set in, brigands struck so brutally the pilgrims were quickly reduced to half. Side by side Fulbert and Cyr fought with daggers and fists—and prevailed, but not before losing another of their company, an elderly monk.
Awash in regret for having eschewed the sword that would have saved more of his fellow travelers, Cyr vowed never again to allow guilt—warranted or not—to render him defenseless in a world enamored of the defenseless. In the company of Fulbert, he had completed his pilgrimage, returned to his father’s demesne, unbelted the bent and chipped sword taken from a slain brigand, and once more donned the weapon awarded him upon attainment of knighthood.
Now in the midst of what seemed a greater threat, he glanced at the hilt riding his hip. “With so large an armed escort, I do not think they will attack,” he said. “They shall only have tale of our presence, strength, and destination to carry back to their leader.”
Fulbert looked to the bordering wood and Cyr followed his gaze.
Still no movement, but they were there—rebel Saxons who refused to accept the rule of Normans. And he could not begrudge the natives their disaffection, especially those who suffered Campagnon.
Cyr recalled his last encounter with the miscreant. As ever, memories of the Saxon woman gave him pause, but he shook her off as was impossible to do when she trespassed on his dreams. Campagnon had been moved to violence over Cyr’s interference, but it could not compare to how he might react once he learned of William’s decree.
Upon Cyr’s arrival in England, he had gone to the king as commanded and been upbraided for neglecting his English lands. Told it mattered not that Theriot administered them well, Cyr was forced to decide between taking control of the demesne or yielding it so it could be awarded to another of William’s followers. Were it certain that follower was Theriot, Cyr would have made the decision then, even at the risk of finding himself landless should Guarin appear, but the king had played coy on the fate of Stern which his decree would render even more desirable.
Though Campagnon was aware of William’s displeasure over his inability to control discontented villagers and capture the Saxon rebels who beset Wulfenshire lands with pillaging and, worse, the burning of crops, he could not know his burden would soon be lightened. The number of Normans giving proof of their mortality as they passed through Balduc having increased, the king’s patience was at an end. Campagnon was no longer baron, his demesne to be absorbed into the one held by Cyr. However, he was not entirely set aside, William allowing him to remain as castellan of Balduc, answering to an overlord he detested.
It was either a game the king played, a test, punishment, or all. William was no fool. He knew the enemy made of Campagnon would give his errant baron no peace. Cyr would have to watch his back—at least until he gained sufficient reason to remove Campagnon. When that day arrived, there would be a place for one of his brothers, be it Theriot or Dougray.
He glanced over his shoulder at where the latter rode behind Nicola. Though the mantle about his shoulders concealed the absence of the lower half of one arm, Dougray’s dull eyes set in a gaunt face behind an unkempt beard evidenced the loss. However, since landing in England, an occasional light was seen in his eyes. If only it did not bode ill…
Had it been a mistake to bring him? Would it have been better to leave him in the hovel to which he had gone following banishment from his family’s lands?
“It is well,” Fulbert said low.
Though no longer greatly unsettled at being easily read by the priest, still it jolted Cyr. “You think so?”
“Time, patience, prayer, my friend.” Fulbert smiled, revealing imposing teeth, then nodded to the wood. “Which they would also do well to heed, but how they are tempted! Their numbers must be great.”
“Still, I believe they will stay the wood. Do they not, I am prepared.” No idle talk. Though Cyr had vowed he would never again give any cause to name him Merciless, he would defend his family and people regardless of the cost in blood. Since it was only a matter of time before his vow was tested, he was grateful for the escort with which William surprised him—over a score of armed, battle-tested soldiers. Of greater surprise was the senior chevalier, in whose company Cyr had spent little time since his cousin’s rejection of attempts to support him following the great battle.
Cyr shifted his regard to where Maël rode ahead and wondered as he had often these past days, what dwelt behind an easy smile that belied hard eyes set in a face counted the most striking of the D’Argents—before a blade put finish to it over a year and a half past and Maël buried his sire in English soil.
Though his prowess in battle had gained him a prominent position in the king’s guard, Cyr had not expected he would long remain at William’s side. After all, Maël’s crossing of the channel to fight the Saxons had also been in the cause of gaining lands of his own. And lands he had not.
Once more, Cyr questioned why his cousin was overlooked, or if he had been. The battle had changed him as it had Cyr, but the manner in which he presented was a tight fit. A content-with-his-lot Maël was laughable. Regrettably, despite opportunities for the cousins to speak these past days, their only conversation of any depth was in regard to Maël’s widowed mother.
Six months past, Cyr had honored his cousin’s request to send her to England to aid Theriot in setting up Stern Castle’s household. Though reluctant to leave Normandy, Lady Chanson had agreed in order to be nearer her son. But as told by Maël, he had seen her only once when he escorted her from London to Stern.
Silently vowing he would get enough drink into his cousin to loosen his lips, Cyr looked to the priest—and found he was now watched.
“I do not know that nut is ready to be cracked open,” Fulbert said.
Wishing he could as easily travel another’s thoughts, Cyr shrugged. “The breaching of some shells require greater effort.”
“And a bigger hammer.”
Cyr smiled.
“One I pray you will not have to use too forcefully in your dealings with the rebels,” Fulbert returned Cyr to his immediate purpose.
“As do I. Once I have fixed a collar on Campagnon and settled my sister at Stern, I will begin ridding these lands of those who plague it.”
“And the Lady of Wulfen Castle?”
His northeastern neighbor, the daughter of the departed Wulfrith so revered for training up England’s defenders his reputation had years past pricked the ears of Duke William. Hence, that name had pricked the ears of Cyr’s uncle who resented his duke’s sly suggestion that Hugh D’Argent, esteemed for training up Normandy’s warriors, would profit from a crossing of the channel.
When Cyr chose as his reward lands upon Wulfenshire, it had not occurred these could be the ones Hugh declined to visit, variations of the name Wulf fairly common in this island kingdom. But they were the same, the family of Wulfrith having controlled the largest portion of this shire until William began piecing it out.
Had the Norman husband of Wulfrith’s daughter not been killed at Stamford Bridge weeks before the greater battle near Hastings, the land left to her might not have remained hers. But England’s new king, having no proof his fellow countryman would have stood against him, allowed the Saxon widow to redeem a portion of her lands nearly equal to the pieces taken from her to award his followers.
Unlike many native landholders, she had possessed the required funds—or tribute as it was called—and William told he was most
ly content with her submission. Mostly because he did not entirely trust her. Mostly because she denied him what he wanted perhaps more than coin—for Wulfen Castle to prove its reputation for training up warriors. For him.
That she could not do, she had sent word. Not only had the greatest of her family’s trainers perished alongside her husband, but she and her young son were the last of their line. As she was but a woman relegated to the sharp point of a needle rather than a sword, she knew not the means by which her sire and grandsire and those come before trained up warriors.
Cyr had glimpsed William’s ire over what she could not give and was fairly certain were her son and heir not half-Norman, she would have lost all. Not for the first time, he wondered if she, a Saxon of Wulfenshire wed to a Norman noble, could be the same lady who had lost one of her sons at Senlac.
Likely, he once more concluded. Though the young woman aided following the battle had not spoken her lady’s name, it seemed too much coincidence. However, Cyr had held close his knowledge of that noble youth. It was not from him William would learn one of the lady’s sons might have fought against Normans and killed Hugh D’Argent. Enough lives had been lost to the conquering, whether by way of death or despair, and he would not add to those numbers.
Hopefully, the grieving widow and mother would give him no cause to regret withholding his suspicion from the one owed his greatest fealty.
Too long in answering his friend, Cyr said, “Forgive me, Fulbert. As instructed, I shall keep watch over the Lady of Wulfen to determine if she is truly loyal to our king.”
The priest sighed. “Let us pray she does not abet the rebels. If she is the one you believe her to be, already she has lost much.”
Cyr had shared enough of his encounter with the young Saxon woman that, following the king’s discussion of Hawisa Fortier, Fulbert also concluded it was that lady’s son conveyed to the wood ahead of four other boys.
“Hold!” Maël shouted at the same moment Cyr caught sight of two figures ahead.
