by Tamara Leigh
Reining in with the others, hand on hilt, Cyr peered at two who came shoulder to shoulder on foot, moving with the awkward gait of those whose legs were bound together.
As their escort drew swords and closed around the ones whose safety they were entrusted with, Nicola said in near equal parts disquiet and curiosity, “Who comes, Cyr?”
“Soon we shall know. Fear not, you are safe.”
“Sir Reynard! Sir Gilbert!” Maël called for chevaliers to accompany him forward.
“Remain here, Nicola.” Cyr was tempted to command the same of Dougray, but he would do as he would. Moments later, Dougray followed his older brother who opened a path between two of their guard and put spurs to his destrier. Side by side, they reached Maël and his men as they reined in before the men who had staggered to a halt.
“Keep watch!” Maël ordered his chevaliers and sprang out of the saddle.
These unfortunates were known to him—and to a lesser degree, Cyr. Though their appearance was altered from this morn when they were sent ahead to deliver tidings to Campagnon that D’Argent, in the company of the king’s men, would require lodging for the night, they were the same. Gagged, heads shaved, faces bruised, fine tunics exchanged for threadbare ones, feet bare, they were so disgraced it appeared the only good of their ordeal was that they lived.
More intensely aware of being watched by those in the wood, Cyr dismounted and drew his dagger to aid his cousin in loosing the men who grunted and babbled against dirty rags. As he sliced through the ropes binding one of the men’s wrists at his back, Maël cut the gag.
The man tried to speak, but a coughing fit bent him forward. While he regained his breath, the cousins finished unbinding the two.
As Cyr came around, he noted the high color in Maël’s face that rendered more stark the pale scar aslant it.
“Rebels?” Maël demanded of the second man who rubbed his jaw as he tested its range of movement.
It was as Cyr also wished to know, it being possible someone at court had alerted Campagnon of the king’s decree.
A guilty flush dampening the messenger’s seething, he nodded. “We were taken by rebels.”
As if steeling himself for discipline, his companion touched his bald, scraped pate, stood taller. “It was she, Sire—Dotter.”
Dotter, Cyr reflected on the word appended to a Saxon female’s name to identify her by whose daughter she was in the absence of a surname. Thus, so impossibly common was the name that it eliminated only males as the leader of the rebels bedeviling this and surrounding shires. As Balduc was most often the target of their aggression, for this Campagnon forfeited his lands, William stating that if a battle-hewn warrior could not outwit the weaker sex, a lord he did not deserve to be.
“Did you put eyes on Dotter?” Maël asked.
“Non, Sire. A dozen rode us to ground, bound, and blindfolded us. Afterward, we but heard her voice and felt its breath on our faces. As others have reported, it sounded of an aged woman.”
Gytha, the vengeful mother of the departed King Harold who had lost four sons in 1066? Cyr once more turned over the possibility toward which William leaned.
“Beyond your dignity,” Maël said, “what did they gain?”
The soldier momentarily closed his eyes. “Lord D’Argent’s missive. They know he comes to take possession of Stern and shall pass the night at Balduc.”
Cyr filled his lungs with the gentle breeze upon which the rebels’ scent might be carried from the wood. Had they not captured the messengers nor had spies at court, soon enough they would have learned whom the king provided an escort—that the lord of Stern had finally come. But did they know the reason he went the long way around Stern to stop first at Balduc?
“Their purpose in releasing you?” Maël pressed.
The one who had first spoken dragged up his tunic and from the waistband of ragged chausses drew forth an arrow. He held it out, though not to Maël. “She said to render this unto Cyr D’Argent—the merciless one.”
Cyr reached, faltered as thoughts spun back to when Campagnon scornfully bestowed that well-earned name in the presence of the young Saxon woman. Was it possible she led the rebels, disguising her voice to conceal her identity?
“My lord?”
He accepted the arrow, slid his gaze from feathered shaft to keen tip, knew there was more. “And?”
“She said it was intended for you.”
He tested a calloused thumb to the arrow’s tip, acceded it was possible it would have found its mark from wood to road, but would it have penetrated his chain mail, embedding itself well enough to take his life? Likely not, but had the shot been most fortuitous, it could have found the flesh of his unprotected neck. “And?” he asked again.
“Most curious, my lord, she said its absence from your heart wipes clean her debt.”
Cyr stilled, returned to the present only when Maël turned a scarred, furrowed brow upon his cousin. “What debt?”
Ignoring his question, Cyr said, “I assume she conversed in Norman French.”
“She did.”
“Without fault?”
“Quite well, my lord, though I caught her Saxon accent.”
One well-versed in the language of her enemies, a woman who owed him a debt…
He looked around, silently cursed the deep of the wood that denied him sight of one who could look upon him without being looked upon. Was she there? The one who told she would pray for him? Might so young a woman lead men in rebelling against their conquerors?
The thrill that went through him was short-lived. Had she sent the arrow—and who else could it have been?—her vengeance had wreaked terrible things on these lands, notwithstanding the letting of Norman blood. And neither did her own people go unscathed. Though the rebels mostly directed their efforts at Campagnon, the Saxon villagers were made to account for their Norman lord’s losses. Were a crop destroyed, an animal slaughtered, or a cart burned, the lord of Balduc confiscated the same and more from those who most needed it.
“Cousin?” Maël pressed.
Cyr met the gaze of William’s man. Unwilling to relate his suspicions, though they had much meat on them, he said, “I seek the same answers.”
Maël gave a grunt of disgust, returned his attention to his men. “At least a dozen set upon you, you say?”
“Oui, my lord, and took us well into the wood where there were more.”
Survivors of the great battle as William believed? Cyr wondered. Common men whose common blood permitted them to flee to the wood unlike most Saxon nobles who believed it dishonorable to survive their king?
“Throughout you were blindfolded?” Maël asked.
“We were.”
“Can you guess their numbers?”
“Four score, Sire? Five?”
Maël blew out a long breath. “The king will himself wish to hear your account.”
The color drained from their faces. As evidenced by what had been done them, they had failed. And William had little patience for such.
“Sir Reynard, Sir Gilbert,” Maël said, “take these men up behind you.” As the two disgraced soldiers stepped forward, he turned full on Cyr. “I need not know what you know, would but remind you of what the king requires of your lordship.”
“Be assured, Cousin, whoever she and her followers are, I shall end their rebellion.” He slid the arrow into the scabbard housing his sword. “Now, we have a duty to discharge.”
Beneath the eyes of those in the wood, the two returned to their destriers.
“It seems,” Dougray said as Cyr settled in the saddle, “you have untold tales in your quiver.” He glanced at the arrow. “If naught else, I shall be grateful for the entertainment they provide.”
“You are not here for the purpose of entertainment, Dougray. Like it or not, you shall aid in ending the rebellion afflicting these lands.”
Amid the beard, which was amongst the greatest of ironies, a smile appeared. For as much as Dougray hated the Saxons, he h
ad adopted their unshaven, long-haired ways—albeit in no way groomed.
He showed more teeth. “Be assured, I shall like it well.”
“My way,” Cyr said. “Not the ungodly way of revenge.”
Dougray shrugged the shoulder beneath which a portion of his arm was missing. “I do not think William will mind how it is done as long as it is done.”
Cyr closed his mouth against argument, looked over his shoulder at the escort Maël commanded forward. As he moved his gaze between Nicola and Fulbert, he wished back the old Dougray. As difficult as his pre-conquest brother could be owing to the circumstances of his birth, that Dougray was far preferable to the one carried from the battlefield who had yet to cast blame on Cyr for his loss—at least by way of words. Hopefully, from beneath ire and bitterness, the pre-conquest Dougray would re-emerge.
Chapter Six
Castle Balduc
England
Cyr looked up from the missive to which the king had set hand and seal, noted the vein jagging Campagnon’s brow up into his hairline, next the light scar across the knave’s nose and cheek dealt by the woman it was best not to think on.
“Thus, your rights to this barony are forfeited,” Cyr concluded. “They are transferred unto the Lord of Stern Castle to become one with my demesne. Do you wish, you may remain as castellan of Balduc.”
Had the man’s eyes fangs, the venom piercing his rival’s would have killed. But though he must long to rage, he retained enough control Cyr had only to take hold of his sword by way of thought. Still, if Campagnon did not soon find something upon which to let his wrath, that vein might give.
Cyr turned the missive, extended it.
Fists white-knuckled atop the table behind which he stood, the former Baron of Balduc flicked his gaze over the parchment, shifted to Maël who had accompanied Cyr to the dais, then considered those beyond—Cyr’s brother and sister, the priest, the king’s men. He nodded as if in accord with dark imaginings, straightened, and gave a bow. “Baron D’Argent.”
“Sir Raymond,” Cyr afforded the only title left to him. “I assume you wish to accept the position of castellan.”
With no tempering of sarcasm, he said, “I would be honored.”
“Then until such time I deem it of mutual benefit we part ways, you shall administer Balduc and its lands as I direct.”
A muscle at his jaw convulsing, Campagnon said, “Be assured I shall, Baron.”
Cyr looked to those on either side of the seat from which the former lord had arisen when Cyr and his escort interrupted their meal. Elevated above men-at-arms who occupied lower tables, eight chevaliers watched, among them Merle. And like Merle, they radiated resentment. To ensure few, if any, lasted longer than Campagnon, their ranks would be seeded with Stern chevaliers and men-at-arms.
“Before you and your escort continue on to Stern, you would be refreshed with drink and viands?” Campagnon asked.
Cyr rolled the missive and slid it beneath his belt. “We would. And as it grows late, we shall avail ourselves of lodgings.”
The man’s hands opened and closed as if seeking cold steel. “As you will.” He stood taller. “Now it seems all that is left to me is to relinquish the lord’s high seat and chamber.”
“That will serve. For now.”
He heard the whistling breath drawn through the man’s nostrils, guessed it did little to calm him. Then Campagnon sidestepped, vacating the seat that remained his only in the absence of his overlord, and called for servants to erect more tables for their guests.
The Saxons who hastened forth were a nervous lot, and Cyr did not doubt they had good cause. Campagnon was surely the reason that of all the lands of Wulfenshire, those of Balduc were most afflicted with rebellion. Unfortunately, the king’s greatest concern over the ills done those now Cyr’s people was to prevent injustice from moving more Saxons from fear-driven acquiescence to deadly rebellion.
Campagnon displaced one of his men so he sat at the right hand of the rival who had become his liege, and several others to the left of the high seat to accommodate Cyr’s companions, then called, “Wench!”
The young servant halted, bestowed a wary gaze that stunned though it was not directed at Cyr. “My beloved lord?” she said in a poor rendering of Norman French, but not so poor Cyr mistook the term of affection added to her obeisance. Just as certain was its insincerity.
“Prepare the lord’s chamber for Baron D’Argent.”
The Saxon dipped her chin, glanced at Cyr out of mismatched eyes—one brown, the other blue, in their depths fear and something else. Pleading?
Guessing her ill-used by Campagnon and possibly his men, that if she had virtue about her before the Normans’ arrival in England it was long lost, Cyr offered her a smile he hoped would be interpreted as a sign her life would be different henceforth.
The corners of her mouth twitched, but had she thought to return the gesture, Campagnon’s next words made her think opposite.
“Go, Wench!”
She swung away, ascended the dais behind which the chamber lay, and went behind its curtains.
Very different, Cyr silently vowed and turned to his cousin.
“There will be trouble here,” Maël said low.
“So there will.” Wondering how many tankards of ale it would take to unlock his cousin, Cyr raised his eyebrows. “You will join me at table?”
“I would, but I am sure King William would agree my place is with my men.”
His place… Cyr inclined his head. “We will speak later.”
“Perhaps.” Maël turned on his heel.
Trouncing the impulse to follow and beat emotion into his cousin, Cyr gestured Nicola and Fulbert forward. As he took his sister’s arm, a glance at Dougray confirmed he continued to lean against the wall to the right of the hall’s entrance. Knowing it would be more a waste to invite him to sit on the dais than Maël, Cyr led Nicola and the priest to their places at high table and, as done never before, settled into the place of a lord.
The seat to which he had aspired when he wielded arms during the invasion was raised higher than others, expansive, and comfortably padded. And yet it was uncomfortable in that it made him feel almost a boy trying to walk in his sire’s boots. He was a lord who knew how to lord only by his father’s example, and the lives he would now control were those of an enemy unaccustomed and resistant to Norman rule. But here he would begin—and make the Saxons his people beyond the yokes worn since the great battle.
Much to Campagnon’s discomfort where he seethed at Cyr’s side, curtly answering questions regarding the state of Balduc and providing little insight, there was no quick end to the meal. Cyr let it drag from one hour into the next, using the time to become acquainted with faces, names, and the strength of each man’s ill will, while allowing Campagnon’s men to take measure of their new liege. For their sakes, he hoped they read him well enough not to challenge him. As a lord he would prove wanting for a time, but standing before this inexperienced lord was a warrior tested in the fires of the most brutal battle in England’s recent memory.
“Wench!” Campagnon called.
The young woman who had exited the solar and resumed her duties in the hall lifted her pitcher from the rim of Maël’s cup. As she hastened from the lower table, she cast those peculiar eyes upon Cyr.
“Eyes on me, Wench!” Campagnon snarled.
She shot them to the one reduced to a castellan and ascended the dais, but as she reached her pitcher forward, he snatched his goblet away. “Around this side, Wench.”
Her lashes fluttered. “Oui, my beloved lord,” she said and traversed the dais.
Cyr felt ache in his fist atop the table, only the certainty he would end such treatment of those who served at Balduc keeping him from driving his knuckles into Campagnon’s face. And a glance toward his cousin told he was also so inclined. Not surprising. What surprised was Dougray.
A half hour past, he had taken a seat at the lower table occupied by Maël’s m
en. He had presented his usual brooding self as he picked over the viands, but now his shoulders were unbowed, chin up, eyes moving between Campagnon and the woman. Interest, and not merely a spark—a light as if here was something worth dragging himself up out of the mire in which he had sunk following the loss of an arm. But though Cyr would like to believe his interest was of benefit to the woman rather than Campagnon, Dougray made no secret of his hatred of the Saxons.
Following his gaze to the servant, Cyr watched her draw alongside the one who summoned her. As once more she extended her pitcher toward his goblet, Campagnon slammed an arm around her waist.
“Loose her!” Cyr growled.
The knave dragged her closer, groped a hand up her side. “I may be yours to command in the keeping of Balduc, but you have no say over this woman.”
A broken nose, Cyr decided on the first lesson that would lead to Campagnon’s exit from Wulfenshire, but for the benefit of the knave’s men, one more warning. “As I am the lord of these lands, the people of Balduc are under my protection, and I say what can and cannot be done with them.”
“I do not dispute our king’s decision to give Balduc unto you, D’Argent—er, Baron. What I dispute is my command over this woman.” He looked up. “Tell him to whom you belong, Wench.”
Cyr saw struggle on her face, whether it was to translate Campagnon’s language into her own or summon the correct, loathsome response, he could not know.
She moistened her lips. “I belong to my beloved lord.”
“See now!” Campagnon shot his regard to Cyr. “The witchy-eyed wench is mine. And do you doubt me, I have the papers to prove it.”
Cyr frowned. “Papers?”
“She is not of Balduc. Good coin I paid for her at auction.”
Nicola drew a sharp breath, on its exhale breathed, “Slavery. What heathen land is this?”
In this, heathen indeed. Unlike Normandy, England yet boasted that foulest of trades. Whether it was true the departed King Harold had engaged in the ungodly business ere claiming the English throne and his mother, Gytha, profited from the sale of girls shipped across the sea, the slaves made of men, women, and children accounted for between ten and twenty percent of the population. Until King William abolished slavery, there was nothing Cyr could do for the woman, nor could Dougray were he of a mind to aid rather than gloat over her circumstances.
