by Tamara Leigh
He clamped his fingers into fists, not to use against her but to hold back hurtful words bred by the desperate longing to learn his brother’s fate. “What else do you know of Guarin?”
“Naught, my lord.”
“Then guess. Did he survive the great battle? Was he the one seen on these lands?”
“A guess in your favor would give hope I have no right to bestow. All I can offer is assurance that as our people have more heart than your own, a greater chance you have of recovering your brother than were you Saxon.”
So bold, as if either she did not feel his anger or fear it.
But there was another possibility—that she tested it as a means of looking nearer upon him before revealing what more than ever he longed to know. This test he would pass.
Wondering when last he had so often filled his lungs to their full depth and breadth, he drew back a step.
Immediately, she turned aside and crossed to the fire pit. When her searching hand found the ladle’s handle and she began stirring the porridge, she said, “There is another coincidence that ought to be addressed. How is it that of all the lands you could have been awarded, you were given ones upon Wulfenshire where resides the woman you aided at Senlac?”
Not coincidence, he silently conceded.
“Too much coincidence,” she said, “and yet only now you come to relieve your brother of his lordship.”
Determining to end the game, he strode to her. “I have more than held up my end of the bargain. Now I would know where I can find your granddaughter.”
She turned her face down as if to consider the pot’s contents.
“Surely you know you bear a resemblance to Aelfled,” he prompted.
“So all say.”
“Thus, I believe it possible it was by design you led me here.”
She looked up. Rather than a face wreathed in denial, it was garlanded with a smile. “And look how you followed, Norman. That told much of my new lord, though not as much as I know now.”
Feeling ashamedly bared and vulnerable, he snapped, “What it tells is that I wish to end the rebellion which more afflicts your people than mine.”
Her smile dropped, and as if to herself she said, “So it does. And I fear there is no going back to the way we were, that we will become but a whisper amid the howl of ages do we not mix with your people…” She ceased stirring. “…do we not make children with our Norman conquerors.”
That he could not argue. Knowing he was too long gone and were his men not searching for him, soon they would, he demanded, “Where is Aelfled?”
She swung around and crossed the room.
He followed—and slammed a hand to the door when she began to open it.
Those sightless eyes lifted to his. “I cannot tell where to look for the rebel leader, Cyr D’Argent, only that it was not my granddaughter who sent the arrow and, thus, she remains indebted for what you did for her and the mothers of those boys.”
Anger once more expressed by his hands, Cyr said, “With or without your aid, I will find Aelfled.”
“I pray you do—and soon.”
Despite her attempt to persuade him her granddaughter was not the rebel leader, was this a warning from one who professed the belief Normans and Saxons must mix were the latter to survive? “What does she plan, Bernia?”
She shook her head sorrowfully. “Not what you fear, though neither do I approve of what she is moved to do.”
“Tell!”
She sighed. “It is difficult—often impossible—to undo vows given the Church.”
“What say you?” he demanded.
“My Aelfled wearies of the collar ’round her neck, the leash dragging her where she wishes not to go. So chafed is she I fear she will don the habit of a Bride of Christ ere long.”
That alarmed, though he told himself it was only because her motive for becoming a nun was surely for the cover and protection afforded by the Church that would allow her to more easily coordinate her rebels.
Bernia’s mouth curved slightly. “You have what you came for. Now leave this Saxon to her pale porridge.”
Cyr understood. Without speaking the name of her granddaughter’s sanctuary, she revealed it. “I thank you,” he said and removed his hand from the door.
She started to open it, paused. “My granddaughter is all I have, my son slain by brigands and his wife taken by pox whilst Aelfled was too young to deeply feel the loss of her parents. Thus, I shall entrust you with her safekeeping.”
Uncertain how to respond to the responsibility, he inclined his head.
She opened the door, and as he stepped outside, added, “At peril of failing yourself, do not fail me, Cyr of the silver.”
The squeak of hinges sounded again, and as he looked over his shoulder, he glimpsed her crown of braids before there was only the door before him.
“I will not fail you and certainly not myself,” he muttered, “providing you know Aelfled better than the rebels know her.”
“My lord!”
He looked around. As expected, his men were searching for him. As not expected, this day the abbey that stood on the borders of Stern, Balduc, and Wulfen would receive Baron D’Argent.
Chapter Ten
Lillefarne Abbey
England
Were she here, for what would you wish to speak to her?”
Concluding it was futile to attempt to identify Aelfled amongst the white-robed and veiled women moving through the cloister below, especially as her grandmother believed she had yet to make her profession, Cyr turned from the window and settled his gaze on Abbess Mary Sarah—a Saxon who, though upon their introduction proved proficient in Norman French, had reverted to her own language. Veiled aggression, but aggression all the same.
“I would speak with her of the great battle—specifically, the circumstances under which we met upon Senlac.”
A shadow flitted across her face and off. Rising with such grace from her padded bench it appeared she floated to her feet, she said, “We do have amongst us a Sister Aelfled, but that cannot be the one you seek.”
Then Bernia’s granddaughter had made her profession, would nevermore be of the world of men—providing she was not the rebel leader. Feeling as if something had fallen out of him, refusing to look upon what it was, he said, “Regardless, I must speak with her.”
Eyes bright in a well-boned face of so few years she had surely obtained her esteemed position by way of high nobility and favors owed, she stepped before him.
Not much more than twenty and five years, Cyr concluded. And prettier than at a distance when he had focused more on a brow upon which hair peaked lower than most, a defined jaw, and gently cleft chin. Center of that were large eyes, a somewhat snub nose, and a generous mouth.
“That is not possible, Baron.” She clasped elegant hands at her waist. “Sister Aelfled is in the infirmary, so ill that does the Lord not heal her broken places, within a sennight she will find her reward in heaven.”
What had fallen out of him now felt trod upon.
“Most tragic,” she murmured, and in that moment he saw more clearly her dislike and was certain much of the light in her eyes was satisfaction over emotions he had not hidden. “Fortunate for you, Baron, I hold it is another you seek—one of far fewer years.”
He nearly jerked over the revelation the woman in the infirmary was old. Satisfaction, indeed.
She nodded. “Does the one you met upon Senlac reside within these walls, it would be Aelfled Sorendotter.”
Daughter of Soren, Cyr silently translated the closest the Saxons came to surnames. But was she also Dotter who led the rebels? Chest tight with a surfeit of breath, he said, “Also professed?”
“Not yet and may never be, though when she came to Lillefarne near on two years past, it was as she desired.”
“You are saying she declined to speak vows.”
“Nay, I declined.”
“For what?”
“She was not ready.”
&n
bsp; “And still is not?”
She raised her eyebrows, called, “Sister Rixende!”
The door opened, and the nun who had escorted Cyr into the apartment looked first to the right at the far end of the room where a large desk sat with a chair behind it and two before it, then to the left at the sitting area where her mistress had received her Norman visitor.
The abbess stepped around Cyr, crossed to the young woman, and leaned in. They conversed in their language and too low to know what passed between them, then the nun withdrew.
Abbess Mary Sarah crossed to the chair behind her desk, lowered, and gestured to the chairs opposite. “Sit, Baron. It may be some time ere Aelfled appears.”
Then she was summoned, would soon stand before him.
That which had been ground into the dirt having picked itself up and shaken itself out, Cyr started forward. And halted at the realization his back would be to Aelfled when she entered, giving him no time to look upon her before she looked upon him.
“I shall remain here.” He turned back to the window overlooking the cloister.
“As you will.” The rustle of parchment sounded, and when he looked around, he saw her dip a quill in ink to resume the work he had interrupted.
A quarter hour later, no nearer the one he sought, Cyr wondered if rather than summon Aelfled Sorendotter, the abbess had warned her away. “She does not come at your command?” he asked.
The woman looked up. “She does when she can be found.”
“The abbey is hardly of a size in which one can long remain hidden.”
“You know not all our nooks and crannies, Sire. Forsooth, we have many. But you are correct, Lillefarne is not large. It is the wood beyond whose frame makes a picture of our Lord’s house that is large.”
His gut tightened. “Aelfled is outside these walls?”
“Likely. Oft she goes to the trees, whether to walk, pray, or gather nuts, berries, and mushrooms for our table.”
Was she so naive to believe Aelfled’s exploits beyond the abbey were innocent? Or did this Norman hater know full well what went in the wood and ignore it in the hope the rebels would restore England to the Saxons?
He started for the door.
“Baron!”
He looked across his shoulder.
“Aelfled will come.” She pointed her quill’s feathered tip at the ceiling. “Do you not hear the bells?”
He did, and not for the first time. But it was of little note since bells marked all hours of prayer and other matters within a house of God.
“It tolls for her,” she said and returned to her correspondence.
Knowing this moment Aelfled might more greatly distance herself, Cyr struggled over whether to believe the abbess.
“I vow you are not deceived,” she said, keeping her head down.
“A bell that tolls for her.” He made no attempt to soften his suspicion. “For one who is but a resident of the convent?”
Her eyes rolled up and met his across the distance. “It tolls not only for Aelfled but any who depart the safety of Lillefarne whom we must call back at the approach of danger. Such was not necessary ere the Normans stole our lands. A wooden palisade was all that was needed to keep out those we did not wish within. Now a stout wall of stone is required.”
He had noted—and wondered at—that.
“As for the bells, in this instance they are rung to accommodate you, Baron, rather than protect my charges from men like Campagnon and his followers. And I do it for you only because your brother and his men have yet to give me cause to fear them. Thus far, they honor the name D’Argent as much as possible for one come across the narrow sea.” She raised her chin. “Tell me that will not change beneath your lordship.”
“It will not.”
“Is that a promise?”
“It is.”
“One I shall hold you to though not as fiercely as shall the Lord.”
Feeling the need to offer further assurance, he said, “You know I am also now Baron of Balduc.”
“All know. Now the question is—how long ere your castellan is removed?”
“As soon as I can satisfy King William I have cause for relieving him of his position, he shall be gone.”
“Certes, the nithing shall provide cause aplenty, though it could prove your death do you not watch him closely.”
Feeling as if schooled, and by one who never had and never would wield a blade, Cyr said, “I am well aware, Abbess.”
She jutted her chin at the window he had abandoned. “It should not be much longer.”
Grudgingly, he passed another quarter hour watching those who came and went in the cloister below, while behind him, the abbess scratched at her parchment.
As the last of his patience dripped from him, a knock sounded. Though the one beyond did not await permission to enter, the door opened with what seemed caution. And inside slipped a woman he did not recognize for all the dirt scuffing her veil to chin to hem.
The same as the nun sent to summon her, she looked first to the desk. Finding it occupied, she did not glance at where he stood, evidencing she was uninformed of the reason for her summons.
Hastening toward the one who retired her quill to its ink pot and sat back, she brushed at her bodice and aproned skirt and said in a sweetly raspy voice that caused hairs to rise on Cyr’s arms, “Pardon, Abbess. I would not have kept you waiting were it not of import what I—”
“Silence, Child!” the woman said with authority that made her sound thrice the age of the one she rebuked though she looked little more than half a dozen years older.
“But I must tell you—”
“Aelfled!” The abbess raised a staying hand, then swept it toward Cyr and said in Norman French, “Our visitor shall think it rude do you continue to speak in a language with which he is not as familiar as are we with his.”
Chapter Eleven
Aelfled, once of Wulfen now of Lillefarne, daughter of Soren, so abruptly halted she nearly tipped forward. Forgetting the explanation rehearsed as she ran from the wood in answer to the bell well beyond its first sounding, forgetting her frustration over losing half a basket of mushrooms, she stared at Abbess Mary Sarah.
Dear Lord, he has come, she sent heavenward. He is here. How could I not have felt him as much I feel him now? And how did he find me as he had no name as he has now? Is this Isa’s doing?
The abbess’s slight nod confirming what she knew, Aelfled swallowed hard. And turned.
He stood before the window in the sitting area, as tall and broad as remembered, arrayed in fine, spotless garments as not remembered. And his eyes…
It seemed more they looked into her than at her. Did he search for confirmation of what had brought him to Lillefarne—the belief she had sent the arrow?
“Merciless Cyr,” she whispered and did not realize she had done so until she felt breath across her lower lip. And saw his lids narrow. Had he caught her words or did he but question what she spoke?
She startled when a hand touched her arm, looked to the woman who had come around her desk.
“You remember Cyr D’Argent,” the abbess said without question.
The woman knew the tale of Senlac, Aelfled having shared it in the vain hope of unburdening herself of that horrific night and day. And Wulf’s death.
Returning her gaze to the warrior whose eyes she knew to be green though the color could not be seen at this distance and with light at his back, she said in his language, “It has been a long time.” And wished it far longer so this ache might have gone dull. Were it possible…
“The baron would speak to you, Aelfled.”
She sank fingers into the material of her apron, clawed up a handful. “Of what?”
“A good question, Child.” The abbess stepped in front of her charge, blocking her from D’Argent’s view. “As I have matters to attend to, I shall leave you to discuss whatever business brings him to us.”
Aelfled opened her mouth to protest, but when the woman�
�s wide-thrown eyes told there would be no argument, pressed her lips.
Abbess Mary Sarah turned aside. “Sister Rixende shall be outside the door do you require anything,” she said, surely more a warning to the man within than a courtesy to those left behind.
Aelfled glanced at him, noted how tight-lipped the smile he gave the woman before inclining his head as if in gratitude for the consideration.
Moments later, the door closed, leaving Aelfled staring at it. And alone with one she had thought never to see again the last time he had gone from her in the wood. But as she had not feared the Norman then, she feared him now, though not because her virtue was at risk. She had been alone with him in the aftermath of the great battle, and he had proven honorable—unlike the vile Campagnon—and more honorable in delivering the rest of the boys to the wood.
Awareness of him growing palpable, the feel of his eyes causing her skin to prickle and flush, she pressed her shoulders back and yielded her gaze.
The corners of his mouth convulsed as if he might smile, but only that. “Do you still pray for me, Aelfled of Senlac?”
Were her tongue not rooted, she might have choked on it. How painfully fitting that she, only ever known as being of Soren, Wulfen, and Lillefarne should be named that. Doubtless, her embittered lady would also think it fitting.
She splayed her fingers, immediately wished the bunched material back in her hand to give her something to hold to in this emotion-tossed sea.
“Do you?”
“Non, Cyr D’Argent, I do not pray for you.” It was nearly the truth. So rarely did she allow her enemy-turned-savior to intrude on her time with the Lord that only when he shouldered his way in did she keep her word.
“Did you ever?”
She clasped her hands at her waist.
He stared long into her face, then moved his gaze down her.
She would have been ashamed at being arrayed in dirt inherent in digging for mushrooms did she not remind herself she had looked no better at Senlac. Worse, for on that field she had also worn blood. But not as much as he.
His eyes traveled back up. “Neither have you forgiven me?”
