by Tamara Leigh
“We shall begin with Balduc’s. Since that is where the rebels concentrate their efforts, I believe they will strike there first, and all the more likely while Stern hosts a great number of the king’s men.” Cyr looked to his brother. “Once more I give you a choice, on the morrow ride with me to Balduc or stay Nicola’s side.”
Light leapt in the younger man’s eyes but was too quickly extinguished to determine its source. “That is no choice,” Dougray muttered and put heels to his mount.
“Time, patience, prayer,” the priest reminded.
“Already much is expended,” Cyr grumbled. “Hopefully, soon we shall see the fruits of our efforts, even if it is against Dougray’s will he returns to life.”
Fulbert shifted his regard to the third son, and when Dougray passed between the doors propped open to admit visitors and halted alongside Maël, said, “I am thinking Balduc is not merely the lesser of two evils for your brother.”
What had he seen in those eyes that Cyr had not? Had the fleeting light anything to do with the one Campagnon called Wench? That possibility made him question the wisdom of Dougray’s accompaniment. Until his brother submitted to training a body much changed from Hastings, the defense of his person was doubtful. It might be better to leave him behind.
Chapter Twelve
Castle Balduc
England
So soon returned!” The castellan of Balduc halted before Cyr at the center of the hall, gave a stunted bow.
“My visit is two-fold.” Cyr drew forward the woman who had persuaded her nephew she would be of better use at Balduc than Stern whose household and books were in impeccable order. “My aunt, Lady Chanson, assures me if the accounting of my new demesne is not comprehensible, she can make it so the same as Stern’s.”
The man’s upper lip quivered, evidencing he struggled against baring teeth the same as a dog ere attack. But as if to compose his face, he bowed his head in a show of deference. “Dear lady,” he addressed the floor, “I am honored to have my home graced by the widow of a much-esteemed warrior so…tragically lost at Hastings.”
Chanson tensed—and doubtless Maël behind—but in a fairly level voice she said, “As I am honored to be welcomed at Balduc, Sir Raymond. And I do not doubt I shall be impressed by how well you keep this castle and its books for my beloved nephew, your Baron.”
When Campagnon lifted his face he wore as near a smile as possible for one who seethed. “I believe you will find naught of consequence out of order, my lady.” He offered his arm. “Allow me to escort you to the high table where you may be refreshed with drink and viands whilst my steward collects the books.”
She glanced at Cyr, arched an eyebrow, then took her host’s arm and allowed him to lead her forward.
“As told,” Cyr called, “my visit is two-fold, Campagnon.”
The man halted, peered over his shoulder. “The second fold, Baron?”
“A tour of Balduc to become acquainted with my people and survey the villages and crops.” The knave did not need to be informed of the early harvesting. Yet.
Campagnon’s smile was strained. “Better you than me. Most grateful I am our king has relieved me of such tedious tasks. I wish you Godspeed.” He continued toward the dais.
Were he to remain castellan, he would be severely schooled in those tedious tasks. Blessedly, that was not to be.
As Cyr started to turn toward Maël and his men, a handful of whom would remain at the castle, Campagnon called, “Come hither, Wench!”
Cyr saw the young woman hasten from the corridor that gave unto the kitchen, wondered again when William would ban slavery in England, and hoped it would not be too late for her. Then he felt an otherworldly nudge that Fulbert told was of the Lord and corrected himself. He would find a way to aid her.
He pivoted, strode past the king’s men, and was not surprised Dougray was positioned to the right of the doors, a vantage he liked much in enclosed spaces. It afforded a good view and an easy exit when he could stomach no more boasting, cheer, and laughter that had become as foreign and distasteful to him as Saxons.
Drawing near, Cyr said, “We ride.”
Only Dougray’s eyes moved, shifting from the high table to his older brother. “Maël accompanies you, oui?”
Cyr halted before him. “He has said he shall.”
Dougray nodded. “I think it best I stay and keep watch over our aunt.”
“The king’s men will ensure her well-being.”
“Still, I would remain.” He returned his gaze to the high table.
Cyr looked around, noted how flushed and stiff his aunt as she stared at Campagnon who ordered his slave to provide refreshments for his guest. “Very well, watch, Brother. And that is all.”
“All?”
“I do not like him any better than you, and he will test your patience as he tests mine, but you are not to engage.”
Dougray narrowed his lids. “You think me incapable?”
“What I know is you are long without practice, albeit that is easily remedied. When it is, then you may engage if so moved.”
Jaw clenching, Dougray raised his arms beneath his mantle. And faltered over the stance that, before Hastings, had been so habitual a show of defiance his brothers teased him. But unlike other times since his loss, he did not jerk his arms back to his sides. He angled his chin higher and clasped one arm and a half over his chest. “Does Campagnon give me no cause to engage, I will not.”
Cyr wanted more assurance than that, but it would not be gained without argument that would reveal D’Argent vulnerability to Campagnon—and delay the tour of Balduc. He inclined his head and strode through the doorway followed by his cousin and the men he commanded.
“You may regret not binding your brother and tossing him over the back of his horse,” Maël said as they descended the steps.
Cyr glanced at him. “I pray the men you leave behind are capable of preventing him from getting into deep trouble.”
“They are, but exactly how deep depends on how great the fight within Dougray wants out. Though I do not doubt he would prefer to loose it upon Saxons, for now he might make do with a certain Norman.”
Perhaps over a certain Saxon slave, Cyr silently concurred and swung into the saddle and set his mind on Balduc’s people and the crops soon to fall to the scythe.
Each village upon Balduc was much the same—far more women and children than men, all poorly garbed, few responding beyond nods and curt greetings, wattle-and-daub huts in varying states of disrepair, scarce farming implements, and few animals worthy of plowing or providing meat. Unlike the people of Stern, those long under the heel of Campagnon suffered much. And yet…
Cyr considered those working a nearby field who had not joined others from their village in welcoming their new lord. They continued to toil, which he could not begrudge them considering how great the need to feed their families. Even now they did not pause to watch the entourage depart.
Cyr looked behind at the dispersing villagers, many of whom had set their feet on the dusty road to return to laboring over life-sustaining crops that, unlike hay, required more tending before being harvested at summer’s end.
“Once more, your brow rumples like that of an old man,” Fulbert said.
Cyr looked to the priest who rode alongside. “Do you not find something peculiar despite all the poverty witnessed this day?”
“That the Saxons have not all stolen away.” It was said with no small measure of sarcasm.
Cyr smiled tautly. “For what would they flee Balduc?”
Fulbert’s eyes bulged. “Their garments are little more than rags, the greatest comfort of their homes is they yet have roofs, and the crops they scratch out of the dirt are so pitiful the people may barely survive starvation this winter—and only then if their grains are not seized as done last year.”
“Exactly, and yet most of the Saxons have stayed the land though fear of reprisal from Campagnon cannot be worse than death from lack of sustenance.
Look at them. Though we are just come out of spring, none appear to be recovering from near starvation.”
Fulbert snorted. “What is starving to you? A man laid prone? A child so weak he cannot even crawl?”
“Certes that,” Cyr said, then jutted his chin at a woman ahead who walked the side of the road, hand held by a girl of six or seven skipping to keep up. “But not that.” Though both wore garments so worn it seemed a miracle their seams held, one had only to look beyond the clothing to see neither wanted for food. Indeed, the girl carried excess weight, her face ruddy with good health.
“That is peculiar,” Fulbert acceded, then peered over his shoulder at those returning to the fields. “It is the same with those who greeted us in the village.” He shook his head wonderingly, returned his regard to his friend. “You are most observant.”
“Not soon enough,” Cyr muttered, ashamed what had been buzzing about him like a fly only now settled long enough to be looked near upon. “Regardless, they are being provided for. And well, as if to ensure they remain upon lands once of—”
“—Wulfen,” Fulbert spoke over him.
Cyr nodded.
“You believe that lady supplies them with what is taken when rebels set the lord’s crops afire?”
“I can think of no other willing or able to do so for the people of Balduc. And yet how is it possible to provide for so many extra mouths, especially as some of her own grains are lost to the rebels in retaliation for her bending the knee to King William? Could her crops be vast enough to weather those losses and still have enough to give to those no longer in her care?”
“And secretively,” Fulbert mused, “a great undertaking to prevent Campagnon from confiscating what she supplies.”
Cyr nodded. “I must meet Hawisa Fortier and look near upon her lands. But first we bring in the hay.” He considered the distant field where stalks swayed in sunlight.
You would fare well to gather in that which can easily be taken from you, Norman, Aelfled had said in her husky little voice. He was certain she spoke of his hay, and for the dozenth time wondered why she had given warning. Had it been unintentional? Had she—?
He gripped the reins tighter, told himself it did not matter. Though the hay was not as tall and mature as it ought to be, there was nothing for it. Regardless how much the villagers protested giving service to their lord earlier than due, they would answer summons delivered before dawn on the morrow and the harvesting of the lord’s crop would commence at sunrise. But for now…
From the sun’s position, there was time to visit the last village before the press of dark forced them to return to Balduc Castle where they would pass the night. The prospect of once more sleeping beneath the same roof as Campagnon was unwelcome, but necessary. Balduc lands being more vulnerable than Stern’s, Cyr and the king’s men would oversee the harvesting of the field earlier noted as being in close proximity to Lillefarne Abbey.
Convenient, he once more named its location. And as before did not answer the question of to whom it was convenient—himself or the woman who, if she did not lead the rebels, surely aided them.
The drawing of blood was of Norman on Norman. And yet it was very possible a Saxon woman bore the blame—at least in part.
As taught by his uncle, Cyr had begun his assessment of the scene he and the others burst in upon the moment he crossed the kitchen’s ember-lit threshold.
Center, toppled stools around a skewed table.
Right, the back of one whose figure cast a broad, elongated shadow on the far wall.
At his feet, a man whose shaggy hair and beard told all as he began to rise.
Left, the slave who pressed herself in the narrow space between rear door and wall.
“What is this?” Cyr thundered as the former Baron of Balduc swung around.
Despite the dim, there was no mistaking Campagnon’s high color and bared teeth—nor the hatred in eyes moving from Cyr’s face to the sword advancing ahead of the one made his overlord.
“What is this?” the knave mocked and turned to the side to reveal he had no weapon to hand other than the fist he opened to jab a finger at the man he had bettered. “It is your wee lame brother trespassing where he has no right to go regardless of whom I answer to.”
Protective instincts were a force to be reckoned with, Cyr acknowledged as he struggled against acting on them the same as Maël surely did where he came behind. If not that Dougray was quick to regain his feet and his fierce expression revealed he was more wrathful than injured, Cyr might have yielded to putting Campagnon through.
“Leave off, Cyr—Maël!” Dougray barked. “I will finish the miscreant.”
That miscreant dropped his head back and sent laughter around the room.
Cyr and Maël did not leave off, but it was not Campagnon at whom they set themselves after casting aside their swords. One-armed though Dougray was, wrestling him back from his opponent was like throwing off a boar who but appeared injured enough to approach.
Campagnon’s laughter sounded louder, making it more difficult to subdue Dougray who would have drawn blood from his own kin had he a blade in the fist he swung.
Finally, Cyr and Maël took him to ground, and the latter commanded his men who had followed him inside, “Remove Campagnon!”
“Not without my property!” the knave shouted as he was dragged toward the door. “Get here, Wench!”
“She stays,” Cyr ordered.
“She is my prop—”
“Silence him!” Maël yelled across his shoulder and landed a knee to Dougray’s chest to prevent him from bucking free.
The sound of flesh-covered bone being struck was not an unpleasant one, and more pleasant it was when no further protest passed Campagnon’s lips.
Not so Dougray. He cursed and shouted until Cyr said, “Eventually you will forgive me,” and landed a blow to the jaw as effective as the one dealt Campagnon.
Dougray dropped his head back and was further dumbed by his skull striking the stone floor.
Maël blew out breath. “That did it,” he muttered. Still, he was watchful of his senseless cousin as he lifted his knee off his chest. As well he should be. Dougray was not the strongest of the D’Argents nor the most skilled in weaponry—that honor belonged to Guarin—but in addition to having once swung a blade with the left hand as well as the right, he had an amazing capacity to endure pain and quickly recover from blows.
Cyr straightened and crossed to the door. “Return to your beds,” he instructed those anxiously peering inside, and as he began to close the door glimpsed the retreating figure of Campagnon’s man, Merle, beyond the priest and his aunt.
“But Dougray is—”
“Humiliated, Aunt.” He looked between her and Fulbert, noted she gripped the priest’s forearm, not for the first time wondered if it was attraction he sensed between them. “For it, he will not thank you for bearing greater witness to what was done him.”
She sighed. “You are right.”
“Fulbert, ensure my aunt is returned to her rest,” Cyr said and closed the door. He nearly retrieved his sword from where he had cast it aside, but as his destination was the Saxon woman, he let it lie that she not feel more threatened—and slowed and shortened his stride when she sidled away.
“I mean you no harm,” he said in her language. “I but wish to know what transpired here.”
She tensed as if for flight, then sagged when a glance past him confirmed she could not escape.
He halted five feet distant. “By what name are you called?” he asked.
During earlier encounters he had seen wariness in those mismatched eyes, but though there was less light here, he thought the sparkle there was of defiance. And was certain when she said, “I am called Wench.”
He raised his eyebrows. “As I have been called Merciless, but that is not my name. I am Cyr. You are?”
She stared until Dougray’s groan flew her gaze to him.
Though Cyr hated he should know her only by the
object to which Campagnon reduced her, he said, “For what did they meet over fists?”
She raised a hand toward her throat, in the next instant snatched her arm to her side. Too late. Having drawn attention to what he might not otherwise notice, he considered the smudges on her collarbone and up the sides of her neck. Bruises? Or merely marked by dirty hands?
“Was it you they fought over?” he asked tautly. And hoped it was—evidence Dougray was coming back to himself.
A huff of laughter parted her seamed lips. “Certes not. Your brother hates Saxons, cares not what Campagnon does to me. He came to the kitchen to ease an aching belly, interrupted my beloved lord whom I am prone to displeasing, and the two traded insults that led to blows. That is all.”
Stepping nearer, causing her to press herself more firmly to the wall, Cyr verified the manner in which she had been marked. She believed Dougray unconcerned with her plight, and that was possible, but far less possible if he had seen her bruises.
He dropped back a step, said, “I intend to free you from Campagnon. I know not how, but I will have no slaves on my lands. And given time, I am certain King William will abolish the heinous trade from all of England…” Here was the place to speak her name, such familiarity assuring her he saw her as a person. Instead, all he could say was, “…whatever your name is.”
She raised her eyebrows, and the glow from the embers clearly showed the brown eye opposite the blue. “Slavery has its place. It is not all bad.”
He could not keep surprise from his voice. “Of course it is.”
“Nay, it saved the lives of what remains of my family. Now if you will permit me to pass, I shall seek my rest. Most assuredly, the morrow will be long.”
Would she suffer Campagnon’s anger in lieu of those upon whom he could not let it? Cyr wanted to ask, but it would be wasted breath whether she refused to tell as seemed likely or that he could do little about it. Yet.
He stepped aside, and she walked wide around him.
Upon reaching the door, she turned. Her gaze lingered over Dougray whose long, low groan told he was recovering his wits, shifted to Maël who readied to once more pin his cousin, settled on Cyr. “To you who are not merciless, I am Em. But never name me that in his hearing. Pray, never.” She dipped her head, opened the door only wide enough to slip into the corridor, and was gone.
