Merciless

by Tamara Leigh

  “Em,” Maël said when Cyr returned to his side. “Of the name Emma, you think?”

  Before Cyr could respond, Dougray groaned loudly and narrowly opened his eyes.

  Cyr dropped to his haunches, gripped his brother’s upper arm. “What I think,” he said loud to ensure Dougray heard, “is I must return this wayward D’Argent to Stern first thing on the morrow.”

  Maël’s smile was all sympathy. “I concur.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The villagers were not pleased, having had the harvesting sprung on them as was necessary to protect the lord’s hay should Aelfled seek to undo what she had done in giving warning.

  Balduc’s castle guard were not pleased, two-thirds ordered to work the fields alongside the villagers to sooner bring in the crop.

  The king’s men were not pleased, set to watch over the labors beneath an unclouded sun.

  And perhaps most displeased was Campagnon, ordered to arrange a feast for all come the end of the haying. “Woman’s work,” he had growled, no longer smug as when he watched the brooding Dougray depart before dawn.

  Then there was Aunt Chanson who declined to accompany Dougray though she had made quick work of Balduc’s accounting on the day past—consisting of only two books, she reported, and so poorly kept the pages listing income and expenditures numbered fewer than a dozen. The steward, whom she pronounced derelict, was now schooled in what would be expected of him. If he retained his position.

  Now where she sat astride a palfrey alongside her nephew, she appeared neither displeased nor pleased by this day’s events. But when next she spoke, it was obvious she was disposed toward the former. “A bold, unseemly thing to set men of the sword to harvesting, Cyr. Regardless of the threat, I do not think your uncle would approve.”

  He inclined his head. “He would not. Too great a regard had he for hands calloused by the hilt to see them calloused by the scythe, even were the latter all that stood between a man and starvation.”

  “You are certain the threat is real,” she asked, “that it is necessary to bring in hay that would grow to greater quantity given a sennight longer?”

  “I believe the warning to be true, that this will be lost do we wait.”

  “You will also gather in Stern’s lord’s hay before its time?”

  He hesitated. “I thought to once the greater threat to Balduc’s was eliminated, but I shall allow Stern’s to grow a while longer.” What need not be told now was it could prove a neat trap in which to catch rebels who, plans for Balduc thwarted, would have to move quickly and less cautiously to take Stern’s hay.

  “What of the villagers’ crops?” Chanson asked.

  “Safe, I believe. It is the lord’s to which the rebels set fire.”

  “And for which Campagnon retaliates by claiming the people’s,” she reminded.

  “True, but he shall do so no more.”

  After a long moment, she said, “When the rebels are denied, what do you think they will do?”

  “Search out another vein to slice open. My hope is before that happens, they will be persuaded things are different now Balduc is given unto me.”

  “That will take time. Beneath Campagnon, the Saxons have been mistreated, starved, even murdered.”

  “Not starved, Aunt.”

  She frowned. “I may have spent these six months upon Stern where its people are treated more fairly, but I am not deaf to the groanings of those upon Balduc.”

  “They have not starved as they would have us believe—and Campagnon surely does.”

  She shifted in the saddle to look nearer upon him. “I do not understand.”

  “And I am just beginning to.”

  She set her head to the side, causing the fat braid made of her waist-length hair to slide off her shoulder. “What of the Saxon men who have died—not in the great battle but in denying themselves nourishment so their children and wives may eat?”

  “I think it mostly a deception, that many of those said to have died live.”

  “You have proof?”

  “What I have seen with my own eyes. Though Campagnon confiscated the villagers’ crops, those who stay the land are far from starving and likely never were. I believe absent fathers, husbands, and brothers watch over their families from amid the rebel ranks, keeping them well supplied with food.”

  “Where would they come by such and how would they deliver it without alerting Campagnon?”

  “I have my suspicions, though I expect to have more before long. Now…” Cyr glanced at the sun climbing the sky, its position marking the passing of two hours since dawn. “…there is a scythe that needs wielding.”

  She slid her gaze down his figure clothed in the most worn of the tunics, chausses, and boots he possessed. “Even more, my Hugh would not approve of a D’Argent working the land.”

  Neither did it appeal to Cyr who would prefer practicing at arms. However, not only was he now responsible for the well-being of the people on his lands, but they answered to him only because they were forced to do so. He must earn their trust and respect, and this seemed a place to begin.

  “In that you are right, Aunt, but it must be done, meaning it is time to pass you into the care of your son.” He nodded over his shoulder at where his cousin sat the saddle amid a half dozen men who kept watch over this side of the field.

  “As you will, Cyr, though I would be of better use aiding Campagnon in preparing the feast.”

  “Even did I not require all the king’s men to keep watch over the harvest, after what transpired between that knave and Dougray last eve, I would not leave you at Balduc—nor would Maël.”

  She looked to her son, in a sorrowful voice said, “What has become of him, Cyr? How long before my boy comes back to me? Back to himself?”

  Cyr set a hand on her shoulder. “Whether the losses were dealt our own bodies, minds, and souls or those of ones we held dear, we were all changed by the great battle—some for the better, many for the worse.”

  “The worse,” she breathed. “As it was for you when you returned to Normandy. But the pilgrimage and Father Fulbert set you aright.”

  He looked to the left of the king’s men where the priest sat atop his mount with his head back to take sun upon his face. “As much as possible.”

  “If only he could do the same for your cousin.”

  “Maël would have to be receptive.”

  She nodded, sighed. “And then there is Dougray.”

  “So there is,” Cyr said with finality that he not be further drawn into discussion over what was to be done about the third-born son.

  It being past time the Lord of Balduc and Stern dismounted, he turned his destrier toward his cousin who remained much in need of a good quantity of drink to loosen his tongue. Could it be loosened…

  Soon, he vowed. Soon you shall speak what you do not, Maël.

  Wielding a scythe was far different from wielding a sword.

  Cyr had not expected a similar heft or swing but been confident his training at arms compatible enough with taking a blade to hay that he would soon master the stroke of a farming implement against barely resistant stalks.

  Were Balduc’s villagers not wary of their new lord and his men-at-arms who struggled to keep pace with those of the soil, Cyr was certain the smug amusement about their mouths would have been voiced as loudly as the laughter with which Campagnon had taunted Dougray on the night past.

  “My lord?”

  He looked up from applying a whetstone to the long, curved blade that had dulled again. “Aye, Waring?” he acknowledged the grizzled man limping toward him who supervised those younger and fitter of body in bringing in the crop.

  “With your permission, the workers will go to the wood to gain the shade, quench their thirst, and satisfy their hunger.”

  Cyr glanced overhead, from the sun’s position guessed six hours had passed since the scything began.

  “But an hour’s rest, my lord, and they may recover sufficiently to bring in
all the hay ere nightfall,” the man said as if to counter refusal.

  Regretting he thought his lord unconcerned over their well-being, Cyr said, “Whatever you determine the workers require, be it an hour, be it two.”

  Surprised widened the man’s eyes and parted his lips amid a thick beard. “I thank you, my lord.”

  “You need not seek my permission should the workers require further rest. I trust you will do right by them. And me.”

  Waring hesitated. “I shall,” he said, and as Cyr returned to working the whetstone, added, “It is good you keep your blade sharp, my lord, but elsewise you and your men make more work for yourselves than required.”

  Cyr raised his eyebrows.

  “I have watched you.”

  As Cyr knew, just as he was aware of being watched by other Saxons here—most aware lest any think to wield a scythe against flesh rather than hay.

  “In swinging the scythe, you must keep your arms straight, blade closer to the ground, steps smaller. Do you, the cut will be more consistent as will the row of mown hay.”

  Cyr looked behind, compared his work to that on either side cut by Saxons who had long ago passed him. His row was crooked, its stubble jagged. “I thank you, Waring.”

  The man inclined his head. “And rest. You need it as well, though…”

  “Aye?”

  “The workers will be more at ease do you leave them to our own whilst they break.” He held up a hand. “No insult, my lord. They are unaccustomed to laboring alongside a nobleman.”

  “I understand.”

  As Waring shouted for the workers to break, Cyr resumed sharpening the scythe’s blade. A quarter hour later, he strode toward where his horse nuzzled grass in a copse opposite the bordering wood where the villagers gathered. There, Chanson and the half dozen men Maël left to watch over his mother had dismounted to satisfy their own hunger and thirst. Though Cyr intended to join them, he paused over a sound so distant it took a moment to identify it as pealing bells.

  Of the abbey that lay two leagues distant? It had to be, tolling the hour of sext as it had surely done the earlier hours whilst those working the field were oblivious to all but the sounds of their labor.

  Aelfled would be there. Or would she? Perhaps she was with her rebels despite his warning to stay out of the wood.

  “Pray, join me, Cyr.”

  Resuming his stride, he looked to his aunt who waved him to the blanket spread for her, considered what he ought not—a quarter hour to Lillefarne, a quarter hour back. Time aplenty before he resumed haying.

  “I thank you, Aunt, but there is something I must do.”

  “What you must do is rest, dear nephew, though first I suggest soap and water. Look at you!”

  He did not need to, from his scent and clinging clothes well aware he was far from presentable.

  “Never have I seen you so foul, not even when you were a boy.”

  And yet he had been fouler—upon Senlac when the color with which he was splattered was red rather than brown. He halted alongside his destrier and reclaimed the belt earlier fastened to the saddle.

  “Cyr!” Chanson protested as he girded his sword.

  “I shall return soon.” He thrust a foot in the stirrup, swung into the saddle, and tapped heels to the animal’s flanks.

  Though tempted to go by way of the wood that would save time despite a reduction in speed, he dared not underestimate the rebels’ ability to stay apprised of their enemy’s movements. Were they worthy adversaries as believed, already they had learned of the harvesting and set men to keep watch who would not hesitate to act against a Norman caught out alone.

  But soon it would be safe for Normans and Saxons alike to travel the wood and roads of Wulfenshire, he silently vowed. For that, he did this.

  Only when he neared Lillefarne did he enter the wood to observe without being observed. Listening for a break in the chatter of birds and small animals that would warn he was no longer alone, he considered the yet distant abbey against a soft blue sky. In height and width, the stone wall enclosing the community of nuns was formidable. As the cost would have been great, and all the more considering the speed with which the wall was raised, Lillefarne must be well endowed.

  By whom? The departed King Edward? The slain King Harold? The vengeful Gytha? The Lady of Wulfen? Certes, not King William whilst a staunch Saxon served as abbess.

  All still at the front, the abbey’s great doors closed and, doubtless, barred, Cyr dismounted. Keeping to the trees, he moved to the western side. It was quiet there as well. But not so the rear.

  In the midst of a sizable garden knelt a woman, hair fashioned into a braid that shifted across her back as she worked the patch of vegetables before her.

  Was it Aelfled, also of blond hair he had imagined would shine as bright in sunlight? Likely, since the abbess had admitted to allowing her unprofessed charge to leave the safety of the walls.

  She rose, and with her a large basket in each hand that made her stagger. As she regained her balance, Cyr confirmed it was not a habit she wore but an aproned gown like that upon Aelfled two days past. Though there was too much distance between them to be certain, she appeared the right height, and when she lifted her skirt and stepped to a patch of low-lying plants, her carriage was familiar. As she returned to her knees and began adding more bounty to her basket, he determined it was the one he sought.

  And allotted more time to this foray for the chance to learn something that could be of benefit in defeating the rebels.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lillefarne Abbey

  England

  Was this happiness?

  She had never liked working the earth no matter the blessings yielded up, but as there was peace in toiling beneath the sun amid silence upon which only the sounds of nature trespassed, this could be counted happiness, could it not?

  Aelfled pondered it a moment longer, then dropped the last bunch of slender carrots atop onions barely of a size to unearth, sat back on her heels, and swiped perspiration-dampened hair off her brow.

  Until the people of Balduc were assured their new lord would allow none to take the bounty of their own gardens, there was satisfaction, if not happiness, in providing them with food from what she had planted among fruit trees following Campagnon’s arrival on these lands.

  She had not expected her vegetables to thrive, but they had last year and again this year. Though wary of delving dirt in which beastly insects and slippery worms made their homes, she was pleased with all she had achieved. And might have succumbed to pride were she yet the self-assured young woman who could be entrusted with her lady’s son.

  Drawing a deep breath, she felt a presence and looked left and right, but it appeared she was alone—unless the Lord deigned to walk with her in a garden.

  She almost laughed, but someone was here. She stood, turned all the way around, and confirmed no one was visible between the garden and wood nor atop Lillefarne’s stone wall. Was it possible it was the Lord here? If so…

  She hesitated, then lowered her chin and silently addressed Him who might or might not be present, pleaded with Him who might or might not listen, pried at Him who might or might not forgive her for wandering so far from His flock as to have left it—the same as He appeared to have left her people.

  “Pray, Lord, show me You have not abandoned us,” she concluded her prayer and opened her eyes on laced fingers so fouled they were less recognizable than when she had stood before Cyr D’Argent two days past. She raised them, turned them front to back.

  She had not aspired to become a lady, that possibility so rare for a commoner it was nearly all dream, but as Isa’s maid she had taken great care with her appearance—and more refined it had been by her lady’s gift of good cloth that, several times, had caused her to be mistaken for one of the nobility. But no more…

  What she would do for five minutes in her lady’s cooled bath water! Clouded by soap and scented with herbs, it had been wondrous. Several times,
Isa had washed Aelfled’s hair in that water, giving back as she was given unto. And once when her husband blundered in, red-faced blundered out, and called through the door it was unseemly for a noblewoman to serve a commoner, she and Aelfled had laughed. Such friends they had been…

  Eyes wet, nose stinging, she decided she would have a bath, albeit cold and clear and unscented. She bent and hefted baskets that were overfilled so only one crossing to the wood was required.

  Straining beneath the weight, she carried her burden from the garden toward the wood, weaving as she moved shade to shade provided by fruit trees born of venturesome seeds that had long ago rooted distant from the abbey.

  The wood was considerably cooler, its canopy full and extensive. Though welcome in that moment, less so it would be when she submerged herself in the chill stream as she did two and three times a month during the summer.

  She lowered the baskets before a berry-ladened bush, one at a time lifted them over its top and down into the cleared center that would conceal them until they were collected under cover of night. Then she raised her skirt’s hem and turned in the direction she took to leave and receive messages.

  She did not remain on that path long, veering away when she caught the shush and gurgle of water and glimpsed the sparkle of sunlight across its surface. Though it was possible a message awaited her in response to the one informing her lady Cyr D’Argent had found her at the abbey, she would check after she bathed the better to enjoy the shedding of dirt and easing of muscles.

  Shortly, she emerged from the trees onto the bank of the widest and deepest part of the stream coursing this portion of the wood. She jerked frayed ties out of their loops, cast off the apron, and began plucking at her gown’s side laces.