by Tamara Leigh
“You hate England, then.”
“I do not. What I hate is what was done here, and that in part I am responsible for the deaths of five boys. And that is but the greatest of my regrets, though it should not be yours.”
Pain flashed across her face.
“Their lost lives are not upon you, Aelfled.”
She did not gainsay him, but sensing his words landed against a sturdy wall, he continued, “I am not alone in my regrets. Many are the Normans who fought at Senlac and afterward wanted naught more to do with William’s conquest. You have heard of the Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings?”
Did she startle over tales that, were they true, made the chevalier more worthy of being named that than ever Cyr had been of merciless?
“Maxen Pendery,” she said softly. “Long his Norman family has resided in England.”
“You know him?”
“I am acquainted with the Penderys. It was to them at Trionne my lady’s husband sent her and their son to ensure their safety.”
Son, Cyr snatched hold of that. Only one. Unless for some barely conceivable reason a second son was left behind, the one Lady Hawisa now presented as her heir was deception.
“Pendery lost a brother upon Senlac,” Cyr said.
“The same as you.”
“I pray not the same—that mine lives. Regardless, after all Pendery did that day which saw him well rewarded, he committed his life to the Church and William permitted him to pass his English land to a younger brother as I hope he will allow me to do if I am, indeed, my sire’s heir.”
After a long silence, she said, “If great your regret for what you did, why did you not enter the Church?”
“Methinks, like you, my heart is not right. Nor am I desirous of living out my days in a monastery. As, I wager, neither are you.”
She averted her gaze.
The shifting of sunlight alerting him he was too long gone from the harvest, he returned to that which they had danced away from. “Still I can right some of my wrongs, Aelfled. And for that, I would have your aid.”
Her eyes flew back to his. “Believe me or nay, I do not lead the rebels.”
“In that I think you speak true, but I am not convinced you do not aid them. Hence, I would have you deliver a message—”
“I have no contact with them.”
“Deliver them this message,” he repeated. “Do they disband and return to their homes, they will not be questioned nor made to account for treasonous acts. I will be fair in our dealings and, as soon as possible, remove Campagnon from Balduc.”
She blinked. “You are saying all will be granted pardon no matter their offenses against William, even their leader?”
Here what could ruin the chance of a peaceful resolution, but he would not lie. “Nearly all. The king requires those who slaughtered the Norman family be given over to him.”
“Then he assumes the rebels on Wulfenshire are to blame. What if they are not?”
“I think it more than assumption, Aelfled. Regardless, do they wish absolution, it is for them to discover the murderers, whether they are amongst their own or beyond them. And quickly. If they do not disband and yield the ones who slew that family by summer’s end, King William will send an army to harry this shire.”
“Dear Lord,” she whispered.
He touched her shoulder. “Is the Lady of Wulfen their leader? The one called Dotter?”
She staggered back a step. “She is not!”
Once more the watcher, noting her protest was less genuine than in denying the food was for the rebels, Cyr said, “If you do not know who leads them, how can you be certain?”
“Because such is beyond my lady who has not the heart nor health for it.”
“I know the reputation of her family, Aelfled, that she is the daughter of Wulfrith Wulfrithson, in years gone was esteemed by King Edward for being the greatest trainer of England’s defenders.”
“That is so, but she is a woman.”
“As was Aethelflaed, the renowned leader of men and daughter of King Alfred, and Boudica before her.”
She drew her teeth over her lower lip. “Is that as your king believes?”
“He entertains it, but as the Lady of Wulfen plays his subject fairly well, he is more disposed to it being Gytha, mother of King Harold. Still, he suspects your Saxon lady is not entirely ignorant. Just as I suspect the same of you.”
“You are both wrong.”
“As I wish it. But if we are right, I would have you deliver my message.”
“Would that I could the sooner to see an end to the suffering, but I have naught to do with the rebels, thus no means of communicating with them.”
He wanted to believe her but dared not. “I must return to the field. Ere I depart, will you give me the names of those who collect the food?”
She hesitated. “I shall, though only because I trust you more than other Normans, believe you will do them no harm, and it will prove the food is not destined for rebels. Near always it is Waring and his son.”
Cyr laughed. “Unless there is more than one Waring, it is the same who supervises this day’s harvest.”
She nodded. “There are two—old Waring and his son.”
“I will speak with him, and if I am satisfied, he can come for the baskets, though after this day he is to present himself at the abbey.”
“As you will. Now I would like to bathe—”
“Non, Aelfled. You will return to your sanctuary and leave its walls only to tend your garden.”
“But—”
“Until I end the rebellion you claim to have no part in, there is no place for you beyond Lillefarne.”
Anger leapt in her eyes. “I am not yours to command.”
Considering their kiss to which, for all her inexperience, she had responded with such enthusiasm it had become dangerous, he could dispute that. But he said, “True, but you are mine to watch. And that is all the warning I give. Do I catch you in the wood again, I will assume you communicate with the rebels.” He gestured in the direction of the abbey. “Go.”
A huff of anger escaping her, she pivoted, swept up the apron she must have dropped whilst they kissed, and ran.
“Heed me,” he muttered as she grew distant. “I would have you lead me to the rebels but not at the cost of ill befalling you, my little Saxon. Do not return here.”
Chapter Sixteen
Another lie she must count among the many. But no matter she believed Cyr D’Argent could be trusted, it was not for her to do where Isa was concerned. Wulf was dead, and she might herself die were she responsible for harm done his lady mother.
Thus, she must defy the man who had done more than kiss her, who had made her welcome his mouth upon hers. It was a risk, but if he had set a watch on the wood to verify it was Waring come for the food, surely by now his men were gone. When next the bells tolled, it would be two hours since the baskets were collected.
A small risk, she assured herself, but worthy of caution. She lowered to her knees alongside her cot and withdrew the bundle. When she raised the dagger to candlelight, as ever she marveled at how beautiful something so deadly could be. And hated that last it had fit the hand of Wulf who had likely used it to slay its owner, Cyr D’Argent’s uncle.
She rose, removed her relatively dull meat knife from its scabbard, and replaced it with one whose purpose was to shed the blood of men as she hoped she would not have to do should she happen on one other than Cyr D’Argent. The blade barely fit, being wider, thicker, and longer, but well enough she could more easily bring it to hand than were it hidden beneath her skirt.
Her cell was so small she had only to turn to reach the table at which she had composed the message she would leave in the wood. Wincing over the splotch of ink on the parchment’s upper left corner, quickly she read the words there.
He came again, this time to the wood, did not show himself until after food was left for those of Balduc. Though he knows not this place where I leave the message, i
t is no longer safe. There is more to tell but best done in person.
No signature. None needed.
If Isa did not come to the abbey herself, she would send another, and to that trusted person Aelfled would pass D’Argent’s message, as well as King William’s threat of what would happen at summer’s end if resistance continued.
Aelfled folded the parchment into a small square, slipped it down her bodice, and snatched up her slippers. In stockinged feet, she left her cell and moved past those in which others of the convent slept with less troubled hearts—and fear.
Outside the dormitory, she pushed her feet into the slippers and continued to the place where a concealed door accessed the stone wall’s inner passage. Once inside, she traversed darkness with the aid of a hand running the outer wall and, shortly, slipped into the garden.
Though there was much moon this night, a great amount of cloud cover aided in concealing her as she made the crossing from abbey to wood. Upon entering the trees, she moved more cautiously, knowing if any lurked, the dim could be of greater benefit to them.
All was as quiet as possible for a place given to the chirp, buzz, click, and scrabbling of night creatures, and yet fine hairs on her neck prickled as she veered toward the berry-ladened bushes. Was she watched again as when Cyr D’Argent had watched her? Was he or his men here?
The possibility tempted her to return to the abbey, but it was imperative she leave the message, and so she persuaded herself what she felt was only fear of being watched. Still, she turned her thoughts heavenward.
If You are here, be with me, Lord. I know I am a liar, but how else am I to protect those You forsake?
Immediately, she regretted seeking His aid since more likely her prayer offended than pleased. But it was done.
After verifying the food had been collected and the baskets left behind, which she would retrieve upon her return to the abbey, she continued on the path taken earlier though not as far as the stream. When she glimpsed the silhouette of great slabs of rock ahead, she paused and looked around. No sight or sound that did not belong here.
Assuring herself she was alone and would soon be curled on her cot, whispering childhood songs to keep thoughts from straying to Cyr D’Argent as he would have her believe oft his strayed to her, she continued forward.
As she neared rocks that rose to more than twice her height, moonlight slid through a break in the clouds and down through the spaces and cracks in the leaved canopy—enough by which to read the response to her tidings that the Norman baron had found her at the abbey. Had one been left for her.
She halted at the eastern tip of the rocks where one great slab thrust up from the earth to the reach of her waist and two others appeared to have been dropped atop to hold it down. It was mostly seamed all around, but here was space enough that if one slid a hand flat between the two lowermost slabs they might find something in that darkness.
As ever, she held her breath lest her fingers happen not on parchment but something living.
Blessedly, it was the former. She drew it out and stepped back. As she unfolded the parchment, the clouds moved across the moon again, but she had just enough time to read the message—though only for how short it was.
Be still, her lady had written.
“That is all?” Aelfled rasped. “Be still?”
The crackling of leaves snapped her chin around, the heavy tread of boots made her release the parchment and bring the dagger to hand. But as she swung the blade in the direction of him who had awaited her on the other side of the rocks, he swept his hood back to reveal hair to his shoulders that looked brown in the night but she knew was near red in the day.
“Vitalis,” she gasped.
Her lady’s man reached down, retrieved Isa’s message, thrust it at her. “Had D’Argent not been warned the lord’s hay upon Balduc was to be taken, be still would have sufficed until the full moon.”
As she had known, the rebels had learned of the early harvesting and guessed she was the betrayer. And God help her, she was.
It was no easy thing to be a warrior and merely watch as instincts that felt as if bred into him shouted for him to draw his sword and set himself at the man who seemed his equal in stealth.
Until the sword-girded Saxon had shown himself, Cyr had thought it only Aelfled and him here—and Maël who had returned an hour past after furtively following Waring and his son to the hand cart into which they loaded the food and conveyed it to their village.
Feeling his cousin’s gaze, knowing he also longed to act against the rebel, Cyr glanced at him where he stood behind a tree fifteen feet distant, shook his head.
The one named Vitalis, short-bearded, hair gathered back off his brow and skimming his shoulders, stepped nearer Aelfled.
Hold, Cyr commanded himself. Though obvious the man was angered she had given warning of what the rebels intended, he did not move to take the dagger from her. Likely did not see it as a threat.
“How came you by so fierce a weapon, Aelfled—more, one of such worth?” he asked. “Had I not my own upon my belt, I might think you had stolen it.”
She lowered it. As she did so, moonlight once more slipped in and out of the wood, and what it momentarily revealed moved Cyr’s hand from his sword to his own dagger. It was not only that what she held was no simple blade for cutting meat at table, it was the flash of color beneath the hilt.
Where had she come by so fine a weapon, indeed? Though it was no rarity for the wealthy to indulge in elaborate hilts, pommels, and cross guards, that hers was set with a sapphire to which the D’Argents were partial seemed too much coincidence.
Might it be his uncle’s lost at Senlac? Before Cyr located Hugh’s body, Aelfled had pulled her lady’s son from that grisly scene of boys who felled a great warrior.
Cyr looked to Maël, was certain his gaze was also on her dagger. Were it not Hugh’s, it could belong to Guarin who had been sighted in the vicinity of Wulfenshire. Regardless, the possibility it was of a D’Argent was overwhelming—more even than how divisive the woman who possessed it.
Returning his regard to the big Saxon, Cyr sought proof of the dagger he alluded to also being of great worth, but though his mantle was off the shoulder of the side upon which his sword was belted, it draped the other.
“Tell, Aelfled,” Vitalis prompted.
“I found it.”
“Where?”
When she did not answer, he said with more accusation than question, “It was you who betrayed your own.”
“I will explain myself,” she said. “To her.”
Dotter, Cyr silently named the rebel leader and, feeling his sense of betrayal deepen, knew for this his heart pounded. Though logic told he was a fool to be so affected by Aelfled’s lies—that he had no right to expect better of her—he felt as if it were kin who broke faith with him.
Disgusted, he told himself he was no youth in the first blush of infatuation, that she was not the first woman with whom he was intimate nor the first he wanted beyond kisses. However, there was no denying she was the first to whom he gave enough power over him to risk being thoroughly compromised. How had she done this to one who, beneath the warrior, had been foremost a son, brother, cousin, and friend? Certes, it had begun at Senlac with what passed between them there—what he had done for her when he ought to have been doing for his uncle and brothers. Then there was the score of months during which he had felt her presence outside her presence. And now their kiss.
Of a sudden, Vitalis stepped nearer Aelfled, and despite how much Cyr did not wish to care for her, he readied mind and body to defend her.
“You know in this moment I could carry out the sentence due a traitor,” the Saxon said, “and few, if any, would think ill of me for saving her the trouble.”
Head tipped back to hold his gaze, Aelfled said, “I know it, just as I know she prefers to deal with me herself.”
“Methinks you are wrong, Aelfled, that she wearies of you.”
Her shoulders rose w
ith breath as if steeling herself. “Regardless, she will wish to speak with me.” She took a small step back, worked the dagger into a scabbard too small for its size, then reached down the front of her gown and removed a piece of folded parchment. “Give this to her and tell her I await an audience.”
The big man was a long time reading it, whether because he lacked proficiency with the written word or there was too little light. When he looked up, it was not at her but around the wood. Whatever she had written made him more wary. And tempted Cyr to prove his fear founded.
Hold, once more he commanded himself. Herein may be the means by which you end the rebellion. Remain the absent enemy they believe you to be.
“You came alone?” Vitalis said low.
“Of course I did.”
He snorted. “There is no of course about it.”
“My word I give.”
She spoke true, Cyr mused, though only because she did not know what transpired following the harvest which had seen the lord’s hay carted to Castle Balduc. After that which barely passed for a feast was provided for the workers, Cyr had returned to the abbey with Maël to verify who collected the food. He had not expected Aelfled to come again—certainly not so soon—but while Maël ensured the food was truly destined for villagers, Cyr had lingered. Had Aelfled defied him a quarter hour later, he would not have known.
Vitalis held out her missive. “Deliver this yourself.”
“What say you?”
“I will take you to her.”
Her disquiet rippled across the air, but even as Cyr’s hand convulsed on his hilt, he was stirred by anticipation. Were that truly the man’s intent, soon the rebel leader would be within reach.
“You know I am not to leave Lillefarne,” Aelfled said.
“And yet you do.” He grunted. “You think it is not known you visit your grandmother once, sometimes twice a month?” The Saxon lifted her hand, thrust the missive into it. “Follow me.” He turned, and when only his feet rustled the leaves and scraped the dirt, he swung around. “Had I determined to carry out your sentence, I would do it here. Now do you truly wish to explain yourself to her or nay?”
