by Tamara Leigh
Maël straightened. “Allow me to present my cousin and your neighbor, the long-awaited Baron of Stern, Cyr D’Argent.”
“Neighbor,” the lady drawled in the conqueror’s language. “In another life, my vassal and keeper of Stern.”
Cyr returned his gaze to one he sensed, despite her appearance, was not to be underestimated. Wondering if it a good thing she did not hide her bitterness, he stepped forward. “I am honored to meet you, Lady Hawisa Wulfrithdotter Fortier.”
There—a gleam in her pale eyes over his emphasis on dotter, a name that hardly fit were she the rebel leader—at least not this day and, perhaps, not any day in recent memory. Hers was no feigned illness. He would not be surprised had it been necessary to carry her from bed to hearth.
Belatedly, he bowed, straightened.
“It would be false to say I am honored, but…” She was a long time replenishing her breath, and it seemed to cause discomfort. “…I am grateful for the aid you gave my maid upon Senlac.”
Then she knew it was useless to deny she was Aelfled’s lady. One less game he must play. “I am sorry for your loss, Lady Hawisa, and that of the other mothers whose boys died. A great tragedy.”
“For you as well—more, your cousin.” She shifted her gaze to the right, nodded. “Oui, Sir Maël, when first we met and you gave your surname, I knew it was your sire slain by mere children, but I was fairly certain you were unaware my son was one of those boys. I was correct?”
Cyr could not be more grateful for having revealed this to his cousin during the feast. Still, Maël would not welcome discussion of it with her nor in the presence of his men.
“Quite so,” he said more lightly than expected. “And now I am curious, my lady.”
She raised eyebrows beneath hair so wildly tangled Cyr was reminded of the Saxon hag who sought to drag a warrior from Senlac. But this woman was of no great age and her hair far from white. “Well I know how uncomfortable—near painful—curiosity’s itch,” she said, “so how might I salve yours, Sir Maël?”
“All those boys died, including the noble amongst them, and as it is told you had one son with your Norman husband, who is this boy at your side?”
Cyr expected that one who had heretofore stood unresponsive, albeit alert, to evidence confusion since Maël believed him deficient in Norman French, but his eyes sharpened, chest puffed, and he took a step forward. Clearly, he well enough understood what was spoken, whether Maël was mistaken or much the boy had learned since last the king’s envoy visited.
“Non, Wulfrith,” Lady Hawisa caught his arm. “It is for me to correct what this Norman insinuates.”
“But my lady mother—”
“For me!” she snapped, then sucked breath between her teeth and bent forward slightly.
The housecarle over her left shoulder came forward, but she raised a staying hand and shook her head.
“My lady,” Cyr said, “perhaps you ought to rest.” He glanced at the curtain behind the dais, not for the first time wondered if Aelfled and Vitalis were on the other side. Even if Hawisa was not Dotter, increasingly he was convinced she kept company with the rebels. “If you would provide our party with drink and viands, we will wait until you are better able to discuss those things which brought us to Wulfen.”
She eased back, looked up at the one she named Wulfrith, and whatever passed between them it was sufficient for her to release his arm.
As he stepped back, she drew a shuddering breath. “Let us finish this now. I have not the stomach nor heart to prolong it.”
Further evidence she did not want them inside her walls.
“May I ask what ails you?” Cyr said and, from the glitter in her eyes, was certain she would not answer.
Thus, she surprised. “The physician knows not, so perhaps it is grief—for my eldest son, my husband, my country. Will it kill me?” A one-shouldered shrug. “Time will reveal what only the Lord knows.”
Eldest son. Therein the answer—lie or not—to the question Maël put to her. She had more than one son with her Norman husband.
“This is Wulfrith”—she nodded at the boy—“he who, until his brother’s passing, was named Alfrith. As is custom in many a Saxon noble family, the eldest son is given the name of his sire from whom he gains his inheritance. As these lands belonged to my family rather than my Norman husband, our son was named for my sire. As is also custom with my family, should the heir die or prove unworthy, his name is passed to the next in line who sheds the one given him at birth. So it was with my sons.”
Exuding disbelief, Maël said, “Inquiries were made, my lady, and though most are unwilling to speak of your family, a few told you gave your husband but one child. So who lies?”
“None.”
“Then?”
“It is the superstition of the—” She coughed, pressed fingers to her lips, reached toward the housecarle who retrieved a goblet from a table before the hearth and passed it to her. Hand shaking, she carried the vessel to her lips and closed her eyes.
Feeling Maël’s impatience more than his own as she wet her mouth with numerous sips, Cyr used the time to observe the second Wulfrith who was of a lesser build than the one the Lady of Wulfen would have them believe he had replaced. He had not the height nor breadth of the boy with whom Cyr had aided Aelfled over a year and a half past, and though Cyr’s aunt had told he was aged twelve, she had to be misinformed. Unless this boy was a runt, he could not be more than ten.
“As told, none lie.” Lady Hawisa lowered the goblet and cradled it against her abdomen. “Superstition of the ignorant is the reason many believe I birthed only one son. Tell, Sir Maël, is your king so intolerant—even fearful—of those things rare that the educated might name him uneducated?”
“Certes, he is not, Lady Hawisa. No heathen your king.”
“Then I need not fear for my Wulfrith whom I birthed minutes after his brother.” She inclined her head. “He is a twin.”
Were that true, definitely a runt, Cyr reflected, and though the boy may have shared a womb with the one who died upon Senlac, he was not of the class of twins whose face and body mirrored the other’s. But there was some resemblance.
“Naught to say, Sir Maël? Or, unlike your educated king, do you believe twins are of the devil?”
“I do not.”
“I am relieved, though still there is that other belief twins are proof of a woman’s adultery—two children, different fathers. Would you accuse me of such, deny half my Wulfrith’s blood was drawn from your own little Norman stream?”
Not to be underestimated, Cyr silently reaffirmed. As ill as she was, she had all her wits. And they were keen.
“I would not,” Maël said, “but there remains the question of how none knew you bore two sons.”
As if grown weary of him, she looked to Cyr. “Is it really so different in Normandy, Baron D’Argent?”
He arched an eyebrow.
Though her lids were only half raised, he saw the roll of her eyes that evidenced disgust. “Only those trusted knew I bore two sons—including my husband who cared enough for his reputation and mine to ensure neither of us was besmirched by the superstitious. Thus, Alfrith was raised by a trusted Saxon family and reclaimed when my eldest son—yet a mere boy though now he would be a young man—was murdered by your cowardly uncle.”
“Maël!” Cyr gripped his cousin’s arm. Now it was he preventing the other from acting as he ought not in the presence of Saxon warriors who not only numbered more than Vitalis on the night past but stirred as they readied to defend their lady.
That lady reached behind, and when the second Wulfrith placed his hand in hers, drew it onto her shoulder. “Now,” she said, “what other business have I with my neighbor?”
“Loose me,” Maël growled.
Cyr glanced at him and, hoping he had settled sufficiently, complied and narrowed his eyes at the Lady of Wulfen. “It is more the king’s business than my own, though I am to oversee it.”
�
�Speak.”
He moved his hand to his sword scabbard, slowed when the housecarles stirred again. As he drew the arrow from alongside the blade, he watched the lady, but if she understood his intention, she hid that knowledge behind a brow lined with confusion.
“An arrow, Baron?”
“Would you do me the kindness of looking near upon it?”
“For what?”
“To determine if you recognize it. A great service you would do your king to whom you have given your allegiance by aiding in returning this to the rebel who sent it to me.”
She snorted, coughed, and continuing to hold to the boy’s hand on her shoulder took another sip of wine. When her nose showed above the goblet’s rim, she said, “How would I know one arrow from another? I am no archer. I am a lady.”
“You are also Wulfrithdotter. If all that is told of your family is true, I cannot believe you ignorant of weapons. My own sister, young though she is, has enjoyed the benefit of many brothers trained at arms.”
She handed the goblet to her housecarle and motioned Cyr forward.
Two strides and he stood before her, potently aware her guards would be upon him should he present more of a threat. Thus, he left it to her to draw nearer to take the arrow.
As she examined it tip to feathered shaft, he said, “The message delivered with it was that it was intended for me and its absence from my heart wiped clean a debt owed. Thus, I thought your Aelfled sent it, but no longer.”
She looked up. “Your belief that little mouse could be responsible tempts me to question how fit you are to hold and defend Stern, Baron.”
Little mouse? Did the woman not realize how false that rang to one who had met Aelfled on a bloody battlefield? That he had only aided in retrieving the boys to ensure the determined woman was not ravaged? He might think of her as his little Saxon, but there was no equating a Saxon with a mouse. The Normans had defeated these people, but no easy victory had it been. Had any other single, decisive battle lasted so long?
“Non.” The lady extended the arrow. “It is far more believable I had this delivered to you since I am hardly pleased my son’s inheritance was greatly reduced to reward Normans.”
“Then you are the rebel leader known as Dotter?”
As if slipping into a deep, hot bath, she released a long breath, smiled softly. “Oh, that I were. Such would have made my sire proud. However, as much as I dislike your William, for the sake of my son and people, I am now his subject the same as I was King Harold’s and King Edward’s before him. Thus, you may be assured an enemy does not dwell within these walls.” She thrust the arrow nearer, but still he ignored it.
“Regardless, my lady, the rebellion upon these lands must cease. Do they not, at summer’s end King William will send an army to root out the rebels and no mercy will he show.”
In her widening eyes he glimpsed alarm as expected of one in receipt of terrible tidings heretofore unheard. Then Aelfled had not delivered his message? Or was this an act?
Continuing to watch her closely, he said, “It is decreed that should the rebels disband and hand up those responsible for the murder of the Norman family, without fear of reprisal they may return to their homes and resume their lives.”
“Resume,” she said with sorrow as if recalling life before the Normans. Then she lowered the arrow to her lap. “A generous offer. I pray it reaches those desperate men so they may act upon it. Too much and too long the people of Wulfenshire have suffered.”
She was believable, but Cyr did not believe her.
“Are we finished, Baron? I am exhausted.”
“One more thing. Have you word of my brother, Guarin? It is believed he was sighted on these lands a month past.”
“I know only that your youngest brother is so certain it was this…Guarin, he neglects Stern to search for him. But chances are that just as I lost a son upon Senlac, you lost a brother.” She shook her head. “A difficult thing to accept in the absence of a body.” Her eyes moistened, and she blinked. “As told, I am grateful for the aid you gave Aelfled in ensuring I knew my son’s fate. I wish you good day.”
Cyr inclined his head. “We shall meet again, Lady Hawisa.”
“Your arrow.” She offered it again.
Still he ignored it. “I believe it is where it belongs, my lady. Good day.”
Having been refused hospitality, with parched mouths and grumbling bellies Cyr, Maël, and the chevaliers rode from Wulfen Castle.
At the center of the meadow skirting its walls, Cyr reined around and once more took measure of the fortress. Until William’s conquering, castles were exceedingly rare in England, especially those constructed of stone. Doubtless, it was under the guidance of Hawisa’s Norman husband that a relatively defenseless wooden home had been replaced with this formidable structure. It would take years, perhaps a dozen to transition Stern to stone, but it would be done. Just as in Normandy, the castles rising across England were here to stay.
“She is a liar,” Maël said as he drew his mount alongside.
Cyr inclined his head. “I believe so, but if she is Dotter, she may not be that for much longer.”
“I think you are right. When first I met her, she was quite lovely despite the pallor of grief she had me believe worn only for her husband, but now she is so gone I hardly recognized her. I wonder—” He grunted. “It matters not what afflicts her. So to Stern?”
“To Stern.” For the time being they were done with Balduc—the lord’s hay brought in, the books in good order, a dozen of Cyr’s men-at-arms and four chevaliers seeded amongst Campagnon’s men, and his aunt escorted to Stern this morn before Maël and he rode on Wulfen. And found no evidence Aelfled was or had been there.
“Let us go by way of Lillefarne,” Cyr said.
Maël muttered something, said, “I ought not be surprised. But what will you do if she has not returned?”
“For now, I can but verify her presence or absence.” And pray, he silently added.
“Poor Cyr, my sire was right. Though ever you have been discerning with the fairer sex, one most unsuitable shall prove your downfall.”
Though discomfited, Cyr laughed. “He said that of you, Maël, not me.”
“Did he? Then perhaps he said it of all of us. Mayhap we shall each in our turn fall to a treacherous Saxon woman like Hawisa Wulfrithdotter.”
Or Aelfled Sorendotter, Cyr silently acknowledged the one who fit his hands well but not his future. Though he wished to see Guarin restored as their sire’s heir, he yet longed to return to Normandy—and all the more to distance himself from Aelfled.
But for now, he must again draw near his little Saxon who was no Dotter but certainly no mouse.
Chapter Nineteen
Lillefarne Abbey
England
She was not here. That conclusion, which seemed the only one to be had a half hour into their wait, twisted Cyr’s insides.
Where was she? If Wulfen Castle had been Aelfled’s destination on the night past, there she might have hidden whilst Cyr was within its walls. Or Vitalis could have taken her to the rebel camp that, were it not upon Wulfen, was surely nearby. But far more disturbing was the third possibility—the sentence due a traitor carried out, whether by Vitalis or the one who cast the shadow of Dotter.
God’s eyes, Aelfled, he silently called to wherever she was, I told you to stay out of the wood!
“I think you must accept it, Cousin. We are not entering and she is not coming out.”
Cyr looked to Maël, saw he perspired heavily beneath the nooning sun, his dark silvered hair glistening, tunic adhering to shoulders and torso. “So I must,” he acceded, though far more of a mind to pound on the abbey door again and demand to speak with the abbess who should have presented herself in the absence of Aelfled. But then, if the holy woman wished to conceal that one of her convent residents had gone missing, she would have to lie. Far better she avoid the opportunity to do so.
Deciding to check the garden again as he h
ad done upon their arrival, Cyr said, “Tell your men to make ready. I shall return anon.”
Maël gave a sour look and spurred his destrier to where he had left the chevaliers at the edge of the wood to provide a good vantage and present less of a threat to those of the abbey.
Cyr fit his hands into leather gloves removed earlier, but as he urged his mount to the left to reach the garden at the rear, he heard the groan of hinges and reined in.
Slipping out the short, narrow door set in one of two larger doors through which horses and carts could pass came Aelfled.
Such a peculiar rush of emotions went through him he could only stare. He was angered she had kept him waiting so long he had imagined the worst. He was relieved he had not made an unforgivable, irreparable mistake in letting her go with Vitalis—one, he realized, he would have regretted to his end days.
“Baron D’Argent?” she said as she crossed dry, balding grass—stiffly, he noted, hopefully the result of being long in a saddle to which she was unaccustomed. “You wish to speak with me?”
Calm, he counseled as her seemingly guileless question raked nerves so raw anger once more spurted through him. She had to know how long she had kept him waiting and how he might interpret that in light of his warning not to leave the abbey. But what she did not know was he had proof of her defiance—worse, her collusion with rebels.
She halted alongside his destrier’s neck, raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun beating on Cyr’s head. “I did not expect to see you again so soon—if at all.”
Stalling for time in which to compose his countenance and thoughts, he picked off his gloves and hooked them beneath his belt, angled his body toward her, and set a forearm on the saddle’s pommel.
Though her face was shaded, he confirmed it and her neck showed no signs of abuse. One less thing the rebel Vitalis must answer for.
He lowered his gaze down her, noted the meat knife was returned to the scabbard on her girdle and was disappointed as he should not be. D’Argent dagger or not, a fool she would be to wear it in his presence.
