by Tamara Leigh
“I came as bid,” she prompted. “For what?”
He returned his gaze to hers and determined to do what William would not approve of. Though with her unwitting aid he might sooner bring the rebels to heel, did he provide proof she was watched—that whatever service she performed for the rebels was compromised—surely other plans would be made. And hopefully, in no capacity would they include her.
“I wished to tell it was verified you spoke true that Waring and his son come for the food.”
A corner of her mouth convulsed. “Then you set someone in the wood last eve. Or was it you?”
It was one thing to give her good cause to stay out of the wood, another to reveal what he had confirmed of her allegiance on the night past, and quite another to lose the chance of catching Vitalis near the abbey again. “A man-at-arms followed the men to the nearest village. After confirming the food was given to its people, he reported to me at Balduc. I am glad it was not for the rebels, Aelfled.”
“I spoke true.”
“And you have obeyed me and not gone to the wood since last we spoke?”
She stiffened. Because his choice of words once more asserted she was his to command? Or did she fear he had made good his claim she was his to watch, and it was not only Waring and his son seen in the wood?
“I have left these walls only to tend my garden,” the little liar lied. “And now to answer your summons.”
More anger he suppressed by telling himself she could be excused for the untruth. She was under threat of being sentenced as a traitor, and unless he could offer his protection—and she accepted it, which he did not believe she would do—it was in her best interest to stay the side of the Saxons. Thus, she must lie, as would his sister were Norman lands taken by Saxons.
But though Aelfled was of the conquered, he of the conquerors—enemies despite whatever made this rope between them draw them nearer though each strained opposite—her warning to bring in the hay was surely the result of a struggle between loyalty to her own, faltering hope the Saxons would prevail, and the possibility of peace restored beneath Norman rule.
“I am glad we are of an understanding,” he said. “I would not see ill befall you.”
Her smile was tight. “It is kind of you to have a care but unnecessary. No more shall I venture beyond the bounds of my garden.”
“And the baskets will be collected from the abbey,” he reminded, which was also a reminder to himself to inform Waring of the means by which he would henceforth gain the food grown in her garden. One more stop along the road to Stern.
“I am glad for that,” she said. “The more I think on it, the more I am persuaded the wood is no longer safe.”
An insult to the Normans, though Cyr did not doubt it due ones like Campagnon.
“Especially for a woman alone,” she added.
In that moment, she sounded so meek he was tempted to laugh at she who had gone to the wood again, done so in the dark of night, brandished a deadly dagger, and rather than attempt to flee the man who threatened to deliver the sentence of a traitor, agreed to accompany him to answer to one very likely known as Dotter.
Struck by impulse, he commanded himself not to touch her again—then caught up the hand shielding her eyes, drew her near, and peered into her startled face. “I care not what your lady would have me believe. You are no mouse, Aelfled of…”
He looked to the small hand in his. She had lovely, slender fingers though the dirt of her garden was beneath her nails. And he might have kissed it if not for a sudden awareness of being watched. Though Aelfled stood between the abbey wall and his destrier, Maël and his men could see enough to guess that what Cyr did with this woman was no mere exchange of words. But it was done, and as she had yet to recover from the surprise of his trespass, he held on.
“Aelfled of what?” he said. “Not Senlac, you say. And now that you are of the abbey, not Wulfen. But neither Lillefarne, I say. So Aelfled of what?”
He caught the tearing of her eyes before she lowered them. And rather than tug free, she curled her fingers over his and whispered, “Of no place. All that is left of me is Aelfled of the Saxons, and so unrecognizable has she become I do not know I like her, though…”
“Though?”
“It matters not what I feel for her.”
Certain what she alluded to had much to do with what had awaited her last eve when she delivered her missive—and his message—to the rebels, Cyr longed to demand she explain herself. But Aelfled of the Saxons who hardly knew herself would not tell. That she lived and had returned to the abbey despite the inability of the rebels to destroy the lord’s hay upon Balduc told somehow she had redeemed herself sufficiently to be trusted with whatever was asked of her.
So what had redemption looked like beyond threats to her person? Had her grandmother also been threatened?
Cyr released her hand and straightened in the saddle.
“I must return to my work,” she said.
“Then you would not ask after my meeting with your lady? For what she named you a mouse?”
She looked up, once more shaded her eyes. “When did you meet with her?”
Was it truly a question to which she lacked an answer? As she had not earlier risen to the bait left for the mouse Hawisa named her, he would have guessed she did not need to ask it.
“This morn we rode on Wulfen Castle. We came here directly afterward.”
“How fares Lady Hawisa? I understand she has yet to recover from an illness with which she is long afflicted.”
“She appears quite ill. So much, one wonders if she is dying.”
She caught her breath. “I pray not.”
“Then there are some you do pray for,” he reminded her she had told she did not pray for him though at Senlac she had said she would.
She shrugged. “I do not think He listens to me—nor any Saxons—but much I love my lady and so I try to gain His ear.”
Then perhaps she had not wandered as far from God as she led him to believe.
“I met her son,” he said.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth, nodded.
“Though he resembles the first Wulfrith, he is small for his age.”
Another nod.
“Were you one of those who knew the truth of his birth?”
Her hesitation was palpable, and when she neither confirmed nor denied it, he knew she had closed up and would not be pried open. Because she had not been entrusted with what might be a lie and feared any response would reveal it for that?
She tilted her head. “For what did Lady Hawisa name me a mouse?”
Certain she was so uncomfortable with talk of the second Wulfrith she sought to speak elsewhere, he said, “When I presented her with the arrow first I presented to you and asked if she recognized it, I said I had wrongly believed you sent it. She assured me you were too much a mouse to do so, though I disagree. And neither do I believe she thinks it, that she but… Well, I am not certain. Does she seek to protect you or to throw me off your scent? Both?”
“Scent?” she exclaimed. “Had I one, no longer do I now you know I supply the villagers of Balduc with food.”
He smiled. “Certes, you have a scent, Aelfled. More than one. Do you so soon forget how near we stood on the day past? I do not. Cannot. Your scent was of earth and—”
“Good day, Sir Cyr.” She pivoted and began retracing her steps.
“Stay out of the wood, little Saxon,” he gave one last warning and watched her until she went from sight.
Once the door was secured, Cyr turned his destrier. As he guided it to where Maël and his men waited, he hoped she would heed him. And give the man he would set in the wood no cause to report anything of consequence—where she was concerned.
He had warned her, but she had hoped he had not acted on that warning. So how closely had his man watched for her? Certes, enough to see Waring come for the food. Might he have witnessed her meeting with Vitalis?
Not likely. Wulfen-rai
sed since the age of six when sent to the renowned family to ensure the most promising son worthy to take his place as a thane of England, Vitalis was not only a master at arms but stealth. Surely, he would have been aware of the presence of another warrior in the wood long before that Norman became aware of him. And Vitalis would have made a quick end of Cyr D’Argent’s man.
“We were not seen,” Aelfled said aloud and believed it a little more as she stared at the altar distant from the bench she perched on. Still, it was good Vitalis had agreed to move the place where messages were exchanged to one opposite the direction of where she could no longer leave baskets of food. But that was all he conceded.
Though she had revealed Cyr’s warning she not venture to the wood and his threat to watch her, Vitalis had asserted the taking of hay at the full moon would stand. And before departing Lillefarne, he had said Aelfled could be forgiven only once for betraying her people and because Isa believed it unintentional, that he was less certain of her innocence, and her vow to be true to her lady meant being true to the rebels. Lastly, he told if plans changed he would leave a message.
Less than a quarter hour after his departure, word was brought Cyr D’Argent was outside the abbey and would speak with her. Lest whatever he wished to discuss proved of short duration, she had made him wait to give Vitalis more time to distance himself from the Normans. Then heart halfway up her throat, she had gone to Cyr and learned much of what had passed between Isa and him though naught of how her lady had explained a second son.
It was obvious Cyr was not convinced of the tale told him, but neither had he outright rejected it. Rather, he had sought Aelfled’s aid in determining which way to believe, and for that she had seamed her lips.
“I will not fail, my lady,” she whispered, then brought the cross on the altar to focus and raised her voice. “Lord, let me not fail her again. Lord, heal her. Lord, move her to do what best serves her people rather than revenge.” She closed her eyes. “Lord, return to my people ere we are lost to the ages.”
She tried to feel His presence. Waited for something—anything—and feeling nearly as empty as when she had entered the chapel, pushed to her feet.
She had a message to write, though of few words it would be and there was no hurry since Vitalis or another would not check for two days. But it would be waiting, revealing he had come again, and as feared, watched her closely—so closely it was imperative they alter the plan.
Chapter Twenty
Stern Castle
England
Empty-handed, but at last Theriot came.
Wishing he had not spent so much hope on the eldest brother returning with the youngest, Cyr tossed aside the weighty, heavily nicked training sword. “No Guarin,” he called to Maël, “but now we are four again.”
His cousin straightened from where he bent to retrieve the pike he had nearly proven was superior to a sword for its longer reach and his exceptional skill, followed his cousin’s gaze beyond the fenced yard outside Stern’s walls.
Staring at the dozen guiding their mounts toward the castle, he said, “Guarin may not be out there, Cyr. He may have fallen upon Senlac the same as my sire. Methinks your time and Theriot’s—and Dougray’s if you can move him out of self-pity—would be better spent putting an end to the rebels. And making better use of my men and me ere the king recalls us. Whoever rules Stern must be present at all times to ensure it remains in Norman hands. Thus, you must decide soon—these lands or your sire’s? As William told, you cannot have both.”
Once more, Cyr considered leaving England. It was what he wanted. But not all he wanted.
Refusing to look nearer on what was here for him in this island kingdom, he said, “Oui, I must decide soon, though I shall delay as long as possible so we might first learn my brother’s fate.” He strode forward and swung over the fence.
Shortly, Theriot reined in, ordered his men to continue to the stables, and turned his destrier sideways. Smiling wearily, he extended a hand. “Welcome to Stern, Cyr. Forgive me for not being here to pass the keeping of these lands to you.”
There was still something boyish about the youngest brother, though the soft was mostly gone from his face and he sported an abundance of whiskers many a night beyond the scrape of a keen blade.
Cyr gripped Theriot’s hand, released. “Of far greater import is finding our brother.”
The younger man sighed. “Indeed.”
Maël halted alongside Cyr. “You bring tidings of Guarin?”
Theriot raised an eyebrow. “And good day to you, Cousin. I trust you have found your lady mother in good health and spirit?”
With a note of chagrin, Maël said, “I believe she is happy here. I thank you for being the son I have not been.”
“Much she misses you.” Theriot shifted his regard to Cyr. “Let us speak inside.”
Upon their entrance into the great hall that had come alive with the return of the dozen warriors who were being poured drink at the high table, Chanson and Nicola hastened forward to embrace Theriot.
“You have grown, Sister!” He pulled back. “Not only in height but daring, I am told.”
She blushed prettily, hooked an arm through his, and turned him toward the hearth.
“Dougray?” he asked of her as he had done Cyr at the stables and been warned the third-born was still far from the brother remembered. Theriot had assured Cyr that, as he had always been the closest with their half-sibling, he would set Dougray aright.
“Aunt Chanson has sent for him,” Nicola said. “Beware, he is more surly than usual.”
Because of what had transpired at Balduc that had seen him returned to Stern ahead of the others, Cyr had no doubt.
“But I am sure he will come,” she added.
“Where is Father Fulbert?” Cyr asked.
“The priest is not yet returned from the village he walked to this morn.”
His introduction to Theriot would have to wait. And it was probably for the best as eager as Cyr was to learn Theriot’s tidings.
When the D’Argents were seated before the hearth and served drink, Theriot sat forward. “I am certain Guarin is somewhere near. Laugh at me if you will, but I feel him.”
Years ago, all thought it exaggeration he possessed that sense in greater portion than other D’Argents, but time and again he proved he was gifted with something well outside the realm of close observation—that which Hugh had likened to a child born of a perfect marriage between all five of the natural senses.
“What of your inquiries?” Cyr asked. “Is anyone speaking?”
“The Saxons are mostly close-mouthed, but if you happen on children out from behind their mother’s skirts and father’s scowls, there are things to be learned.”
“Such as?” Maël said.
Cyr glanced at him where he sat beside Theriot, past his shoulder saw movement so slight as to be nearly imagined. Dougray stood in shadow alongside the stairs.
“Just over the Wulfenshire border in Lincolnshire,” Theriot said, “my men and I paused at a stream to water our horses and came upon two boys fishing. Blessedly, they were more hungry than wary and accepted my invitation to break fast with us. One kept stealing looks at me, and so I teased I took no offense and told he could look on me as long as he wished since surely he had never seen a young man with so much silver in his hair. The boy blurted he had seen another, and that one had more silver, then said perhaps it only looked more since his hair was long and he had silver in his beard as well.”
Theriot glanced between Cyr and their cousin. “I think you both hold your breath.”
They exhaled in unison, and Maël demanded, “Continue.”
“It is the same description given by a soldier William sent to investigate the murder of the Norman family. But this boy saw something else. After assuring me he but traversed the wood that day to sooner reach home, that he was not hunting deer, he said the silver-haired man shared a horse with another. This was also told by the Norman soldier, but as
not told, the boy said it was a woman.” He let that settle in a moment. “One side of her tunic was darker than the other, and he thought it blood.”
“What color her hair?” Maël asked.
“Golden.”
“Then the arrow thought not to have found its mark in one believed to be a man did land,” Cyr concluded.
His brother nodded. “Now I wonder if it is no mere sickness from which the Lady of Wulfen has suffered since around the time of Guarin’s sighting.”
As Cyr also wondered. “Maël and I met with her on the day past.”
Theriot’s head jerked. “Did you?”
“Oui, and it is no false thing she is unwell.” Cyr shifted his gaze to his cousin. “Tell me her hair is golden beneath all that unwashed mess.”
“Quite.” His smile was so genuine not even the ugly scar above it could detract from perfection over which many a maiden’s heart had fluttered before Hastings. “She has him. It has to be her.”
“It is the nearest we have come to confirming Guarin lives,” Theriot said, “but still we may reach too far.”
Cyr did not want to hear that. He wanted to ride on Wulfen. But above the hum of excitement rang the clear bell of reason. Wulfen Castle was a fortress like no other seen in England and would require much planning, effort, and time to breach. And it could prove for naught if that lady held his brother there and was given time and opportunity to move him. Or she kept him elsewhere—worse, destroyed evidence of having imprisoned one of William’s followers. Had she not already slain Guarin…
Theriot cleared his throat. “Here the difficulty. It makes no sense Guarin, in possession of his injured captor, rode not toward Normans who could aid him but away as if they were the enemy.”
There was that, Cyr silently conceded. And a possible explanation. “I understand it is rare, but I have heard tale of captive men and women whose minds and bodies are so broken they begin to sympathize with their abusers.”
“Non.” Theriot said. “Of any other I might believe that, not Guarin.”
