by Tamara Leigh
Cyr looked to Theriot. Seeing he had retrieved his sword, he removed his own from Dougray’s neck and came around. “If any warrior can recover his skill at arms, it is you who was not only as adept at wielding weapons with the left hand as the right but better than most able to endure and quickly recover from blows.”
Dougray glowered, but amid that dark was a gleam Cyr thought might be the old Dougray. Hoping to coax him farther into the light, he said, “Perhaps the Lord, seeing this day, made you thus.”
Dougray set his sword’s tip to the ground, and with rivulets tracking his dirty face, said, “You spend too much time with that half-Saxon priest. I liked you better when you were merciless and more ungodly than godly.”
“Then even more I am glad you are not me,” Cyr attempted to lighten the confrontation.
“Of course you are glad. You would not wish to trade places with this lowly brother—even did I yet possess both arms.”
Wondering how best to respond and finding no good answer, Cyr was grateful when Theriot said, “Attend! A rider approaches.”
Hearing the sound and feeling vibration beneath his feet, Cyr turned and studied the thick mist. Just left of center, it billowed as the moist air behind was displaced by horse and rider pushing through. Readying his sword, he glanced around to ensure the men on the wall were also alert to the one come unto the castle.
The half dozen there who had watched the brothers practice before the castle showed they were well aware of whoever rode with the urgency of one bearing tidings of import.
From King William? Cyr wondered and hoped it was not recall of Maël and his men.
Shortly, the rider emerged from the thick of the mist and Cyr saw it was the young man-at-arms who had hours earlier departed to continue his watch over Lillefarne.
“We are done here,” Cyr said and, as he strode forward, put over his shoulder, “Refresh and rest yourselves. The next session will demand more of all of us.”
“My lord!” the rider called as Cyr exited the yard. “I bear tidings from Lillefarne.”
Cyr halted, and when the man dismounted, said, “Deliver them.”
“I was too late in returning the missive to its hiding place. When I sought to do so, I found another message there.” He reached inside his tunic and withdrew two folded parchments. “The smallest is that which I was to return. I thought it best not to do so until you looked upon the new message.”
“You thought right.” Cyr unfolded the larger one and had to strain to read it by torchlight. In a bold, untidy script likely inked by a man—perhaps Vitalis who had taken Aelfled to meet Dotter—was written, No longer the full moon, now the night before, we take from Stern what he denied us upon Balduc. Be prepared to render services esteemed by one owed your loyalty.
Cyr drew breath between his teeth. Ill-timing rendered moot his attempt to remove Aelfled from danger by allowing her to give warning he had hoped would be heeded. But there was gain to be had in the change of plans less cryptically told than expected. Now armed with a good chance of ending the rebellion and freeing Guarin, Cyr would not risk losing it.
When two nights hence the rebels attacked the lord’s hay upon Stern, a sizable host would await them rather than the handful of men who had watched over it these past days. The rebels would be brought to heel, and surely among their numbers were some who could lead the way to their nest—or hive, as Dougray preferred.
So what to do with this new missive? If he did not return it, Aelfled would not be prepared to give aid a day sooner, and that would be interpreted as evidence she betrayed her people. If he returned it, she would assist the rebels in whatever was required of her, proving her loyalty and—for a time—keeping her safe from the sentence of a traitor.
It was no choice. It must be the latter. Hopefully, the lack of response to her warning would not raise her suspicions. She would assume her fear and protest were ignored.
He folded the missive, handed it to the man. “This one you will return to the tree. If what it tells proves true, in two nights she will steal from the abbey, and I would not have her slip free.”
The man inclined his head.
“Tarry an hour that we may speak more on this,” Cyr said and, as he motioned him to follow, tightly folded his fingers over Aelfled’s intercepted message and assured himself this was the only worthy course. And of added benefit, he would learn the role she played in the rebellion—hopefully, one outside of Guarin’s imprisonment.
Lillefarne Abbey
England
This her answer? One night ere the full moon rather than the night of? Complete disregard for her warning?
Teeth so tight they ached, Aelfled stared at the words inscribed by Vitalis. Had Isa spoken them? Had her man merely set them on parchment? Or was this all him, Isa too ill to provide direction?
She read it again. It had to be all Vitalis. Her lady was too wise to reveal so much—not only time but place. Blessedly, the message was received by the one for whom it was intended.
Still, Cyr D’Argent was no fool. By way of her warning he ought to have harvested the lord’s hay on Stern immediately after Balduc’s. Regardless of the reason for the delay, he had to have set watch over the field the same as he had done her and might yet do. And if the rebels…
With jerks amid the sound of snagging cloth, Aelfled slid her back down the rough bark and sank to her haunches. “Dear Lord,” she breathed as she swept her eyes over this part of the wood she was fairly certain was unknown to Cyr D’Argent, unlike where she had left food. “Work me a miracle. Speak into Cyr. Tell him to bring in the lord’s hay upon Stern this day or come the morrow. And if You will not do that for me or Your forsaken people, let him be done keeping watch over me. Two nights hence, I must keep my word to aid my lady’s men. I cannot fail them as I did Wulf.”
Of a sudden lightheaded and nauseated, she clamped her eyes closed and dropped her chin to her chest. She counted each shuddering breath required to settle head and stomach. Five…ten…fifteen…
She lifted her chin. “You are Saxon, strong of mind, body, and spirit,” she whispered Isa’s words. “Remember. Embrace. No more will lose their lives because of you. You will preserve them, Aelfled Sorendotter of…”
She was tempted to name herself of the Lord, but her faith was so scarce it would be sacrilegious—merely an attempt to flatter God who could not be fooled.
It was a struggle to rise, though less due to weakness than the tree’s bark being even more grasping as she straightened against it.
She stepped away, pulling her snagged mantle free, then folded Vitalis’s message and tucked it into her bodice. Upon her return to her cell, she would put it to flame, then retreat to her garden and fill a basket for Waring.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Barony of Stern
England
They came.
Even before Cyr had shared with his brothers and cousin the intercepted message, he had considered the same as they that it could be intended more for his eyes than Aelfled’s. Thus, though the bulk of his men and Maël’s were set over the lord’s hay upon Stern, small contingents patrolled other parts of the barony under orders they not engage if they encountered anything suspicious—providing no innocents were in danger. They were to put heels to their mounts and report to Cyr. But as revealed by the message, it was the lord’s hay upon Stern they meant to burn.
On foot, surely having left their mounts at a distance to steal upon the field they had to know was guarded, eight cloaked and hooded men hunched low and crept forward amid moonlight muted by thinly-scattered clouds. As they did not carry fire, they were surely armed with flints and, once they made use of them, would quickly retreat.
“How much nearer will you allow them to draw?” Dougray rasped from the other side of Theriot.
Cyr had not wanted him among those chosen to bring down the rebels, but Dougray had been determined and Theriot sided with him, citing were any needed to act with great stealth, none was bette
r than Dougray.
Hoping he would not regret yielding, Cyr said, “No nearer,” then gave the signal.
The thunder of hooves and whinnying of horses too long kept in check sounded all around as he and his men surged forward and fanned wide to ensure closure of the noose drawn around the rebels.
Desperately wishful, Cyr silently named the rebel’s hope of escape. They were had, and no matter how skilled with the weapons they drew, many would fall and enough would be captured it was possible some could be made to talk—rather, betray.
One did escape the noose, but before Cyr could set after the rebel capable of more speed than most, Dougray swerved aside.
“Do not kill him!” Cyr shouted and knew if his brother defied him without good cause, it could be blamed on his inability to hear the command. Believable, but like the others, he had been instructed to draw as little blood as possible to ensure a greater number of loose tongues and more rebel lives to offer up for the return of Guarin.
Seven of eight rebels wielding swords and daggers turned all around in search of escape from the small Norman army surrounding them.
“Throw down your weapons and live,” Cyr commanded in their language as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dougray launch out of the saddle onto the back of the one he pursued.
Let him not overreach, Cyr silently prayed, then continued, “Hold to your weapons and die.”
One of the men whose hoods had fallen to his shoulders swung around, and before Cyr could voice recognition of the man, Maël snarled, “That is no Saxon!”
“I have Campagnon’s man, Merle!” Dougray bellowed.
Cyr looked to where his brother had an arm around the man’s neck, pinning him against the length of his own body, then more closely considered the other two whose faces were revealed. He knew few of the names of Campagnon’s men, but moonlight shone bright enough to place them at Balduc Castle.
It made no sense. The message told the rebels would…
“Dear Lord, I have been had,” Cyr muttered.
“It would seem the message left for that woman was intended for you,” Maël also concluded. “Doubtless, the rebels work ill elsewhere whilst we are distracted by your vassal’s plans passed to them by someone in his household.”
Had Aelfled known? Cyr wondered and berated himself for his wishful thinking she not be a party to this deception. Time was better spent discovering how the rebels worked this obscenity to what could prove their great advantage.
“Lay down your weapons or die for Campagnon!” Cyr shouted.
Most were mercenaries. Though hardened men, it was not in their nature nor best interest to remain loyal to one who had set them a task for which they would have to answer to the King of England. Their only defense was they followed the orders of their direct superior of whom they dared not ask questions. But providing William was in a forgiving mood and he could make use of men indebted to him for his mercy, it could prove a reasonable defense.
With reluctance, the men cast off their weapons, and all that were visible were on the ground by the time Dougray marched Merle into their midst.
Cyr guided his horse nearer, stared into the man’s florid face that shone with defiance despite the arm hooked beneath it whose hand grasped a keen blade that Dougray had but to draw sharply downward to sever the great vein in the neck. “Do you survive this attack against the king’s man, Merle, you shall have to find another lord to serve. Doubtless, Campagnon will hold you responsible for exposing his treachery.”
The man shifted his head clamped against his captor’s shoulder, between his teeth said, “You think that poor excuse for a lord who cannot keep hold of lands I should have been awarded has the mind and might to act against a pack of D’Argents?”
Yet another surprise this night delivered—could he be believed. Cyr narrowed his gaze on the one who sounded sincere in his disregard for the man to whom he had seemed a companion. Was this an act to protect Campagnon and his position at Balduc? Or had Merle acted on his own?
“Oui, I dared where never would he,” he continued, “as all those who believed in me ahead of Campagnon shall attest. What say you, warriors mine?”
There was a murmur of agreement that seemed of relief. Because Merle provided a good tale? Or because the self-confessed leader would bear the brunt of punishment?
Hating the web of intrigue and lies, Cyr’s anger rose to such height he was tempted to order Dougray to make good use of his dagger. But that gained under Fulbert’s direction and beneath the Lord’s gaze would be lost and Cyr would be merciless once more…
He breathed deep. “A pity these warriors believed in one such as you,” he forced humor into his voice. “Doubtless, they regret it now. And shall more so later.”
“Riders!” Theriot called, once more the first aware of their approach.
As Cyr ordered his men to secure the prisoners and Maël commanded his to prepare for battle, the youngest D’Argent added, “Two. No more than three.”
Moments later, two appeared against the dark of night from the direction Merle and his men had come. Were they the enemy, they would be witless to advance on so great a gathering of warriors. Thus, Cyr guessed here came those set to watch over another area of the demesne.
It was so, as told by their announcement, “Balduc Castle has been attacked.”
The sticky web seeking to encase him, Cyr clenched his hands. For the diversion that held the greater force of his men here, had the rebels revealed the lord’s hay upon Stern would be burned? Or was the attack on the fortress also of Merle? Perhaps he sought Campagnon’s death, not only for revenge if he truly despised him but to gain whatever wealth the former Baron of Balduc had accumulated in oppressing the Saxons.
Cyr looked to where Dougray had moved his captive back and to the left. “Is this your doing, Merle?” At the man’s hesitation, he snarled, “You would not also like to claim responsibility for the attack on Balduc?”
It was not he who answered but the one who delivered the tidings. “Non, my lord.”
Cyr swept his regard back to the soldier.
Confusion center of his face, the man said, “I know not what Campagnon’s man does here, but half a dozen Saxon rebels burned a section of the outer wall and a quarter of the harvested hay ere your men scattered them.”
“Were any taken prisoner?”
“One, my lord,” the second soldier said with what seemed regret. “Backed into a corner with only a dagger to fight her way past two armed with swords, she turned the blade on herself.”
Cyr stiffened, and it seemed as if that inside his chest ceased beating. “She?” he said in a choked voice. “You are certain it was a woman?”
“Oui, my lord, I saw her myself.”
“Young? Old?”
“Young.”
Non, dear God, he cast heavenward.
“Rather, what I consider young, being near on fifty myself,” the man said. “Had I to guess, I would say she was aged thirty.”
Had Cyr’s heart truly ceased beating, it determined to make up for those lost beats. Not Aelfled. That was not the part she played in the rebels’ plans. Another thought struck, though it hardly seemed possible after that to which he himself had borne witness. “What color the Saxon’s hair?”
“Black, my lord, cut to the shoulders.”
Neither Hawisa Wulfrithdotter Fortier, she who was said to have long, golden-hair beneath the filth and was surely too ill to attempt such. “Have you anything more to tell?”
“Only that it was your men at Stern who quickly routed the rebels, my lord.”
To whom Cyr must compose a missive informing them of Merle’s betrayal and ordering them to keep close watch on its castellan. He started to turn his horse aside, looked back. “Did you see Campagnon?”
“I did, my lord.”
“His reaction to the attack?”
“Anger, though his mood lightened when he saw the Saxon woman was dead.”
“What did he say?”<
br />
“That of course it was a woman, all the more dumb-witted for being a Saxon. And likely all had been of her sex, so poorly executed was the attack and of few numbers. Then he spat on her and returned to the donjon.”
More than expected and worthy of pondering, Cyr mused as he urged his mount toward Maël who had drawn near enough to listen to the exchange with the soldier. Though it was not Aelfled who had taken her life, it was possible she had been among the five who fled, having slipped past her guard in the wood. It was unfortunate not a single rebel was captured alive. But of greater import than learning if Aelfled was among their ranks was discovering where Guarin was held. Failing that, had a good number been captured, they might have been used to bargain for his release.
Though frustrated by the night’s events, Cyr forced himself to look on the good of it. The loss of Stern’s hay was averted, and the rebels’ plan to use Merle’s betrayal as a diversion to wreak damage on Balduc had mostly failed.
Or had it? Only six had attacked the castle. Though Merle had reduced the castle’s defenders by eight, still there remained dozens only a fool would set so few against. Might there have been more rebels in hiding who awaited a signal never given? If not, might the fires set at Balduc Castle been a second diversion?
“What are you thinking?” Maël asked as Cyr drew alongside.
“That this night my lordship might be the victim of not one but two diversions to allow the rebels to work greater ill elsewhere.”
Maël frowned. “So how are we to stop them—if it is not too late?”
“Aelfled of Lillefarne. Were she among the rebels who fled Balduc, likely she returns to the abbey. Were she not, she has a part to play.” He nodded. “I shall give charge of Merle and his mercenaries to Theriot and, if God is with us, this night we will remove these hooks from our mouths and use them to catch our enemies.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lillefarne Abbey
