Merciless

by Tamara Leigh

  Now as Cyr dismounted, he said, “I agree you require much time on the training field, but you shall have hours in which to practice this afternoon. Dismount.”

  “Surely you do not intend to draw nearer?”

  “I do.”

  “The crops are gone. What else must be told?”

  Likely, he was right, but once more Cyr was disturbed by the reaction of bedraggled villagers, in this instance those whose faces were marked with the soot of fighting fire. Since the loss of hay could mean the difference between surviving the winter and not were the new Lord of Balduc the same as its former lord, Cyr had assured them their animals would not go hungry. He spoke in truth, though it meant he would be unable to sell his own excess hay to increase his revenues and would have to purchase more beyond that.

  The expressions of some had reflected surprise and disbelief, but most prevalent was disregard where there should have been despair at worst, relief at best. Regardless of his promise, the loss of crops should not lack for lament—and anger.

  Where was disillusionment with rebels who worked ill on their own? It was as though the fire was of little consequence, and Cyr did not think faith in the Lord cast away their concern. It was something less, and he intended to discover the answer. And be as satisfied with it as with the sense made of that other ponderable—that the villages on Balduc and, less so, on Stern boasted few men of good age, whereas young women were plentiful and many had babes on hips or in slings.

  Cyr suspected some of the children were fathered by Normans, Campagnon and his men having seduced the conquered women or forced their attentions on them, but he guessed most were sired by rebels who occasionally stole home to their women.

  Returning Dougray to focus, he said, “Join me.”

  His brother sighed and dismounted.

  The two strode across muddied ground to the nearest field. “Here the rebels were last eve whilst our attention was diverted by Merle’s failed attack on Stern and the rebels’ half-hearted attack on Balduc.” Cyr peered across the hazy field. “Do you see anything I do not?”

  “Only if you do not see a burned field. But what I do see that I worry you do not is how dangerous these Saxons are—so much that never can you give them your back.”

  Reminding himself of time recently spent with Fulbert, Cyr narrowed eyes stung by smoke. “Though it might seem safer to believe that true of all Saxons, I believe it will prove more dangerous in the end, preventing us from finding a place of peace in which our two peoples can exist together.”

  Dougray gave a huff of disgust. “Thanks to that priest, you wear the blinders of your god.”

  Cyr’s jaw tightened. “He is also your God.”

  “Is he?”

  The question returned Aelfled to mind, she who seemed nearly as bereft of faith. And therein a response for his brother. “I am surprised you do not feel a kinship with the Saxons who must feel as abandoned by God as do you.”

  Dougray’s eyes and face brightened, but though Cyr steeled for an eruption, his brother shifted his regard to the field. Perhaps his interest began as pretense, but his brow became weighted, then he turned aside and began traversing the burned field’s border.

  Cyr followed to its end where Dougray considered the field again and said, “Do you not think it peculiar the perimeter is more heavily laid with ash?”

  Cyr looked nearer on the blackened field. And saw what his brother saw. “I am thinking I ought to climb a tree.”

  Shortly, perched thirty feet above the ground, he surveyed what was put to flame well before the rain. With the exception of a ten-foot expanse at the rear of each field, the perimeter was darker and thicker with ash than all within.

  “You see it?” Dougray called.

  “Oui, and a passage at the rear of each field and the remnants of tracks as of ladened carts.” Cyr descended and jumped the last feet to the ground. “Though the rain washed away much evidence, for certain the tracks lead from field to wood.”

  Dougray grinned.

  Cyr slapped his brother on the back. “It appears the rebels are not as destructive nor uncaring toward their own as believed. Only after harvesting and carting away the bulk of crops under cover of hedges do they set the fields afire. And I wager, it is the same they have done since the beginning.”

  “Then the villagers are not in terrible straits as they would have their Norman lord believe.”

  “They are not. And here further proof the mortality of their men is not as high as it appears. Doubtless, most joined the rebels who bring in the crops that feed them and the families they leave behind.”

  “Plaguing the Normans without harming their own,” Dougray mused. “When Campagnon’s crops were supposedly burned and he retaliated by taking those of the villagers, it substantiated the death of men who sacrificed themselves to ensure their families ate. And all the while, the Saxons were ensured a continuous supply of food.”

  Cyr nodded. “For this, the villagers show less concern for losses than warranted over a matter of life and death. Whether or not it is the lord’s crops taken or their own, they are provided for.”

  “Clever, but how is it possible to store and disperse so much hay and grain without being caught?”

  “I have an idea, but first we follow the tracks. Though likely most have been washed away, that is the place to start.”

  Dougray showed teeth in so nearly a genuine smile Cyr was struck by how handsome his brother was despite how little care he took with his appearance. “Dougray.”

  The younger man raised his eyebrows.

  “If not for your sake, then the sake of the woman you one day wed, do something about your teeth ere they rot out of your head.”

  They disappeared behind his lips, though not from shame, Cyr guessed, but over mention of marriage. He had nearly caught back those words, but no matter how they offended, he had determined that just as Dougray must learn again proficiency with weapons, he must learn how to control his emotions.

  “And wash your body,” Cyr added. “It is most foul and not due to this day’s mud.”

  “Like my hair and beard,” Dougray finally spoke, “it serves well this Norman in Saxon’s disguise.”

  “You err. Not even the foulest of those I worked alongside in bringing in the hay boasted the strength of your scent. Scrub your teeth and body ere you take up arms again else I shall enlist Maël and Theriot to do it for you.” Cyr turned and strode toward their mounts and his men.

  Following three hours that, time and again, ended in wide streams and marshy ground, only two things were known for certain. The carts had gone separate ways and all moved in the direction of Lincolnshire or Nottinghamshire. What was not known but seemed the best explanation was the bounty was sold on other baronies, coin being easier for rebels to transport and disperse to villagers who could then buy hay and grain as needed.

  Clever, indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lillefarne Abbey

  England

  Blood.

  Unable to gaze long upon her trampled garden where Vitalis and his men had been fettered as rain fell harder, only now with chin lowered did she notice streaks on bodice, skirt, and rimming the hem.

  She had expected to find blood in the passage. Though not as much as feared, it had been on the stone walls and darkened the floor. For hours she had cleaned away evidence of the night past, unaware she would wear those near-frenzied efforts—and her failing—upon her person.

  Following the pounding on the door to which she had been unable to respond, many were injured. Had any died? She had to believe not as no bodies were left behind, but that did not mean none had died since.

  Pressing her back more firmly against the wall she had crouched against on the night past while awaiting the rebels, Aelfled closed her eyes, breathed deep, then lifted her head and forced herself to look upon her garden for the last time. It was mostly destroyed, but once she was gone others could set it aright.

  “Lincolnshire
or Nottinghamshire?” she repeated as done often while cleaning the passage.

  Though it mattered not to her, she guessed her grandmother would choose Lincolnshire where dwelt her youngest daughter, rather than Nottinghamshire where Bernia’s brother lived. All that mattered was they leave Wulfenshire—and all the sooner for what she found concealed beneath the blankets in the passage.

  She had not been certain until she looked at in daylight, but now she was convinced of its kinship with the one beneath her cot. She lifted it from her side, tilted it to coax the sun’s rays into the gem set in it. It was not identical to the dagger taken from Wulf’s convulsing fingers, but nearly so. And just as the letters H D A were scratched into the steel of the one that had likely slain its owner, here was inscribed G D A.

  It was surely Vitalis who had removed the dagger from his belt and hidden it before he could be made a prisoner of the brother to whom this belonged. The question was whether Guarin D’Argent yet lived. And was he upon Wulfenshire?

  She longed for the answer, unable to content herself with the answer made of this dagger’s presence and her lady’s recognition of the name D’Argent at Senlac. The same as Aelfled, Isa had encountered one of that family whilst searching for Wulf.

  Had the eldest brother been less honorable than Cyr? Had he harmed—perhaps violated—one of the few Saxon women who dared search for her dead before being granted permission? Was he dead for it, his dagger given to Vitalis who had known the danger of it being found in his possession?

  The sound of footsteps made Aelfled tense for flight, but though she had space aplenty to return to the passage and bar the door if any entered the garden, the one moving toward her did so from inside the passage.

  It was the abbess who stepped out from behind the hedge. “I thought to find you here.” Her eyes fell upon the dagger, and she lost what little smile she had. “What is this?”

  Wishing she had lowered it out of sight, Aelfled stammered, “I f-found it in the passage.”

  The unusually attractive woman halted before her, extended a hand into which Aelfled set the hilt. She pointed its tip heavenward, turned the blade side to side, drew it close to her face. “G D A.” She looked past the dagger. “You think it of a D’Argent—the missing one? What is his name?”

  “Guarin. And I do think it, Abbess.”

  She inclined her head. “Much it resembles the one I saw on Cyr D’Argent’s belt when he sought an audience with you. How do you think it came to be in the passage?”

  Unwilling to name Vitalis, Aelfled said, “It had to have been in the possession of a rebel.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “So is it proof Guarin D’Argent lives or is dead? Or proof of naught?”

  “Who can say? But as its blade was clean, methinks whoever left it behind did so knowing they would fair ill were it found upon them.”

  The woman returned her gaze to the dagger. “It is of some worth beyond its value in giving greater hope to the D’Argents their lost brother lives.”

  “What shall we do with it?”

  “I will lock it away so the family does not increase its efforts to find him since it would bode ill for those of Wulfenshire.”

  Aelfled nearly protested, but it was true. Were the D’Argents provided further proof beyond the sighting, their search for Guarin could turn aggressive.

  “I saw you cleaned the passage,” the abbess said. “I thank you. It was unsightly.”

  Aelfled had not known she had gone into it after Cyr and his men departed with their prisoners, but of course she would wish to confirm the defenses were once more secure.

  “You are done here,” the woman said. “Join me in my apartment for the nooning meal.”

  She wished to speak with her in private? Of what? Leaving Lillefarne as Aelfled had already determined to do? Likely, since she had greatly endangered the residents. That reminded Aelfled of what she had wished to ask when found outside the shed.

  “Abbess, last eve you called the rebels ours as if—”

  “As if they are my people? Rebels or nay, they are, Aelfled. I may be wed to the Church, but I am a Saxon the same as you and want the Normans gone from our lands. Though I cannot approve of all the rebels do, I understand their reasons. And pray they succeed.”

  Aelfled nodded. “Of course, but did you know…?”

  “What?”

  “I have harbored them?”

  A soft laugh. “I know not why the Lord gifted me with keen intelligence and an education rarely provided women even of the noble class, but those who stand against me would fare well not to mistake me for being of the ignorant class.”

  It was not a direct answer, but answer enough. “I hope you do not think I stood against you, Abbess. I but fulfilled a duty given to atone for…”

  “Wulf,” she said.

  Then she knew Isa was no stranger to the rebel cause? Though Aelfled wanted to ask, she kept her tongue. But if the abbess thought to press her for more information, that dread was replaced by the dread of approaching riders.

  “Visitors,” Mary Sarah said. “Normans, I guess. Come.” She slid the dagger beneath her girdle, slipped behind the hedge, and it was she who barred the door before leading Aelfled through the passage.

  The abbey was more astir than it would be if not for the night past, Aelfled noted as she exited the shed and started toward the dormitory.

  “Nay, follow me,” the abbess said, lifting her skirts and ascending the steps to the wall walk.

  My due, Aelfled told herself. Were it Normans come unto these walls, likely it was a result of her failure to keep the rebels safe.

  At the front of the abbey, above the great doors, the abbess motioned Aelfled to stand back, then crossed to the wall and peered down.

  “Abbess!” a man called in heavily-accented English.

  Not Cyr. Were he of the D’Argents, whom had he sent in his stead?

  The abbess caught her breath, took a step backward.

  Someone known to her, Aelfled guessed. And, it seemed, someone feared. Not for the first time, she pondered the same as many at Lillefarne how the relatively young woman had come into so esteemed a position when the old abbess passed shortly after the Norman invasion.

  “Abbess!” he bellowed again.

  Returned to what was of greater import, Aelfled wondered if the one who came was sent by the usurper to punish the abbey for hiding rebels. Possible only were he near.

  “Is it William?” Aelfled whispered.

  The abbess looked around. “Nay, one of his men who—”

  “Abbess!”

  She sucked breath, pressed her shoulders back, and stepped forward. Though her eyes were surely on the man below, her chin remained level as if to intentionally look down her nose at him.

  “It is the abbess you address,” she called. “For what do you come to God’s house?”

  “I am to bring out Aelfled, daughter of Soren.”

  Aelfled clenched her hands.

  “By whose authority?”

  “Baron D’Argent’s.”

  “Ah, he who trespassed on holy ground last eve.”

  “That he might take what was due him without shedding blood inside your walls, Abbess.”

  Her head tilted. “Were you to tell me it was on the authority of a bishop—even a Norman one—I might tremble a little. But see, I tremble not. Only by my say shall Baron D’Argent enter these walls to take from them.”

  “Unless the one he wishes comes willingly,” the man responded.

  “I believe I can speak for Aelfled Sorendotter in saying she will not.”

  “And I believe she will after she is delivered this missive.”

  “Its tidings?”

  “It is for her eyes, not yours nor mine.”

  After a long moment, she said, “Approach and pass it through the door’s grate. I will see it delivered. If she chooses to respond, you shall have her answer forthwith.”

  “I know her answer. Were she with you upon the wall,
the missive would not be necessary.”

  Aelfled’s heart beat faster. Of what did he speak?

  “Pass it through,” the abbess repeated, then turned and stepped past Aelfled. “Open the grate,” she called down.

  It was done, and soon a young nun ascended the steps. Out of sight of those beyond the walls, she passed the missive to the abbess.

  As Aelfled accepted the missive from the latter, she noted Mary Sarah did tremble and looked up. “Of what are you afeared, Abbess? That they will—”

  “Naught,” she said sharply. “Read it.”

  She untied the string, unrolled the parchment.

  Aelfled Sorendotter, it said, I have been merciful. For naught. Thus, if you wish to see your grandmother again, come to me. ~ Cyr D’Argent, Baron of Wulfen and Balduc

  Now it was she trembling so much the parchment rattled.

  “It could be a lie,” Abbess Mary Sarah said after reading it.

  “Nay. He knows who she is and where she is. And this is surely what he warned of last eve when I refused to leave with him. He has her.” But would he turn merciless again? She could not believe he would harm an innocent old woman, but…

  He also had Aelfled who would not leave Wulfenshire without Bernia.

  “Aelfled Sorendotter!” the man called. “Do you require proof, show yourself.”

  Stiffly, she stepped forward and wished there were comfort in being accompanied by the abbess.

  The warrior on his great destrier below with a half dozen soldiers at his back, smiled. “I thought you there.”

  Though the turn of his lips was mocking, it was a handsome smile in what had surely been an exceedingly attractive face before a blade disfigured one side of it. As she moved her gaze over what was visible beyond the mail coif covering his head, she wondered if it had happened at Senlac, then said, “Your proof?”

  He looked over his shoulder, raised an arm, returned his gaze to her. “The day is too hot for one of aged bones. Watch the wood.”

  Two riders came out of the trees, seated before one a slight figure with a head crowned by silver hair. It was too distant to see her features, but it was Bernia.