by Tamara Leigh
“This was among the possessions she brought out of Lillefarne.”
The first thing Cyr noted as he accepted it was the quality evidencing only a noble could pay for its forging. The next, of greatest importance, was it was of the D’Argents. He need not look upon the letters scratched into steel to know to whom it had belonged.
“Mayhap she dealt the killing blow,” Maël ventured where Cyr would not.
“Non,” he said. “I told you of that morn when I discovered your sire. She was there to find her charge and had dragged free the boy to deliver him to his mother. Whether she found the dagger on the ground, took it from Hugh’s hand, drew it from the body of Lady Hawisa’s son or his hand that put it through your sire, I do not know. But I am certain she could not—would not—kill.”
His cousin turned his face fully to Cyr, and sunlight slanting across it was cruel to the scarred side. But more cruel was the emotion seeking to become Dougray’s mirror. “All can kill, Cyr, including that priest of yours—even if only in self defense, out of neglect, or by way of words or actions that move another to yield up his own life as he would not otherwise do.”
That Cyr could not argue, but none of those applied to Aelfled upon Senlac. Though she had come to his back to put her dull meat knife in him rather than a keen dagger that would have ensured her success, she had turned from vengeance and taken no other opportunity provided.
“It was not by her hand your father breathed his last, Maël. Even did she confess it, I would not believe it. I was there. I saw the mournful woman come too late to save her lady’s son.”
Maël expelled breath above his head. “All this time she had the dagger. How could a D’Argent captive be so fool to believe her enemy would not search her to ensure she did not slip it between his ribs? How could she believe it would not be recognized and taken from her ere she could do harm?”
“Where did you find it?”
“In her pack.”
Of little or no use there, Cyr reflected. But had she hidden it beneath her skirt…
It was possible she would have drawn it, but surely only to defend herself, he was certain—and knew Hugh would have been disappointed in him for not being exceedingly mindful of guarding his back.
His uncle had been many things good and a few things bad, but one thing he had not hidden well even from the godly-when-it-served-him William, was how nearly godless he could be.
Think the worst, act on it, he had once rebuked Cyr. If you are proven wrong—even do you do another grave ill, ever a priest can be found to give ear to your repentance and absolution for a coin or two.
Cyr’s sire had overheard that, and so great an argument had ensued between the brothers all had known of it. Hugh had departed, and when he returned months later, his son’s and nephews’ training had intensified. But for a time he had been more discreet in imparting wisdom his brother named godless and over which his wife and sister-in-law wrung their hands.
“I should have been there, fighting at his side,” Maël returned Cyr to the present, a time in which the dagger’s owner no longer existed outside of memory.
Seeing his cousin’s head was back, eyes upon the sky, Cyr asked, “What would you have done, Maël?”
“Protected my sire as was my duty.”
“Even if it meant killing boys?”
Maël turned his gaze on his cousin. “Boys. That is not how a warrior ought to die. Such humiliation…”
Cyr set a hand on his shoulder. “We may never learn what happened there, but all knew Hugh for a mighty warrior, including William. Any who believe boys—only one of whom had training at arms—were the death of him, are either foolish or of jealous bent. Hugh had to have first been seriously wounded by Harold’s warriors for boys to bring him down.”
Maël turned his face forward, thrust a hand back through his hair. “Had I been there, I could have saved him.”
Cyr did not know if now was the time to ask the question he had never found the right moment to ask. It was indelicate, but Maël had opened a door heretofore locked, and if ever he was vulnerable enough to answer, now seemed the time.
“Why were you not at his side, Maël?”
His cousin closed his eyes.
“I saw you across the battlefield, and fierce you were as your sire trained you to be. But you did not fight with the D’Argents. Why?”
He opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it.
“Whatever your reason, Maël, is it why you are landless though esteemed by William? Is it why you would not return to Normandy to yourself deliver your mother news of Hugh’s death? Is it why there is no joy about you where once there was?”
Maël turned to him. “I failed my sire, my mother, Dougray, Guarin, and myself. That failure made a corpse of Hugh D’Argent and a widow of my mother, led to the loss of Dougray’s arm, and capture—if not death—of Guarin, and left me fatherless. That is all there is to say.” He lowered his eyes to the dagger Cyr held. “I had thought to give that to my mother, but better you. Now I must speak with my men.” He bowed curtly and descended the steps.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
She knew what had happened to her, remembrance having sought to fit itself into a dream of wee Aelfled picking berries with her grandmother—a fit so poor it awakened her.
What she did not know was why the bed upon which she lay on her side was soft and warm. The last time she was so wonderfully cradled was the night before Isa’s husband sent wife and son south to safety that had proven the death of the latter. But it was not possible Aelfled was on her feather-stuffed pallet at the foot of her lady’s bed.
Though she could lift her lids and discover where she was and if it was night or shutters blocked daylight, she wanted to return to sleep to lighten what felt a weight on her head. But memories of all that had happened since Cyr D’Argent’s return to England flashed behind her eyes.
She shifted her head on the pillow, whimpered as the dull throb at her temple sharpened. Was her injury as serious as the amount of blood made it appear?
Lifting an arm from beneath the blanket drawn over her, she reached to her head. But another’s hand turned around hers and drew it away.
“It is stitched and bandaged,” spoke one who should not be here with her—wherever here was.
She opened her eyes on a candle-lit room and focused on the man seated in a chair beside the bed. Spread knees bracing him forward, one elbow on his thigh and closed hand before his face indicating the hand holding hers had been clasped with the other, he stared at her.
Feeling as if unclothed though she felt the soft of a well-worn chemise against her skin, Aelfled shifted her gaze over walls and the bit of ceiling that did not require her to move her head. No prison this. Though the chamber was not the size of Lady Hawisa’s nor as lavish, such would be given one of import—not a Saxon commoner who aided rebels.
The only explanation was the injury done her, and that was not explanation enough. Returning her gaze to Cyr, she noted the scratches she had dealt him, once more wondered at the bruising of his nose down to his lip. “Where am I?”
“My aunt and sister yielded their chamber to—”
“Grandmother!” she gasped, ashamed only now she remembered the one who had been allowed to no more than assure Aelfled she was well before they departed Lillefarne.
“Bernia sleeps on your other side,” Cyr said.
She started to look behind, but the slight movement made her groan.
“Do you listen, Aelfled, you will hear her.”
She attended to the sounds, and beyond the sputter of candles caught her grandmother’s breathing. “What of your aunt and sister?” she asked.
“They pass the night in my solar.”
“And you here. Why?” The moment she asked, she became aware of the caress of his thumb across the back of her hand.
She looked to it and knew he followed her gaze when he released her, returned his elbow to his thigh, and clasped the fist made of that hand benea
th the other.
“I wished to speak to you when you awakened,” he said.
Though she knew it best to accept there was naught more to his presence, she remembered their kiss, and now his caress of her hand despite proof she aided the rebels and her refusal to accompany him from Lillefarne.
“You would not have harmed my grandmother,” she said, aware she did so with little thought but too discomfited by her injury to think more on it. “I came to you because I could not leave without her.”
Cyr tried to blame his reaction on fatigue, but though he had no night of good sleep in recent memory, that one word—more than her threat to take holy vows—made him speak back, “Leave?”
A slight nod and wince. “We cannot remain upon Wulfenshire. As you have seen, in the eyes of my own, now I…” Her lashes fluttered as if she struggled for words, then she sighed. “Now I appear more conqueror than conquered. More Norman than Saxon.”
Cyr’s mind moved in a direction it should not go—the same as when she had spoken of becoming a Bride of Christ. Though he told himself it was for her protection he forced her out of the abbey, there went Fulbert who believed it something more. And knew Cyr well.
“Thus, if you will accept my word my grandmother and I will leave Wulfenshire and no more come upon it,” she said, “on the morrow we will go where we are not known and begin anew.”
As Cyr forced himself to consider her remedy for the danger in which she had placed her and her grandmother, the sense that was his in smaller measure than Theriot’s made him attend to the woman on the other side of Aelfled. Bernia’s breathing had changed, and though it might yet be of sleep, he thought it more likely she listened. Was she as versed in Norman French as her granddaughter?
“Pray, think on it,” Aelfled alerted him to how long he made her await an answer.
Though unintentional, it served one who had no answer to give, but he would think on it.
“What have you done with the one who threw the stone, Cyr?”
Determining this time not to comment on how well he liked the informality of her speaking only his Christian name, he said, “He is called Sigward. You know him?”
The widening of her eyes and paling of her face was all the answer needed. But she gave more in a rush as if desperate to explain herself. “Sigward was of my village of Ravven, a few years older than I. Does he live?”
“Oui, though a terrible beating he took.”
The rest of the color fled her face. “Was it the fist of Merciless Cyr?”
“It would have been had not my brother and men prevented me from casting myself in the midst of captives who believe they risk little in openly killing a lone Norman.”
She searched his face as if questioning actions that revealed more of him than he ought to permit, said, “Then one of your brothers beat him.”
Dougray would have liked to no matter Aelfled was the victim, but it had been another. And one not entirely unexpected. “Non, it was a fellow rebel.”
The same, Cyr guessed, who had shouted as he himself had done when he saw Sigward draw back his arm. The same who, during the rebels’ march to Stern, had questioned how his scout came to be replaced by a Norman. Sigward had told he was knocked unconscious before he could follow the others to the abbey. And was overheard by Dougray who drew nearer and said it was no difficult thing since the coward fled opposite. Sigward denied it, but as evidenced by what was done him this day, he was not believed.
“It was Vitalis who took him to ground.” As disbelief rose on Aelfled’s face, Cyr continued, “Sigward is the Saxon my brother replaced, rendering him unconscious when, rather than follow his own into the abbey, he ran. This your Vitalis learned, and he and the other rebels took the opportunity of his attack on you to render justice unto a traitor.”
“He betrayed,” Aelfled breathed.
She knew something, Cyr realized and probed, “Fear can make a traitor of many a man.”
“Not fear. I think he knew that you…”
She closed her mouth, but he understood. Was there dissent among the rebels? Had Sigward led his own into a trap made of Normans to rid their ranks of Vitalis and his men?
“Is Vitalis well?” she asked.
Her question moved Cyr to another matter. “Regardless of whether he believes you also a betrayer, the one who has a care for you fares better than Sigward.”
She frowned. “A care? Vitalis feels nothing better than disgust for me.”
Was that a lie in her voice and on her face? And what of Cyr’s own? Might she hear and see his jealousy?
He recalled the man whom Theriot escorted to the hall. The one who had met Aelfled at the great rocks and taken her to Wulfen had been cut and bruised during the struggle to drag him off Sigward, but that could not disguise he was in possession of good looks, nor that his tall, muscular frame and proud bearing were forged of great discipline. Likely, the warrior was of the esteemed class of housecarles who served Saxon landholders before the conquest.
Cyr had questioned him about the attack, but Vitalis had refused to answer. Only when he was led away did he speak, and then to pose a question of his own.
Watching Aelfled closely, Cyr said, “Certes, he attacked Sigward for fleeing, but I think it also for the injury done you. And that you seek to hide what he feels for you and you for him.”
“I do not.”
He leaned nearer. “I had him brought to me, and no word did he speak, not even in his defense, until I ordered him returned to the paddock. You wish to know what he asked? How you fare, naught else but the fate of one who does not share the discomfort of his imprisonment.”
She lowered her gaze to the mattress.
Cyr told himself it mattered not what Vitalis and she felt for each other. Until he made good use of them, the only thing left for them to feel was captivity.
He nearly left her to her rest and healing, but Theriot and Dougray had reminded him of that which he assured them he need not be reminded—if Guarin lived, every day that prolonged his captivity drew him nearer death.
He sat back. “I am aware Vitalis is the one with whom you rode to Wulfen the night of the day I found you in the wood.”
Her eyes flew to his.
“Oui, I was near the great rocks with my cousin. We followed on foot as far as we could—well onto Lady Hawisa’s demesne. You met with her that night, did you not?”
“Non,” she whispered, and he heard fear in that word surely born of a lie.
“Hawisa Fortier Wulfrithdotter,” he mused. “If not for appearing so ill when she received me in her hall the next day, I might think her the rebel leader known as Dotter.”
Aelfled’s gaze wavered, and he saw from the shuddering of the blanket her breathing had quickened. She knew something of her lady she did not wish to reveal, but did she know anything of Guarin?
“Were you still at Wulfen Castle when I arrived?” he asked. “Did you listen in on my audience with your lady?”
Her tongue clicked off her palate. “I know naught of what you speak.”
“I think you do.” He sat forward again. “Whether or not Lady Hawisa is or ever was Dotter, all I require from you is what you know of my brother—if he lives, where he is held, if he does not, where he is buried.”
“I know naught of him, my word I give.”
“And easily you do so. But not believably, Aelfled.”
Her eyes brightened, and more forcefully she said, “I do not know if he lives or is dead. I know not if he is or ever was upon Wulfenshire. No lie.”
“Only in this?” He looked nearer upon her. “I am wondering, if I agreed to escort you and your grandmother to the shire of your choice, might you then know something of my brother?”
“I would not.” It was said with little hesitation and what sounded genuine regret.
“If you did know, would you tell?”
Much hesitation.
“Aelfled, you said your own people regard you more as the conqueror and the Norman. A
s you are now outside them, what have you to lose in aiding me in recovering a beloved brother? Little, I say, and much to gain.”
Once more, she looked to the mattress.
He waited until, reaching the end of his patience, he rose and started toward the door.
“Cyr!”
His name on her lips, rustle of bedclothes, and low moan of pain turned him before he reached the foot of the bed.
Having rolled onto her back, she pressed a hand to her bandaged temple and peered at him through narrowed lids. “As I am of no use to you, send my grandmother and me from Wulfenshire.”
“Non.” He glanced at the old woman facing opposite her granddaughter. Had she not listened in before, she did so now, so still was she as if too deep a breath would make it difficult to hear.
Hoping there was benefit in her attending to the exchange—that she would persuade Aelfled to tell what she knew, Cyr said, “Did you aid me in ending rebellion on these lands, at least in part I could justify to William the release of one whose efforts permitted the rebels to flourish. But you give me nothing.”
“I have nothing.”
“Nothing you are willing to give. Though you have proven useful, all I have gained from you had to be taken by deception and force.”
Her mouth trembled, reminding him of a kiss taken neither by deception nor force.
As if she also remembered, she drew her lower lip between her teeth and looked sidelong at her grandmother’s back. Then in a lower voice, she said, “How did you know I was to hide the rebels last eve?”
He owed her no explanation, but the impatience that had ejected him from the chair waned amid memories of her at the stream. Did she know the power she had over him that no woman before had possessed? A power Hugh warned his son and nephews to resist for how easily they made a man vulnerable?
The youths they had been had scoffed at the possibility any woman could turn a true warrior from his purpose. But proof of such had first been given by Dougray—and now Cyr who had sent away his aunt to himself keep watch over Aelfled. Until she awakened, how long had he watched her sleep though he also needed rest? An hour? Two?
