by Tamara Leigh
Regardless, it was not only concern that bid him observe her as her mind traveled other worlds. Though previous to this night he had no desire to watch a woman in that unguarded state, he had been intrigued.
She bewitches me, he silently admitted.
“How did you know?” she asked.
Recalling where their conversation had left off, he stepped nearer. “By way of the message you left in the tree warning you were too closely watched and urging the rebels to reconsider their plans.”
She startled.
“They did not ignore it, Aelfled. It was delivered to me by my man in the wood who remains missing and is likely dead at the hands of your rebels. I ordered him to return it. You would know why?”
“I would.”
“In the hope they heeded you, protecting you from whatever danger you place yourself in to give aid—even though the absence of warning might have sooner delivered the rebels into my hands.” He breathed deep. “But it was too late. When my man gained the tree, the rebels had left a message of their own ordering you to prepare to receive them the night ere the full moon when they would take from Stern what I denied them at Balduc. Thus, I determined to capture the rebels. And you with them.”
If she knew of what he spoke, it did not show. Where alarm had been was wary interest. It was possible she was unaware of what the rebels who sought to evade capture had wrought. “Whoever leads them has a keen wit,” he continued. “It was not Vitalis and his men who came to burn Stern’s hay. Somehow the rebels learned Campagnon’s man, Merle, intended to set it afire and used that knowledge to distract me from their true purpose.”
Aelfled’s frown deepened. “But to distract you, you would have to know—”
“Oui, the contents of the message my man intercepted and returned so you could make preparations to shelter the rebels. Methinks that message was meant as much for me as you—at the very least written in such a way as to mislead me if it fell into my hands. As said, their leader is intelligent, and all the more for that second diversion.”
In near equal parts, her confusion and interest deepened, and unlike her earlier denials and evasions, he glimpsed no lie. “Tell,” she prompted.
“Hardly had we captured Merle and his men than I received word the rebels had attacked and fled Balduc Castle. Believing it the true target and thinking my greatest chance of capturing the rebels was to seek the one who aided them, we rode on the abbey. And long we waited, but just as we prepared to withdraw, a far greater number of rebels than those who attacked Balduc Castle came seeking shelter until their pursuers abandoned the hunt. Two diversions, you see.”
“For what?”
“To allow them to take the villagers’ hay in the northernmost village of Balduc.”
As if she well chose her next words, it was some moments before she said, “Did the rebels burn it all?”
“That is as they wish me to believe, but not all, Aelfled. Only enough to make it appear so.”
She slid her regard to her hands gripping the blanket to her chest. She knew of their trickery and likely justified the part she played with the knowledge the destruction was only enough to mislead the conquerors—that her own would be provided for.
“Clever, do you not think?” he submitted.
Feeling her struggle to return her gaze to his, he said, “I now know as you have known that the rebels’ crimes are not as extensive as believed. Though I cannot condone their actions, they are not unforgivable. Hence, had I not a good use for those captured last eve, after gaining their submission, most I would return to their families to work the land.”
Her eyes fell upon him. “Good use?”
“Very good use.”
He expected her to press further, but as if realizing it would be a waste of breath, she said, “Were any Saxon or Norman lives lost last eve?”
Cyr’s thoughts moved to the man set to watch her movements, but she spoke of those gone into the passage and those who brought them out. “Non, it was mostly token resistance as of rats trapped in a corner. And for that be glad you were given no opportunity to unbar the door.”
She hesitated, said, “There was so much blood in the passage, I feared—”
“You returned there?”
“Oui. I am responsible for the mess made there, so it was for me to clean.”
“The dried blood on your bodice and skirts.” Cyr was glad for an explanation of what had disturbed him when he settled her on the bed and aided Chanson in the removal of her mantle. It was Nicola who assisted his aunt in removing the gown so it could be laundered.
“I should have changed,” she said, “but already I had kept your men waiting long. I did not realize your cousin was the one come for me, though I would have had he not worn his coif when first I looked upon him.”
The telltale D’Argent silver hair.
“When I came out and he ordered my pack searched, I regretted what I had brought with me.”
“His sire’s dagger.”
“The same I took from Wulf’s hand at Senlac.”
Cyr tensed over knowing more of his uncle’s final moments.
“When I learned you were his nephew, I dared not return it to you. It was fearful enough you guessed Wulf and his friends were the death of him, but to give proof…”
“Why did you take it to Lillefarne?”
She shook her head, grimaced as if pained. “I should not have.”
“For what was it among your possessions, Aelfled? Offensive or defensive?” Hardly had the words exited his mouth than once more he was returned to Senlac where he saw the meat dagger drawn on him and asked that of her there.
So sorrowful and knowing was the turn of her lips he knew she had joined him on that bloody meadow. “The same as that day, not offensive,” she said, “but neither defensive. I wished to return the dagger to your aunt that it might be of comfort. But certes, it was of no comfort to her son. I do not know why your cousin did not strike me.”
“That is not the way of D’Argents,” Cyr made no effort to temper the offense taken.
“Perhaps not, but this day methinks it was nearly the way of Maël D’Argent—as, I understand, it is the way of your king.”
That tale, Cyr recalled William of Normandy’s reaction to the refusal of Matilda of Flanders to wed him for being baseborn and far beneath the station of the King of France’s niece. It was said the duke had beaten her, leaving her bruised and weeping. Yet how true could it be, that lady having later agreed to wed him—and no evidence since that theirs was anything other than a satisfactory marriage? Unlike many a lord with coin aplenty to keep women besides a wife, William appeared to be devoted and faithful to his Matilda and she to him.
Returning the conversation to Maël, Cyr said, “My cousin was angered, the dagger a reminder of a father lost and the humiliation dealt by those who say Hugh was felled by mere boys when, surely, your charge and his friends but put finish to what Saxon warriors began.”
“You think that true?”
“Few warriors are as mighty as was my uncle.”
What seemed relief eased her brow.
“Maël asked me to give the dagger to his mother, and I did, but I do not think she found comfort in it any more than her son.”
“I am sorry. I should have left it at Lillefarne the same as…”
Cyr raised his eyebrows. “What did you leave at the abbey?”
Once more, she averted her gaze.
Too many secrets. Too much distance between Saxons and Normans. Still, he was determined to close that distance though it might prove impossible with her. “Ere I leave you to sleep, is there anything you require?”
She looked to the bedside table where a cup of watered wine sat, but said, “Non. Good eve, Baron.”
“I am not above serving you, Aelfled.” He retrieved the cup, lowered to the mattress, and gently raised her. “Drink.” He placed the rim against her lips.
As she sipped, he noted how short and thick her lashes tha
t darkly contrasted with her fair hair. For this, he guessed, her eyes seemed otherworldly dark and beautifully large. And wished them once more upon his.
As if to grant his wish, she swept up her lashes.
“Enough?” he said tightly.
She nodded, and he eased her back. And missed the feel of her.
Far too much power over me, he silently cursed his weakness. Dear Lord, is this what made Dougray do what he did not wish to do? Is what I feel a portion of what he felt? Was it this more than anything that caused him to bend to my persuasion?
Cyr had known a woman was at least partially responsible for turning Dougray’s mind to gaining land in England, but perhaps that woman deserved even more credit.
He set the half empty cup on the table and, as he stood from the bed, said, “We will speak more when you are better recovered.”
“You will think on sending my grandmother and me from Wulfenshire?” she asked as he crossed to the door.
He peered across his shoulder. “I will, but expect no more than that. Rest well, Aelfled.” He moved his gaze to the still figure beside her. “And you, Bernia.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
She had not rested well though, blessedly, her grandmother had continued to feign sleep following Cyr’s departure.
Now as the two women picked at viands the bright-eyed Nicola D’Argent had delivered, Aelfled shifted where she sat propped on pillows and asked, “How much of what Baron D’Argent and I discussed last eve did you understand?”
The fingers lightly patting the platter between cold slices of venison and chunked cheese stilled, then Bernia raised unseeing eyes toward those of her child’s child. “Enough to advise, Aelfled.”
“On what?”
“That which cannot be changed as Cyr of the silver hair knows and the rebels ought to accept the sooner to end the bloodletting and begin making babies.”
Aelfled was not unaware of the direction her grandmother had set her feet not long after the conquering, but since it was opposite Isa, it was best not to speak there. “No longer am I welcome upon Wulfenshire. As my kin, neither are you, Grandmother. Thus, I must persuade the baron to permit us to leave.”
“It is not merely a matter of being unwelcome.” Bernia pinched a piece of cheese. “That you were knocked near senseless is evidence of that.” She popped the morsel in her mouth, and as she set to chewing, Aelfled touched her bandaged temple whose ache had eased considerably.
“As you yourself told,” Bernia continued, “to our own people you are as much the enemy as those who stole our lands. Now tell, who made you that?”
“Grandmother—”
“Aye, Hawisa Wulfrithdotter. A good, honorable woman she was. For that, I sent you to Wulfen when she called for girls of a good age to present themselves for consideration to enter her service. And a good woman I still believe her to be beneath vengeance that has not allowed her to grieve properly and rise above her loss.”
Aelfled sighed. “As discussed well enough to be long settled, I pledged myself to her, and that pledge stands all the stronger for my failure to protect her son—”
“He is more at fault for his death than you, Aelfled.”
Something else previously discussed and on which neither would be moved.
“You must tell Hawisa what he did.”
“It will not change that he is dead and will more greatly pain her,” Aelfled said too sharply, then murmured, “Forgive me,” and moved the discussion back to where it had begun. “Could I yet be of use to my lady, still I would do as she bids no matter my conscience or desires. But all that is left to me is to distance myself—and you—that I do her no further harm.”
Bernia narrowed lids over clouded eyes. “What of the harm done you, that which will be all the greater do you abandon your home?”
“It is no longer my home nor yours. It belongs to a Norman.”
“Aye, and one I rather like who likes my granddaughter.” Bernia smiled. Though her teeth were slightly gapped, the bowing of her lips made her appear younger.
Aelfled wanted to deny Cyr felt anything of consequence for her, but there was some truth to it and she was too tired to argue it.
“And you like him,” Bernia added.
Again, the temptation to argue. Again, resistance. But Aelfled acceded, “Albeit Norman, he is many things a woman could wrap her arms around knowing even if her hands were pried from him, his would not be pried from her. But I am Saxon, common, and proven as much a rebel as those now in his power. He might like me well enough to take me to mistress, but I do not want that nor do you. Now let us speak no more of the impossible.”
It could not be known whether Bernia would have complied, for a knock sounded and the door opened.
The lovely woman who entered ahead of Nicola D’Argent was the same who had aided Cyr in removing Aelfled’s mantle on the day past. There had been no introductions, but before Aelfled lost all sense, she had heard Cyr call her Aunt and now knew she was the one delivered the D’Argent dagger.
The lady halted alongside the bed, clasped her hands at her waist.
Seeing her eyes were mapped red and lids slightly swollen, once more Aelfled wished she had left her husband’s dagger with Mary Sarah the same as done that of the lady’s missing nephew.
As the widow considered the young and old woman, Aelfled wondered at her age. Though her son appeared between twenty and thirty years, it would surprise were she more than two score. As it was not unheard of for those between girlhood and womanhood—as young as twelve and thirteen—to wed, and some survived birthing from a body not yet of good size and maturity, Aelfled guessed the lady at the far side of her thirties or the near side of her forties.
“I am Chanson D’Argent,” she said. “You may call me Lady Chanson.”
Aelfled inclined her head. “I am Aelfled. This is my grandmother, Bernia.”
“This I know. Now if you will lie down, I will examine your stitches, clean your injury, and replace the bandage.”
“I thank you and your niece for the care given us.” Aelfled glanced at the younger woman who stood at the foot of the bed. “We—”
“Do you prefer to remain seated?” the lady spoke over her.
No comfort the dagger, Aelfled reminded herself of what Cyr had told, then eased down the pillow.
“Nicola.” Lady Chanson motioned her forward, and the young woman came around the bed, set a bag atop the coverlet, and opened it.
Shortly, Lady Chanson pronounced her stitches strong and well worked and predicted the scar would heal well enough it need not be hidden behind hair. After securing a clean bandage over it, she said, “We are done.”
Aelfled sat up quickly, grimaced over the discomfort. “Lady Chanson?”
“Oui?”
“I am sorry for the loss of your husband and any pain caused by the return of his dagger.”
Her mouth tightened, and Aelfled was certain she would be rebuked, but then the lady’s pale pink lips eased. “I loved him more than I should have and miss him more than I ought to,” she said. “I know you meant well, and I am grateful you sought to ease my loss. Now I must attend to one of my nephew’s men whom I do all I can to ensure he does not lose a leg.”
“A leg?” Aelfled exclaimed. “I understood injuries gained at Lillefarne were minor on both sides.”
“Those were, but not the one dealt this day by rebels when my nephew’s men were en route to Stern to return the body of a man-at-arms found in the wood near the abbey.”
Aelfled caught her breath.
The lady inclined her head. “His death comes as no surprise, but my nephew is…” She sighed. “It is good he knows not which of his prisoners is responsible. Although if he determines to punish all…”
Sigward, Aelfled silently named the one Cyr told had taken a terrible beating from Vitalis whom he believed had feelings for her. Though years ago Aelfled had been unable to hide from Isa her infatuation with Vitalis, and her lady had teased that if a
nother maid as dear and adept could be found she would arrange a marriage, never had the warrior shown interest in his lady’s maid. It was other women of the household upon whom he bestowed attentions he could not cast at the wed Isa.
Wrenching her thoughts back from a place they did not belong in this moment, Aelfled said, “You think the Baron of Stern will punish all, Lady Chanson?”
She shrugged. “There was a time I would have been confident he would since he learned well his lessons from my husband. But now, with that priest at his side, I am not as certain.”
What priest? Aelfled wondered.
“But one never knows when the dark of a soul might venture forth again.”
Merciless Cyr, Aelfled silently named him as Campagnon had done at Senlac.
“I will return ere the supper hour,” the lady said and gestured for Nicola to follow.
When they were alone again, Bernia said, “Know you who killed the man-at-arms outside Lillefarne?”
Aelfled hesitated, said, “Vitalis told it was Sigward.”
Bernia made a sound of disgust. “That worm rot upon an apple’s backside,” she muttered. “It is good it is him.”
“Good?”
“As Cyr of the silver told, that miscreant was beaten well. If one must be handed up, better he who dealt the offense. Now another question. Did you speak true that you know naught of the missing D’Argent?”
“I do not know if Guarin D’Argent is alive and where he might be found, but neither am I entirely ignorant of him.” Aelfled told her what Isa had said at Senlac that evidenced her encounter with a D’Argent, then of the dagger found in the passage that was in Mary Sarah’s possession.
“If naught else,” Aelfled said, “I believe Isa knows what became of Guarin D’Argent. And it seems likely Vitalis as well.”
“Isa,” Bernia said. “I do not—could not—wish her venom cured by death, but if its pall falls upon her, taking the last of the family of Wulfrith, better done now.”
The last… “You ought not speak such, Grandmother.”
“Be assured, I pray for her, though more for her heart than body.” Bernia slid a seeking hand across the coverlet between them.
