by Tamara Leigh
“Unlike yours.”
He smiled. “As told, I met Father Fulbert on pilgrimage, and he has been my dear companion, confessor, and conscience since. Of Saxon and Norman blood, he instructed me in your language lest my destiny prove that of an English rather than Norman lord.”
“Spoken English only?”
“Written as well, mostly taught by way of…” His brow rippled. “I have something for you.” He eased her onto her side, and as she snatched the sheet over her bared body, rose.
A flush heating her head to toe, she watched him move to the trunk at the foot of the bed and raise the lid that stole from sight all beneath his upper chest.
He bent, paused to looked at her, grinned. “If my lack of modesty makes you uncomfortable, Wife, you could look elsewhere, though I vow I will not look elsewhere do you come out from beneath your sheet. What too little light denied me on our wedding night, daylight will allow me to know and enjoy in full.”
She warmed further, too late averted her gaze.
He chuckled, and she heard him rifle through the trunk. Shortly, he returned. “This,” he said.
She chanced a look at him, was grateful he had donned a robe—and jolted by what he held. She gasped and, gripping the sheet to her chest, sat up and reached to that which he told he would return to her the first day he had come to Lillefarne.
Before she could close a hand around the binding, she faltered, then drew back. She knew to expect evidence of Wulf’s blood on the cover, but though much lightened, the stain slapped her back to that chill morn when she had cradled Isa’s boy in her lap and mourned the numbered heartbeats of an unfinished life.
“I am sorry,” Cyr said. “In anticipation of returning this, I had the cover cleaned, but the stain could not be entirely removed.”
Of course he had shown such consideration. Lord, she silently entreated, how could I not love this man? I do. Truly, I do.
She breathed deep, scooted forward, and took the psalter. “This aided in learning our written language?”
He hesitated, said, “Father Fulbert began my instruction by writing words in the dirt and progressed to these pages. But more than teaching me to read and write English, it provided prayer and guidance to aid in governing my new people as you suggested.”
“I am pleased but also ashamed.”
“Why?”
“Though that day I believed you more in need of prayer and guidance, whilst you found your way, I lost mine. For that, the abbess would not allow me to give my life to the Church.”
He drew the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “I cannot bemoan that. Tell me that if ever you did, you do not now.”
“I do not now.”
He bent and kissed her mouth open. When he drew back, it was to turn an ear to the din of the risen household beyond the curtains. “Soon it shall be time to break our fast. I am thinking you prefer we do so here.”
“I would like that.”
He strode to the curtains, exited, and returned moments later. “It shall be done,” he said and lowered beside her. “Now you, Aelfled.”
“Me?”
“I have told of my guilt. I would know of that weighing upon you—Wulf.”
“Oh.”
“If you can,” he added.
Could she? He ought to know, even if only to better understand lies told to protect her lady. “I can.” She passed the psalter to him, and when he set it on the bedside table said, “You must understand that though Lady Hawisa wed for alliance, she grew fond of her husband. When he was killed at Stamford Bridge after sending Wulf and her south, unaware he sent them into the teeth of a greater battle, she grieved.” She shook her head. “So tired and dispirited was she that all grew concerned. And as Wulf made it worse with his anger over the loss of his sire, I entreated my lady to give him into my keeping so she might rest. Now much to her regret, she agreed.”
When Cyr closed a hand over hers on the mattress, she realized she had made it into a fist. Opening it, she turned it up and gripped his fingers.
“When we learned your duke had landed nearby with a mighty army,” she continued, “I was more vigilant, though the Penderys with whom we stayed were Normans and assured us we had naught to fear from their fellow countrymen. However, the danger did not come from without. I did not know my charge’s mind—that though he could not touch those who slew his father, he plotted vengeance against the new invaders. Under pretense of play, he gathered village boys to his side. Though I followed wherever they went on the demesne, given his word he would behave I kept my distance so as not to embarrass him. On the day of the battle, I fell prey to trickery. Wulf and his friends entered the stables, and for an hour I waited outside as done each day, certain they played games of dice in the loft. When still they did not come out nor answer when I called, I entered. Except for the restlessness of horses, it was quiet, and soon I verified the boys had stolen away.”
Momentarily, she closed her eyes and took comfort in the hand holding hers. “Much time I wasted looking for them, certain they were near. When I could not find them, I went to Hawisa—Isa as I was yet permitted to call her—and confessed my failing. As she was aware the battle between Saxons and Normans had commenced that morn near Hastings, and it was reported three horses were missing, she guessed her son and his friends had gone seeking vengeance against the invaders. With dusk approaching and without assembling an escort, she and I followed. As we neared Senlac, we happened on fleeing Saxons who told King Harold was dead. Though we were able to question only a few, I thought I would die when one reported having seen boys on the battlefield.” Eyes moist, Aelfled met Cyr’s gaze. “As you know, we came too late. The innocents Wulf persuaded to join him were slain and him nearly so. Thus, it is not the death of one boy on my conscience. It is five.”
He pushed a tress off her brow, tucked it behind her ear. “You were deceived.”
“That does not absolve one who assured her lady she would allow no harm to befall her son.”
“You could not have known the lengths to which Wulf would go.”
“It is true I did not know him capable of such, but my ignorance cost my lady her son.”
“And Lady Hawisa’s ignorance,” he said firmly. “She who ought to have known him better than you should have entrusted his care to warriors. Does she know how he deceived you?”
Aelfled shook her head. “My grandmother believes I should tell her, but of what use? It would not bring him back and could tarnish the character of a well-loved son.”
“Still she ought to know. And even if she will not forgive you, you must forgive yourself.”
She smiled sorrowfully. “As you have forgiven yourself?”
He inclined his head. “And as I continue to do every day. Though I remain burdened by knowledge I could have felled those boys the same as my uncle—and may ever be burdened, which is not a bad thing for one who wields a blade—much peace I find in daily prayer for forgiveness. I want that for you, Aelfled.”
Throat so tight it ached, she whispered, “Will you help me find it?”
“For better, for worse,” he reminded her of their vows spoken on the day past. “Whatever you need, I will give you.”
A sob escaped, and he held her close until she settled and said, “When first you came to me at Lillefarne, I told I did not pray for you.”
He drew back. “A lie?”
“Not entirely. Though I resisted your attempts to intrude on my time with the Lord, at times you were so persistent I could quiet you only by keeping my word to pray for you.”
He kissed her brow. “Those prayers were heard, my lady. And answered.”
She smiled, and as she started to tuck herself into him, a woman’s voice called from beyond the curtains, “My lord, I bring your meal.”
Cyr pulled away, rose, and turned the coverlet over his wife. “Enter!”
The servant shouldered open the curtains, with eyes lowered crossed the solar and set a tray on the bedside table. She gla
nced at Aelfled, next her lord, then curtsied and hastened away.
Side by side, they ate mostly in silence, and though comforted by Cyr’s assurance he would help her find peace and forgiveness, Aelfled was grateful they did not return to that discussion.
Cyr drained his cup and set it aside. “Would that I could remain abed with you all day, Wife.”
Aelfled finished chewing a slice of crisp apple. “Why can you not?”
“There were three momentous events on the day past, one of which was our marriage.”
She smiled. “The other two?”
“A means of removing Campagnon from Balduc and—”
“How?” she exclaimed.
“Dougray obtained a confession from Merle that his lord ordered the hay upon Stern put to flame.”
She knew the name, recalled the face. “He was with Campagnon at Senlac.” She nodded. “When I arrived at Stern, I recognized him in the paddock opposite the Saxons. Do you think he speaks true?”
“I am not certain. It is possible he acted on his own. However, I cannot pass on the opportunity to be rid of Campagnon, especially as under such circumstances the king is likely to approve and be eager to himself confirm the truth of it. Thus, this day I ride to Balduc to remove Campagnon, set him on the road to William, and install Theriot as castellan.”
“I am glad he is leaving. All know him to be of wicked bent,” Aelfled said. “Now what of the third momentous event?”
“It is possible I am near to retrieving my brother.”
She sat straighter. “How?”
His gaze sharpened as if to ensure her reaction to his words did not escape him. “I sent word to the rebels I wish to strike a bargain, that I shall release to them all my Saxon captives if they release to me one man.”
“Guarin.”
He inclined his head. “Only if he lives, in which case, never will they have better cause to return him.”
“I pray they do.”
“And I pray Vitalis does not fail me.”
She frowned. “Vitalis bears your message?”
“He does.”
“But he is—”
“The most valuable and loyal of those taken at Lillefarne. For that, I believe he has the power to make good the trade, even if he must act against his own to ensure his men are freed.”
“What do you mean—act against his own?”
“I think there dissension in their ranks, Aelfled.”
She held her tongue a long moment, said, “I fear the same.”
Cyr’s smile was slight. “If not that it could make it more difficult to gain Guarin’s release, I would think it a good thing since it lends itself well to disbanding them, internal fighting having destroyed many a good—and bad—cause.”
“When do you expect the rebels to give answer?”
“I do not think this day, but possibly the morrow—all the more reason to finish with Campagnon so I am present to receive Vitalis.”
Once more, he stood from the bed. “Now I must prepare to depart for Balduc.”
Guessing he had watched her closely as much for her response to the dissension as to Vitalis, she said, “Cyr, as not told, once I had a care for Vitalis. As told, naught came of it.” She felt herself flush. “And now I am glad.”
He leaned down and kissed her.
“We will be happy, will we not?” she asked when he drew back.
“Will be? In this moment, I am happier than ever I expected with my choice of bride. And that happiness shall be nearly complete do I restore Guarin as my sire’s heir.”
He will come to love me as I love him, she assured herself as she laid back. “Be of good care, Husband, so sooner you return to me.”
A quarter hour later, he told her he would hold her again come night and departed. But no rest was she allowed following her wedding night, Bernia led by Nicola entering after the closing of the great doors sounded from beyond the curtains.
Aelfled should not have been surprised the women did not come merely seeking assurance that Cyr’s bride had weathered her wedding night, but their talk of hanging out the sheets to prove she had been a maiden discomfited. The evidence was present, and Nicola’s pronouncement that none could dispute Aelfled’s virtue was gifted her husband had the bride pleading they do what must be done and speak no more of it.
They complied, but when later Aelfled stepped from the solar wearing a pale grey gown with her psalter on its girdle, she knew from the looks castle folk and soldiers cast her way—some understanding and approving, others sly and knowing—the matter remained under discussion.
There was naught to be done, and so she turned her thoughts to other things, above all becoming the lady Cyr D’Argent had made her.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Castle Balduc
England
I am glad to have your company, Dougray.”
Having slowed his mount alongside Cyr’s on the final approach to Balduc, Dougray looked to his older brother, then Theriot beyond. “Woe to me should I miss the opportunity to see Campagnon bound over the back of a horse.”
“That I would also like to see,” Cyr said, “but unless he turns violent, he must be afforded a measure of respect since it is for William to determine his culpability.”
“Then let us hope he turns exceedingly violent.”
Fulbert would not approve, but neither would Cyr mind if his castellan took extreme measures to resist being unseated. But it was not only that hope which incited Dougray to join the ride to Balduc. As revealed by Maël who was left in command of Stern, it was with Dougray’s aid Merle’s confession was gained—and only after a beating, though well-deserved, Maël told.
Whilst being questioned over Campagnon’s involvement in the plot to burn Stern’s hay, Merle had begun taunting Dougray over the interest shown his lord’s slave. And when Dougray rose to it, the fool went further, claiming Campagnon used Em as a reward for men who served him well, and many a night and day he had enjoyed her.
That had begun the beating that required Maël and his men to intercede. But no sooner was Dougray sufficiently calmed to be released than Merle boasted the whore was worth every tooth and claw, bite and scratch.
It was more difficult to pull Dougray off the second time, and then only after Merle sustained broken ribs, teeth, and wrist—and turned fearful as he should have sooner.
Maël had used the moment to good advantage, stating a signed confession would put the greatest distance between Merle and the man who would kill him first and worry second on what King William thought of the slaughter of a fellow Norman. Thus, by questionable—albeit satisfactory—means, a signed confession was gained.
To Cyr’s surprise, when next Dougray spoke, he revealed what surely he did not wish to. “What happens to…” He made a face. “I forget her name. What shall become of Campagnon’s slave when he is sent to the king?”
With reluctance, Cyr confirmed what his brother had to know. “As his property, I think she must accompany him.”
“Did he not face the charge of treason, oui,” Dougray said. “But under such circumstances, dare he take her with him? William sets no store in slavery—indeed, looks ill upon the practice.”
“In Normandy, Brother. Though I believe he will abolish it in England, at this time, the share he earns from the trade is a good source of revenue with which to stitch back together a country torn by war and rebellion.”
Dougray turned thoughtful, finally said, “If William accepts Merle’s confession as truth, what will become of…the slave?”
“Unfortunately, I do not believe Campagnon will suffer much. Should William accept Merle’s confession, I trust I shall be rid of the knave entirely, but likely he will return to the work of a mercenary. If he remains in England, he may keep Em—that is her name, Dougray.” As well he knew. “If he returns to Normandy, he will have to sell her.”
“Like an animal,” Dougray growled.
“I like it no more than you. Thus, should you cont
rive a means of rescuing her without risking recourse for theft, you can be assured of my aid.”
Dougray’s chin came around, and there was light in his eyes and a curve to his lips that could not be attributed to bitterness nor scorn. However, immediately he shifted his regard to the fortress and shrugged. “It would be the godly thing to do—free her and send her on her way. I shall think on it.”
“A rider approaches!” Theriot announced.
As that one came off the drawbridge and headed toward them at good speed, Cyr and his entourage urged their mounts to a gallop and moments later met one of those Cyr had set to keep watch over Campagnon.
“You could not have come at a better time, my lord,” the man-at-arms said.
“What has happened?”
“Not a quarter hour past, a great commotion arose in the hall.”
“The cause?”
“I have yet to learn, my lord. Myself and two others were commanded to secure the outer bailey whilst the rest of your men put finish to whatever goes.”
Cyr urged his horse forward and, upon entering the bailey, gave command of the garrison to Theriot and a dozen warriors.
Shortly, with Dougray striding alongside, chevaliers and men-at-arms at their backs, swords drawn, Cyr entered the hall and found Campagnon at the center of what remained of a disturbance put down by soldiers who stood with weapons drawn before the dais.
As the men acknowledged the arrival of their baron with grim mouths and curt nods, Balduc’s former castellan shouted at the woman who stood before the chair in which he was seated, “Be done with it, wench! I have prey to take to ground!”
“What is this, Campagnon?” Cyr demanded.
The man jerked so hard his chair jumped back a space, snapped his head to the side to look to the one advancing on him, then knocked aside the servant to reveal a bared and bloodied shoulder crudely stitched closed. “What this is,” he snarled, “is what happens when a Saxon—and a slave at that—knows not her place. But be assured, I shall teach it to her when I have her hair in one fist, her throat in the other.”
