by Tamara Leigh
He nodded, then turned to his cousin who continued to stare at her brother outside the wall. “Go with Aelfled to the bailey, Nicola. There you shall be reunited with Guarin.”
She turned moist eyes on him, then gripped the hand Aelfled offered and followed her sister-in-law down the wall walk.
“We are in agreement,” she heard the chevalier call. “Prepare to trade your captive for ours.”
She who was no longer Cyr’s captive was met by Father Fulbert as she came off the steps.
“Nicola,” he said. “I must speak with Lady Aelfled.”
The young woman’s face was all confusion, but she continued toward the portcullis.
“Father?” Aelfled prompted.
“Methinks you do this not only to see your people freed but that a beloved brother be recovered ere the chance of saving him is lost. Thus, I believe I speak true in saying how difficult a thing it would be for Cyr to do were he here. You care much for your Norman husband, aye?”
“I do.”
“May I pray for you?”
“I beseech it. Since Senlac…” She shrugged. “’Tis as if my voice is too small to reach the Lord’s ear.”
“No voice is too small, Child.” He raised his hands, and when she set hers in his, bowed his head. “The Lord be with you. The Lord embrace you. The Lord comfort you. The Lord return you to your family. The Lord give peace to you and yours, Aelfled D'Argent. Amen.”
That was all, and yet so sincere was his beseeching that no more seemed needed.
When he released her hands, she opened her eyes and saw Sir Maël bounding down the steps. “Will you tell my grandmother what has happened and I shall return as soon as possible, Father?” Pray, let me not be long gone from her, she silently beseeched.
“I shall tell her, my lady.”
The exchange happened quickly, the bound Saxons marched from the paddocks under guard of chevaliers and men-at-arms and assembled before the portcullis two abreast. When Cyr’s cousin placed Aelfled behind the rebels, Nicola hastened to her.
“What do you?” she demanded of Sir Maël, confirmation she had been too emotional to understand the bargain was altered.
“What must be done to return your brother to you, Nicola. You want that, do you not?”
“Of course, but—”
“Neither do I like this, but it is done. Now stand aside.”
Nicola turned stricken eyes upon Aelfled, started to speak, then hastened away.
As clattering chains announced the raising of the portcullis, Aelfled said, “Pray, Sir Maël, tell Cyr I shall return to him.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I believe he will himself retrieve you, my lady. And should he require it, I will aid him.”
Words that did not sound mocking nor falsely confident helped Aelfled to place one foot in front of the other when the rebels were ordered forward.
The armed Normans stayed close as their captives passed beneath the portcullis and over the drawbridge. Once on firm ground, the rebels were commanded to halt, and the king’s men sliced the ropes binding their hands. Then the mounted Guarin D’Argent was led forward by hooded men on either side.
As the two parties passed, Cyr’s brother, gripping the saddle’s pommel, turned his face toward the rebels for whom he was being traded.
Did he recognize any? Likely, considering how long he was held captive.
Aelfled stumbled when eyes like Cyr’s in shape and color passed over her and immediately swept back. Just as she had not known he was the rebels’ captive, she had never met him, but there seemed recognition there. Though he was surely on the verge of collapse, he was alert enough to have attended to the negotiation that saw the ranks of captive rebels swell with the addition of a woman.
Had he heard of her? Did he know of the aid given the rebels during her stay at Lillefarne? When she returned to her husband—and she had to believe she would—might Guarin D’Argent be so bitter he would try to turn Cyr against his wife? And if he did…
He will return to Normandy, she assured herself as he passed. Happily, he will leave behind a land and people he must detest and a brother who wed a Saxon commoner of no benefit to him.
As hooves on the drawbridge sounded, Aelfled peered over her shoulder and saw the eldest D’Argent cross it alone, his rebel escort having turned back. Striding toward him was his cousin, beyond him Nicola whose eyes were all for her beloved brother.
“Mount up!” Vitalis commanded his men who immediately set themselves at the spare horses that would carry two riders each, then his eyes landed on Aelfled. “Come!”
She hitched up her skirt and hastened to him. “Why me?” she asked as he settled her on the fore of his saddle.
“Still she has a care for you,” he said.
That she need no longer have, Aelfled reflected and was tempted to reveal to Vitalis she was wed to the man Isa feared would harm her, but he would deliver her as commanded.
She looked to the fortress and beyond the lowering portcullis saw the injured D’Argent being lifted down and his sister anxiously peering around the men who would convey Guarin to the donjon.
“Fear not,” Vitalis said, “you are free of them.”
As she did not wish to be, but better he believe it so no guard was placed on her to prevent her from returning to Cyr.
“You ought know Dotter does not hold you responsible for what happened at Lillefarne,” he said as he turned his horse aside.
As thought, it was Isa to whom Vitalis had gone with tale of Sigward’s betrayal, and the men who accompanied him to Stern were her housecarles. “I am glad,” she said.
“Vitalis!” a shrill voice sounded, causing those departing to look around.
Nicola was on this side of the wall, and ducking beneath the portcullis were two men-at-arms who sought to drag her back inside. “If he dies, Saxon pig,” she called, “I will kill you!”
“Methinks I would like to see the silvery-haired termagant try,” he murmured, then chuckled softly when the young woman yelped as she was swept off her feet and carried back across the drawbridge.
Aelfled met Vitalis’s gaze over her shoulder. “Will her brother die?”
His slight smile disappeared. “He was badly beaten, and not by me, but Guarin D'Argent is strong. I believe he will live."
He spoke as if he knew him well. But then, likely it was amongst the rebels Cyr’s brother had been imprisoned all this time.
“Ride!” Vitalis commanded.
Aelfled turned forward and wished the back against which she settled and the arm around her waist were another’s.
Chapter Thirty-Five
A wife lost. A brother found.
The price for the latter ought not seem so high, but in his hands Cyr felt emptiness despite the dig of nails that would draw blood were his palms not so calloused by weapons—weapons to be wielded eagerly once assurance was given Guarin would not expire in the space between Cyr once more departing Stern and returning with Aelfled.
“My brother will live?” he asked of the two women who had paused in tending him.
Chanson straightened, turned to Cyr where he stood just over the threshold. “He is badly beaten, but providing there is no serious internal bleeding, I believe he shall fight at your side again.”
“Is it not wondrous?” Nicola exclaimed where she sat beside her eldest brother, in her hand a damp cloth with which she had been swabbing his neck and shoulders. “He is returned to us!”
No better tidings could Maël have delivered the moment Cyr swung out of the saddle. And the only tidings worse than that Cyr would not hold his wife this night was if the sacrifice of Aelfled proved for naught—if Guarin died.
It was good Father Fulbert had been present during the telling of what had transpired. Holding Aelfled’s psalter between whose pages was tucked the ring evidencing they were bound for life, Cyr had nearly forgotten the blessing of his brother’s return as he stared at his cousin who claimed he had no choice but to yield Aelfled a
paltry half hour earlier.
The priest had snatched hold of Cyr’s arm, and with ferocity few would guess a man of God possessed, kept the fist from Maël’s face. “He speaks true,” Fulbert had entreated. “As you will see the same as did he and your wife, in that moment Guarin was of greatest import.”
He did see, though hardly recognizable was his brother propped on pillows on the bed Aelfled had occupied during her recovery. Not because Guarin’s short, cropped hair was long, unkempt, and more silvered than two years past. Not because his body had wasted to skin and bones, for it had not. Because of bruises, cuts, and swellings visible on face, neck, and chest. Doubtless, his lower body was similarly abused. The bargain made had required Guarin be alive and well. He was alive, but not well.
“I will kill Vitalis,” Cyr snarled.
He did not realize how loud he spoke until Nicola said, “If you do not, I will.”
As Chanson motioned them to silence, a low groan sounded from the large figure on the bed, then with eyes closed, Guarin said, “Beware Vitalis.”
“I will kill him,” Cyr repeated as he strode forward. “He shall pay for every—”
“It was not him.” Guarin lifted his lids only enough for the light within the chamber to reflect in eyes that appeared as black as pitch though of all the D’Argents his were the brightest green. “He did not do this.”
“Not Vitalis?” Nicola gasped. “Truly?”
Cyr stepped into the place yielded by Chanson and bent near. “It matters not if it was done by his hand or he ordered another.”
“Not by his orders.” Guarin swallowed loud and dry.
Nicola on his other side snatched up a cup, and Cyr took it from her and set its rim to his brother’s lips. “Drink.”
He gulped, and when he had taken the last drop, Cyr instructed Nicola to refill it.
Having reined in his anger, he returned his regard to Guarin, and finding himself watched, said, “God’s sweet mercy, I am glad you are returned to us. We feared you dead.”
“Far from it, though had Vitalis not…” He groaned as if sharp pain tore through him.
When the tension in his face eased and he settled more deeply into the pillows, Cyr said, “If you can, tell me what I ought know about the knave as quickly as possible, for I must pursue him whilst there is yet light.”
“He is a knave,” Guarin breathed, “but he is not the dangerous one. Rather, not as dangerous as…Jaxon.”
“Jaxon?”
“The first in command ahead of Vitalis. I believe it was he who ordered the deaths of the Norman family passing over Wulfenshire.”
“He answers to Dotter?”
A hesitation, then, “Oui, but only if he determines Gytha would approve. If he thinks not, he answers to himself.”
“You speak of King Harold’s mother?”
A slight nod. “She remains determined to return her family to power.”
Unsurprised the wily old woman’s reach extended into Wulfenshire, Cyr said, “Continue if you can.”
“Long Jaxon has wished me dead, but ever Dotter and Vitalis stay his hand.”
“For what if not ransom, a demand for which we never received?”
Something passed over Guarin’s face that did not match his words. “I cannot say.”
He could not? Or did not wish to? There being no time to pursue the matter, Cyr said, “What else can you tell?”
“Jaxon seeks to come out from under the watch of Vitalis that Dotter sets over him, even if it means turning on her and sacrificing the lives of rebels.”
“Lillefarne,” Cyr said. “You heard Vitalis and his men were captured there?”
“Oui, and I saw the look on Jaxon’s face that told he was not displeased. I am guessing it was his man, Sigward, who set all in motion.”
“You guess right.”
“Thus, he turned on Dotter, and sure of his success set to ridding himself of me. But no swift death, though I nearly wished it these past days when he and his supporters beat a chained man unable to defend himself.” He nodded. “As told, Vitalis did not do this. Had he—” His face spasmed and he coughed with such force it ended on a shout of pain.
“Enough, Cyr.” Chanson gripped his arm, and a glance at Nicola revealed fear all about her. “Your brother must—”
“Non,” Guarin said. “I covet sleep, but when I awaken it may be too late.” He set his gaze fast upon Cyr. “Had Vitalis not stolen into the camp and brought me out, this eve would have been my last.”
“You are not saying he is your friend?” Cyr unleashed incredulity.
“Non, but neither is he the murderer Jaxon is. Vitalis has a reason for what he does that I would act on were I in his place.”
“And Dotter?”
“I believe her actions more justified than William’s in gaining England’s crown.”
“You have met her?”
Guarin inclined his head.
“You know whose face she hides behind?”
This time no response as if… “Do you protect your captor, Guarin?” When still he did not answer, Cyr said, “You know the woman who was traded for you is Lady Hawisa’s maid?”
Guarin breathed deep, groaned as if pained by pressure on bruised or broken ribs. “I know.”
“On the day past, I wed her.” As surprise bloomed on his brother’s face, Cyr continued, “She is Lady Aelfled D’Argent.”
“I did not know. And I am guessing neither did Vitalis.”
“Where would he take her?”
“Not the camp from which he freed me.”
“Where?”
He shook his head. “Methinks he will not harm her.”
“Where, Guarin?” Cyr said sharply.
“You care for your Saxon wife?”
“I do, though I would have done the same as Maël to safely deliver you inside these walls. When there is time, I shall tell you how we came to be. Suffice to say, I want her back.”
Guarin momentarily closed his eyes. “As you have guessed, Lady Hawisa is Dotter, and I believe she tasked Vitalis with retrieving her maid, but not to do her ill. As the lady does not know you, nor that Aelfled now has the protection of your name and position, she must fear for her.”
“Then it is from Wulfen Castle I ought to retrieve my wife.”
“I believe so, but be of great care, Brother.” His lids lowered. “I would guess Jaxon and his men destined there seeking Vitalis who they likely believe stole me from them.”
Cyr gripped a hand over Guarin’s atop the coverlet, once more sent thanks heavenward he lived and the guilt twisting Cyr’s insides since first his brother was lost might finally find some ease. “Ere I ride on Wulfen, I shall send word to Theriot and Dougray at Balduc you are returned to us. Rest well.” He straightened from the bed, looked from Chanson to Nicola, and crossed to the door.
“I want your word!” his brother croaked.
Cyr turned. “Anything.”
“Whatever happens, keep the Lady of Wulfen safe, whether it be her own come against her or ours.”
What had transpired between them? Cyr wondered, but that tale must save as well. “I shall do all I can.” Seeing no reason to clarify Aelfled's safety was of greatest import, he said, “We will speak more later.” He exited and, gripping the leather pouch on his belt into which he had placed his wife’s psalter and ring, went directly to the stables where his men waited with fresh mounts.
In the soft oranges and greys of a day moving toward night, he dropped his weary body into the saddle and, flanked by his men, spurred toward Wulfen Castle.
Wulfen Castle
England
“Certes, we have come too late,” Vitalis rasped.
Aelfled’s heart sank further as, the same as the others in the wood this side of Wulfen Castle, she watched the forces slip from the trees opposite. Were they not all the rebels upon Wulfenshire, then nearly so.
One score. Two. Three. Now four. Perhaps as many as five.
For fear o
f this, Vitalis had taken his men to the trees well before the final approach and watched as three riders before the raised drawbridge requested entrance. The answer was long in coming, during which torches were lit on the walls, and when the visitors withdrew, it was to the wood.
Afterward, Isa’s housecarles had encouraged Vitalis to ride forth, but he had suspected the men turned away were rebels and had not come alone. Now his patience was rewarded as he would not wish it to be.
Though Vitalis’s ranks were thirty strong and ten amongst them were housecarles, against more than eighty it could prove a slaughter, the rebels of Wulfenshire being no ordinary disaffected Saxons capable of little more than swinging scythes, rakes, and sticks. They had been trained in the ways of Wulfrith, and those who this eve might seek to cleave Vitalis’s head owed much to the deadly skills imparted by this very man.
Once more aware of the pad of her thumb sliding across the base of her finger, finding absence that ought to be more familiar than a ring worn only one day into the next, Aelfled peered across her shoulder. “What do they intend, Vitalis?”
“As Lady Hawisa has refused them entrance, I believe they will go over the wall.”
“For what?”
“This day, all comes to a head, the taking of the wolf having made—”
“The wolf?”
A slight smile stretched his mouth. “It is as Guarin D’Argent is known amongst the rebels though much it offends our lady.”
Of course it did, though surely the Norman was named that in jest.
“The taking of him has made us the enemies of Jaxon and those rebels who lean more toward him than me,” Vitalis continued. “As for those caught in between, many of whom I believe would side with me given the opportunity, I fear they are trapped on the side of Jaxon. Thus, with so great a force, he seeks to take our lady’s place.”
Aelfled gasped. “She is their leader!”
“No longer. Even did they not suspect she sent me to free Cyr D’Argent’s brother, many would be rid of her.”
“But this—Wulfen-trained rebels—all began with her.”
