by Tamara Leigh
She halted, as did Isa who turned and raised an eyebrow.
“When you said beyond, you spoke of the wood,” Aelfled said.
“I did. Construction began after Duke William crowned himself king of England. It has been work without cease with several lives lost to collapse, but ever it resumes for such a time as this. Though often these past months we have thought we were close to breaking through into the wood, it has been one disappointment after another. Then on the day past, as I was resolved to once more being abandoned by the Lord, word came of how near we were, and once more I let myself believe it possible. This day at noon, my men broke through not far from the great waterfall.” Her mouth curved. “If we must flee, this is the way out, Aelfled—be it to escape Jaxon’s grasp this day or the usurper’s another day.”
“But where would you go, my lady? And are you well enough for the journey?”
Though Isa shrugged a shoulder, Aelfled knew it was not a gesture of uncertainty. She had told all she wished to tell.
Aelfled glanced past her to where light did not reach, likely from a turn in the passage. “You said there is a risk in taking the castle folk from Wulfen.”
“Aye, as there is no time to reinforce the most recently mined walls, the greatest risk is panic should we have insufficient time to flee. Thus, I must decide soon, not only that we may proceed cautiously to prevent the passage from collapsing, but to ensure it does fail once we are through should it be discovered and we are pursued.” She put her head to the side. “What think you I should do?”
Vitalis’s thirty against as many as one hundred… “I think you must leave Wulfen until certain of the outcome, my lady. If your man wins the night, on the morrow you can return.”
Isa nodded. “The thought of retreat sours my belly, but I believe it the best course for those owed my protection. Come, we must prepare.” She advanced, and Aelfled stepped against the wall to allow her past in the narrow confines. Almost immediately her lady came back around and Aelfled nearly trod on her feet. “What have you not told me?” she asked with the confidence of one who could well guess the answer if she did not already know it.
Aelfled longed to lie, but as it was now only the two of them, it was easier to speak the truth though it might earn her the back of a hand never before dealt. “I am wed, my lady.”
Isa startled, evidence she had not guessed as far as that.
“I am now Aelfled D’Argent.”
Another startle though slighter. “Cyr D’Argent,” her lady rasped, then gave a sharp laugh. “You are not merely Aelfled D’Argent. You are Lady Aelfled D’Argent. In William’s England, you are now more titled than I.”
Wondering how Isa could appear so calm, Aelfled said, “I am, though it seems a gown too wide and long for my body, as if never will I keep it on my shoulders and ever I shall be soiling its hem.”
“Norman wed,” Isa said, “the children you birth Norman-bred.”
Aelfled lifted her chin. “And Saxon, equal both sides.”
“I ought to hate you,” her lady said without venom.
“I pray you do not.”
“Were you forced to speak vows?”
“Nay, my lady. I care for him as I think I have since the day…”
“My son died,” Isa finished what Aelfled should not have begun, eyes and lashes suddenly bright with moisture.
Aelfled touched her arm. “As Cyr proved upon Senlac, he is a good man, not just a good Norman. Honorable.”
Isa closed her eyes. “The D’Argents are different,” she said, and Aelfled longed to ask how the eldest brother had become her lady’s captive and how well she had come to know him. But before she chanced it, Isa muttered, “We are fools, women all.”
Meaning she counted herself such? If so, was it in regard to her husband or…?
Nay, impossible.
Aelfled moved her thoughts back to Roger Fortier. From all she had witnessed, theirs had been a fairly good marriage though much Isa resented the power wielded by the Norman she grudgingly wed. Other than forbidding her a role beyond advisor in the administration of her family’s holdings, he had been good to her and rarely raised his voice when she defied him or argued over what she believed the best course for Wulfen and those whose training was entrusted to them. Even her husband’s dislike—and disparagement—of Saxons had lessened the longer he was gravely a minority amongst them. There may not have been love between the two, but affection enough that neither had been miserable.
A snort of disgust returned Aelfled to the underground. “Make haste,” Isa said and led the way to the solar. There she received tidings of the state of Wulfen upon which she based the decision to risk the passage if the inner bailey could not be held.
After issuing orders to prepare the castle folk for departure, she sent a housecarle outside the donjon to instruct those defending it to retreat the moment it was determined it was lost. Those men would be set amongst the castle folk to ensure a cautious, orderly passage through the underground, housecarles bringing up the rear to defend their backs if necessary.
As Aelfled distributed to men, women, and children packs of provisions sufficient for five days in the wood, someone touched her arm. She turned to the young woman who had stood alongside Wulf in the solar and gasped at the direct gaze of greater note than the bruises and abrasions across her pretty face.
Her eyes were otherworldly, so much it surprised she had reached adulthood amid the superstitious. But there was something more disturbing about them. They were harder—or might it be better said near hollow?—than Aelfled had seen a woman’s, even Isa’s upon losing Wulf and vowing vengeance against the Normans. If not for slivers of what seemed fear and sorrow, one might name them inhuman.
What had she lost? And was it possible to recover from something so terrible? Surely not in the absence of faith.
“I am Em,” she said. “I am to aid you.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Though many of those engaged in hand-to-hand combat had seemed unaware of the approach of mounted warriors amid the din of steel on steel, bellowing, grunting, and cursing, some of the combatants had begun to fall apart when the Normans entered the fray. Amongst these, Cyr and his men first rode, striking at those whose arms did not bear the pale strips of material and shouting the battle cry that caused Vitalis’s men to falter over aid given by one who had imprisoned all but the housecarles who had accompanied their leader to Stern to make the trade.
As upon Senlac, the use of mounted warriors proved as great an advantage as had William’s numerous archers, and though some rebels boldly turned their efforts to hewing down the great beasts, others scattered. Even so, they were not easily taken to ground, further evidence of the excellence of training afforded men born to the soil. For this, King William had wished Wulfen to remain active in training warriors to defend England—his England.
Over and again, the battle cry of unity with rebels of the pale was loosed, and Cyr hoped Vitalis heard, understood, and embraced what they did—that even if only this night Normans and rebels united to defeat a common enemy.
So great an impact had Cyr and his men and those of Vitalis that when Jaxon’s rebels who went over the wall gained control of the gatehouse and lowered the drawbridge, it was not only to their own admittance was offered. More it was the Normans warily followed by rebels of the pale.
Belatedly, Jaxon’s men this side called out warnings to drop the rising portcullis before which the contest between unlikely allies and Gytha-bent rebels raged. And it was a familiar figure amid smoke on the other side who frustrated the efforts of those reversing the chains.
Beyond the lowering portcullis, Cyr glimpsed Vitalis whom he guessed had scaled the wall after Jaxon’s men whilst the Normans rode on Wulfen.
Cyr returned his gaze to the opponent he had thrust backward a moment earlier, knocked aside the man’s next swing, then holding to the saddle with his thighs, swung his dagger-wielding hand down and slid the short blade into the r
ebel’s side. The man came off it with a cry, dropped to his knees then face on the drawbridge.
When Cyr returned his regard to Vitalis, he saw two rebels not of the pale on the ground behind him, and the one who had slain them was at the chains driving a dagger’s blade between the links to prevent the portcullis from lowering further. The rattling ceased and the gate shuddered and stilled three feet from the ground.
Vitalis met Cyr’s gaze across the distance.
Glimpsing no surprise on the rebel’s face, Cyr guessed from atop the wall he had seen what transpired below.
“Aelfled?” Cyr called.
“In the wood, but the little fool did not stay.”
Of course she did not, just as at Senlac.
“Where?”
“I saw her running toward the eastern wall. And that is all.”
Then she remained outside the fortress? Or had she sought entrance by way of a sally port guarded by Lady Hawisa’s men? Would they have let her in? Possible only if they yet held the outer bailey—before the survivors retreated to the inner bailey and donjon.
“Jaxon is mine!” Vitalis shouted and, as he pivoted, added, “God and Wulfrith!”
After fending off a blade aimed at his calf, Cyr did not slay his attacker whose youthful face and build told he was only recently deemed a man. He brought the hilt of his sword down on the rebel’s head, rendering him bloodily unconscious. Though that one’s defeat and several others cleared the way forward into the bailey, Cyr hesitated.
Was Aelfled outside or inside? If he guessed wrong and sought her where she was not, it could mean her death—were it not already dealt.
Inside where the danger was greatest, he determined. Assuring himself that even if he chose wrong, her inability to enter the fortress would force her to return to the safety of the wood, he dismounted with his men and ducked beneath the portcullis.
Trusting what remained of Jaxon’s men outside the walls would be put down by the Normans and rebels of the pale coming behind, cautiously Cyr led the way forward through a haze of smoke lit by the fire’s glow.
Thus, they were not taken unawares as they neared the inner bailey. The contest that followed was more ferocious than that fought outside Wulfen, proof Jaxon had taken his best men over the wall. And now those rebels sought to breach the inner wall defended by Lady Hawisa’s men, many of whom had surely withdrawn to that bailey when the outer was lost. With their lives they would defend their lady in her donjon, but what they could not know unless Vitalis had made it to their side was salvation did not entirely depend on Saxons faithful to the lady but those against whose rule they had struggled these two years.
Of good benefit to those opposing Jaxon and his rebels was they had not breathed the smoke as long and were only beginning to cough and eyes to stream as they swung and parried, thrust and sliced while advancing on the lowered portcullis beyond which stood armored men a dozen strong.
Once more Cyr’s sword skill was challenged, this time against a man of good width and less than average stature whose coarse voice sounding the Saxon battle cry Out! Out evidenced his life before the great battle was that of a laborer. Because of his bulk, he was deceptively fast, and whereas Cyr had thus far sustained minor injuries, few of which would require stitches, this man landed a blow that would have made a good start of severing Cyr’s head from his neck had he not leapt backward. Instead, it sliced the flesh of his collarbone above the neck of his mail.
Feeling the warmth of blood run with perspiration, Cyr roared and lunged. The rebel returned stroke for stroke but gave ground as he was beaten back toward the portcullis.
Keep your sides in sight, Cyr silently counseled, beware your back. It was as Hugh had instructed, drilling into his pupils that no matter the strength of the enemy faced, one ought ever be aware of others seeking to enter through side and rear doors.
Cyr’s own men were fighting all around, and among them were rebels of the pale who appeared to engage Jaxon’s men with equal ferocity though they had trained, raided, and burned alongside one another since taking a stand against the conquerors.
Cyr’s next swing caught the flesh of his opponent’s forearm and made the warrior stumble against the gate, but he pushed off and with bared teeth moved his blade toward his enemy’s abdomen. It was deflected with an upward swing that, at its end, gave Cyr’s steel a taste of the man’s brow. But still the rebel came.
“Nay, Zedekiah!” a voice shouted. “You are my man. Mine!”
The Saxon reacted as if dealt a fist, sharply turning his head as Cyr was tempted but dared not. He knew it was Vitalis who called and hesitated in delivering a death blow. When the rebel leader came into view, once more on the opposite side of a portcullis, beyond him Cyr saw the defenders of the inner bailey retreated toward the donjon with the reluctance of men who preferred to battle to the death but had been ordered otherwise. And they had good reason to withdraw, many of those not of the pale streaming into the inner bailey.
Lest Vitalis soon lay dead, Cyr called, “They come for you!”
“As mine come for them,” the warrior snarled and thrust a hand through the bars, in it pale grey cloth. “Put this around your arm and live, Zedekiah,” he demanded as Cyr once more ensured his sides and back were not vulnerable.
The man looked between Cyr and Vitalis, back again. “These are Normans!”
“Aye, and this eve they are with me—as are you do you don this.”
The man hesitated, then snatched the strip and sidestepped as if for fear of being slain by Cyr as he bound his arm.
“You can trust Zedekiah,” Vitalis said.
Cyr hoped it was true but did not believe it. Thus, he kept the man peripherally in sight as others of the pale on the other side of the portcullis rushed toward those who sought to end their leader’s life. As the divided rebels met at swords, others of Jaxon’s men ran for the donjon and flung themselves up the steps as the great doors closed behind Lady Hawisa’s men.
“Jaxon’s men have control of the gatehouse,” Vitalis said as one of Cyr’s own slew a rebel to the far left. “Use the ropes with which they scaled the walls and come over.” He swung away. Sword piercing the air before him, he ran to aid his men struggling to cut a path through those loyal to Jaxon who stood between them and the ones assaulting the doors of the great hall.
“It looks I am your side now, Norman,” Zedekiah said and jerked his banded arm. “This eve only.”
As the wary allies turned aside, Cyr heard Vitalis shout, “I come for you, traitor!”
A glance through the portcullis brought to Cyr’s regard not the largest nor broadest of the men at the doors, but the one who responded to Vitalis's threat was of good size. Though balding, the hair at the sides and back of his head was bound at the nape, and a length as thick as a horse’s tail hung to his hips. Of further note was a beard gathered and tied beneath his chin that hung to the center of a belly as flat as his arms were thick with muscles. Here was Jaxon, and if Vitalis did not make good his threat, Cyr would.
“Try, poltroon!” the man called. “And fail.” Then he returned to hacking at the planks that stood between him and Lady Hawisa—and possibly Aelfled.
It was a challenge to reach the ropes, the way blocked by rebel battling rebel and rebel battling Norman. Many fell before Cyr, Zedekiah, and a dozen others their side were able to climb the wall and pull the ropes up after them to protect their backs.
As they ran the wall walk, Cyr saw the donjon’s doors had come down. Those fighting in the inner bailey having moved their struggles to the steps and the hall, from the gaping mouth of the great room came the sound of men fighting for their lives and the sight of torch and candlelight licking keen blades.
There was no time to take the gatehouse to raise the portcullis, and it was for the best. Of those barred from the inner bailey, Cyr’s men and rebels of the pale now outnumbered their opponents and would keep them from adding to Jaxon’s forces inside the donjon.
No sign of
Vitalis, Cyr led the way down into the inner bailey, then up the donjon steps, swinging his sword only when necessary to make a hole through which he and his men passed.
Shortly, they entered the hall. The dead and dying were scattered across the floor, and though here Jaxon’s rebels were of greater numbers, among them were those of the pale and two housecarles. And no castle folk, blessedly.
A shout sounded from behind the dais.
Recognizing Vitalis’s voice, Cyr lunged toward the solar, but before he reached it, a great tearing of cloth sounded as a curtain was ripped from its ceiling hooks. It fell, revealing Lady Hawisa’s bedchamber and a snarling, sword-wielding Vitalis advancing on the heap of material from which Jaxon struggled to rise—whilst another rose from the floor behind Lady Hawisa’s man. One not of the pale.
“Your back!” Cyr shouted a moment ahead of Zedekiah, then both were forced to turn their attention to two of Jaxon’s men running at them.
Moments later, the enemies-turned-allies fought side by side, exchanging blows with Jaxon’s men, one of whom taunted Zedekiah over betraying his people. It did not have the effect hoped for, turning the man more vicious, and it was he who put down his opponent ahead of Cyr felling his own.
Noting his men who had come over the wall had made it into the hall and set themselves against the enemy, Cyr started for the dais. And faltered at finding the solar empty—rather, what could be seen of it. Were Vitalis and his opponents behind the one remaining curtain clinging to its hooks?
Cyr sprang onto the dais, trod the heap of material, and entered the solar.
To the right at the base of the hanging curtain, Vitalis was down. Eyes squeezed closed, panting between his teeth, he pressed a bloodied hand to his side.
“Vitalis!” Zedekiah reached him ahead of Cyr, and when he dropped to a knee, the rebel leader opened his eyes. “Stop them,” he rasped.
