by Tamara Leigh
Feeling as if she walked the edge between everything and nothing, that slippery ridge threatening to tip her into inescapable darkness where one with the blood of Wulfrith did not belong, she gave her head a hard shake.
Returned to this moment to which observation—not imagination—was due, she looked nearer on all ahead and to the sides of her. Much had gone here as further evidenced by the royal housecarle who wished to die with his king and other soldiers whose clothes, armor, and weaponry revealed neither were they of the class of ordinary housecarles who served thanes. King Harold might have fallen here, but even had he not, this place was too central to the battle for mere boys to have reached it. Or so she prayed as she continued toward the tree past which she would begin her descent to the other side.
During her search, she had happened on many horses whose lives were sacrificed to carry their riders through battle lines. Norman only she was certain, the Anglo-Saxon army not given to fighting astride though her sire had admired mounted warfare and sought to persuade King Edward and the earl who would later succeed him—the fallen Harold—to adopt the strategy. Here were more steeds transported across the sea, and partway down the hill one that would appear peacefully at rest where it lay with forelegs tucked under and head up if not for the rider slumped over a grey-black neck across which a pale mane flowed.
Distantly aware once more she broke stride, she stared at the animal who turned its head in her direction, startled when it seemed all the light that could be found in this darkness shone from its eyes.
Yanking her thoughts back to the one who was her only reason for being upon Senlac, she said firmly, “Wulf,” and stepped forward.
“Non, destrier,” spoke one whose language and accent spun her around and up against one taller and broader than she.
Finding her palm empty as it should not be, she jerked her elbow back and closed fingers around the hilt.
Before she could pull the blade from its scabbard, the Norman seized hold of her arms beneath the mantle.
Unworthy! she silently denounced as her sire had done when he instructed the girl she had been in the defense of her person until finally he pronounced her otherwise. Now a dozen years later, aged twenty and five, once more she proved unworthy. And might die for it once the plunder made of her was beyond tarnished.
Cease, Hawisa Wulfrithdotter Fortier! she silently commanded. You will not dishonor your sire and his name. Fight!
She wrenched backward. Glimpsing the grinning, clean-shaven face above hers as hands tightened around her lower arms, she slammed her knee up between her enemy’s legs. And made contact in the absence of chain mail surely shed following the battle.
The Norman cursed and lurched forward. If not for his chin clipping the top of her head, she might have gained her release. Though the pain weakened her knees and blurred her vision, she clung to consciousness and strained to free her arms. Then of a sudden, the ground was at her back and a great weight atop her.
“Whore!” the man spat.
As she translated his slur into her own language, easily done having been wed to a Norman, her assailant turned his mouth to her ear. Bristling jaw grating against her cheek, he said, “After I have used you up, I shall give the husk of you to my men. Here you shall die, Saxon.”
Strained breaths wasted on attempts to dislodge him, Isa heard her sire bellow, Know when to be still, Daughter of Wulfrith! Know when to wait and watch! Imagined though it was, she felt his saliva fleck her face.
“Aye, Father,” she whispered.
The Norman’s head came up. “What say you, Saxon?”
Though earlier he had understood the name he believed the word wolf of the four-legged variety, likely he was minimally conversant in her language. But if she proved she knew his, perhaps he would release her—or at least be rendered vulnerable by surprise.
Using the thin stream of breath allotted her, she said in his language, “I am a lady, a Saxon wed to a Norman. Great ill you do my husband in attacking me. He will—”
A hand snapped up and gripped her chin, then he raised himself slightly to peer into her face.
Inwardly bemoaning the arm he had released was not the side from which her one remaining dagger could be had, she ground her teeth and returned his scrutiny. Though his countenance was more shadowed than hers, she guessed he was two score aged.
“You are pretty and fairly young,” he said. “I shall enjoy this all the more.”
Then he was not moved to learn she was joined with one of his own, would use her up regardless? “My husband is Norman the same as you,” she tried again.
He laughed. “Not the same as the esteemed companion of the mighty King William.”
King. Already the invader named that as if all was decided here, as if Harold’s death was the only thing required to crown him.
Let it not be, Isa sent heavenward. William may have carried the papal banner into battle, but it is for You to decide, Lord! Pray, come back to Your faithful!
“Not the same,” her assailant repeated and dug his nails into her chin. “That honor was lost when your husband sullied his line by wedding one of inferior race. And did he fight against William this day, what I shall have from you this night will be more due your traitorous husband.”
“He did not take up arms against your duke,” she exclaimed and dared not reveal Roger had died in the north at Stamford Bridge while defeating the invading Norwegians alongside King Harold. Nor that had he survived, he would have been obligated to fight his fellow Normans, having pledged his allegiance to King Edward and his successors in exchange for the great demesne given him through marriage to the only surviving child of the formidable trainer of warriors and thane of Wulfenshire.
“I care not what he did or did not do,” the Norman said. “Though paltry your contribution toward a debt that can never be paid in full for the Normans slain by your Saxon dogs, still payment shall be made.” He loosed her chin, reached down, and began dragging up her skirt.
“Nay!” Resuming her struggle, Isa swept her free hand over the ground in search of something weighty to slam down upon his skull. Finding only pebbles and dirt, she closed her hand over his upon her leg and tried to pull it off, but the calloused fingers continued upward, scraping over calf and knee.
She screamed, tried to bring that knee up again, but his legs were too heavy on hers. Another scream, a failed attempt to sink her teeth into his jaw, a successful snap of the forehead against his chin that pained her nearly as much as when her crown had struck that same bony prominence.
Blessedly, that last caused him to remove his hand from her leg. But her Saxon’s triumph against a Norman was fleeting. He slapped her hard, knocking her head to the side and cutting a lip that bled onto her tongue, then clamped his hand around her neck.
Denied breath, she hooked her fingers over his and pried at them. To no avail. She dragged her nails down his jaw and neck. To no avail.
I fail you, Father! she silently called to he who had lived long enough to learn he was to be a grandfather and name the unborn babe Wulfrith.
Dirt, she heard him growl as if he were with her now. A woman’s weapon but effective.
Remembering the girl of her grumbling it was the sword and dagger she wished to learn, not the scramblings of weak women, and for it he had dashed dirt in her eyes that incapacitated as if she were stuck with a blade, she flung her arm out to the side and drove her fingers into the earth.
As the lack of air caused bursts of black to obscure her vision, blotting out the Norman’s face and dulling the pain of a body vulnerable to deeds most foul, she scraped dirt into her palm until it was filled enough she could barely close her fingers over it. Then with what consciousness remained, she brought her hand near her ear and cast that weapon of women.
Her assailant released her neck, reared back onto his knees, and as he cursed and ground his palms against his eyes and her throat creaked open and she wheezed in breath, she found her right hand was freed the same
as her left.
The deadly dagger within reach.
CHAPTER TWO
Curse all, he had not time for this! Certainly not whilst he had three brothers, a cousin, and an uncle to account for, all of whom he had become separated from when day yet shone across a lovely meadow that had become a bloody battlefield. Then there were his injuries that needed tending, many of which pained though none would kill—providing infection did not set in.
His barely godly uncle would not approve of him being distracted from his purpose, and though his overly godly sire would understand, neither would he approve of the risk to life and time lost seeking other sons.
Still, the heir of the family D’Argent ran to answer the cry for help, doubtless of a Saxon woman who herself risked all to discover what would likely be the remains of a loved one.
Another scream. As with the first, it drew the attention of others moving amongst the bodies. It was not fellow Normans searching for kin and friends who made Guarin stretch his legs longer beneath the weight of chain mail, but those with whom he would not associate for the opportunity they made of men far less fortunate than they—and the prey they would make of the Saxon at that place her king had fallen.
“Fool woman,” he bit as he swept his gaze up over the reeking bodies he negotiated to the flat of the moonlit hill out of which grew an enormous tree that, had it boasted fruit this year, might never again were it poisoned by great quantities of blood seeking its roots.
To the right of it, one of Guarin’s own sought to defile the Saxon. The big Norman having taken her to ground, even now he might be violating her as she continued to fight and voice outrage.
What had she been thinking to venture here where what was likely the greatest battle fought on English soil had raged from mid-morning until dusk? Not only had night fully fallen, but Guarin’s liege, Duke William, had yet to grant permission for the Saxons to retrieve their dead.
Reaching the base of the hill, he looked ahead of his feet and had only a moment to adjust his course to avoid one of his countrymen who had died with the pole of the duke’s pennon clutched to his chest, Saxons scattered left and right.
Guarin drew his sword, began his ascent of the hill, and halfway up returned his gaze to the scene near the tree. He halted abruptly, causing the links of his mail to ring more loudly. He knew himself to be a seasoned warrior and more so after putting down Saxon after Saxon who sought to rend his life and the lives of those he fought alongside, but there was something stunningly disturbing about that to which he bore witness.
Light shimmered across the silver wielded by the one with her back to the ground, and as she drove that blade into the neck of the one whose hands clawed at his eyes where he had risen atop her, in the Saxon tongue she screamed two words he understood. “Die, Norman!”
As if following this command as he had not her others, the man jerked and collapsed to the side.
Yet another of Guarin’s own slain by a Saxon. Feeling the return of anger that had made him a formidable opponent as first he fought astride and then on foot when his destrier was slain beneath him, he watched the woman shove the Norman’s lower body off hers. She turned and rose to her hands and knees, stumbled upright. Once she had her balance, she reached down. When she straightened, he as much felt as saw the killing dagger drawn from her victim’s body.
More anger—until he reminded himself that one’s death was more warranted than those of Normans who had truly believed they fought to reform England’s church that could only be accomplished by placing its rightful king on the throne.
The Norman ahead had used his greater strength to seize what the woman would not give. It was questionable whether Guarin’s uncle would approve of his nephew’s reasoning, but again his sire would understand. And might even approve.
Regardless of whether the Norman had gained what he sought to steal from the Saxon woman, she had ensured he could not further harm her and others. Hence, with an unburdened conscience Guarin could resume his search for those who could prove in greater need of deliverance than one who would count him her enemy.
He turned aside, but too many shadowed figures moved toward the hill, evidence he was not the only one to witness the death of a warrior outside of battle.
“Almighty!” Guarin growled. Though a fatigued, battered body once more at swords could prove his undoing, he could not leave the woman to worse than already she had endured.
No matter how quickly she moved, she had far less chance of leaving the battlefield alive than had her defeated countrymen. And being a Saxon who had slain a Norman—of greater detriment, a woman—no quick death would she be afforded. Her only hope was this enemy whose sire may have had to relinquish his sons’ training at arms to their uncle but had ensured Guarin and his brothers were instructed in faith to better guide the warriors made of them—and among Baron D’Argent’s tenets was that defenseless women and children must be protected.
Not that this Saxon was defenseless, but she would fall to those coming for her if Guarin did not intervene. Blessedly, he would reach her ahead of the others.
Sword once more leading the way, its presence threat enough to dissuade some of those advancing on the woman to think better of laying claim to one about to be claimed by a chevalier prepared to defend his right to this spoil of war, Guarin continued his ascent.
Despite the extent of whatever had happened to the woman, she had enough wits about her to note his advance and the others’, as evidenced by the single step she took opposite Guarin before whirling back around, dagger in hand.
Such gold hair she had, more visible across the distance than the face beyond unraveling braids. But in the moment before he returned his attention to negotiating the ground, he glimpsed enough of her features to guess she was between twenty and thirty years—and of slender figure, the short mantle fallen back off her shoulders revealing the only swells of her body were a generous one above a narrow waist and a gentle one below.
Reaching the crest of the hill, he slowed only enough to avoid trampling the dead scattered wider and higher here. Though the woman would surely believe he meant her harm, if he approached more cautiously, he would lose much of his lead over those who did think to act against her.
“Come no nearer!” she shouted in her language.
He glanced at where she had retreated to the other side of her assailant as if to make a barrier of his corpse, saw her sweep the bloody dagger before her. And noted—as well he should considering his training—it was no desperately careless attempt to defend her person. Her wielding of that blade and stance bespoke training of her own. Of less, albeit worthy, note was her garments. Though the gown was of simple design and its lower edge torn away, the bodice’s neck and sleeves were edged in lustrous fur. Here a lady.
“I will cut your gullet,” she spat and kicked the body at her feet. “The same as this vermin!”
Guarin was unable to interpret her every word, but he was familiar enough with Anglo-Saxon—and more than conversant in these circumstances—to understood her threat. And after witnessing her assailant’s fate, he believed it. No ordinary lady, this.
Clearing the last great heap of bodies across which the barren tree cast knobby, grasping shadows, he lowered the point of his sword and raised his empty left hand. “I mean you no harm.”
Beyond braids draping shoulders that rose and fell with great breaths to mist the air, out of a battered face shone pale blue—perhaps grey—eyes wide with hatred.
“Out! Out!” she chanted the same as her menfolk had done in answer to the Norman battle cry Dex Aie!
Guarin stepped around the splayed body of one of his own, causing her to lurch back a step and search left and right for a means of escape.
He followed her gaze and was relieved all but two of the roused Normans had returned to their scavenging. Injured though he was, the worst being a wound to the side bound up at battle’s end, he should be able to stave off attempts to take what others would believe he wished
for himself.
Returning his regard to the woman, finding she had returned her regard to him, he halted three strides distant. After a brief struggle for words in her language, he said, “Fear not. I—”
She lurched forward, jolting the body at her feet, and slashed the air between them.
Though Guarin could himself lunge and arc his sword upward, were she well enough trained, she might evade his attempt to knock the dagger from her hand. And did he succeed, it could put her to flight that would place her in the path of one or both scavengers.
“I would aid you,” he said.
Once again, her dagger slashed the air and she cried, “Out! Out!”
“Others are coming, Woman! They will—”
“Heathen! Barbarian!”
Though loath to render himself blade-less, he assured himself he could quickly return his sword to hand, then with great show to ensure she attended to it, set its tip at the scabbard’s throat. As he slid the blade in, he looked nearer on the dead man responsible for her belief Guarin was cut from the same cloth.
That Norman’s face was turned toward her, but Guarin need not see it to know this was no common soldier. Though his clothes were begrimed, ripped, and bloodstained, better they were named finery. Here was a wealthy chevalier at worst, a lord at best who ought to have been resting or celebrating were he not searching for those lost to him.
Guarin knew depravity came in all forms, ranks, and ages, but had he not witnessed this Norman’s assault, he would have believed outright murder more likely his end than defense—or retaliation—against ravishment. Yet more reason to get the woman away quickly.
Summoning Anglo-Saxon words, putting them in what he hoped was the proper order, he looked up. “I am sorry for what he did to you. It is wrong.”
“He did naught!”
“I saw him. Now we must—”
