by Jacobs Delle
“I hear nothing,” the man said.
“They are there. Wait. Dawn will soon be coming. Be very still and make sure everyone is ready for them. They may attempt to distract us here, but then storm the gate.”
The chilly air was cooling his heat. He had to admit he could hear what others could not, but it did them little good.
“There. By that huge oak. Almost behind it,” she said.
He saw it too. “They lace the edge of the forest. I suspect more beyond. But not an army, unless they are unusually quiet. A troop to storm at our weakest point, before dawn. Haps we’ll let them.”
Around him, his contingent of archers gathered. Hugh spread them out along the parapet, two to a crenel.
“Two volleys, aimed high, as they approach,” Philippe said. “The second behind the first. And you, lady, off the wall.”
“You need me.”
“In the bailey managing the stores and keeping order. Go. I want buckets of water to keep the barrels full.”
Her lips drew tight over her teeth in what no one would call a smile. Acknowledging nothing, she walked past the string of archers along the parapet and down the parapet stairway to the bailey. He turned back to his business, knowing she understood her true duty and place in a siege and would do it. As would he.
With the first crow of the cock, the hidden enemy sprang into action. Fire arrows broke the darkness even before the dawn and littered the surface of the wooden stockade wall. The old wood caught fire, as they had expected. Barrels of water on the palisade and a line of full buckets were splashed down on the burning wood. But it was too dry and kept burning. More water was brought up to the barrels to extinguish the blaze. The enemy remained within the security of the trees.
Archers let loose a volley, the shafts flying like a swarm of bees in a shallow arc to their target. Screams filled the air. Then on Hugh’s command, the second volley flew, and more men cried out. But fewer of them.
“Could be there are not very many of them, not more than a score,” Hugh said.
“Enough to scale the palisade in the dark and overwhelm us in our sleep. Or the army could be holding back, awaiting their success. If they get through to open the gates, we would be doomed. We’ll see what comes next.”
Another volley of fire arrows hit the wall. They couldn’t refill the barrels fast enough, so they knew the wall would soon burn through. Philippe held back on his signal to light the trash just inside the outer wall, and they watched as more and more of the wall was consumed. He could see Durham’s soldiers now and knew they would soon rush the gap. They waited.
When the gap was nearly burned through, Durham’s shouting soldiers burst from the woods into the clearing, across the drying grass, and through the moat, which was shallow at this point. Hugh directed his archers to fire two volleys. But more soldiers came from the woods to replace the wounded and dead. Even more took their place at the edge of the wood.
“Closer to five score than one,” he said. Hugh nodded back.
A messenger ran up to say Durham soldiers had been spotted near the barbican and the sally port. “So they’ll rush the main gate when someone gets through and forces the gate open. Light the rubbish.”
The waiting firebrand was tossed down to the rubbish below, which burst into flames. The enemy soldiers who made it past the barrage of arrows jumped through the burned gaps, and there they saw their surprise. Behind the burning rubbish was a second wall. They were caught in a trap. Archers on the parapet picked them off, one by one. Those coming forward soon realized the trap and turned and ran to the safety of the trees.
“We’ve won,” said Hugh. Around him the soldiers cheered.
“Not yet,” Philippe replied. “Our barbican gate and the sally port are weak, and we don’t know how large their army is. If they’ve brought all of Durham’s forces, they can eventually overwhelm us. So hoard your arrows, but if you know you can pick them, do so.”
One cheeky fellow drew his bow and fired. A solitary scream came from the woods. “Easy shot,” said the archer.
“What now?” Hugh asked.
“We wait.”
But nothing came next. From the parapet the moans of men and sounds of moving troops receded. The assailants were withdrawing. As the morning brightened, Philippe caught an occasional glimpse of armor reflecting the sun’s rays, and on the far hill among the trees the big black stallion that was Fulk of Durham’s favorite steed then disappeared.
At the river’s ford, riders and foot soldiers hastened across, and he counted their numbers. Philippe ran down the wooden stairs and across to the far wall.
“Not enough.”
“Lord?”
“Either we killed far more of them than the number of arrows we launched, or they mean to trick us into believing they are retreating.”
“Then they are still out there?”
“If so, they lie back, deep in the forest. Keep watch, Hugh. Keep the men alert. I think they are not done with us yet.”
The exodus across the ford suddenly expanded, moving with frenetic speed, enough that Philippe might have believed Durham’s soldiers that had occupied the countryside near Castle Bosewood were also leaving. But he did not fool himself to think a ruse was not involved. Still, it seemed odd that a gap in time lay between the running invaders who would have scaled his walls and the quick withdrawal of a force that he reckoned to be at least half of Durham’s power. They moved swiftly, the knights almost in a racing pace on their great horses, stirring up a thick cloud of dust and leaving their foot soldiers to fend for themselves.
“They behave like cowards,” he said to Hugh. “It makes no sense. If we know anything about Fulk and his minions, we know they do not run in fear.”
Hugh responded with a silent nod.
Toward noon, Philippe took a troop of riders out through the gate to scour the countryside for clues. They rode up the high, rugged hills behind the castle and searched for signs of the enemy’s assault. Fulk had left so quickly that many dead remained, and Philippe would have to send laborers to bury them. Signs were also there that many wounded had made their escape. They rode along the river and traced the path of the knights and larger army. And all he saw told him that their guesses about the assault were correct. Fulk had intended to have the gates of Bosewood opened to them.
“’Tis a good thing we spotted them,” Hugh said. “But I was on the wall, Philippe. I could not hear them.”
“And I could not see them.” That was not all, but he said no more. He refused to let himself think of the night before, and so kept himself busy on the hunt for any Durham men he could question.
But now, as the crisis faded, he could no longer shove the problem away. He had to find an answer and fast. No longer was the curse merely a heavy burden on him. Now it wrapped his heart in a tight band of terror.
“By your own hand, Peregrine.” Clodomir’s chilling voice rang in his mind again and again.
They rode back through Cyne’s village, where the people were beginning to return from the forest where they had escaped to avoid the ravaging of war. He was glad he had made the decision to house their stores inside the castle’s walls where they would be safe. But the villagers were not safe. And if Durham renewed his hostilities, which he was sure would happen, those who were caught outside the castle would be doomed either to violence or starvation. He had to persuade them to stay inside the walls for now, at least.
And he had to find the old woman. He stopped at Cyne’s cottage and directed Hugh to return to the castle with the rest of his riders.
Cyne stood before his weathered door and bowed to his Norman lord as Philippe dismounted.
“Is everyone safe, Cyne?” he asked.
“Aye, lord.” A sly smile twitched on the old man’s face. “They did not harm us for fear we would raise the alarm, I think. Forgive me, lord, for we heard them not until they departed.”
“It seems odd,” Philippe answered. “They were not so damaged by our volleys that they sho
uld so easily give up the siege.”
“Save for what my youngest son overheard, lord.”
Philippe cocked his head, noting the sparkling amusement in the old man’s grey eyes.
“Rufus comes.”
Philippe’s eyes rounded. Then he burst into a guffaw. “So they scattered like fleas from a drowning dog! Ah, it would have been a fair thing to see, my friend, if Rufus had caught them in the very act of disobedience. Save, the cost would have been too great. Then did you hear how close the king is to us?”
“Nay, lord. Just those words.”
“I will send out a contingent to meet him, then. But I have another request of you now.”
“I owe ye much already, lord. Ask.”
“The old woman who appeared at the bride ale. Where can I find her?”
Cyne’s dusky eyes narrowed. “For what do ye want her, lord?”
“I have heard she is a wise woman. I need her help. Is she in the village?”
Cyne shook his head. “She is not of this village. She cannot be found, save when she wishes it.”
“Then how can anyone find her? Who is she? Is she a seer? A healer? I saw by the looks on the people’s faces she is revered.”
“She has no name, lord, as she said.”
“But everyone has a name.”
Philippe caught a twinkle in the old man’s eyes, framed within wrinkled, sagging eyelids. “I only want to know about curses and cures. I have heard she knows such things. If there are old women who bring on the winter snow—” he shrugged. “How can I say?”
Cyne feigned a shrug in return.
“Then can a message be sent to her? My need is important, Cyne. ’Tis not for me, but my wife.”
“Why do you call me, Norman lord?”
Philippe whirled around at the sound of the raspy voice behind him and saw the old woman standing in the shadow by the wall, clothed in a rough cloak of green almost as dark as night. Had she been there all along but he hadn’t seen her? If she had come in, he had not heard her, and he knew his hearing to be very sharp.
The hag chortled but had no smile. Her sharp, pale eyes focused on Cyne. “Your garden goes untended, old man.”
“Aye,” Cyne replied. “My turnips have need of me.” He shuffled to the doorway and bent his tall frame beneath the sill as he went out. He pulled the door shut by its leather strap.
The hag faced him, silent, her eyes piercing.
“There are things I must ask you,” he said. “Things I must know.”
She lowered the hood of her cloak, revealing thin, pale hair that had the stiffness of dry straw. “You will not find them from me. You have the answers in yourself.”
“Nay, I know nothing. I must find out how to break a curse.”
“You have the answer.”
“I do not, but I have been told by the Earl of Northumbria you have some knowledge about such things.”
“There are more things in this world than you know, Norman. You cannot see what is before you, yet you must. If you do not see, there is much that will be lost.”
Philippe forced himself to draw a long, slow breath, reminding himself of the patience for which he was renowned in negotiations. “What do you mean, old woman? Speak plainly, not in double meanings.”
“Close your eyes and open your mind. See what is in your heart.”
“I do not need riddles. I must know how to end a curse, or terrible things will happen to someone I—to someone.”
“Only you have your answer. You must lose your war if you hope to win it. Your king comes soon. You must find your path soon.”
“You spoke of a path before. I do not know how to find my path. I have been seeking for many years. Old woman, hear me, my wife will die if I cannot rid myself of this curse.”
“Do you care? Would it not please you to be free of her, yet possess what she leaves to you?”
“It would not! Let me die in her stead. You must help me. I can’t send her away to safety, for she would fall into evil hands as soon as she left the castle. But I cannot keep her near to me. I am her greatest danger, old woman.”
“Aye, you are, Norman lord. Her destruction is your salvation.”
“Then I do not want to be saved. I do not want to love her and lose her because of it.”
“Do you mean to say you love her, then?”
“I do not. I must not. But I know it will come. Had I known it, I would never have allowed the king to force the marriage.”
“Did you perhaps forget to tell him something?”
The keen eyes stared at him with an intensity that sliced through him. He swallowed hard, wondering if she knew. How could she know what even Rufus did not know?
“I did not tell him,” he replied. “For my own reasons. I thought myself adequate to the task he gave me.”
“Perhaps that is your error.”
“I cannot tell him.”
“Then you will fail.”
“All men make mistakes, old woman, you must know that. It is not something the king can be told. There are some things kings never forgive.”
“A pity. You will not find your answer. You will not be what you were meant to be.”
The old woman’s head lowered, and her straw-like hair slid to cover her face. She turned away from him, pulling up the hood.
“Wait!” he called.
In two steps the hag began to fade. For a moment, he thought he saw long, pale hair that glowed as if struck by moonbeams. But he was wrong. He blinked once and saw only the wattle of the cottage wall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HER HUSBAND HAD not spoken to her before riding out with his knights. He had not even looked at her from the time he ordered her off the wall. Instead, he had given all his instructions to Hugh, then mounted and ridden away as if she were not even there. Leonie supposed she should not be surprised, nor even disappointed. He was angry, and as she recalled from many observations over her fairly short life, this was the way an angry man dealt with a woman.
It could have been much worse. For all his anger, Philippe le Peregrine had not so much as lifted a hand against her. But still in her mind was the evil image from Brodin Forest. Why? What had really happened? She had to know. Why did she remember—
The pain slammed like a hammer against her head. She gasped, grabbing her head as light flared and pain swarmed her head, violently pounding—
Holy Mary, but she was tired of this! Nay! I will not let—She fell to her knees, trying to hold her bursting head together.
Don’t think. Don’t think. Make it go away. Don’t think.
“Lady! Are you all right? Are you ill?”
It was Hugh, his voice as distant as the clouds, yet his hands touched her shoulders. She forced herself to breathe deep, breathe again.
“Aye, Hugh.” She took another deep breath. “I fear I have not yet completely banished the pain.”
“Rest a moment,” he said, kneeling beside her. Aye, she had fallen to the ground.
“Nay, I shall be fine.” She looked up into his kind eyes and tried to smile. But this had happened too many times, and it was too strange. She needed to think. She tried harder with the smile, but knew it was unconvincing. She needed to be where she was alone and try to think. “I think I should rest in the solar for a while, if you will give me your hand.”
“Wait a moment until you are steady.”
Leonie rubbed her face, her painful temples, opened her eyes and quickly closed them again, for the bright blue autumn day enhanced the jabs of pain. There was something very wrong that every time she tried to remember, her head felt shot through with arrows. But what? Why? Was she going to die?
Or was it something else entirely? Was she demon possessed? What if she was? What would she do? She had to find out. Now.
“Hugh, help me up. Escort me if you would, please. None of us have had much sleep these days. It must be that.”
“You are not well, my lady. You should lie down.”
That
was a good idea. Lie down where she could not fall. She could try to think out what was blocking her mind. Nay, she would not think of it until she reached her bed.
Do not think! Leonie chopped off the thoughts. “Aye, Hugh, escort me to the solar. I’ll just lie down for a while. But tell no one, please.”
“Save Philippe when he returns.”
“No one, Hugh.”
She managed to look into his eyes, and she knew he would not obey. But she accepted his arm to support her, and they walked through the hall and to the solar behind it. A bed had never looked so inviting. She sat on its edge.
“I wish to be undisturbed, Hugh. Give me a few hours to rest and all will be fine. I am sure.”
“Perhaps a woman to stay with you?”
“No one. Let me rest.”
Her hands gripping the edge of the feather bed, she listened to the voices beyond the tapestry draping the doorway until Hugh had calmed the last of them and silence reigned again.
She climbed onto the low bed and seated herself cross-legged in the middle. If she fell, and she suspected that was a strong possibility, she could not hurt herself. With closed eyes and hands folded in her lap, she led her mind back to the day in the forest.
She started with something easy. Sigge. They said she had been with him. But she didn’t remember him. She was sure she had been alone. Tentatively, she probed the question, letting herself roam about in the corners of her memory, not thinking of words, but seeking to see the day.
It had been one of those rare but almost unbearably scorching hot days. She could feel the sweat forming on her face, then between her breasts and trickling down inside her kirtle. Even inside the forest, where the leaves were still green and the shade heavy, the air was still and sultry. But it was one reason she loved going into the woods. They had been searching for sumac and other red things, for she had been hoping to improve her red colors for dying wool.
They.
Sigge, where are you?
Nay, she could not find him. Had he been there? Something told her he had, but nothing came to her.
She wandered along the path, ambling off when she spotted the brilliant patches of crimson, the sumac she had come to find. She had been right; the leaves had just turned, quite suddenly, for they had not been red at all the day before.
