by Maura Seger
Colin shook his head. His eyes met Guyon's in the silent way of men who have come to understand each other. "Not in the same area. Perhaps elsewhere."
Standing between them, Roanna could see the sudden tightening of her brother's face. For the first time since finding the injured man, she began to consider the implications of her discovery.
It was likely, given where she had found him, that he was heading for the stronghold when his injuries overcame him. His desperate effort suggested he was trying to get word of some peril to those best able to defend against it
Colin laid the man down gently in a corner of the great hall. "Take care of him," he instructed the old woman who had helped bring Roanna through her relapse. "If he regains consciousness and can talk, make careful note of all he says."
Drawing Roanna a slight distance away, he added, "I'm not sure yet exactly what this means, but it can't be anything good. Gather the women together and begin preparations in case we are attacked. In the meantime, I will ride to the farm he comes from to try to discover what happened."
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him not to seek out danger, but she bit back the words. His duty as chieftain demanded he go. Moreover, she knew full well that Colin was not a man to hide behind strong walls while his people were threatened. He would find the enemy and, if at all possible, slay him before further damage could be done.
Understanding all this, she was still taken aback to see her brother mounted and ready to ride with hum. When she questioned him, Guyon merely shrugged. "I need the exercise."
The grim hardness of his eyes belied his easy words. Nor did his knights look as though they anticipated an amiable outing. Wearing full armor including battle helmets, they appeared every bit as implacable as the thegns and housecarls who rode beside Colin.
With surprising ease, the two groups formed up into a single unit Roanna stared up at her husband, sitting so tall and resolute on his great stallion. His features softened momentarily as he met her gaze. No words passed between them, but they were not needed With difficulty, he tore his eyes from her. His shouted order to move out sent the war party forward in a flurry of pounding hooves and flashing steel.
The day passed slowly. Having had so much practice in the last few months, the women completed their preparations swiftly. A large contingent of men-at-arms had been left to guard the stronghold. They took up their places along the outer palisade, alert for any sign of movement beyond the clearing.
None came as the sun rose higher in the sky and the day grew hot. Roanna and Brenna offered each other what comfort they could, but the hours stretched out with excruciating slowness. Neither woman would give voice to the fears that were uppermost in both their minds as they waited for their husbands to return.
Several miles to the east, Colin reined in above a small settlement His worst expectations were confirmed by the sight of spiraling smoke. A rough-hewn hall that had served the farmer and his family was engulfed in flames. Off to one side, a barn burned fiercely. Livestock lay wantonly slain in their pens. Bodies of men, women, and children were scattered across the grounds.
Despite tihe immense destruction they had already wrought the attackers were not yet finished. Oblivious to the war party on the ridge, several dozen men were carrying off booty and breaking open casks of ale.
Others were amusing themselves with three terror-stricken young girls stripped naked and tied spread-eagle near the corpses of their kin.
The faces of Colin and his men were white with fury as they surveyed the hideous scene. But their revulsion, great though it was, was surpassed by that of the Normans.
To Guyon and his knights, the pillagers were all too recognizable. Their armor and weapons marked them as countrymen. The orgy of violence and death was being carried out by men they had crossed the Channel with and fought beside at Hastings. They had marched under the same banner, served the same leader, and pledged themselves to the same cause. But they were separated by an immense gulf marked by savagery on one side and honor on the other.
When the Algerson battle cry filled the air, English and Norman alike surged forward as one with no thought but to wreak vengeance in the name of their common humanity.
The fighting was swift and ferocious. Weakened though they were by drink and rapine, the raiders were still formidable foes. From childhood they had been trained to one task, killing. They performed it with relentless efficiency.
Several of Colin's party fell beneath their swords, but many more of the attackers perished as the thegns and housecarls made excellent use of their newly honed skills. They fought from horseback as ably as any Norman. Guyon and his knights backed them fully. They accounted for their own share of the enemy while taking scant losses.
The hot summer air was heavy with the stink of blood long before the last foe fell beneath Colin's sword Dismounting swiftly, he rapped out sharp orders to his men.
"Find the wounded and keep as many as possible alive for questioning. Alaric, set a watch. We will stay here tonight Send a messenger back to the stronghold to tell the Lady Roanna and her sister of our safety, but say nothing of what we found here. Guyon, will you put your men to erecting a shelter?" He gestured toward the three young girls still alive despite their sufferings and the battle that had raged around them. "They will need it"
Colin took several of the older warriors who had wives and daughters of their own to help him untie and care for the victims. There was little that could be done for them beyond warm blankets and reassurance that their ordeal was over. The men's faces were grim as they gently covered the girls's abused bodies and settled them beneath the hastily constructed lean-to.
The knights kept their distance. The sight of any men clearly terrified the girls; they did not need to be confronted by replicas of their attackers.
Helping to sort out the wounded, Guyon paused beside one of the mangled corpses. There was something familiar about the dead man. It took a moment to recognize the significance of the blazoned shield lying beside him.
Joining his brother-in-law, Colin glanced down disinterestedly at the body. He was concerned only with those of the enemy who still lived and could be made to talk.
But seeing Guyon's concern, he asked, "What's wrong?'
"I know him. He is the younger brother of Frances DeBourgnon, one of William's most ambitious supporters. They both fought at Hastings and were in London with the King, last I heard."
"Why would the brother be here?"
Guyon hesitated, but only for an instant. "DeBourgnon was waiting to be granted an estate. If he got it he would be likely to bring his brother along to help him take possession of his new lands."
Colin's head jerked back, his gaze fierce. "You mean my lands?"
"It looks that way." Seeking to explain, not excuse, Guyon said, "To William, any holding still in the possession of native lords is a potential threat to his security. He knows that a successful invasion is not the same as a conquest To consolidate his rule, he must put his followers in power throughout the kingdom. DeBourgnon probably came out here expecting an easy takeover. With most of the Anglo-Saxon nobility destroyed at Hastings, few families have been able to hold out"
"Couldn't he have simply come on his own?"
"It's possible," Guyon admitted "Many of those who sailed with William are hotheaded and too impatient to wait for anything. But if he had the King's authority, he would go to any lengths to take what he considers his."
The two men stared at each other in dawning recognition. Being an experienced campaigner, DeBourgnon would be likely to delegate the smaller settlements to his brother while he . . .
"Alaric!"
The startled warrior came running at his master's command. "My lord?"
"Get the men mounted. We ride for the stronghold at once."
Behind him, buckling on his battle helmet, a grim-faced Guyon muttered, "And pray God we are in time."
The young man peering into the heat haze blinked rapidly. He was hot,
thirsty, and bored. Moreover, he had not yet gotten over his disappointment at having been left behind at the stronghold. Perhaps his imagination was playing tricks on him.
No, there was definitely movement in the trees just beyond the clearing. He leaned forward, trying to get a better view. A flash of light bouncing off steel froze him for just a moment before he gathered himself enough to bellow a warning.
Below in the great hall where she was helping to care for the injured man, Roanna jumped to her feet Running outside, she found the stronghold in an uproar. Men-at-arms who moments before had been drifting close to sleep were suddenly upright and tense. Tight-faced thegns were barking out orders. The battle-hardened housecarls who in Colin's absence ruled over all were already on the palisade, making a quick assessment of the enemy.
Climbing up next to one of them, Roanna asked, "What is it?"
"Normans, my lady," the man grated, "gathering to attack." He raised his hand, summoning a man-at-arms. "Take her ladyship back to the hall and stay with her."
"That is not necessary," she assured him quickly. "You need not take men from the fighting to watch over me. I will see to my own safety."
The housecarl looked unconvinced. His courage was beyond question, but he did not want to consider the penalty should Lord Colin return and find his lady injured. About to argue with her, he was prevented by the sudden emergence of a line of knights taking up position at the rim of the clearing.
Their high shields extending from knee to shoulder obscured much of their forms, but the dull glint of chain mail was still visible, as were the conical helmets whose pronged nose pieces gave their wearers the look of carrion birds. Powerful war horses also protected at their most vulnerable points by widths of iron rings sewn to toughened leather pawed the ground eagerly.
Behind them, a detachment of archers on foot hurried into position. But it was on the man in front that Roanna's attention focused. Rarely had she seen such ornate armor. The metal hauberk that protected his torso was made not from links of chain, as was customary, but from overlapping strips of metal the fashioning of which must have driven some poor armorer to despair. His helmet was topped by a brilliant red plume that matched the crest emblazoned on his elaborately carved shield. The same emblem flew from the banner carried by his squire.
Aware that the worst thing she could possibly do at that moment was to further distract the housecarl who had to muster the stronghold's defense, Roanna hurried back downstairs. She found Brenna still in the great hall, although standing close enough to the door to get, a glimpse of what was going on outside.
Briefly, Roanna explained what was happening. No long discussion was needed for the two women to understand that attack was imminent With a minimum of words, they calmed the children who were also sheltered in the hall, set them to work preparing bandages and splints for the wounded who were sure to come, and started servants filling buckets with water from the two wells within the courtyard.
The water was soon needed. In an effort to weaken the defenses, the Norman bowman shot flaming arrows into the stronghold. Most gutted out against the palisade. But a few reached the vulnerable thatch roofs of the great hall and outer buildings and had to be swiftly drenched.
It was left to the women and servants to guard against a conflagration as the men-at-arms concentrated on readying vats of boiling tar and oil. No effort was made to return the volley after volley of arrows. At that distance, not even the most skilled archer would be likely to penetrate the Normans' armor. Wisely, the housecarl in charge chose to reserve their resources until they could do the most good.
They did not have long to wait. Stirring impatiently on his charger, the Norman lord gave the signal to bring up the catapult. Loaded with stones, it was laboriously maneuvered into position directly opposite the main gate of the stronghold. Straining men released the taut lines holding it in place. Their aim was slightly off. The barrage struck the wall to the side of the gate, sending up splinters of wood but otherwise doing little damage.
So well constructed was the palisade that subsequent attempts had only slight effect The repeated efforts, however, wore everyone's nerves to a fine edge.
"If only it would stop," Brenna murmured tightly, covering her ears with her hands.
Roanna surprised her by disagreeing. "We won't really be in trouble until they realize they can't break through the wall that way and try something else." She didn't add that she knew full well what the next tactic would be and dreaded it.
All too soon the impatient lord recognized that the catapult could not hold stones heavy enough to smash through the palisade. He shouted an order that sent his men scurrying to gather dry grass, wood, and anything else that would burn. Soaked in oil and set afire, the blazing missile struck the center of the gate.
Fire spread instantly as logs dried by the long summer days caught flame. Heedless of their own safety, Roanna and Brenna were among those who rushed to put it out. As they frantically filled buckets of water, the Normans began their advance.
Under protection of their shields, they were able to move ever closer to the stronghold's perimeter. The English archers picked off many, but still more kept coming. All too soon, the Normans reached the base of the wall.
The housecarl shouted a command to the women to get back, but Roanna and Brenna ignored him. They joined the men pouring vats of tar and oil down on the enemy and tipping over the siege ladders that began to appear along the palisade.
For a time the tide of battle was clearly in the defenders' favor. But as more and more burning arrows fell within the compound and the air grew thick with acrid smoke, two men recently admitted to Guyon's service made the decision to switch sides. They told themselves they were driven by horror of the satanic rites they had witnessed at the wedding. But in fact it was their disappointment at the lack of booty allowed by a lord anxious to keep peace with his people that made them welcome the chance to help loot so wealthy a stronghold.
Roanna's eyes teared, her face and clothes were streaked with soot. Pain gripped her lungs as she struggled to breathe. Terror flared through her as she glanced toward the gate, only to find it swinging open. Beside her, Brenna stumbled. Roanna just managed to catch her before she could fall. Together, they raced for safety within the inner bailey surrounding the hall where the stronghold's defense now centered.
With the wall breached, what had looked like certain victory began turning relentlessly toward defeat The thegns and housecarls fought magnificently, but they could not withstand the overwhelming might of their foes who now held an irresistible advantage as they brutally slashed and stabbed their way toward the great hall at the center of the compound
Realizing that only minutes might remain before this last defense was breached, Roanna's hand fastened on the dagger hidden in her bliaut. It was the ceremonial blade of her wedding day, but as sharp as any war sword. Grimly she pressed it into her sister-in-law's hand, rejecting Brenna's efforts to refuse it
There was little chance that either of them would survive what was to come, but the instinctive protectiveness of her nature demanded that she do everything possible to help her brother's wife.
In the next instant the two women were separated by the sudden surge of battle. Brenna vanished in the midst of screaming children and struggling fighters. Roanna was thrown in the opposite direction toward the back of the hall. Frantically, she glanced round for some weapon. If she was to die, she was grimly determined it would not be alone.
But the Norman who spied her crouched in a corner of the hall did not have death on his mind. At least not right away. Though the battle was far from over, he was so maddened by blood lust as to be easily distracted. Spurring his horse forward, he drove directly for her.
Roanna had a moment to recognize the ornately dressed lord who commanded the attack before she was trapped against the wall by the heaving sides of his mount. Sliding from the saddle, the Norman seized her brutally. The visor of his helmet was raised, giving her a cle
ar view of his small, smoke-reddened eyes, grime-encrusted visage, and thick mouth. Her stomach heaved as his hard hands roamed over her at will, savoring the ripe softness of her body.
"God's blood, what a prize! My men can finish off those English dogs. You and I have other business, wench!"
Pulling her by the nape of her heck, he half carried, half dragged her into an alcove. Flung on the floor, Roanna lay momentarily stunned as DeBourgnon yanked off his helmet and sword belt. As she struggled to rise, his booted foot lashed out, catching her in the side.
"Stay still, bitch!" A vicious leer curved his wet mouth. "I advise you to do your best to please me. Otherwise, you'll spread your legs for every one of my men before this day is out!"
Roanna barely heard him. All her energies were concentrated on a desperate effort to get away. But her strength and speed could not match his. Before she could move again, he was on her.
The thin fabric of her surcoat and tunic gave way easily before his tearing hands. He grunted with pleasure as he bared her breasts, squeezing them brutally as he ground his hardness into her.
"You're too beautiful to belong to anyone but Algerson. All the better." DeBourgnon laughed thickly. "He must be lying dead out there by now. I wanted to fight him myself, but mis is almost as good." He ripped the remainder of her clothes open and forced his legs between hers.
Dizziness engulfed Roanna. Burning tears slid down her ashen cheeks. Her lungs labored futilely as she prayed for unconsciousness. The hard shaft of his manhood touched her thigh, forcing her to relinquish all hope.
In the next instant she was free. DeBourgnon was hurled from her, his face white with shock as he confronted the enraged giant looming over them.
"You wanted to fight," Colin growled.
Drenched in blood, his eyes glowing like molten steel, he looked as though he had stepped from the very bowels of hell. His hard features were drawn so tightly that they seemed no more than a mask symbolizing death. Each bulging muscle of his massive arms and chest moved like a living thing. Against the flickering flames, a dripping war sword flashed in his hand.
