by Tamara Leigh
She wrenched backward. Glimpsing a clean-shaven face above hers, she slammed her knee up between her enemy’s legs. And made contact in the absence of chain mail he must have shed following the battle.
The Norman lurched forward. If not for his chin clipping the top of her head, she might have escaped. Pain blurring her vision, she strained to free her arms. Then the ground was at her back, his great weight atop.
“Whore!” he spat.
As she translated his slur into her language, he turned his mouth to her ear. “After I have used you up, I shall give the husk of you to my men. Here you die, Saxon.”
Unable to dislodge him, she heard her sire call across the years, Know when to be still, Daughter of Wulfrith! Know when to wait and watch!
“Aye, Father,” she whispered.
Her assailant’s head came up. “What say you?”
Guessing he was minimally conversant in her language, it occurred he might release her if she proved she knew his. “I am a lady, a Saxon wed to one of your own,” she said in Norman-French. “Great ill you do my husband in attacking me. He will—”
He gripped her chin and raised himself slightly to peer into her face.
Bemoaning the arm he had released was not the side from which her remaining dagger could be had, she returned his scrutiny. Though his countenance was more shadowed than hers, he appeared two score aged.
“You are pretty and fairly young, Saxon. I shall enjoy this all the more.”
Then it mattered not she was joined with one of his own? “My husband is Norman the same as you,” she tried again.
He laughed. “Not the same as the companion of the great King William.”
King. Already the invader named that as if all had been decided upon Senlac, Harold’s death the only thing required to crown him.
Let it not be, Lord, Isa sent heavenward. William may have carried the papal banner into battle, but it is for You to decide! Come back to us and we shall be more faithful!
“Not the same,” her assailant repeated. “That honor was lost when your husband sullied his line by wedding one of inferior race. And if he fought against William, what I shall have from you this night will be more due the traitor.”
“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 aiding King Harold in defeating the invading Norwegians. Nor that had he survived, he would have been obligated to fight Normans, having pledged himself to King Edward and his successors in exchange for the great demesne given him through marriage to the only surviving child of the thane of Wulfenshire.
“I care not what he did or did not do,” her assailant said. “Though paltry your contribution toward a debt that can never be paid for those slain by your Saxon dogs, payment shall be made.” He began dragging up her skirt.
“Nay!” Isa swept her hand over the ground in search of something to bring down on his skull. Finding only pebbles and dirt, she pried at his hand, but the calloused fingers continued upward, scraping over calf and knee.
She screamed, tried to bring her knee up again, but his legs pinned hers. Another scream, a failed attempt to sink her teeth into his jaw, a successful snap of the brow against his chin that pained her as much as when the top of her head struck that same bony prominence.
But though he released her leg, her triumph was fleeting. He slapped her, knocking her head to the side and cutting a lip that bled onto her tongue, then clamped his hand around her neck.
She hooked fingers over his and pried. To no avail. She dragged nails down his jaw and neck. To no avail.
I fail you! she silently called to her sire who had lived long enough to learn he was to be a grandfather and bestow the name Wulfrith on the unborn babe.
Dirt, she heard him bark as if he were here. A woman’s weapon, but effective.
She remembered grumbling it was the sword and dagger she wished to learn, not the scramblings of weak women. Then he had dashed dirt in her eyes, incapacitating her as thoroughly as if he had stuck her with a blade.
Isa flung her arm out to the side. As lack of air caused bursts of black to obscure her vision, she scraped dirt into her palm, then brought her hand to her ear and cast that weapon of women.
Her assailant released her and reared back. While he cursed and ground palms against his eyes, she wheezed in breath. And found her right hand 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 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 his son’s need to protect women, he would hesitate over the risk to life and loss of time spent seeking kin.
Still, the heir of the family D’Argent ran to answer the cry, doubtless of a Saxon who had cast wit to the wind to discover what was likely the remains of her 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 long beneath the weight of chain mail, but those with whom he would not associate for the opportunity they made of the fallen—and the prey they would make of the woman where her king had died.
“Fool,” he bit and swept his gaze up over the 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 its roots poisoned by blood.
To its right, one of Guarin’s own sought to defile the woman. The Norman had taken her to ground, even now might be violating her though she continued to fight.
What had she been thinking to venture to this place where likely the greatest battle fought on English soil had raged from mid-morning until dusk? Not only had night 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 adjusted his course to avoid one of his countrymen who had died with the duke’s pennon clutched to his chest, then drew his sword, began his ascent, and halfway up returned his gaze to the scene near the tree.
Abruptly, he halted, causing the links of his chain mail to ring more loudly. He was a seasoned warrior, and more so after putting down numerous Saxons who had sought to slay him and those he fought alongside, but that to which he now bore witness greatly disturbed.
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 man who clawed at his eyes where he had risen atop her, she cried in her tongue, “Die, Norman!”
As if following this command as he had not the others, her enemy collapsed to the side.
Yet another of Guarin’s own cut down. Feeling the return of anger that had made him a formidable opponent as first he fought astride, then on foot when his destrier was slain, he watched the woman turn onto hands and knees. She stumbled upright, regained her balance, and reached down. When she straightened, she held the dagger drawn from her victim.
Guarin’s anger surged—and receded with the reminder this one’s death was more warranted than those of Normans who had believed they fought to reform England’s church which could be accomplished only by placing its rightful king on the throne.
The woman’s assailant had used his greater strength to seize what she would not give. It was questionable whether Guarin’s uncle would approve of his nephew’s reasoning, but again his sire would understand. And approve.
Regardless of whether the Norman had gained what he sought, the Saxon had ensured he could not further harm her. Hence, Guarin could resume his search for those who might be in greater need of
deliverance than one who would count him her enemy.
He turned, but too many bearing lanterns moved toward the hill, evidence he was not the only one to witness the death of a warrior outside of battle.
“Almighty!” No matter how quickly she moved, she had far less chance of leaving the battlefield alive than her defeated countrymen. And being a Saxon who had slain a Norman—more, a woman—no quick death would be afforded her.
Her only hope was this enemy whose sire had been forced to relinquish his sons’ training at arms to their uncle but 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 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.
Though a fatigued and battered body once more at swords could prove his undoing, he set his blade before him, its presence threat enough to persuade others approaching the hill to think better on trying to claim one about to be claimed by a chevalier prepared to defend his right to this spoil of war.
Despite whatever had happened to the woman, she had enough wits to note the Normans advancing on her, as evidenced by the single step she took opposite Guarin before whirling back around, dagger in hand.
Such golden hair she had, more visible across the distance than the face beyond unraveling braids. But before resuming negotiation of the hill, 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 hill’s crest, he slowed just enough to avoid trampling the bodies spread thicker and higher here. Though the woman would think he intended her harm, he would lose his lead over the other Normans if he approached more cautiously.
“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 it was not merely a desperate attempt to defend herself. Her stance and wielding of blade bespoke training. Also of note was her clothing. Though the gown was of simple design and its lower edge torn away, the bodice’s neck and sleeves were edged in fur. Here a lady.
“I will cut your gullet!” She 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 the English language to understand 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 clawed shadows, he lowered the point of his sword and raised his empty left hand. “I mean no harm.”
Beyond braids draping shoulders that rose and fell with breaths that misted the air, blue eyes—perhaps grey—shone out of a battered face. “Out! Out!” she demanded the same as her menfolk had done in answer to the Norman battle cry Dex Aie!
Guarin stepped around the splayed body of another of his own, causing the woman to jump back and look left and right for a way to escape.
He followed her gaze and saw all but two of the roused Normans had returned to scavenging. Injured though he was, the worst a wound to the side he bound at battle’s end, he should be able to stave off attempts to take what others believed he wished for himself.
Returning his regard to the woman, he halted three strides distant. “Fear…not,” he struggled for words in her language. “I—”
She lurched forward, jolting the body at her feet and slashing the air between them.
Though Guarin could arc his sword up, were she well enough trained, she might evade his attempt to knock the dagger from her hand. And if he succeeded, it could put her to flight, placing her in the path of one or both scavengers.
“I would…aid you,” he said.
She slashed again. “Out! Out!”
“Others are coming, Woman!”
“Heathen! Barbarian!”
Assuring himself he could quickly return his sword to hand, he set the tip at the scabbard’s throat. As he slid the blade in, he looked nearer on the man responsible for her belief Guarin was of the same ungodly bent.
That Norman’s face was turned opposite, but it need not be seen to know he 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 been inclined to believe murder his end rather than defense—or retaliation—against ravishment. Yet more reason to get the woman away and quickly.
Summoning words he hoped were in the proper order, he said, “I am…sorry for what he did to you. It is wrong.”
“He did naught!”
“I saw him. Now we must—”
“Naught!” she spat, and he wondered if more she sought to convince herself than him. Regardless, she had suffered enough that she could be near emotional collapse.
“Hear me, Woman. We must get you away.”
A thrust of the dagger. “He did naught!”
He glanced between the Normans who had begun their ascent—one to the right, the other the left—and was grateful they were slowed by heaps of enemy upon enemy.
As he took another stride forward, she jerked back and one of her braids lost the rest of its crossings. Like a curtain of the finest weave, the hair swept down over that side of her face. Though in moonlight she did not present as beautiful, that softening of what had appeared stern made him stare, then slam himself up against the reason he was here though he ought to be elsewhere.
He jutted his chin at the corpse dealt a blade to the throat. “You tell he did naught? For naught he is dead?”
“I…” She lowered her eyes, quickly returned them to his. “I slew him ere I could dishonor my…ere he could dishonor my…” She swallowed. “I did. Ere he could. I vow it.”
Though her words were a swift-moving stream rerouted time and again by thoughts thrusting up through silt like jagged rocks, it provided time to make sense of them.
“You must permit me to see you away from here, Lady, else what this one began others will finish.”
“You say you will not do to me what…?” She made a choked sound, then kicked the corpse again, causing its head to turn toward Guarin.
A wealthy chevalier and lord, indeed, but one thing more and of greater import—here a companion of the duke, so valued that even if Guarin bore witness the man sought to ravish this woman, William’s wrath could prove deadly.
The time for persuasion past, Guarin lunged. An instant ahead of catching the wrist of her dagger-wielding hand and yanking her forward, he felt a sting across the underside of his jaw. Then her feet caught on the body between them, toppling her forward.
He let her drop to her knees. As hoped, the jolt loosened her grip on the hilt. She thrust upright, screamed when he tossed aside her keen weapon.
“The word of a D’Argent I give!” He caught hold of her other wrist. “I will not harm you. I will see you to the wood. That is all.”
No reasoning with her. He saw it in her wide-flung eyes a moment before she became all teeth, hands, knees, and feet.
Releasing one wrist, Guarin drew back a fist. “Pardonne-moi,” he said in his language. “C’est nécessaire.”
She jerked when his knuckles struck her jaw, then her chin dropped, and he caught her up against him.
He had never had cause nor desire to strike a woman, it being an abhorrent act against the weaker sex, but it was the only way to keep her safe.
Feeling a trickle down the side of his neck, he swiped a hand across it and considered fingers bloodied by the dagger that sought to
do to him what it had done to William’s companion.
“No choice,” he rasped and wiped his hand across the back of the woman’s mantle that would better clean it than chain mail.
It was not easy to put her over his shoulder, though not because of her size and weight. The difficulty was the injury to his side that shot pain to his hip.
A moment later, her arms flopped against his armored back, and he knew were she conscious she would grab at his belted weapons. This was for the best, the bruise that would darken her jaw dealt to aid rather than harm.
“Chevalier!” called the Norman on his left who neared the top of the hill. “A good blow to the Saxon wench. When you are done with her, let your good friend, Guillaume, teach her further respect for her Norman betters.”
“And your friend Joan,” shouted the second Norman who was no more a friend or acquaintance. “A better lesson I shall teach her ere doing to her what she did to our countryman.”
No choice at all, Guarin reaffirmed and called, “I share with no man.” Anchoring her with his left arm around her upper thighs, he drew his sword lest these soldiers challenge him. “When I am done with her, I shall ensure she bleeds no more Normans.”
He turned. Hoping when he came back around both would be in retreat, he thrust a booted foot and flipped William’s companion onto his belly. And realized it was a waste of time to conceal his identity. The soldiers had only to search the area for the warmest body in the freshest pool of blood to see the man face up again. They would discover him, not only for curiosity’s sake but because this place provided the best pickings for desecrators of the dead.
However, here was a means of ensuring these two did not challenge him. He turned back. “Better your efforts spent relieving our enemies of the gold around their necks and silver on their belts ere others sniff it out!”
Both halted, looked around.
“Many a woman’s favors you can buy with such spoils,” Guarin added and began his descent toward the horse earlier noted in the midst of slaughter, seemingly untouched by death beyond the rider collapsed over its neck.
