by Tamara Leigh
Mouth grim, he said, “Rest, my lady.”
She nearly demanded he set her down, but her body concurred, rendering the return to Trionne a blur as she prayed for the Lord to grant what He had not with her husband.
A little thing to ask of the all-powerful creator that my boy be safe, she flattered Him in His heavens. So little it requires no more than a nod to ensure I am not the lone Wulfrith whose line dies with me.
Aye, a little thing to Him. All to her.
Chapter Four
Wulfen Castle, England
1 January, 1067
Grief. It emptied one of all that was good and bright and lovely. In the hours of greatest ache it turned thoughts to one’s own demise, allowing to seep from dark places sympathetic counsel for hastening that event, be it days or decades ahead of its time. Sinful, and surely not the only means of escaping what felt like hot wax burning through the layers of one’s soul, and yet…
“Yet not,” Isa whispered. She must be done with this coward’s cowering, must rise and show how great her strength and resolve as demanded of her in the missive delivered a sennight past. She would. Just not this day.
On the morrow, then. And this time she would keep the promise as she had not all the days of the past cold, cruel month that had seen the usurper crowned King of England on Christmas Day, while outside Westminster Abbey his men burned the homes of Londoners. Barely seventy-two days after King Harold fell upon Senlac, the devil’s spawn had subjugated enough of her country to formally take the throne.
Throat tight with emotion she had refused to shed since the morn following the battle when she dragged her stiff, cold boy into her arms and wept what seemed enough tears to water the world, Isa swallowed. It hurt, like choking down something sharply edged, but it pulled her from that dawn to the one lurking outside the windows whose grey light squeezed through the shutters’ seams.
Hoping to sleep away some of the day so she would be rested for the morrow, she closed her eyes, but there was no quieting memories ripe for the tasting.
She tossed off the covers, winced at the rustle that would awaken her maid, laughed when it did not. No Aelfled upon her pallet, the young woman consigned to Lillefarne Abbey so Isa would not have to look upon she who had left her lady—and four other mothers—grief-stricken.
Isa closed stinging eyes, opened them wide, and accepted she must rise. The needs of the body demanded it—as did the return of her menses she discovered upon straightening from the bed.
She suppressed a sob. She had begun to believe that woman’s affliction gone forever, it being absent since the loss of her husband. As if to remind her she was yet young and there could be other children, it was back. But no matter the missive’s warning, she would do all in her power to avoid wedding again.
She looked to the rolled parchment on the bedside table opposite that other thing over which Vitalis frowned each time he reported on the state of the demesne and the measures she ordered taken to protect it, its people, and those in need of sanctuary.
Only once had she read the words of King Harold’s mother. Only once was needed to understand Wulfrith’s daughter was expected to aid Gytha in avenging her son’s death and ousting the usurper so her grandson could ascend the throne. And greater that aid if Isa agreed to wed a Saxon of the woman’s choosing.
The Norman dog will give you to one of his own when he learns you are widowed, she had written, and though your son is half Norman, ill will befall him so the issue of your new husband gains your lands.
Isa knew that. Hence, few were aware ill of an irreversible nature had already befallen Wulf. Though more and more his absence was questioned, the answer remained the same. Beyond grieving his sire, he was being prepared to become Lord of these lands earlier than expected for one soon to attain eleven years of age.
Another slain sob, another painful swallow.
That Wulf was occupied with learning how to administer and defend his lands was a good explanation, but with every day that passed, it weakened. Since the one who styled himself King of England would be sending men to make demands of the Lady of Wulfen, her boy would have to show himself.
Hopefully, Vitalis’s search for a Saxon orphan who could be presented as boasting Norman blood alongside that of Wulfrith would bear fruit. Were that boy accepted as her departed husband’s heir, she should be able to evade marriage to another Norman—or Saxon—and keep hold of her lands. Rather, what remained of them if the rumor imparted by Gytha was true that already William le Bâtard had promised portions of this demesne to two of his followers, one of whom the old woman told was Sir Raymond Campagnon and suggested he was being positioned to take her to wife.
Anger, welcome reprieve from mourning, blew across Isa’s smoldering center, lit embers, rose to flame. “My lands,” she hissed. “Saxon lands.”
Though a widow the Norwegian invaders had made her, the Normans had struck a greater blow in rendering her childless. She would not wed another of those people for whom she felt such hatred that never would she care for one as she had cared for…
Memories caused the flames licking up her insides to lower, crackle, return to embers.
Over the next quarter hour, amid the sounds of an awakening household beyond the curtain hung between solar and hall, she struggled to suppress those memories by busying herself. After opening the shutters of the high-set windows with a long pole, letting in dawn’s light and chill air, she attended to her bodily needs.
Next, she cast off gown, chemise, and hose she could not recall having last changed. She soaked a towel in the basin’s chill water and scrubbed herself head to heel. She cleaned her teeth and dragged a comb through hair so snarled she tore strands from her scalp. With jerks and more snapped strands, she fashioned her hair into a fat braid that fell to the small of her back. She dropped to her knees before the trunk at the foot of the bed, opened the lid, and…sank back on her heels.
Her garments, once neatly folded on the left side, were scattered both sides atop her husband’s as had suited her the day this childless widow returned to Wulfen Castle. However, across the bodice of her blue gown was a dark green cuff, the sleeve above it the color of wine. Here the tunic her husband had worn the day they wed.
“Roger,” she said and, swept by memories soaked in guilt and regret, saw again the man to whom she had been wed—her wishes proving no match for King Edward’s desire to reward a Norman favorite and her sire’s need to provide his line the best chance of survival following the loss of one son after another.
Isa had thought she hated the arrogant Norman who placed a ring on the finger of she who believed herself a woman though she was barely ten and four, but hate had been too strong a word. Dislike fueled by resentment was what she had felt.
Her husband had been fairly young and, though hardly handsome, exceedingly fit. Mostly, he had been patient with his Saxon wife—moved to strike her to silence only thrice during their eleven years of marriage though often she tested him.
Each time, the Wulfrith in her had struck back, jolting an apology out of him. If not for his sincerity, never would she have grown fond of the man who came to love her despite her resistance to behaving in a manner of which he approved—one that did not embrace her belief she should be active in carrying on the Wulfrith legacy, a belief strengthened when her sire’s heart failed days after he learned he was to be a grandfather.
Arguments had flown between husband and wife, the seeds often sown by Roger who did not like nor trust Jaxon who did not like nor trust his new Norman lord. Thus, Isa’s husband had sought her counsel over practices and techniques for training up warriors, and ever that reminded her she was first Wulfrith’s daughter, making her resent she was not allowed to stand alongside Roger as he acted on things with which she was more familiar.
Having donned the mantle of her sire’s reputation, the only visible Wulfrith presence he wished was that of worthy sons born of their union. She had provided that in Wulf who became all the more precious to him when no mo
re children were forthcoming—and that he returned Roger’s love as Isa had not.
Remembering the tidings of her husband’s death delivered to Trionne three months past, she lowered her chin. Such ache she had felt, and more when Wulf reverted to a little boy. As she held her weeping, sobbing son, that ache had further enlarged upon recall of the final parting of husband and wife.
Leaning down from his destrier, Roger had cupped her jaw and said he could better bear the battle ahead if he knew she loved him. Telling herself she must feel that for him no matter how slight, she had tried to speak it, but all she could summon was the truth—words of fondness and assurance she would pray for his safe return.
Roger had not masked his disappointment, and every day since being widowed she wished she had told the lie that might have made the difference in preserving his life.
At Trionne, guilt over the death of her husband and loss of her son’s sire had so burdened she had struggled to eat, sleep, and keep company. Still, she had watched over her son as he moved between sorrow and anger, next anger and rage when tidings arrived more invaders had landed at nearby Pevensey—this time Normans.
Then came the day she took ill and allowed Aelfled to persuade her to remain abed with assurances she would stay near Wulf. A fine job the lady’s maid had done. Until she had not…
What was worse than guilt over the deaths of Roger and Wulf? Regret from which guilt sprang—a rope that, hand over hand, ever returned her to the profession of love that might have saved her husband’s life and, hence, their son’s.
Had Roger survived Stamford Bridge and next fought at Senlac, regardless of whether he once more sided with Harold or broke faith with her and went the way of his own, Wulf would have had no reason to depart Trionne whilst the battle raged. And there would be no need for another to play Isa’s heir.
If only she had said she loved her husband. Having failed that, if only she had arisen from guilt over his death rather than relinquish a mother’s duty to protect her young. Having failed that, if only she could rise above guilt over Wulf’s death and do her duty to her people rather than direct others to do it.
“If,” she breathed, then once more told herself all would be different on the morrow. When next she awakened, she would slam the door on apathy that sought to persuade her she had naught to live for. For vengeance she would rise up and gird her sire’s name. For her people, she would become the Wulfrith who led rather than grieved.
No longer would she entrust others to do as bid and themselves determine the course when she denied them an audience. She would oversee all being set in motion to protect her people and lands from Normans. She would stand strong, nevermore casting shadows over her family’s reputation. As best she could, she would make restitution for severing their line.
Come the morrow.
Realizing the panting she heard was her own, she closed her eyes and breathed deep. Across that forced calm, a voice within whispered, The morrow could be this day. Should be this day.
“Just one more to set myself aright,” she answered.
Ever one more. When finally the morrow comes, you will be the husk that Norman threatened to make of you. And if within that husk any remnant remains, the guilt of Roger that led to Wulf’s death will become the guilt of Wulf that leads to your people’s deaths because the enemy seized the day as you would not.
Isa dropped onto her backside, stared at the oaken trunk.
More regret. More guilt. Neither of which she could bear more than this day doing what she wished could await the morrow.
She got her bare legs beneath her, as she did so noted how thin they were, next her hips, belly, and chest. No surprise considering how tightly she laced herself into gowns to look presentable when she received villagers who came to request one relief or another or Jaxon and Vitalis ventured to the castle that was no longer their home.
Too sparingly she ate and too little exercise she took though, despite Roger’s disapproval, previously she had strengthened her body with many of the exercises required of those trained into warriors. But this day…
“This day, I am no longer of Fortier,” she said and started to remove the ring that proclaimed her the property of a man, but best it remain testament to her son’s Norman blood—and ties to her husband’s people. A deception, but only one among what would number many.
She crossed to the bedside table. Ignoring the dagger that belonged to a dead man, she unrolled Gytha’s missive, held it to the light, and lingered over the final words.
Remember and embrace who you are, Hawisa Wulfrithdotter. A Saxon strong of mind, body, and spirit.
“I remember,” she said. “I am Lady of the Barony of Wulfen. Now its Lord.”
That last drew her regard to the tapestry concealing the entrance to the castle’s hidden passages. Though she had lost the argument with Roger against razing her wooden home and building a stone castle like those of Normandy, she had decided if she must live among the stones, she would make use of their strategic advantage. Her husband had thought hidden passages too great an expense in time and coin but yielded. However, he would not be moved to extend them underground into the wood. But now there was none to oppose her, work would begin to ensure Saxons resistant to Norman rule had another means of thwarting the enemy.
A half hour later, Isa was garbed as she deemed fitting, and many were the startles and stares when she thrust aside the curtain to reveal a body clothed as it had not been for more than eleven years. Though she strained seams that had fit the girl, better that than her husband’s garments that would make her appear a child trying to be an adult. As soon as possible, new garments would be fashioned for the Lord of Wulfen.
Heartily, she partook of the morning meal alongside those of her household too disturbed by her appearance to give their own hunger its due. And though en route to the stables she had to go behind a shed to empty what she had stuffed in her belly, she resumed her plans for this day.
The stable lad met her just inside the doors, and when she instructed him to saddle three destriers rather than two and the palfrey which had been required riding for Roger’s wife, looked to the accompanying housecarles.
“Three destriers,” she repeated.
The lad inclined his head. “You wish your husband’s, my lady?”
A fine beast recovered from Stamford Bridge. It was her right, and atop it she would sit higher than her men, but it would remind her of Roger and too much he would remind her of their son. “Nay, another.”
“There are a half dozen palfreys, my lady, but only four destriers, and the fourth—”
“Only four?” she exclaimed.
“Aye, Jaxon and Vitalis took the others to…” He shrugged.
To where she intended to ride, a place not spoken of regardless of the degree of acquaintance. “Then saddle the fourth for me.”
The lad called to another cleaning the tack and they hastened down the stall-lined aisle.
“I do not think Jaxon will like you riding to camp without notice, my lady,” spoke the commander of what remained of her housecarles in residence.
She turned to Ordric of the village of Ravven from which her former maid had also been plucked. “I do not answer to Jaxon. He answers to me.”
Ordric inclined his head.
The three destriers led forth were familiar, the last less so. Its coat was dark grey and mane flaxen, too striking a contrast not to notice even if one teetered toward shock as she had the night a Norman forced her off the battlefield.
This destrier had to be the one Guarin D’Argent had meant to send her home upon—and having yielded his only means of flight and his dagger, fallen to Saxon swords.
As ever, she salved guilt with the reminder he was one less Norman to send back across the channel. But there were more D’Argents, as learned when she escaped Pendery’s watch over her the morn after the death of England’s king and ridden toward Senlac with Vitalis. They had encountered Aelfled in the wood. With much weeping, sh
e revealed they came too late, the only hope left to five mothers that of retrieving their boys’ bodies.
Never had Isa thought to strike a lesser, but nearly she had. And again when Aelfled’s grieving lady quieted enough to make sense of the answers Vitalis demanded of the young woman. And heard the D’Argent name again, this time attached to that of Cyr. Like his older brother whom he would not find upon Senlac, that D’Argent had aided a Saxon woman by conveying the bodies of Wulf and his friends to the wood to prevent their desecration.
Isa had gone light of head at the realization the Lord had answered her prayer to defend Aelfled’s life and virtue as He defended her own, both by way of Norman brothers. But that He had not answered the greater prayer of protecting Wulf had kept praise from her lips, and Aelfled’s answer to Vitalis’s next question had dealt a backhand to any gratitude she might have felt toward the D’Argents. It appeared their uncle had slain the boys before himself expiring.
“My lady?” Ordric prompted.
She swung her gaze opposite the horse she had not been told was brought to Wulfen.
“’Tis a skittish beast and in need of training,” her housecarle said. “Mayhap you would prefer to ride my destrier.”
She nearly accepted, but it stank of weakness and fear. “Nay, this Norman will know the prick of my spurs and snap of my reins. The sooner he learns who is master, the less he will suffer this Saxon.”
Concern lingering in his eyes, he said, “So he shall, my lady.”
It boded ill the destrier’s saddling required both stable lads, and further ill when the beast snorted and lurched as Isa gripped the saddle’s pommel. Holding tighter, she fit a foot in the stirrup, swung a leg over, and accepted the reins.
The destrier tossed its head and stamped a hoof.
Isa tightened her thighs to secure her place atop a beast that wished her beneath it. Still, its wish might be granted, not because the last time she had ridden so fine a horse was before she wed but because of muscles so wasted they lacked the strength to keep her seat on a resistant mount.
