by Tamara Leigh
Rethinking her determination to teach this Norman a lesson, she leaned forward and smoothed a hand down the pale mane, next the bristling dark grey coat to its jaw. “If you will be mine,” she said low in the language it had not likely heard all these months, “I will be yours.”
It whinnied.
“If you will keep me safe, I will keep you safe.”
It turned its head and eyed her.
“Though Norman-bred, you are English now. More brave and true, you are…”
She stopped her breath, glanced left and right at where her housecarles stood alongside their mounts, loath to gain their saddles whilst her seat remained uncertain. And was grateful neither had been with Jaxon and Vitalis that night in Andredeswald. Had they, they might also realize she soothed her mount the same as the man who died there.
It was time to ride. Or nearly so.
Lowering her lids, she acknowledged she prayed more out of habit than sincere beseechings to the Lord—He who might never be persuaded His punishment of the Saxons was sufficient to return Him to their side. Certes, not without greater sincerity, but if that was required to move Him away from the Normans he had granted victory, He would have to await the morrow when she was stronger and fully in control of her birthright.
After a prayer for safe passage, she was pleased the stallion seemed less inclined to unseat her. Patting its jaw, she looked to her men. “For what do you wait? Mount up!”
Chapter Five
Wulfenshire Rebel Camp
England
They came for him. Again. More than sustenance to keep him alive, they provided routine.
Each time the one named Vitalis returned with a group of Saxons whose lives were uprooted by the conquering Normans, Jaxon welcomed them with a gift few resisted opening.
Guarin D’Argent was that gift. Barely recovered from beatings dealt by previous recruits, he was dragged from the dark of his stinking cave and staked on the outskirts of camp. There, each vengeful man—occasionally a woman—was allowed to land five blows with fists, knees, and feet.
Five blows was not enough to do great damage in the absence of cudgels and blades, but multiplied by several assailants one after the other, it could prove deadly. Thus, not only in preparation for escape did Guarin keep his body fit regardless the pain between beatings, but to ensure muscles of a strength to protect his innards. Did his organs tear and bleed, there would be no stitching them back together as had been done his side and other injuries that had taken him to ground when he delivered that accursed woman to the wood and been set upon by her countrymen.
As done often, he wondered what had become of the lady. Though Saxon the same as Guarin’s assailants, that did not mean they had not done her ill. After all, she had been in the company of their enemy.
“More Saxons who wish to make your acquaintance, Norman!” called the camp commander. As ever, he entered with torchlight that flushed out the dim, causing the moist wall against which Guarin splayed his hands to shimmer. And accompanying Jaxon would be men capable of subduing their prisoner were he of a mood to resist.
Keeping his back to them where he leaned into the wall of rock into which were driven rings the chains fastened to his manacles were attached to, Guarin filled his lungs full. Then with arms whose muscles burned as he neared the two hundred count, he pushed his chest away. Before gaining full extension, once more he lowered. Slowly.
Am I of a mood to resist? he mulled as the scrape of boots grew louder and the anger pushed deep uncoiled alongside pride.
He was, and though they also proved of a mood and landed more blows than he, there was satisfaction in bruising an eye, breaking a tooth, and fracturing ribs.
Minutes later, he faced seven new recruits who were of less concern than the split flesh of his brow bleeding into an eye and obstructing his vision nearly as much as the direct sunlight denied him since the last beating.
Non, he corrected, the beating ere that. The last had been a day of clouds and rain.
As usual when he was of a mood, following the beating that subdued him, he had been dragged across the floor of the cave to a clearing in the wood where two posts were set ten feet apart. To these, the chains trailing his wrists were attached with so little slack that were he knocked unconscious as happened when dealt too many blows to the head, his knees would buckle, and that was all. Once he regained his senses, he would either be mostly upright facing another recruit or in a heap against the cave’s back wall.
Make ready, he counseled as his vision cleared. These recruits look worthier than usual. And angrier, especially the female.
What crime would this sturdy, black-haired young woman level against a Norman who had never before looked upon her? Death of kin? Ravishment? Loss of home? Theft of food and possessions?
It mattered not. Like the many, she would make the most of her five blows. But they would not be as injurious as those dealt by the short, broad man whose tunic and chausses bulged with muscle.
If Guarin did not keep his own muscles taut throughout that beating, it could be his last. He held that one’s gaze while his legs were secured to ensure they were as impotent as his fists. And was surprised by what the man made no attempt to mask.
Guarin had seen it before. Though most Saxons who joined the rebels were wrathful, not all were well with beating a man only because he was Norman. Here was one of those, but that did not mean he would not beat Guarin bloody. As upon Senlac, thirst for the enemy’s blood by even a minority could become contagious, and those who might otherwise sip at it were more likely to drink with an unquenchable thirst.
Best this one first, Guarin determined. Across a tongue that tasted blood Jaxon’s men had gained from a blow that cut inner lip against teeth, he said in the man’s language, “You are not afraid of me, are you, Saxon? Come now, I can hardly fight back. Of course, were I loosed, far better cause I would give than already you have to want this Norman dead.”
The man’s lids narrowed. “You would slaughter more of my own?”
“Just as upon Senlac.”
His mouth turned down as if a spoonful of something bitter were forced between his lips. Then the elbow at his side edged backward.
Guarin tightened his muscles.
“Hold, Zedekiah!”
Beyond the Saxon came Vitalis, the second in command who had delivered this new batch of rebels to a camp located well north of Senlac.
The exact location Guarin did not know, being unfamiliar with England and having been bound and concealed beneath slain Saxons in the back of a wagon during the long journey. However, on occasion he heard mention of shires in the midlands—Lincolnshire, Nottinghamshire, and Wulfenshire.
As ever, that last put him in mind of Wulfrith, the trainer of some of England’s greatest defenders whom Duke William had esteemed. And Wulfrith put him in mind of Guarin’s uncle whom William had also esteemed for raising up worthy warriors. Unlike his nephew, did Hugh reap the rewards of bringing England to its knees? Did he and the rest of the D’Argents think the one believed to be Hugh’s greatest achievement dead?
“He wants it,” Zedekiah declared. “’Tis my due.”
Vitalis halted before Guarin. He was not as easy to read as most, but from his eyes shone disapproval and anger, though not directed at the Norman in their midst—rather, the camp commander.
A sennight past, while Guarin chewed bread whose inside was as crusted as its outside he had to choke it down with gulps of nearly soured wine, an argument between Jaxon and Vitalis had ensued. So ferocious was it that words not meant for their prisoner had made it to the rear of the cave.
The younger man did not approve of Jaxon’s leadership and was certain neither would their lady when she learned what was withheld from her. Of interest. But of greater interest was the camp commander cursing the dirty, misbegotten Norman who had donned the crown that belonged to a man born of England.
Duke William was now King William, and it would take untold numbers of well-trained
and equipped rebels to begin dethroning him. As usual, William had taken what he wanted, and he would defend his new possession with more vigor and venom than a starving dog with a joint of meat between its teeth.
“Vitalis.” Guarin inclined his head as if in deference. “This warrior of yours speaks true. The fist he wishes to plant in my face is his due.” He shifted his gaze to the Saxon he guessed was a smithy. “But it will take far more than five blows for one such as he to wreak vengeance. Time better spent beating steel into blades for other men to wield.”
Zedekiah lunged. Vitalis snatched him back. And there was Jaxon, breaking the hold of the second in command.
The smithy landed a fist to the jaw that snapped Guarin’s head so far to the side his neck cracked a warning. Not broken. Yet.
The next blow was dealt the gut. Though the flesh would bruise, the muscles held like a stone wall at the center of which perched a donjon that, were it breached, would prove the castle’s downfall.
Three more blows amid shouts of encouragement from scores of rebels, and it would not have ended there if Vitalis had not shoved Zedekiah away.
The warrior thrust his bearded face near Guarin’s. “That should be the worst of it. Now cease your taunting, and a fortnight hence we can do this again.”
Guarin suppressed a groan over the ache in his side whose injury gained upon Senlac had yet to fully heal and might not until he escaped these savages. “I count you a true friend, Vitalis, but allow me to think on it.”
The auburn-haired Saxon bared his teeth, swung away, and stalked opposite. His part in increasing the rebel ranks was done. This obscenity he left to its maker.
Honorable? Guarin gave it only a glancing thought, but a glance was something.
Jaxon swung to the side, causing the long hair bound at his nape and the beard bound halfway down his chest to swing. “You!” He pointed to the woman.
Her five blows felt like one, but she could scratch and spit, the latter of which she did in his face after cursing him for being a Norman the same as those who set her home afire, killing her family.
The third and fourth rebels were vicious, striking him about the head and neck, blurring his vision, bloodying nose and lip, pounding ear and chin, and nearly rendering him unconscious.
The next man was scrawny and of middle years. After a blow to the jaw, he cradled his hand against his chest and repeatedly drove his knee into Guarin’s abdomen. The muscles standing barrier between those jabs and the organs screamed for ease, but he kept them taut as he suppressed groans and shouts.
How many more? he wondered, legs shuddering in response to his command they remain firm though he was tempted to unlock his knees and let his arms take his weight. But lax muscles would leave him vulnerable to internal bleeding.
Stand firm! he commanded as his uncle would. Look each in the eye if they dare peer into yours whilst punishing you for another’s sins.
A fist to the cheek knocked his head back, and he saw black though he felt the sun on his face and was certain his eyes were open. The blows counted up, and when they ceased, he squeezed his lids tight and opened them wide to restore vision so he could look upon his next assailant.
Though that one now stood before him, the man was turned to the side, his expression a mix of fascination and alarm. And those gathered around were just as motionless.
Now Guarin heard the horses approaching at great speed, so near he should have caught the sound sooner. Was the camp under attack? If so, were they Normans?
A woman shouted, but she sounded angry rather than fearful.
Guarin tried to peer across his shoulder, but the movement shot pain up the sides of his neck and once more curtains began drawing across his eyes.
“Cease, Jaxon!” Her voice again, and in the language of the Saxons. “Now!”
To the left a flurry of movement, those who had not retreated springing apart to make an opening through which three horses came, at least one of their riders a woman though Guarin knew it only by her voice. Since he could either put his remaining strength into preventing his legs from buckling or keeping his head up, he let the latter drop and resented the bristling beard of a long-unshaven jaw scratching neck and collarbone.
“My lady!” Jaxon’s voice sounded over the murmuring masses.
The salving of Guarin’s curiosity was worth the strain to keep his legs firm and raise his chin, but it was wasted effort. His vision was too scattered to focus on those who dismounted war horses. But one of the destriers…
He dropped his chin, behind his lids recalled the glimpse afforded of a horse dark of grey across which a flaxen mane fell.
Could it be the same? He pushed back through days he had numbered as best he could, some lost to senselessness. Once again he saw the young destrier he had taken from the battlefield and relinquished to the woman before he was attacked by warriors.
Among those Saxons had been Vitalis and Jaxon, the latter having dealt the blow that dropped Guarin—one that might have taken off the top of his head were it not delivered by the flat of the blade. That vengeful Saxon had wanted this victorious Norman alive. For this.
“What goes?”
The woman’s voice yanked him back to the present that must be the first of the new year of 1067 since it would take days for news of William’s Christmas Day coronation to reach the midlands.
“What is this, Jaxon?”
Was that voice familiar the same as the destrier?
“What do you in my name upon my lands?”
Not shrill but growing louder as it spoke over the camp commander’s curt responses. Louder because she neared, Guarin realized and tried to raise his head to look upon her and confirm her hair was golden.
The attempt made his legs give, but before the weight of his body could snap taut the chains running wrists to poles, he sank his chin to his chest, pushed up through the soles of his bare feet, and straightened.
“This, my lady, is the enemy.”
“I care not he is Norman! We do not do this. We—”
“These people need it,” Jaxon snarled, and Guarin knew the two were a half dozen strides distant. “They must taste vengeance, learn a Norman’s weakness—”
“Weakness!” she shrilled. “He is chained, splayed, and of an age—”
“The hair is a lie, my lady.”
Jaxon’s booted feet kicked up dust where he halted before Guarin. “Look!” He dug into his captive’s scalp, clenched a handful of strands as long absent a keen blade as the jaw beneath, and jerked up Guarin’s head. “Recognize this foul Norman?”
The lady was near enough to confirm she was as familiar as the destrier, though never had Guarin seen either in daylight. And near enough to observe her color drain and body recoil so violently she stumbled back. She might have dropped if not for the reappearance of Vitalis who gripped her shoulders.
The shoulders of a woman clothed as a man. Visible between the edges of a long, dark blue mantle were a russet-colored tunic, belted chausses, and worn boots. They were not the garments of the woman upon Senlac, and too fitted to be those of the husband whose ring she yet wore. But she was the one responsible for these weeks of hell.
“Lady,” he spoke across a cracked, bleeding lip with a tongue that felt large enough to choke upon. “I recognize you as well…will not forget your face nor voice until…you and yours suffer the same as I.”
Unsurprised by the blow Jaxon landed, he hoped the knave was offended by the bark of laughter loosed ahead of the black come down over Guarin’s eyes. Though that darkness stole sight of the Saxon lady, he would not forget her. Ever.
Chapter Six
You said naught! You let me believe him dead, and he has been here all this time. Treated like an animal—nay, worse!” Isa swung around, lunged across this damp, dark place requiring torchlight to ensure one’s footing, and slapped a hand to Jaxon’s chest. “Only the foulest of those who count themselves as bearing the likeness of God would torture even the meanest beast. A
nd we are not that!”
She swept her gaze to Vitalis who stood alongside the camp commander. “Or is this what we have become?” Back to Jaxon. “Worse than those you claim made us thus?”
“They pillage and burn our homes,” her sire’s man tried again to reason with her as never would she be reasoned no matter how great her hatred of Normans. “They kill our men, ravish our women, starve our children—”
She thrust onto her toes. “Unlike you, I was where this began, on that meadow forever ruined, that place where I lost my son to a Norman and killed another who sought to violate me. But this…” She turned her head, using the excuse of looking upon the man who lay against the far wall to hide her struggle to swallow bile. “This is wrong, no matter how threadbare one’s faith, no matter how desperate one is for revenge.”
As is my faith, she silently acknowledged. As I am desperate for revenge though my son’s murderer is dead—and my assailant.
Though less and less the latter came to mind and what he had done was distorted and missing pieces, at times she indulged in imagining him beaten bloody so she might combat horror over slaying him and bolster pride for defending herself as expected of a Wulfrith. However, to see those imaginings made reality, and that they were done to Guarin D’Argent…
Seeing resentment glitter in Jaxon’s eyes, she demanded, “Why did you let me believe D’Argent died in the wood?”
“For the benefit of Baron Pendery.”
So he could not save his fellow Norman, allowing Jaxon to do this to one who had slain his countrymen. More, to mete out revenge denied him against the Norwegian invaders who slew his son. “How long have you done this?”
“Since he was well enough recovered from Senlac to remain mostly conscious throughout.”
Once more forcing down bile, she turned to Vitalis. “I am disappointed you kept this from me.”
He remained silent, unwilling to defend himself though he could do so better than Jaxon to whom she had given charge of the establishment of a refuge for Saxons of a mind and ability to rebel.
