by Tamara Leigh
Lest he set a trap, she said, “I bought him from a traveling merchant months past. As Anglicus speaks neither Saxon nor Norman, I cannot know.”
He chuckled. “Norman, likely taken from the battlefield.”
“Regardless, he is Saxon now.” She jutted her chin in the direction of Ravven. “Shall we?”
Village of Ravven upon Stern
Wulfenshire, England
Ravven was a mistake. Not because Theriot D’Argent hovered. He did not. He had escorted them only as far as the outskirts, then with a wink that made Isa long to blacken that green eye, said he would call on her at Wulfen and spurred away.
There was no way of knowing if the Normans watched from the wood as she moved among her people, but she had no sense of it and guessed the arrogant young man long gone.
The source of her unrest was another who cornered her following her audience with the villagers who did not like their Norman lord—mostly for his triumph over Saxons at Senlac.
Shrewd Bernia, grandmother of Aelfled, had little to no sight. The wind that had years past blown clouds across the skies of her eyes had gone still. For that, Isa could not comprehend how she came to be caught between the old woman and the chapel steps.
“I am sorry for the loss of your boy, my lady,” Bernia said, “but my granddaughter is not all to blame.”
Isa clenched her hands. Had Aelfled revealed to her Wulf’s death? Or like so many happenings upon Wulfenshire, did the old woman simply feel it? Regardless, Isa knew she also bore blame—and even considered Wulf was not entirely innocent, though he had the excuse of youth from which he had been insufficiently protected.
“The sun sets,” she said. “We must ride.”
Bernia gripped her arm. “Pray, do not abandon her. She does not belong at the abbey. If you cannot take her back, send her home to me.”
Isa stood taller. “She shall remain at Lillefarne. Now loose me.”
A growl sounded from the woman, but she did as commanded, and Isa stepped around her.
“My lady!”
She halted.
“I think England lost,” Bernia said. “Thus, better your time spent choosing the best of the Normans with whom to make a new life.”
Isa swung around. “A Wulfrith does not lie down and roll over, exposing a belly to ignoble scratching. A Wulfrith fights.”
“I know I offend, but I would save you time and further heartache.”
“Both of which are well spent on removing Normans from our soil.”
“So you think, but do you survive, I believe the end will be the same—a Norman-ruled England and another Norman husband. However, now you may choose the latter for yourself, whereas…” She shrugged. “The one I have heard is being called William the Great may force an alliance better suited to him than you.”
Isa had heard him named that, and it sat no better with her now than the first time. “I have no intention of wedding again, but did I, it is to one of my own I would bind myself.”
Bernia blinked opaque eyes. “There is a reason beyond pleasing old King Edward your sire wed you to a Norman. He wished their blood to course with Wulfrith blood.”
This Isa knew. When she had implored her father not to wed her to Roger, he had said it was necessary to strengthen his line that he saw weakening as one after another of his sons was lost to illness and the blades of lesser men.
“The Normans may be the most formidable warriors our age has seen,” Bernia added.
As also her father had told, but Isa could tolerate no more. “You break faith with your own. Good day.”
She was halfway to her escort when the old woman called, “I pray for you, Hawisa Wulfrithdotter, as does my Aelfled. Let not our prayers be misspent.”
Isa had not known she was capable of so quickly gaining the saddle with skirts flapping about her legs, but she was soon astride and spurring Anglicus from Ravven ahead of her escort.
Bernia knows naught of what she speaks, she told herself as air buffeted her face. She cannot know. England will be England again.
Chapter Sixteen
Wulfenshire Rebel Camp, England
14 October, 1067
One year. Still no nearer to ridding Saxons of Normans.
One year. Still England’s bloodied soil cried for justice.
One year. Still Wulf’s mother mourned.
“One year,” Isa whispered and wondered what two would bring. Head bowed, she blew out her breath, sipped another. “Return to us, Lord. Pour out Your justice. Avenge us. We are not idle. We do our part. And still they come, take, ravage, oppress. Lift Your punishment. Do Your part.”
Sacrilegious? Likely. But if the Lord knew all, there was no hiding her resentment over His unwillingness to forgive her people for what brought the Normans down on them. And surely it was understandable why she, a mere mortal, could not herself absolve the enemy of their sins, especially as they continued to plague England.
Opening her eyes, she stared at her laced fingers pressed against her chest and wondered what more could be done whilst waiting on Him.
Much had been accomplished since the first of the year when more fully she took control of the Wulfenshire rebellion. Scores of rebels, mostly commoners, had been trained in combat. Regular patrols under the command of Jaxon moved about the shire, keeping watch and interceding when the enemy made Saxons their prey.
Since the two Normans slain near the abbey, five more had fallen to rebel blades, three being Campagnon’s men and two northern-bound mercenaries who should have taken the long way around Wulfenshire.
As for those beaten, shorn, and divested of coin and fine garments, they numbered nearly a score—and none was of Stern. They were of the Baron of Balduc whom thrice Isa had refused an audience due to a lingering illness that seemed the best means of providing cover for her role in the rebellion. As for the keeper of Stern, twice she had denied him entrance, though each time she hesitated before sending him away.
Like Guarin, he honored his family. Though months past he and Campagnon had lost crops of hay to a nighttime attack led by Vitalis—and Isa had reported hers also set afire—Theriot D’Argent had not retaliated by taking the villagers’ crops. Not so the Baron of Balduc whose villagers Isa secretively supplied food to ensure their survival. Also unlike Campagnon, Guarin’s brother had placed a heavy guard on his grain crops until they were harvested. Thus, nearly all harassment was dealt Campagnon. Nearly, since Jaxon’s patrol did not always follow orders. Rather, not hers.
More reliable and trustworthy were those over whom Vitalis had charge. Trained and organized into what he called sorties, those select rebels set fires, seized supply wagons, and stole livestock. Though occasionally Isa accompanied Jaxon’s men in patrolling Wulfenshire, more often she joined those of the sorties.
Careful to disguise her face and voice, she rode, crept, and wielded a blade alongside those who fought first for country, second for her. In addition to greater challenge, the sorties presented greater risk, but less so now the rebels had access to sanctuary when pursued.
Lillefarne’s stone wall was not yet complete, but a sennight past it had become serviceable, allowing Isa and Vitalis to enact a plan they would not otherwise have dared. Last eve, a sortie set fire to the grain Campagnon had confiscated from villagers and evaded capture by fleeing to the abbey where Aelfled concealed the rebels inside the wall. Once Vitalis determined it was safe to bring them out, they would return to camp.
“My lady?”
She straightened so swiftly she nearly struck her head on the tree against which she sat. “What is it, Rosa?”
“Pardon.” The woman who had cut her dark hair short, likely the result of being warned of the folly of long hair, dipped her chin. “’Tis D’Argent. He demands an audience.”
It surprised he had not sooner. Often he had seen her come and go these six months, just as she had seen him training rebels, but that was all. Though mostly unexamined was the temptation to draw near him as she had when h
e pulled her onto his boots and into his arms, so great was that temptation she knew to fear it.
“You say D’Argent sent you?”
“Nay, my lady. I sent myself.”
Too close this Norman hater had grown to Isa’s captive, though never would Rosa admit it. As reported by Vitalis, Guarin was angered and frustrated at being denied the challenge of worthy opponents. For that, his instruction of women and new recruits who showed little promise had turned so intense several were now capable of trading blows with those trained by Jaxon and Vitalis. The latter was pleased, Jaxon not at all where the women were concerned.
He will turn on you, Guarin had predicted, and these past months had given her more cause to believe it. Her sire’s greatest trainer did not hide how often he received Gytha’s man in the camp. What he held close were their discussions.
When questioned, Jaxon said Harold’s mother but kept herself apprised of their growing numbers and skills so when the time came to unite rebels across England, she could make good use of those of Wulfenshire. As for her contact with Isa, it was increasingly rare and mostly a reminder not to forget whose blood coursed her veins.
“Will you come, my lady?”
Isa returned Rosa to focus. “I have naught to say to him.”
“But he is being difficult, and since Vitalis has departed to determine if it is safe to return the sortie to camp, I fear Jaxon will…” She shrugged. “It is a solemn day, anguish and anger running high. Though I care not what happens to the Norman, I know you value his training.”
Isa rose, glanced down garments heavily creased, fouled, and snagged by this morning’s practice at arms that was to have been a balm to a day steeped in memories. The only balm was proving herself equal to more of Jaxon’s men than usual. Though those with whom she had crossed swords had not been the best of his rebels, they were far from the worst.
“How is D’Argent being difficult?” she asked.
“He makes the presence of the enemy sharply felt on the worst day possible—over and again shouting your name.”
Isa raised a staying hand and listened, but she had ventured far from camp and could catch no more than the distant sounds of metal on metal. “He is in the cave?”
“Nay. As arranged by Vitalis, the women were to practice thrusts and parries with him, but he is unapproachable—could have taken off the top of Letha’s head even had he struck it with the dull edge of his blade. Instead, he knocked her senseless with the flat, seized her sword, and began calling for you. Pray, my lady, come ere Jaxon quiets him.”
Had he not already…
Isa ran, surging ahead of Rosa as the two negotiated the wooded, rock-strewn ravine. Before they reached the camp, she heard Guarin’s voice above the clang of blades that was now of two rather than many—and another’s voice, just as angry and demanding.
Isa pushed herself harder.
The rebels were gathered around the post to which Guarin was chained, providing Jaxon a wide berth to circle and counter blows dealt by the Norman’s dull sword and the one taken from Letha.
“Hawisa Wulfrithdotter!” he shouted as he brought a blade down on his opponent’s, turning aside a slice that could have opened his neck. “I would speak with you!”
“What you will do, Norman,” Jaxon bellowed, “is what you should have done long ago.”
Despite Isa’s fear for her chained captive, when she thrust past two rebels she saw Wulfrith’s greatest trainer was the one being bested. Though Guarin’s tunic and chausses evidenced bloody slashes, Jaxon’s boasted more though surely only because he wielded one sword.
“Hawisa Wulfrithdotter!” Guarin called again.
Jaxon swept his blade wide and nearly took the Norman’s ear. “This time she will not save you!”
Isa sprang into the clearing. “I am here!”
As a great murmuring arose, Jaxon faltered. Guarin D’Argent did not, finishing his swing and causing his opponent to jump back from a slice to the calf.
“Cease!” she commanded as her sire’s man moved to retaliate.
Jaxon stilled, and as his head came around, Isa looked to Guarin. Shoulders rising and falling, from behind perspiration-dampened hair now of a length from fingertips to wrist, he narrowed his eyes on her.
“’Tis past time, my lady,” Jaxon said, striding toward her.
She knew what he meant but said, “For what?”
“One year since Hastings. One year too many. He must be put to ground.”
“You have tried, you have failed,” Guarin snarled and jerked his chain to emphasize his disadvantage. “You will try again, you will fail again—unless you enlist those I have trained.”
Seeing the flush above Jaxon’s beard spread toward his balding pate, Isa returned her regard to Guarin. “Hold your tongue, Norman!”
A moment later, a hand fastened around her arm and Jaxon thrust his face near. “Gytha wants him dead. Allow me to put him down!”
Staring into his bloodshot eyes, she longed for Vitalis. Together they were the balance to her sire’s man, as much as possible keeping him in line with her wishes. But though rattled by fear, she spat, “Release Wulfrith’s daughter.”
His gaze wavered. “Did you not hear me? Gytha wants the Norman dead.”
“Is she your lady? Is she of the house of Wulfrith to which you gave your oath thirty years past?”
His hand on her convulsed.
“I am your lady, your oath passed to me by my sire.”
His eyes shifted and picked over rebels gone silent.
“Cease now ere thoroughly you dishonor my sire and yourself by challenging Wulfrithdotter’s right to keep or dispose of her captive.”
Was that hatred streaking across the eyes he returned to her? Had she made an enemy of him?
“Fool woman!” He thrust her away.
Isa kept her balance, then did the least of what her sire would have done. It was not a slap to the face she dealt but a fist to the nose. Pain burst across her knuckles and up her arm, but she bared her teeth and said loud, “Never lay hands on your lady. Never challenge your lady.”
Jaxon’s lips quivered beneath a trickle of blood running from one nostril, and she thought he gathered spit to scatter across her face, but he remained unmoving.
Isa looked around. Though surprise shone from most of the men’s faces and what seemed admiration from the women’s, some were as dark as Jaxon’s—most notably his pet, Sigward.
“All answer first to me!” she called. “If ever the time comes for Gytha to lead, I shall command you to her side.” She returned her regard to the camp’s commander. “Are we of an understanding or must we part ways, Jaxon?”
There was threat in her words though she was not certain she could act on it, whether because she would be unable to bring herself to render him incapable of later exacting revenge, or the rebels who sided with him interceded.
“We understand each other well,” he said, also with threat.
“Then we are done here.” She considered the others. “There will be no further practice this day. Rest yourselves and reflect on what you can do to honor your living and dead and return England to its glory.”
Though she knew were it possible to come near to matching Jaxon’s sword skill it would be a day distant from this, she set a hand on her hilt and said, “Go, Jaxon.”
He thrust past her, so near his shoulder bumped hers.
Isa started forward and saw Guarin’s eyes shift between Jaxon and her as if to sound a warning should her man decide this was the day to turn on her.
The last time she had been here with Guarin, he had instructed her in watching her back, and for that she attended to a change in Jaxon’s stride. Blessedly, it grew distant and became one with scores of others moving toward the camp’s living area.
As she neared her captive and noted he retained both swords, she motioned forward the men who stood guard outside the cave.
Halting just beyond Guarin’s reach, she heeded the hair loosed
following practice. Since she had been careless with the pins and had no means of securing the braid close to her scalp, she drew it over her shoulder and tucked it beneath her loose tunic.
A slight smile moved Guarin’s mouth, and he lowered his gaze down her. “It pains you,” he said, and she knew his eyes were on the fist that struck Jaxon. “And yet it felt good, I am certain, the same as every piece of flesh I took from him. Much like the first sip of water across a tongue that has forgotten how sweet the taste of moisture, hmm?” His eyes returned to hers. “Are the bones intact?”
She peeled back her thumb she had long ago learned not to tuck into her palm and uncurled aching fingers. “I believe so.”
“You surprised me, though not as much as you did him. Lessons in warfare are made of such. Do you push beyond yourself, you can do great, unexpected things—providing you are not rash.”
His censure unmistakable, she said, “You do not approve of me striking him?”
“I liked it, but not only did you humiliate him on the heels of shame dealt by a Norman, you exposed strength it would have been better to reveal when the surprise of it matters.”
“It mattered this day. He challenged me, and rather than slink away like a child, I affirmed my place, his place, and that of my rebels. More, that I am of—”
“Wulfrith,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. “The name carries much weight, and it is mine.”
“Until he moves against you, Lady Hawisa, and now you have given him greater cause. Did not your sire teach you the advantage of holding close your feelings?”
Control of one’s emotions, but did that apply here? she questioned. “My father took pride in letting men know where they stood with him—did not temper words and actions, nor flatter where flattery was not due.”
“With his lessers and equals,” Guarin said. “But I wager he was more cautious with his betters. As for pride, I know much about that sin, just as I know ever it has been and ever it will be the downfall of many.”
