“Do you truly feel certain of that?”
“As certain as one can feel when such a thing rests in God’s hands.” She studied Thylda’s work again. “ ’Tis good. It is Papa’s story?”
“Aye. I but guess at what he looked like in his younger years.”
“It will be lovely, as is all your work.”
Thylda noticed Saxan’s distraction and smiled. “Your thoughts wing Botolf’s way again.”
“I cannot seem to help myself. Mayhap it is the child who makes me foolish, but I have a bad feeling about the search they have gone on.”
“Surely you must have faith in a messenger sent by Hunter himself?”
“What has Hunter himself done?” asked a familiar voice.
Saxan echoed Thylda’s squeal of delight when she saw her brothers standing in the door of the weaving room. She raced right behind Thylda to greet Hunter, Roc, Udolf, and Kyne. Jane, who had shown the men to the room, smiled as the siblings hugged, kissed, and playfully insulted each other. At a subtle sign from Saxan, she hurried away to be sure there was adequate refreshment for the guests.
As Saxan ushered her family into the great hall, she blushed and laughed over her brothers’ teasing. She knew that, when Pitney returned from helping Botolf search for Cecil, he would be heartily pleased to find his four elder brothers at Regenford. They would all be able to spend Yuletide together. It was a treat Saxan had not expected.
“I am surprised that you have arrived so close upon the heels of your own messenger, Hunter,” Saxan said after they had exchanged news about the family and enjoyed some light refreshment.
Hunter frowned. “I sent no man here, Saxan, not even a page to forewarn of our arrival.”
Saxan felt her blood run cold as she stared at her confused brothers. The bad feeling she had had about Botolf’s foray now broke all the restraints she had put on it, threatening to choke her with fear. When she began to shake, her brothers leapt to her side, concern on their handsome faces. A pale Thylda raced to fetch Jane.
“ ’Tis a trap,” Saxan managed to say after Hunter urged her to drink some mead.
“What is a trap, Saxan?” Hunter pressed. “Come, we cannot help you unless you tell us something more than that.”
“Botolf rides into a trap set by Cecil,” she said, her voice gaining strength as Jane arrived and tried to warm her mistress’s icy hands between her own. All the while, the maid urged calm for the sake of the child. “A man arrived saying that he had been sent here by you. Since he knew so much that was private about this trouble we have, we believed him.”
“And he sent Botolf in search of Cecil?” Udolf asked.
“Aye, to a place just off the road ten miles east of the village.”
“Is the man still here?” demanded Hunter.
“He did not ride with Botolf for he seemed most weary,” Saxan replied.
“I will ask after him, mistress,” Jane said.
“Have him brought here if he still lingers within reach,” Udolf called after the maid as she hurried away.
It did not surprise Saxan or, she noticed, any of her brothers when a man-at-arms returned with Jane to report that the false messenger was no longer at Regenford. Saxan felt the composure she had only just gained rapidly slip away Botolf and his men were good fighters, but a well-executed trap put the odds of victory strongly on the side of the one who sprang that trap. Saxan was deeply afraid for Botolf and Pitney, who rode at his side.
“Somehow Cecil discovered that our clan had joined in the hunt for him and used that,” Udolf said, sharply banging his fist on the thick table.
“That would not be such a hard thing to do, Udolf,” Thylda said.
“Should we hie after his lordship?” asked Botolf’s man-at-arms.
“We will go,” Hunter told the soldier. “We will take our men. We will need fresh horses, however. It would not be wise to leave Regenford too lightly guarded. There is no way of knowing if Cecil watches for just such a happenstance. There is a lot to protect right here, and I feel sure his lordship would not wish their protection lessened even for his sake.”
“Aye, m’lord. I will ready the horses.” The guards-man hurried away.
“Do you have enough men, Hunter?” asked Saxan.
“There are only a dozen of us, but we are going to be unexpected and that will add greatly to our strength. Pitney is with the earl?”
“Aye, and I sensed a wariness in him before he left. You see, none of us recognized the man as yours, but he claimed that he had joined your service in Berwick. Since we have had little time to come to know your men since then, we could not call him a liar.”
“Aye, and I did add a few men to my entourage. It was a clever ploy.”
“I grow weary of clever ploys.”
“Come, ease your fears, Saxan. We shall bring our lord home to you. This fretting is no good for the child you carry.” Hunter kissed her cheek. “Have faith in us and in your husband. ’Twill take more than clever ploys to bring him down.”
“Your horses are ready,” an attendant called from the doorway.
Saxan watched her brothers rush off. Their reassurances rang in her ears, but did little to ease her fears. Until Botolf was returned hale and unhurt she would worry. Even concern for her child could not dim her worry.
“Please, m’lady, you must lie down,” urged Jane.
“Lie down? Nay, I will wait here,” Saxan snapped.
“You may fret as well upon your back, but at least it would be better for the child you carry.”
“You grow most bold, Jane.”
“Aye, but his lordship gave me leave to be so.”
“I will not leave this hall.”
“Then I shall fetch a pallet and you may lie down here.”
“That may be for the best, Jane,” said Thylda. “If she is here, she will not fret that she is missing some news and she will not run down those stairs at the first sign of the men returning.”
“I cannot lie down here where all can see me,” protested Saxan.
“ ’Tis either that or your chambers,” Jane said stoutly although she blushed deeply at her boldness.
“Then fetch a pallet, for I will not leave here until Botolf is back.”
Botolf scowled at the wood they rode through, the trees still lightly frosted from the last snow. He had felt uneasy about the foray from the beginning. Now that they had found nothing and were returning empty-handed, his uneasiness grew stronger. A glance at young Pitney’s face told him that the youth felt the same. That gave him little comfort.
His fears centered on Saxan. This search had left the guard at Regenford light. He did not really think anyone could slip by his men, but he admitted that his fears for Saxan’s safety did not often respond well to common sense. Even when he was at her side and a full force of men was within the walls of Regenford, he worried about her safety. He knew that some of his concern was because Cecil was no longer the only danger shadowing her. Despite his best efforts not to, he saw the child she carried as a threat to her. He could not block out of his mind all the horror that could visit the childbed.
“M’lord?” Pitney called.
“Aye?” Botolf answered.
“I fear I may sound an old woman, but I have an ill feeling about this.”
Wesley nodded as he rode up to flank Botolf. “As do I, and I am not given to such whims. Mayhap it is just because we found nothing.”
“That added to my own unease,” Pitney admitted. “I cannot believe that Hunter would have us ride out unless he was sure of the sighting.”
“Yet there was no sign that anyone had been there for a long time,” murmured Botolf.
“But would we not have met with an attack there if this were just a trick to pull us away from the protection of Regenford?” asked Sir Wesley.
“We were fresh and readied for such a ploy,” said Pitney. “It is not where I would plan an ambush.”
“Where would you plan one, Pitney?” Botolf aske
d.
“Ambush!” screamed a man, his warning ending in a high note of fear and pain as a dagger buried itself in his chest.
“Just about here, m’lord,” Pitney said dryly as he drew his sword to meet the men swarming from the wood around them and to protect his liege lord from this obvious attempt upon his life.
A melee ensued, and Botolf’s men were soon unhorsed by the frightened actions of their mounts or pulled down by their attackers. In the confusion, the warhorses proved useless and the surprise of the attack made them vulnerable. Botolf dismounted voluntarily as his horse became too restive to control well and allow him to battle skillfully at the same time. He noticed that Pitney, Wesley, Roger, and Talbot soon did the same, Talbot fighting to move the animals out of the way.
Although the Regenford men recovered quickly from the disadvantage of the ambush, Botolf could not see much hope for a victory. They simply held their own against Cecil’s forces which far outnumbered them. Soon, Botolf knew, his men would begin to tire and the defensive square they had formed would weaken. Then, Botolf found himself face to face with Cecil at last.
Hatred and fury swelled up in Botolf, but he fought those feelings. They could make him act rashly, thus handing Cecil the victory he sought. There was also a strong sense of regret that two men who shared a father should be facing each other sword to sword.
“You no longer hide behind assassins in the night?” he asked Cecil in a cold voice.
“No need to this time, Brother,” Cecil replied. “When they find you and your men, most of your people will believe it was robbers or the Scots who felled you. There will be no man left alive to tell them differently. Nay, this one is mine,” Cecil cried when several of his men moved to aid him.
“Then we shall end this here,” said Botolf.
“Aye, Brother,” Cecil sneered, “but do not fear. I shall take good care of your little widow.”
It was not easy, but Botolf ignored that remark as he did all the other taunts Cecil flung at him. He knew that game well enough to avoid its trap. Cecil and he were so well matched that only exhaustion or a foolish lunge in anger could give either of them an advantage. Botolf was determined not to give that advantage to Cecil. He closed his mind to Cecil’s goading, although it cut painfully close to the bone. As he began to tire, he tried one last time to end the battle to the death that Cecil had imposed upon him.
“Give this up, Cecil,” he urged his half brother. “You can gain naught.”
“I can gain what is mine by birthright,” Cecil said.
“You have no birthright. You are not even the elder. Father did as well as he could by you.”
“Not well enough.”
“So you would let your greed kill us both?”
“I do not intend to die, Brother.”
“Mayhap you will not be the first of us to die, but die you will. Too many people know about your game. They will know whose hands are stained with my blood, and they will hunt you down. You will not enjoy your gains for long.”
“That is yet to be seen.”
“M’lord, someone comes,” cried one of Cecil’s men. “ ’Tis a force from Regenford.”
Although Cecil was visibly startled by this news, Botolf lost the chance to deliver the killing stroke Cecil’s distraction allowed him. By the time he regained his senses, Cecil was beyond his reach. One of Cecil’s men brought him a horse and Cecil was ready to flee while Botolf and his men were still too hard pressed by their attackers to stop him.
Botolf looked toward the force of men now charging down the road. The four men in front lacked helmets, and the fair locks whipped by the wind told him who rode to his rescue. He glanced back toward Cecil, but was too late to save himself. Even as Botolf cursed his error in taking his gaze from his treacherous brother, Cecil’s dagger was buried in his chest.
“A Yuletide gift for your pretty bride,” Cecil called as he spurred his mount into a gallop.
“Chase down those dogs,” bellowed Hunter as he reined in by Botolf who, as he started to collapse, was caught by Pitney and Wesley. “M’lord,” he cried in concern as he dismounted.
The next few moments proved to be torture for Botolf. His body took a full moment to fully realize the pain caused by the knife buried deep in his flesh. Just as it did so, he was forced to endure its removal. It was awhile before the pain cleared enough so that he was fully aware of lying on a blanket on the ground encircled by concerned faces. He did not need to look to know that they were having difficulty stopping the flow of blood from his wound.
“You have come from Regenford?” he asked in a raspy whisper.
“Aye, m’lord,” answered Hunter. “We came to share this festive time with our sisters. Saxan asked about the man I had sent. Since I had sent no one to Regenford, she knew this was a trap.”
“Are those your own men?”
“All mine, m’lord. We took none from Regenford in case your brother watched for such a weakness.”
Botolf nodded weakly in approval.
“Cecil no longer tries to hide his villainy,” Wesley said.
“He felt certain of his victory, Wesley” Botolf grimaced with pain. “He may yet win.”
“But there will be the witnesses he sought to eliminate.”
“We shall get you back to Regenford, m’lord,” Pitney said. “There you will get the nursing you need.”
“And a priest,” Botolf whispered.
“You will have no need of a friar.”
Closing his eyes for a moment, Botolf prayed that Pitney was right. There was too much he desperately wished to live for now. He knew the wound was bad, however, and fought to find the strength to face his own mortality. Although he could sense everyone still watching him, none of them spoke to him. He knew they sought to aid him in maintaining his strength, something he would badly need to endure the ride back to Regenford. When he opened his eyes again, Hunter’s men were returning.
“Did you get Cecil?” he struggled to ask, his voice a hoarse thread of sound.
“Nay, m’lord,” answered Hunter’s sergeant-at-arms, “but we did cut down many a fleeing cur.”
“We must get the earl back to Regenford,” Pitney urged.
“We have no cart for him,” Sir Wesley said.
“Then let us choose the burliest man amongst us, Sir Wesley,” Hunter suggested. “He can hold the earl before him upon a sturdy horse.”
The man chosen had Botolf staring in groggy wonder. Little Peter, Hunter’s squire, had to be five inches or more taller than Botolf and far broader of shoulder. He mused that Hunter and his squire had to make for a strange-looking pair, as Little Peter was also very dark, rough of feature, and extremely hirsute. No greater opposite to the fair, slender Hunter could have been found.
“You mount, Little Peter, and we shall hand the earl up to you,” ordered Hunter.
“Do we have a horse willing to take the weight?” Wesley asked, eyeing Little Peter in amazement.
“My horse can bear it for the few miles to Regenford,” Little Peter replied, his voice a deep rumble.
By the time he was set before Little Peter, Botolf was awash in sweat and shaking. He could not fully suppress a groan as he was wrapped in a blanket to stave off the afternoon chill. The slightest movement brought a shaft of pain from his wound.
“Lie back against me, m‘lord,” Little Peter said. “ ’Tis not good to use up what strength is left you just to sit straight.”
Casting aside his pride, Botolf did as the man suggested. Each movement of the horse caused him pain, and that pain began to rob him of consciousness. He could hear snatches of conversation around him, but was too lost in a sea of agony to make out many of the words. Enough penetrated his fog, however, to tell him that he was not alone in fearing that Cecil had dealt him a mortal wound and his thoughts went to Saxan, to how badly he wanted to stay with her.
Saxan cried out softly and sat up. She clutched at her chest as she felt a brief searing pain. Botolf’s name s
prang to her lips and she trembled with fear for him.
“M’lady, sip at this,” Jane said as she held out a tankard. “ ’Tis an herbal drink that will give you strength.”
It took a moment for Saxan to realize that Jane stood by her side and offered her a steaming, aromatic drink. “Botolf.”
“Drink it, Saxan,” urged Thylda, nodding when Saxan finally obeyed. “Botolf will be fine.”
“I think he has been hurt,” Saxan said.
“Why do you say that?”
“I felt it. Here. In the chest.”
“Oh. Could it be Pitney?” Thylda asked reluctantly. “You two have often had feelings about each other.”
“Nay, it was Botolf’s name on my lips when the pain struck.” Saxan suddenly smiled when she saw the uneasy look on Jane’s face. “I practice no sorcery, Jane. I but feel too strongly how those close to my heart are faring.”
“As if your hearts are joined?” Jane asked.
“Aye,” Saxan agreed. “That describes it well.”
“And Botolf now shares that place with Pitney?” Thylda asked.
“It would seem so, Thylda, although I pray to God it is only my own fears that create this feeling. Perhaps I am so afraid Botolf will be hurt that I have simply made myself believe it has happened. I wish I had never seen Cecil.”
“How does that matter?”
“Now I know my enemy, the man who means to destroy all that matters to me.”
“Is it not best to know your enemy? Most men say so.”
“I know, Thylda, and it is the truth in many cases, but I am no warrior. Looking into the eyes of my foe only adds to my fears. Before I saw Cecil, he was a man who resembled Botolf but was bad. Ah, but now,” she shook her head, “I have seen the evil in him, the hate and jealousy that twists his soul, and his cunning. I know he has the wit to entrap Botolf and that there is no mercy in him, no brotherly love to stay his sword. If the chance comes, and Cecil has the wit to see and grasp at all chances, Botolf will die at his half-brother’s hand as will Botolf’s wife and child. And Cecil will know no remorse over his crime.”
Thylda put her arm around Saxan’s shoulders and hugged her close. “I cannot believe that God would sacrifice such a good man as Botolf to the evil that is Cecil. You believe that, too, Saxan, and still all those fears that can only harm the babe you carry.”
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