by Tamara Leigh
Cyr glanced at him. His interest waned, hopefully because he also saw the futility of defending one whose life so completely belonged to another.
Or was it futile? Cyr considered the healthy purse on his belt, then guessing Campagnon would be more resistant to motivation driven by compassion than lust, ran his appreciative gaze up the woman. Her regard turned more wary, doubtless over the way he regarded her as he had not before.
“Your liege would like the woman for himself, Campagnon,” Cyr said. “How much to buy her papers?”
He raised an eyebrow. “When I am done with her, we will speak of price. But fair warning, my liege, you may have a long wait. Much I like her in my bed.”
Surely not as much Cyr’s fist would like the crunch of the man’s nose, but there was nothing for it. For now.
Feigning indifference, Cyr jerked a shoulder. “Providing she remains desirable, we may talk.” A sideways warning that the less ill-used, the more coin she would bring.
“Much depends on her, eh Wench?” He drew her head down, kissed her hard, and thrust her away. “Be about your duties.”
Nicola’s nails sank into Cyr’s arm. “Odious,” she hissed.
Fulbert’s verdict was the same, as told by his dark expression when Cyr looked past his sister.
“Remove your claws, Nicola,” Cyr said low. “At this time, I can do naught.”
She dropped her hand to her lap but leaned up and whispered, “You could kill him. Is that not what warriors do?”
“In this matter, dishonorable ones. Let us hope he gives me good reason in future.”
She dropped down hard on her seat and sullenly spoke no more.
When Cyr called an end to the meal, Campagnon surged to his feet. “I shall ensure my wench put the solar in good order, my lord.”
Doubtless, to remove anything he did not wish his liege to happen upon. “You are all consideration, Campagnon,” Cyr returned cordial artifice, “a much desired quality in a vassal.”
The man’s nostrils flared, but he suppressed the retort he would have given were he yet Cyr’s equal. He smiled falsely, then strode to the curtains and snatched them aside. As they fell closed behind him, Cyr turned to his sister and the priest where they remained seated. Seeing their heads were together, certain they discussed England’s slave trade, Cyr determined to leave them to it and further his acquaintance with Campagnon’s men. But as he turned aside, he felt a presence at his back.
“Quite the undertaking,” Dougray drawled.
Stealth even when stealth was uncalled for, but it was more his nature than learned. And once more it would serve him well did he leave off self-pitying and embrace what remained of the warrior—which was yet beyond that with which many a fighting man was endowed.
Dougray’s shoulders shifted beneath the mantle. Though the garment concealed the loss darkening his soul, his bearded face did not. His smile its usual bitter self when it deigned to appear amid that which was shades darker than his flaxen hair, he said, “None of this will truly be yours until you rid these lands of its undesirables—and you know I speak not only of Campagnon and his mercenaries.”
He knew, just as he knew that perhaps more than Balduc’s deposed baron, Dougray wished England purged of what he named Saxon dogs. Until this day, Cyr had not questioned how deep that desire. If Dougray’s interest in what had gone between Campagnon and the one known by the name Wench was born of concern for the latter, perhaps he was coming back to the man he had been ere the great battle. Albeit often with grudging, he had championed the oppressed—again, part of his nature, evident even before he learned the truth of his birth.
Cyr prayed Dougray would become that again, especially considering how dangerous he might turn if he did not forgive the injury gained from a battle-axe. Unfortunately, forgiveness came hard to one who had yet to reconcile himself to the fate dealt twenty-three years past when he was birthed as a result of their mother’s relations outside of marriage. Because her infidelity was unwitting and her husband’s faith of a strength to pardon her, the misbegotten child had been raised alongside his legitimate siblings. Now if only Dougray’s faith were half as strong.
Though Cyr did not believe himself worthy to reacquaint his younger brother with God, he was determined to do so. If he failed, Dougray could be lost forever.
As determined before the crossing from Normandy to England, they would start with the sword. Dougray would rage, but that anger would be put to good use.
“What?” the younger man mocked. “No words of wisdom to calm this beast?”
Cyr started to raise a hand to clasp his shoulder, but though such show of brotherly affection had not gone amiss prior to the loss of his lower arm, it would now. “The Saxons have become our people, Dougray. We will make peace and live and work alongside them.”
There was no humor about the younger man’s laughter. “Never my people. I would sooner see—”
“You will not, little brother. As you tried our father’s patience, you will not try mine.”
Ignoring Cyr’s warning, Dougray said, “Never my father. And I wager I shall try your patience.” He pivoted, tossed over his shoulder, “Truly, you ought to have left me to my hovel.”
It would have been easier, Cyr concurred, but the voice belonging to the youth often trailed by his younger brother countered, Easier in some ways, not all.
Fulbert appeared at his side. Before the big man could say what too often he did regarding Dougray, Cyr said, “Time, patience, prayer. This I know!”
The priest wiggled his eyebrows. “So wise for one so young.”
Cyr stared, and when Fulbert held his gaze without waver, grumbled, “I am not much younger than you.”
“I suppose a dozen years is not terribly significant, but henceforth your responsibilities number greater than mine, Baron D’Argent. Though I may be held accountable for the souls of your people, I can tend them only if they come willingly whilst they yet have bodies in which to dwell.”
Meaning give his thoughts and efforts to them now, Dougray later. Cyr inclined his head. “You are right, my friend. Let us begin.”
From the far alcove he watched, confident he could see but not be seen, hate but not be hated—at least, without good cause. But that would come.
The fire within so fierce he felt more a stranger to himself than usual, the former Baron of Balduc stared at the man ever taking from him—coin, victory, and reputation at contest, revenge on the woman who had scarred him at Senlac, and the demesne for which Raymond had risked his life to aid one who did not esteem so loyal a vassal.
Desperate to find something to cling to in a world so askew it threatened to let him slip through its cracks, he summoned imaginings of England’s king put through with sword on that highest of seats…folding over the blade…dropping to his knees…falling on his face…
Not impossible, but of greater possibility was the demise of one who wished more than already he had taken. Fortunately, no matter D’Argent was now baron of these lands, he could not lay claim to the Saxon wench. She was Raymond’s in full until he finished with her—or found himself in need of coin. But if first the latter, it would not be D’Argent to whom he sold her. Any but him. He would see her dead, purse woefully empty, ere allowing her to perch on the merciless one’s lap.
Raymond looked to the thief who gathered around men who, henceforth, would answer to a D’Argent ahead of one reduced to a castellan. Doubtless, the knave sought to determine whose loyalty could be had. Likely a good number since mercenaries sought material reward above all else, but some would stay Raymond’s side—providing he persuaded them their reward would be great once the rightful owner reclaimed all lost this day.
That he would do. Rather than pace away the days until even the keeping of Balduc was wrested from him, he would give D’Argent very good reason to hate him.
“Beginning now,” he rumbled when he saw his slave answer the baron’s summon to refill his tankard. She was quicker on her feet t
han when the one who had given coin for the witchy-eyed thing ordered her to his side. And was that a smile in answer to D’Argent’s?
Raymond launched himself off the wall. “Wench!”
She swung around, causing a stream of amber liquid to streak the air and fall to the rushes.
“To me!” he snarled.
He saw her swallow, sensed she was tempted to appeal to D’Argent. But the Saxon-lover could do naught—nor his unkempt, one-armed brother who shot her owner a look of malice. Interesting. Considering what the heathen of England had stolen from the baseborn D’Argent, he ought to rejoice over the wench’s fate. Raymond certainly did. And would have added to that fate the moment she came before him if not for a voice shrill between his ears insisting he await his overlord’s departure.
The wench dipped her head. Then as was required of her, forcing her to dampen her loathing, she said, “My beloved lord?”
He raked his eyes down her, smiled the smile that, on occasion, could coax a visible shudder from her. This was one such occasion, and it eased his anger sufficiently to heed that shrill voice. The morrow was soon enough. Until then…
“Take you to the kitchen and remain there until I send for you.”
“But your guests—”
He stepped nearer, lowered his voice. “Are you unwell, Wench?”
Her lashes fluttered. “My beloved lord?”
“You must be, for there is no other halfway acceptable excuse for questioning me.”
She averted those mismatched eyes, and he was no fool to think it deference. She hated him, but though he told himself he did not care, he resented she did not appreciate how foul her life would be had he not outbid the one who wished to add her to the ranks of a half dozen joy women earning him good coin across Northern England.
“Am I right?” he rumbled.
“Most unwell, my beloved lord.”
“Then all the more reason to hie to the kitchen.”
Clasping the pitcher to her chest, she turned.
“And take the long way around my guests,” he rasped.
She did as told, and he was pleased both D’Argents watched her retreat. This they could not control. Nor what was to come.
Chapter Seven
Lillefarne Abbey
England
At last he came, as evidenced by the missive taken from messengers intercepted en route to Balduc. Of equal note was an increase in his holdings, though that was not written on this parchment but told by one who resided in Campagnon’s household. Though forfeiture of Balduc to the Lord of Stern had to be of some benefit to the Saxons who suffered beneath the blade, fist, and heel of Campagnon, it could not bode well for the successor. Upon Senlac, there had been ill between the two men, and now…
Give that poltroon your back, and he will put a blade through it, oh merciless one, Aelfled silently warned the man who had likely forgotten her.
Releasing her breath, she lowered to the bench and stared at the name she had thought often since that bloody autumn morn when all the proof needed England had lost her soul was provided by the spill of sunlight across heaped, grotesquely splayed and bent men who would never again hold wives and children. Nor would they provide for or protect their families. Leading to more loss…more death…
Running the edge of a thumb across the name she had never seen written, she reflected on the number of times she had spoken it, then lowered her chin and let her tongue and lips form it. Strange it should affect her so deeply. But were she honest, and only with herself might she be, it was not the name that caused her heart to beat against the bars of her chest. It was remembrance of the warrior of short, silvered dark hair. He who had worn the blood of her people. He who had carried Wulf to the wood. He who had made himself a barrier between Campagnon and her. He who had delivered the last of the boys to the wood. He who had tossed the psalter back at her. And yet…
Was it he who took it? Though given little time to search for it whilst her lady wept and raged over her lost boy, Aelfled had required no more, clearly recalling where he had cast it. Had the man she thought never again to see retrieved it after ensuring none of the boys was lost to their mothers?
“It changes naught,” spoke the one who had thrust the missive at Aelfled.
She looked up at the woman who worked vengeance on the Normans under cover of the name Dotter. Though she approached her twenty-seventh year, since the invasion she looked years older. And more so this day.
Because of an injury sustained in evading capture by King William’s men who sought to end the rebellion on these lands following the murder of a Norman family? Likely, since the vigor with which the woman usually carried herself was absent, her movements slow as if planned in advance to ensure she did not undo whatever was done to piece her back together. However, there was enough light in her grey eyes to hint at blue and color in her cheeks, and Aelfled was certain it had all to do with Campagnon who was no longer baron due to this woman’s well-trained rebels.
Aelfled rolled the missive, nodded at the length of bench beside her. When the woman did not join her, she asked, “What will you do now?”
“As ever we do.”
Of course. As told, the long-awaited arrival of Cyr D’Argent and the transfer of Balduc to him changed naught. Dotter would continue that begun with Campagnon, and Aelfled would give aid with as little complaint as possible, even at the cost of her soul.
And very well it could cost her all, considering how often she was called upon to thieve and deceive. It was sin enough she broke God’s commandments, but that she did so whilst residing here…
She looked to the wall that enclosed what had become her home the day of her return to Wulfenshire. Outside the abbey, her lady had further impressed on her former maid she had no hope her debt would ever be wiped clean—that there would be no end to the payments required of her. Then Isa had departed with her son whose death was to be kept secret as much as possible, though it had seemed not at all possible with his decay having become suffocatingly potent during the long, slow journey north.
Remembering his figure wrapped in linen atop a straw-stuffed pallet in the wagon she had walked alongside, Aelfled closed her eyes. Were there a God, He had not been with Wulf and those who followed him to Senlac. Were there a God, He had merely shrugged over the pleas of the Saxons. Were there a God—
She caught her breath at having once more acknowledged her battered faith was beyond battered. It continued to slip away—down through the places torn open by the conquering. Did she not catch hold of the threads trailing it, ever she might peer into the void. Utterly faithless.
Staring at her trembling hands gripping the missive against her knees, she whispered, “I believe You are here.” Nearly a lie. “You have not abandoned us.” Even nearer a lie. “You have to be here.”
“Aelf?”
It was not the sharp tone that interrupted her attempt to catch hold of the blessed threads, it was the note of concern wrapped around the endearment. When was the last time any had called her Aelf?
When Wulf beseeched her forgiveness for deceiving her much as now she deceived others. The memory of his head in her lap transformed her trembling into a quake that ran head to toe.
A hand touched her shoulder. “What ill is this?”
Aelfled dropped her head back and looked into her beloved lady’s face. “I fear have I not lost God, soon I shall. And if I do not have Him, who have I, Isa?”
The hand fell from her, grey eyes sharpened, mouth tightened, and once more it was Dotter before her.
Aelfled swallowed. “Naught ill, my lady, merely not enough time spent at prayer.”
“Time better spent doing your duty to your people.” Isa swept her gaze around the garden that provided for a good number beyond the abbey walls.
Aelfled tried to look at it through the other woman’s eyes but saw it only through her own. Here sustenance for those who suffered most upon Wulfenshire—the people of Balduc from whom Campagnon took time a
nd again, even when not in retaliation for what he lost to rebels.
“Duty well beyond this,” her lady concluded.
Aelfled inclined her head. “When shall you require my aid again?”
“Come the full moon, we take the lord’s hay upon Balduc.”
She blinked. Though what was done at night was greatly aided by a lit sky, never had a full moon been attempted. “You risk being seen, my lady.”
Isa flipped the hood of her mantle up over her hair. “A risk worth taking that Baron D’Argent and I become acquainted sooner.”
Aelfled pushed to her feet. “You speak of more bloodletting?”
“As told time and again, ’tis rendered in defense of our persons. The slaughter of that Norman family was not of our doing.”
Aelfled longed to believe her, but Isa knew her well—that no matter how much the one entrusted with her son abhorred the conquerors, and regardless how wrenching her guilt, she would not be a party to senseless slaughter.
“Aye, it is as you told,” Aelfled said, then dared, “but did you tell true, my lady?”
The woman sucked breath between her teeth, thrust her face near to reveal glittering eyes that, like the barely breathable air between them, further evidenced anger.
Fighting down the impulse to cower with the reminder that even when she had caused her lady a greater grief than ever she had known, never had she landed a blow, Aelfled remained unmoving.
“The next full moon,” Isa said, then pivoted and, with measured steps that bespoke discomfort, traversed the beaten path that would deliver her out of the garden.
Aelfled lowered her gaze to the missive surely gained at the expense of great humiliation to its bearers. She started to unroll it to look once more upon the name scrawled there, instead rebuked herself for wanting to gaze on what had been more intimately imprinted on her that day at Senlac.