by Tamara Leigh
Cyr D’Argent, the merciless one who had shown mercy to her and a handful of Saxon boys and their mothers.
Cyr D’Argent who, of all the lands he could have been awarded, gained those upon Wulfenshire.
Cyr D’Argent who, though she might not see him again, was now near enough to be felt.
“Why?” she whispered, but before she could guess the reason, she became aware of silence where there ought to be the scrape of feet. She looked up, saw her lady had turned at the center of the garden.
“When I returned the king’s men, shaved and in rags,” Isa said, “I had them deliver an arrow to D’Argent.”
Aelfled frowned. “For what?”
“Rather than sight it on him, I sent it as a warning.”
“W-with what message?”
“That its absence from his heart is payment in full for the debt owed him by she who intercepted his men.”
Belly clenching, Aelfled gasped, “What have you done?” A valid question, for her lady’s actions seemed impulsive—given too little thought by one who gave much to nearly all she did.
Isa’s shrug was so slight it could have been imagined. “It shall be interesting to discover how he responds to my warning.”
Suppressing the longing to scream, Aelfled said, “Surely you know that in giving him cause to seek me out, he may learn my name? Does he, I could lead him to you even though I speak no word against you.”
Isa stared.
“He has only to enquire of others as to whom I served ere Senlac to discover you are the lady who lost a son at the battle. And how many Saxon lips can remained sealed against revealing you had only one heir, that the boy you present as—?
“Does he not already suspect the truth of my son, soon he will, for you gave him all he needed to piece me together when you revealed we were of Wulfenshire and the noble boy who died in your arms was half Norman.” Chest rising and falling, Isa squeezed her eyes closed as if to slam shutters against imaginings of the life going out of Wulf—in arms not her own.
Finally, in a voice evidencing tight control, she said, “Upon this shire there is—was—only one other lady wed to a Norman, and her aged heart ceased beating when she lost her husband at Stamford Bridge the same as I.”
Aelfled crammed nails into her palms. So frantic was she over the arrow that she had returned to an argument long ago lost—that against presenting another as Wulfen’s heir. Even before the one who named himself King William took a portion of Isa’s lands, Aelfled had thought it a great a risk, but a greater risk it had become when one of the men awarded those lands proved the only Norman aware of Wulf’s death. However, the chevalier who delivered tidings of the new Lord of Stern after being introduced to Isa’s son, had given her lady hope of holding close her secret.
Sir Maël, kin to Cyr D’Argent, had revealed his cousin had returned to France and if the eldest brother lost at Senlac was not found, the second-born would become heir to the family’s Normandy lands. Hence, Cyr D’Argent would likely petition the king to allow him to pass Stern to the brother who administered it in his stead.
“It is on you,” Isa returned her to the present.
Aelfled nodded. “I know it. But what will you do? Seek to slay the Lord of Stern as you did not when you could have put an arrow through him?”
Her lady raised her eyebrows. “I do not think that wasted opportunity. He was not fool enough to ride over Saxon lands absent armor and was too distant to ensure an arrow found exposed flesh. But I fear it will be necessary to—” She snapped her teeth. Did Aelfled not know her well, what was revealed by way of words caught back might have been lost to her.
For as much as Isa hated Normans, she was not eager to end the one who had aided Aelfled upon Senlac.
She raised her chin higher. “Though armed with a tale that will explain the boy who is now my heir should I be called to account, it is possible Cyr D’Argent will have to die.”
Regardless of having glimpsed a heart Aelfled had begun to think not merely barricaded but buried, the words chilled.
“And now I have men in need of lessons.” The lady turned.
“I am sorry,” Aelfled called. “Ever I shall be.”
That should have been the end of their audience, but Isa came back around. “It was reckless to send the arrow, more the words,” she said. “Unworthy of my family’s name and reputation. Vitalis has every right to be angered.”
It did not surprise that the one upon whom Isa greatly depended to keep her rebels safe and effective disapproved of what his lady had done.
Isa pivoted, thrust her arms out to the sides to steady herself, then snatched them in. Weaving slightly, she went from sight and, minutes later, there came the sound of hooves as she and her escort departed the abbey.
Aelfled sank to the ground. Gripping the missive so tightly it would crease, she dropped her chin and addressed one it would be exaggeration to say she held to amid so much disbelief. “Dear Lord, how long ere D’Argent comes in the belief I sent the arrow? And how am I to cast suspicion off me—keep it from Isa?”
Despite the dismantling of her lands, the Lady of Wulfen played well King William’s subject—so well it was told he believed King Harold’s mother, Gytha, was responsible for the rebellions upon Wulfenshire the same as other shires across England. And it was possible the older woman was involved though such was not confided to Aelfled. Regardless, if Cyr D’Argent learned Isa had birthed only one son, he would know the lie of the full-blooded Saxon presented as born of her and her Norman husband.
“Pray not,” Aelfled spoke into what she hoped was God’s ear. She ached that there was no end to the warring between the two peoples across England, hated that even if her lady had not ordered the slaughter of defenseless Normans, likely her rebels were responsible. But of no benefit would it be to any were Isa stripped of what remained of her lands or made to wed another Norman to retain hold of her birthright by conceiving another heir.
“Twelve days ere the full moon,” Aelfled informed the Lord of what He need not be told. “Too much light. And ’twill not be against Campagnon she acts now Balduc lands are D’Argent, but the merciless one who is not merciless.”
She thrust upright. Ignoring the voice that warned her to enter the abbey by way of the fortified doors at the front, the same by which she accessed the garden outside its rear wall, she turned opposite the way her lady had gone. A dozen strides later, she slipped behind an overgrown hedge as she ought not during daylight hours.
Shrouded in shadow, she ran a hand over the rough stone wall that had been of wood before Hastings. Eight months later, it had become stone, the considerable cost funded by the Lady of Wulfen to ensure the safety of Saxon ladies who fled the conquerors to avoid being despoiled. But the wall had another purpose, one of which the Normans would approve even less.
When the stone beneath Aelfled’s palm became smooth iron, she sought the catch. Releasing it, she opened the low, narrow door and ducked into darkness.
Once she secured the door behind her, cautiously she traversed the outer wall’s hidden passage—alone, though come the full moon she would keep company with others. Those who previously sought refuge from the wrath of Campagnon would now flee the one known as Merciless Cyr.
Chapter Eight
Stern Castle
England
Stern Castle—absent both Guarin whom Cyr had prayed to find here and Theriot who had departed on the day past to once more scout the shire in the hope of verifying their brother’s sighting.
Cyr swept his gaze around the stronghold. Despite how quickly it was raised to establish the presence of the demesne’s Norman lord, it was formidable. Constructed of wood which would be replaced with stone in stages, the donjon was set high on a natural mound whose top had been flattened and sides sharply sloped down to a sizable bailey encircled by a palisade. Enclosing all was a ditch-turned-moat by way of water diverted from a nearby stream.
Formidable, and of greater import, exceed
ingly defensible. The youngest of the D’Argent brothers was to be commended.
Standing before the upper gatehouse, Cyr looked from the steps below cut into the side of the motte that linked donjon and bailey, to his aunt. Following a terse reunion with Maël who assured his mother that once his men were settled they would speak further, she had offered to accompany her nephew during his survey of Stern. For nearly two hours, she had walked him through every room of the donjon and corner of the lowermost bailey with its barracks, workshops, stables, and chapel.
Now as if sensing his gaze, she looked up. “You are pleased, Cyr?”
“I am. Theriot has done well—better than his errant brother deserves.”
Lady Chanson raised an eyebrow. “But?”
She saw, and he was ashamed his disappointment was read though it had nothing to do with the state of Stern. Before he could think how to answer, she said, “I could be blind, and still I would know you do not wish to be here. As neither do I. William may have been within his rights to claim the crown promised him, but how it was done and what it cost our people…” Her lashes fluttered as her thoughts surely turned to the man whose death had made her a widow. “And what it cost—and still costs—the Saxons… In that there can be little right. Can there, Cyr?”
He put an arm around her and drew her against his side as she had done him when it was he who stood a foot shorter. “It is done, Aunt, and if England is to prosper again, the rebellion must end.”
“What of oppression? That which breeds rebellion?”
“I trust Theriot has been fair to those who work the land.”
“Of course, but men like Campagnon—”
“He answers to me now.”
She startled backward, and only after assuring her feet remained firm to the ground did he drop his arm from her.
“How is that possible, Cyr?”
“Much his oppression and the resulting rebellion displease the king. Thus, Balduc has been given to me.”
He could not remember when last he had seen so genuine a smile move her mouth. “Then for that you passed the night there.” She wagged a finger. “I know not why you did not sooner deliver such glad tidings. Praise the Lord that devil is gone.”
Cyr’s own smile was apologetic. “He is not, Aunt.”
Her eyes widened. “For what would you allow him to remain? Not only does he ill treat his people—now yours—but I am told he bought himself a woman. Bought, Cyr! A slave. Though he names the Saxons heathens, what is more heathen than one in the image of God owned by another—as though a piece of clothing or an ox for the plow?”
“Well I know what Campagnon is, Aunt Chanson—a man without conscience, a liar, a cheat, a ravager. However, the king has said he may remain as castellan, and so he shall until I have cause to remove him.”
She gave a snort of disgust. “Ah, William. A wily one our Herleva birthed.”
She would know. Her mother having befriended the common woman who gave the Duke of Normandy his illegitimate heir, Chanson had often been in the presence of the boy who had grown into a fearsome man as she grew into a woman.
“As methinks you have concluded the same as I,” he said, “either I am tested, punished, or both. Regardless, Campagnon will depart Wulfenshire. Now I have a question. What know you of the Lady of Wulfen?”
She sighed. “Very little—that she is a Saxon who wed a Norman, one son she has of her husband who died at Stamford Bridge, and she is of such sickly disposition often she is abed.”
She might think herself mostly uninformed, but what she knew of the woman could prove much. “Only one son? You speak of he who survived as others born of her did not?”
Her brow rumpled. “It is possible the boy had siblings, but I heard of only one child.”
“His age?”
“That I know. Recently, Theriot saw him and told though he is twelve, it will be difficult to make a warrior of him does he not soon grow into his years.”
Unlike the noble youth at Senlac who, had he lived, would wear well those years on the cusp between boyhood and manhood, Cyr mulled. Meaning Hawisa Fortier was not the lady of the Saxon woman to whom Cyr had given aid? That it was another lady upon this shire who had gone south only to lose a half-Norman son at the great battle?
Cyr resented disappointment which he should not feel that the young woman he had met at Senlac might be even further out of reach, especially as it had little to do with what seemed a good possibility she led the rebels.
“If you wish to know more about Lady Hawisa and her son,” his aunt said, “it is possible Maël can enlighten you. It was he whom William sent to inform the lady a portion of her lands were to be awarded to you and Campagnon. He mentioned he had met the lad and told he was quiet and uneasy.”
He would have been ten, had recently lost his father, and into his home came the conquerors to claim a sizable portion of his inheritance, Cyr reasoned away the boy’s unease.
Deciding to turn the conversation to a matter of greater import, he said, “You say once more Theriot searches for Guarin. Did he give no idea of his return?”
“He did not. As with each time he goes looking for your brother, he returns at frustration’s end, be it a day or a sennight.”
“It is good he does not lose heart, that he yet believes the sighting is true.”
Her smile returned, but it was sorrowful. “Methinks he has more hope than belief now.”
“And you?”
She inclined her head. “As told, the man thought to be him was long-haired and bearded in the Saxon style.”
“And liberally silvered for one of relatively few years.”
“Oui, and therein the greatest possibility it was our Guarin. But as also told, he fled the Normans—indeed, did injury to one.”
“But not grave injury as would be expected of a Saxon rebel.”
“Because he did not wish it? Or was too eager to be away lest others set upon him?” She shrugged a shoulder. “Hold to hope, Cyr, but not so much it makes you neglect what is here and now.” She nodded at the donjon behind. “Mercy, what was that sister of yours thinking? And what are we to do with her?”
He considered the young woman who stood outside the door watching them though she would have joined their tour had he not ordered her to remain inside. In that she defied him, but at least she was barely outside the donjon. “Father told I am to wed her away ere word of her dishonor crosses the channel. Know you of a Norman who would not incur the wrath of the D’Argents in taking her to wife?”
She laughed. “Pity the man who raises a finger against her. Did she not bite it off, her brothers would sever it.”
Worse, Cyr silently amended.
“Non,” she said, “other than Theriot’s friend who recently returned to Normandy to gain his reward there, I have met none I would think capable of undertaking the mess of Nicola without making a greater mess of her.”
“Theriot’s friend?”
“The archer, who is even longer a friend to King William.”
“De Morville,” Cyr named the one who, were it not his arrow that put end to King Harold upon Senlac, was loosed by one under his command. “It is good he has found his reward,” he said and rued it was too late to entice him to take a D’Argent bride. What might be hidden in England—at least for a time—could not be in France.
His aunt looped an arm through his. “Come and settle in, even if only until you are able to pass this demesne to one of your brothers so you may return to Normandy.”
Entirely dependent on Guarin, she knew, and he hoped she also knew that more than remaining his sire’s heir, Cyr wished that mantle once more upon the eldest son’s worthy shoulders.
As they crossed the small upper bailey, Nicola sprang down the donjon steps. “I do not know I like England,” she said as she pivoted to ascend beside her brother and aunt that which she had just descended, “but more and more I am fascinated by the men’s long hair and thick beards. And their fierce smiles amid all th
ose whiskers—”
“Nicola!” Lady Chanson halted halfway up the steps, gripped her niece’s arm. “Still thy tongue.”
“But Aunt—”
“Still it!”
Nicola’s half-opened mouth remaining thus, she looked to her brother. As if realizing she would find no ally in him, she snapped her teeth, puffed her cheeks, and blew out a long breath.
Cyr was grateful when his aunt loosed his arm and said, “As your time is better spent elsewhere, I shall deal with this silly creature. Go.”
He needed no further prompting, and as he took the steps two at a time, he heard her say, “Such talk reflects thoughts you ought not have, Nicola—thoughts that led to the end of your betrothal and the beginning of your… Well, let us name it what it is—exile.”
“Exile!” the young woman shrilled, and that was all, though surely not for Chanson on the other side of the door Cyr closed.
As he crossed toward the dais behind which the solar lay, he surveyed the hall and was pleased by the efficiency with which the servants prepared the great room for the meal to be shared at day’s end. His aunt’s doing, and unlike at Balduc, the Saxons seemed self-assured despite the occasional wary glance he received.
Chanson told they were well paid and mostly trusted, one having been discharged a fortnight past when caught listening in on Theriot and the steward as they discussed the demesne’s finances.
Had the Saxon sought information to pass to the rebels? Cyr had asked.
Indeterminable, his aunt told and assured him his brother was keeping a watch on the man.
“Much intrigue,” Cyr muttered and swept aside a curtain providing privacy between hall and solar. As the great swath of material fell closed behind him, he halted and once more surveyed the chamber Theriot ceded to the Baron of Stern—and Balduc.
A long table was positioned against the left wall, set around it four chairs. Against the right wall, a narrow table supported a pitcher and wash basin. Center of the room crouched the large bed, at its foot an iron-banded chest of such proportion it could easily hold both lord and lady’s clothing. Had he a lady…