by Tamara Leigh
“I will come with you.” She followed, as she rounded the rock he had earlier come around, glanced behind as though to ensure they were alone.
Cyr and Maël let a half minute pass before making prey of them.
It was a challenge to do so without alerting them, but they were aided by Aelfled being less proficient in stealth. The greater challenge would come if Vitalis had left a horse nearby as surely he had done were Dotter not close. Thus, until Cyr and Maël retrieved their own mounts, they would have to continue on foot, putting to good use Hugh’s intense training. But they would have several things in their favor—no weighty chain mail, the cover of a mostly clouded night, the pound of hooves to mask the sound of their own progress, and the rebel’s horse slowed by the weight of a second rider.
Of a sudden, Vitalis changed direction—opposite where Cyr and Maël had left their own mounts. Several minutes later, it was revealed a horse awaited his return. More daunting, Vitalis had brought a second. It was no decision of the moment to deliver Aelfled to Dotter. He had come to take her from Lillefarne.
“Non!” Maël wrenched back his cousin and slammed him against a tree, rasped, “Let her go.”
“He came for her,” Cyr growled as he peered at where Vitalis aided Aelfled in mounting the horse.
“Oui, he came for the one who possesses a D’Argent dagger, be it my sire’s or your brother’s.” Maël thrust Cyr harder against the tree as if to knock sense into him. “Dare not let her mean more to you than that.”
Dare not? He more than dared. He did, and that angered him as Maël would have it do. And rightfully so.
Cyr shifted his regard to his cousin who had required an explanation for riding to the abbey this eve, as ever regretted what a Saxon blade had done to a face one should not name beautiful for being borne by a man. But it had been.
“You are right, Maël. Now loose me.”
He complied, said low, “We shall pursue them as far as we can that we come as near as possible to the den of rebels, oui?”
Were it daylight, the pursuers would soon be left behind, but the lack of visibility would slow the pace of the pursued, ensuring the safety of riders and horses. “Oui, Cousin.”
Maël gripped Cyr’s shoulder, flashed a dark smile. “Think of it as competition—which of us can outrun the other?”
As chevaliers in training, they had been equally matched. Or nearly so. When angered, Maël won, even if only by a stride.
“And the prize might be finding Guarin,” he added and turned to watch Vitalis settle in the saddle. When he and Aelfled of Senlac put heels to their mounts, the cousins ran as they had not in years.
“Wulfen!” Where Maël bent over, hands on knees, he laughed. “Of course they are upon Wulfen. Where else would they be but where we cannot go?” He peered over his shoulder at his cousin, straightened. “Rather, where they think we cannot go?”
Cyr eyed the horses growing so distant he identified them only because he knew where to look, then heavily seated himself on the ground. He pushed a hand back through wet hair, was grateful he did not number among the Normans beginning to adopt the long hair and beards of the conquered.
How long had they run? An hour? More? Regardless, they had been on Wulfen lands for quite some time. “It seems…” He breathed deep. “…it is time I met…the Lady of Wulfen. What say you, Maël?”
Once more, his cousin laughed without genuine humor. “I say…” He dropped to the ground, slowly rolled his head on his neck. “…I am eager to meet that lady again. And of course her son and heir…see if I can get the lad to talk this time and learn how proficient he is with Norman French…as well he should be since that is the language of the one said to have sired him.”
Cyr had done much talking during the feast, revealing to Maël nearly all he had learned and his suspicions. The next time, it would be Maël doing the talking. But how to get enough drink into one who, before the great battle, had often imbibed to excess, and since the battle could make a single tankard of ale last two and three hours?
Cyr blew breath up his face, asked, “How distant is Wulfen Castle from here?”
“A good league. Were we not nearly tasting blood, this eve you would have seen its rare beauty, of credit to that woman’s Norman husband. But on the morrow, oui?”
“The morrow.” Cyr sank back on his elbows and looked to the break in the clouds to the east and the pricks of starlight. He tried to think on how lovely it was so he would not think on the woman gone from him. But Aelfled was not truly gone. Just as when he had been on the other side of the narrow sea, she stayed with him.
Dear Lord, he silently prayed, do not let ill befall her in my absence. Let not Vitalis or Dotter lay hand to her.
“You disturb my rest,” Maël growled. “Think on other things—other women more worthy of thought.”
Cyr saw his cousin had lain back and propped his head in his hands, resented him for knowing him so well.
“A Norman lady,” Maël continued. “Of noble blood, sweet virtue, kind heart, and tame unlike these…Saxon women.”
“A Norman lady like my sister, Nicola?” Cyr retorted.
Maël groaned. “She is spoiled and young. Regardless, a better wife she will make a newly-landed Norman than one born to these heathen lands.”
Seeing a door into Maël crack open, Cyr asked, “Were she not your cousin, would you take her to wife?”
“Perhaps, but I am without lands and have no interest in gaining any, so I am without appeal.”
“You came for lands.”
“A fool mistake that was.” Maël rolled to his hands and knees, staggered upright. “Our horses and whatever sleep remains of the night await us,” he slammed closed the door Cyr had hoped to throw wide. “Shall I once again prove I am more fit than you, Cousin?”
Cyr rose, straightened his damp tunic. “One loss is one too many. Let us see how long you keep me in sight.”
Chapter Seventeen
Wulfen Castle
England
Are you…” Aelfled swallowed, and knowing it must be asked more gently, said, “Pray tell we are not losing you, my lady.”
Isa had not looked well at the abbey. Now in the light of middle morn cast through the windows, she appeared worse—painfully thin, pale, and a rattle in the long breath she drew.
“The physician assures me if I heed him henceforth, I shall recover.”
From what? Aelfled longed to ask. The injury she was said to have sustained or something else?
“So either I remain abed and leave my people to fend for themselves a fortnight, else I do what needs doing and, quite possibly, leave them to fend for themselves the remainder of their lives.” She sank into the pillows stacked against the headboard. “What think you I should do, Aelf?”
Aelf again. She closed her eyes and savored the endearment surely spoken without thought, especially since she had owned to betrayal that could prove the end of her. When next she looked to Isa, she was watched—not with accusation but what seemed sorrow.
Aelfled stepped around the foot of the bed where Vitalis had left her following hours awaiting this summons. “You must not leave us, Isa.” She lowered to the mattress edge, caught up her lady’s hand. “Heed the physician and allow me to once more make my bed alongside yours so I may tend you night and day until you are restored.”
“We are not who we were, Aelfled,” Isa said dully. “Those women are gone, the same as my Wulf.” She pulled her hand free, gestured at the missive she had cast on the coverlet after commanding Aelfled to elaborate. “Do you think it true—Le Bâtard will send an army at summer’s end?”
“I do, my lady, just as I believe Cyr D’Argent…” She trailed off, wished she had thought through her answer.
“What?” Isa said sharply. “You think he will make a better lord to those taken from me than whoever replaces him does he not end the rebellion?”
“I do.”
Her lids narrowed. “You have not told all. What e
lse happened in the wood?”
Wishing she had not drawn so near, Aelfled lowered her gaze, but her lady caught up her chin. “Methinks the last time you were so flushed was when that young thane mistook you for a lady and left the wet of his lips all over your soft hands. What else did D’Argent seduce out of you besides the warning to bring in Balduc’s hay?”
Aelfled shook her head. “I have told all of which we spoke.”
“But not of what you did.” Isa’s lips curved slightly. “You kissed. And what else, Aelfled?”
She longed to deny it, but it would be another lie—and futile. “Only a kiss. I do not know why I allowed it, but it will not happen again.”
“Such an opportunity would require I trust you enough to provide another occasion for that vile Norman to lay hands on you.” She loosed Aelfled’s chin, set her hand on her own chest, and grimaced as if pained. For a long while, she did not speak, and when she did, her voice had lost volume. “What am I to do with you?”
Aelfled drew a deep breath. “Methinks Vitalis wishes me dead.”
“What he wishes and his willingness to act against my orders are two different things. And he knows to which he must defer.”
Aelfled hesitated, said, “He loves you still.”
“’Tis wasted emotion to feel much for one beyond one’s reach.” She angled her head. “You know that outside of sinful intimacy, never can you be with Cyr D’Argent?”
Defensively, she said, “You imagine I wish him within reach.”
“No such imagining, Aelfled. Your sorrow is nowhere near my own, but it has been your most faithful companion near on two years. Methinks what keeps it from turning so bitter it becomes you, is you did not lose all hope at Senlac. Why? Because your honorable enemy left you with just enough that no matter how cracked your soul, you possess nearly all its pieces.”
“As do you, my lady.”
She laughed curtly. “If ’tis so, not for much longer. She who was once your friend and now a childless widow is barely here.”
Aelfled took her hand again. “You are young, my lady. Do you disband the rebels, turn your efforts to discovering who slew that family, you could start again…wed again…”
Isa pulled free. “Another husband?” Her voice was stronger, grey eyes brighter, and color bloomed in her cheeks. “One of that loathsome race responsible for my boy’s death?”
“My lady—”
“What think you of a D’Argent? As there are five to choose from—likely more in Normandy—there must be one I can control, possibly even this Cyr.”
Aelfled felt slapped. Though she knew Isa was all mockery, if there was any Norman she could be persuaded to wed, it would be the one who held the lands taken from her. And there was something else that bothered nearly as much—the number of D’Argents cited.
Beyond the uncle slain upon Senlac and the brother whose fate might be the same, only Cyr, Theriot, Dougray, and their cousin, Maël, were known to be in England. The number of which Isa spoke was one too many unless she believed the eldest brother lived—knew it was Guarin sighted upon these lands.
Though Aelfled hated reliving that day at Senlac, she returned to it and swept past Wulf, Cyr, Campagnon, and Cyr again to her lady, remembered how Isa had reacted to the D’Argent name. What had she said?
I wonder how many silver-haired D’Argents fought for that thief.
When Aelfled had pressed, she had admitted she knew the name but not told how.
“What is it?” her lady asked.
Aelfled returned her to focus. “You say there are five D’Argents to choose from, but I thought there only four in England.”
Something flickered in her eyes. “Did I say five? I misspoke.”
“Then you do not think the eldest brother lives?”
She shifted against the pillows as if to find a more comfortable position. “I heard one resembling Guarin D’Argent was seen upon our shire, but as he had long hair and a beard, ’tis more likely one of our own.”
“But were he kept captive since Senlac, his hair would be—”
“Aelfled, I am sick unto death of talk of the D’Argents. Let us finish with what I am to do with you so I can gain my rest.”
Aelfled did not doubt she needed sleep but was familiar enough with her lady, even in her state of ceaseless grieving, to know she hid something. Was that something someone?
“So what do you suggest?” Isa prompted.
No choice but to leave be the matter of Cyr’s brother, Aelfled said, “Allow me to remain here and serve you as before.”
“You have so little care for me you would have me even more reminded of my greatest loss?”
For which Aelfled was responsible no matter that Cyr said otherwise.
Aelfled stood from the bed, clasped her hands at her waist. “I do not wish to pain you, and as you have good cause to distrust me, there is no longer a place for me upon Wulfenshire.”
Isa considered her, said, “You shall return to the abbey.”
“You wish me to make my profession—become a Bride of Christ?”
“Nay, to serve me as before.”
Aelfled knew she heard right, but it was all wrong. Might Isa no longer be of sound mind? “My lady, I warned D’Argent about the lord’s hay.”
“I do not forget. But I believe you regret acting against your own people and you did it with little thought and much longing to end the unrest and injustice. Providing you remember and embrace who you are—a Saxon strong of mind, body, and spirit—you can yet aid in ousting the Normans. Will you remember it? Embrace it?”
She did not want to. It would mean more lies and, likely, further encounters with the man it would be best she never again set eyes upon. But though her debt to Isa could never be erased, the least owed her was payments. “I will, my lady.”
“And you must be of the mind you owe naught to our oppressors, be they of Campagnon’s ilk or Cyr D’Argent’s allure.”
“Aye, my lady. But what of William’s threat?”
“For now ’tis only that. Two months we have before summer’s end. Two months to send the Normans from our lands.”
“Truly, you believe it possible?”
Isa rubbed her brow, drew her hand down her face. “There is much at work here of which you know naught. Now give your word that for love of Wulf and penance due him, you will act the woman and not the fanciful girl who allowed our enemy to seduce her.”
“My word I give.”
Isa closed her eyes. “Vitalis will escort you to the abbey.”
Aelfled stared, was tempted to offer to braid the tangled mess of hair cast across pillow, shoulders, and coverlet that ought to be darkly golden not ash-brown. It needed washing, fragrant oils, and hundreds of gentle strokes. Was there any more capable than Aelfled of returning it to the glory over which Isa’s husband had been enthralled?
Certain she would hurt all the more when her lady rejected the offer, she turned toward thick, heavily-pleated curtains that provided visual privacy to those in the lord’s bedchamber. However, in the absence of din in the great hall beyond, it was possible what was spoken here could be heard. For that, Isa had ordered the hall cleared before granting the betrayer an audience. But as Aelfled crossed the room, she heard the great doors open and boots across the stone floor.
She halted, gasped when the curtain was swept aside and Vitalis entered.
“What goes?” Isa demanded.
“It is who comes!” he snarled. “Cyr and Maël D’Argent with a dozen escort—chevaliers all.”
Aelfled swung around.
Her lady had pushed off her pillows. Shoulders bowed, she peered at her man from beneath her lashes. “Did they see you?”
“Nay, they remain outside the walls awaiting permission to enter, but do you grant it and show yourself, it may ease suspicions over your involvement with the resistance.”
Isa grunted. “They could not have chosen a better time to call on me. Aid me, Vitalis. I shall greet them in the
hall.” She pushed the covers off, slowly lowered her feet to the floor.
A moment later, he was at her side. As he scooped her into his arms, Aelfled saw on his belt a scabbard, in it a weapon of beauty to which the night past had done no justice. But of greater note was how familiar the cross guard and hilt. For this he had marveled over the blade she had drawn on him.
Aelfled would wager much that here was another D’Argent dagger—and it belonged to Guarin. If he yet lived, he must be near.
“Follow, Aelfled,” Isa said as she was carried past. “Once the D’Argents are inside, Vitalis will escort you to Lillefarne.”
Aelfled snatched the coverlet from the bed, her lady’s robe from its hook, and hastened onto the dais outside the lord’s chamber.
Vitalis ordered the housecarle Ordric, a bodyguard equivalent to a Norman chevalier, to carry the lord’s high seat from the dais to the hearth, doubtless to provide Isa’s visitors a better view of her. After he settled her in the chair, Aelfled helped her lady don the robe, but when she tried to put order to her hair, Isa commanded her to leave it be.
As Aelfled arranged the coverlet around her lower body, tucking it in and hurting over muffled sounds of discomfort, Vitalis directed the housecarles, servants, and Wulfrith who was not Wulfrith where to stand to best protect and represent their lady. Then he kissed Isa’s hand, murmured something, and ushered Aelfled through the kitchen and out into the garden.
A quarter hour later, the signal was given the D’Argents were inside the donjon, and the two departed Wulfen Castle.
Chapter Eighteen
I am pleased to once more be welcomed into your home and presence, Lady Hawisa,” Maël said in Norman French and bowed.
Certain the woman’s smile, slight though it was, required effort, Cyr shifted his regard to the one who appeared barely a young man where he stood erect to the right of the woman who claimed him for a son.