by Tamara Leigh
A gasp sounded from Nicola. “But if he has been terribly abused, perhaps he is lost inside himself.”
Wishing he had thought to send her away before offering an explanation for Guarin’s behavior, her unusual silence having made him forget her, Cyr said, “It is only something we must consider, Nicola.”
“But likely true,” Dougray said, striding forth. Ignoring Theriot who surged to his feet and swung around to greet the one he had not seen since Senlac, he held his gaze to Nicola. “These Saxons are heathens, would think naught of torturing—”
“Enough!” Cyr was distantly aware of lunging out of his seat, but when Dougray opened his mouth to spout more bitterness, he was intimately aware of the hand with which he gripped the neck of that foul tunic, his aunt’s cry of protest, and the fist swinging toward his face.
He caught bunched fingers in his other hand, grunted over the force of knuckles seeking to crack bones, and propelled Dougray to the side and backward, stopping only when they came up against the wall to the right of the hearth.
“Clear the hall!” Theriot shouted.
As chairs scraped across the dais and boots pounded over the floor, Cyr stared into the face nearly level with his. Bloodshot eyes glared, nostrils dilated and pinched, upper lip convulsed above teeth no longer well-cared for.
When the great doors slammed closed, Cyr barked, “Until once more you prove worthy of the name you trample—and dare not disavow it again!—you will not gainsay me nor challenge any beyond your ability to land a blow and do it well.”
“Cyr!” his aunt beseeched.
He shoved Dougray harder against the wall. “All I would hear from you is you understand and shall comply.”
Dougray kept him waiting, finally said, “I understand. But comply?”
“Then leave!”
“Pray, Cyr…” Their aunt gripped his arm.
“I am done walking wide around him,” Cyr snarled. “Done having our name sullied by one who could have bested Campagnon were he half the man he was before Senlac.”
A bark of laughter sounded from Dougray. “I am half—”
Another shove bounced his head against the wall, knocking back the sarcastic rejoinder.
“Non!” Cyr’s saliva sprayed his brother’s face. “You will not own to that. You are not half a man. All here know it a self-pitying lie. You but act the part, and not well. So cease and come back to who you are, Dougray D’Argent!”
His brother’s mouth opened, closed, then he snarled, “Release me.”
“Non.”
“Non?” Dougray growled.
“Stand away, Aunt,” Cyr commanded, and when she hastened to the side, said, “Find your own release, Dougray—even if you must imagine me your enemy.”
“You think that hard to do? You whom I followed to England to gain lands only to lose an arm to a Saxon pig?”
There. Words he had not heretofore spoken though long they dwelt behind his teeth. Words more true than Cyr had wanted to believe even when, upon bloodied Senlac, he began to accept what he had done was more for personal gain than bringing ungodly men to God.
He nodded. “It is good you do not find it hard, providing it gives me what I want—a man capable of besting me, not the boy who could only boast one day he would do so.”
In Dougray’s eyes was the longing to prove he could triumph over his older brother, but there also was the longing to refuse Cyr what he sought.
Hoping moments from now he would find himself on the floor being pummeled, Cyr waited. At last Dougray wrenched his fist free and drove it into his brother’s nose and mouth.
Cyr should not have kept his feet beneath him, ripe as he was to be taken to ground, but Dougray did not strike again. His shoulder slammed into Cyr’s as he shoved past.
Theriot sprang into his path. “Pray, let us speak, Dougray.”
The fist again, this time to the jaw, and as Theriot stumbled back, his attacker continued to the doors.
“Dougray!” Cyr shouted. “A sennight I give you to decide. Aid in retrieving Guarin and set your mind and body to serving and protecting Stern or ever be less than you are—a wayfarer…an outcast…whatever feeds that bitter soul.”
Dougray threw open the door and strode outside.
Moments later, Maël thrust aside the descending silence with, “That is a beginning. And not a bad one. But can you truly turn your back on him, Cyr?”
“He leaves me no choice.” Tasting the blood running from his nose, Cyr drew a hand across it, then fingered his aching front teeth. As he confirmed they had not cracked or loosened, a great sob sounded from behind.
“Merciful Lord!” His aunt hurried to Nicola, patted her niece’s shuddering back, stroked her bobbing head. “Come now, Dear. It is just men being men, little different from boys being boys.”
In that she was wrong, but Cyr ground his teeth and looked from Theriot who rubbed his jaw to Maël who appeared satisfied. Whether or not Dougray would admit it, progress had been made, and it had cost their cousin no blood or bruise. Had it, Dougray might not have walked away. He might have crawled.
Though Maël had a great care for his cousins, it was not quite the same as being their brother. He would have followed Dougray and given back what was done him.
“Oui, a good beginning,” Maël said. “But what comes next? And what part would you have me play, not only in restoring Dougray to the D’Argent name but finding Guarin?”
As near a brother as was possible, Cyr silently acknowledged. “Though I long to ride on Wulfen, I think we must move cautiously lest we incite Guarin’s captors to dispose of him have they not already. As for Dougray… What think you, Theriot?”
“I cannot think now. I am weary, near starving, and my aching head has begun to pound.” He nodded. “But Dougray and I shall speak. And soon.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Theriot’s soon came sooner than expected. And Aelfled was to blame.
Well before dawn, the young man-at-arms set to watch the abbey returned to Stern Castle with proof Cyr’s little Saxon remained defiant.
Garbed in undertunic and chausses he dragged on, Cyr received him amid torchlight brought into the solar.
After apologizing for awakening his lord, the man drew from his purse a piece of parchment many times folded to fit the palm. “She left this, my lord, though not at the stacked rocks.”
Then she and her rebels thought that place no longer viable. “Where?” Cyr asked as he unfolded the message.
“So opposite a direction she would have gone unseen had you not told me to watch for movement in the garden at the rear. As suspected, a door must be there. When she entered the wood, I followed at a good distance and saw her leave the message in the rotted center of an ancient oak, then as directed followed her back to ensure no harm befell her. Unfortunately, I was too distant and the garden too deep in shadow to determine the secret door’s location.”
If need be, Cyr would find it. He turned the creased parchment toward light and read, He came again. Certes, he watches closely. Pray, reconsider your course. More, what you would have me do. I fear I am so compromised as to be dangerous. I beseech you leave answer soon.
“Would you have me return it to the oak, my lord?”
It was the same Cyr asked himself. Return it so she might warn away the rebels as intended? Or keep it and let the plans of disaffected Saxons proceed?
He lowered into a chair and read her words again. The answer was there. As she revealed naught of the rebels’ course and the part she played, it was of little benefit to withhold her warning. But were he honest with himself, the greatest argument for returning the parchment was for her sake. If she was heeded, surely the danger to her would be snuffed. Except to toil in her garden, she would stay inside her walls. Or so he prayed.
He stood, folded the parchment, and crossed to his man. “Place it where you found it.”
“You would have me resume my watch?”
As Cyr looked into eager blue
eyes, he thought how young the man was, guessed it was likely as a squire he had served at the great battle. “Oui, but ere you return to Lillefarne, quench your thirst and hunger and resupply yourself with enough food and drink to pass several days in the wood. I would not have you distracted or caught out hunting.”
The man pivoted and pushed through the curtains to make his way past those his arrival had awakened who now strove to return to their rest.
“Sir Theriot,” Cyr heard him acknowledge the one to whom he had answered before the Baron of Stern’s arrival.
Hating his fatigued brother had refused to avail himself of the lord’s solar and made his bed on a pallet in the hall among the restless, snoring masses—and been further disturbed by the delivery of Aelfled’s missive—Cyr strode to the curtains and out onto the dais.
By the dim light of torches, he saw the man-at-arms move in the direction of the kitchen whilst Theriot crossed toward the great doors.
To relieve himself, Cyr guessed and would have turned back if not for the purpose in his brother’s stride. Had Theriot determined now was the time to speak with Dougray? Was his destination the stables where, during supper, the master of horses reported seeing the one who had yet to return to the donjon?
As Theriot quietly closed the door behind him, Cyr saw his cousin rise from a pallet.
Moments later, wearing only chausses, Maël ascended the dais. “I say we follow,” he said. “I am not certain he can handle this Dougray alone.”
Cyr nodded. “He will not be pleased, but I think you are right. Don your tunic.”
Shortly, amid torchlight sufficient to move unopposed by guards who recognized their lord and his cousin, the two entered the outer bailey and caught sight of Theriot.
As expected, his destination was the stables, but within fifty feet of the building, he came around.
Cyr did not begrudge him that keen sense, having no desire to steal upon him. But beyond marveling over it, ever it unsettled.
“I thank you for your concern,” he said low as brother and cousin halted before him, “but I am capable of defending myself should Dougray receive me no better than earlier. Or worse.”
The latter was a good possibility, Cyr considered, especially if the third brother had overly imbibed without benefit of viands. “I do not question your abilities, Theriot. More than many a warrior, you proved yourself during the great battle, but this is different. This is no enemy to be thoughtlessly slain all the sooner to engage the next who seeks your life. Though what earlier transpired prepares you for a much-changed Dougray, you may not be sufficiently armed, especially as what was once a good friendship renders you more vulnerable than Maël or me.”
Theriot’s bruised jaw hardened. “You are not my nursemaid, Cyr. Like it or not, I go in alone.”
“No need, little brother,” Dougray’s voice presented itself ahead of his figure parting from alongside the stable doors. “I am here.”
Stealth. Of benefit against many a man but usually less so Theriot with that unnatural sense of his. Doubtless, Dougray had escaped notice only because the youngest brother had first trained that sense on Cyr and Maël.
Theriot turned, rebuked, “Sooner you ought to have revealed yourself.”
Walking a straight line, Dougray moved into torchlight. Blessedly, just as his body evidenced no great quantity of drink, neither did his face.
“Had I, I would have missed hearing myself compared to the enemy.” Something almost a smile appearing amid his tangled beard, Dougray settled his gaze on Cyr. “It was due me,” he surprised, and again when he said, “I do not require a sennight. I shall give answer now.”
Hoping his calm was born of honorable resolve, Cyr waited.
“Much anger I have wasted on those less deserving though once more my enemy surround me—hives of them. And the nearest hive holds captive our brother. Thus, I shall aid in retrieving Guarin. Do I not give my life to do so, by the sword I shall serve these lands so ever they remain Norman.”
Cyr did not know how to respond. He wanted his brother back as well as the warrior capable of protecting family, people, and home, but there was no doubt Dougray's decision was fueled by vengeance. Once he took up arms again, could he be controlled? If not, surely better a fist-wielding than sword-wielding Dougray.
Feeling Theriot and Maël’s disquiet, Cyr glanced at them.
“Does your offer stand?” Dougray prompted.
Wishing Fulbert were here rather than the chapel where he made his bed, Cyr recalled the holy man’s oft-repeated words—time, patience, prayer. An abundance of the first and second had been expended, but were the offer not rescinded, much more of the third would be required.
So be it, he accepted what could prove the only course to pull Dougray back from the edge of the dead. “My offer stands, providing in serving me you act within the bounds of my orders.”
Dougray inclined his head. “Whilst I serve you, Baron D’Argent.”
And afterward? Cyr nearly asked. Prayer, he reminded himself. “You do know that means protecting these lands and its people, most of whom are Saxons?” At Dougray’s hesitation, he decided here was an opportunity to delve what had happened between his brother and Campagnon. “Those who cannot defend themselves,” Cyr added, “like Em.”
Dougray’s brow furrowed. “Em?”
As thought, he did not know her name. “Campagnon’s slave.”
Cyr was rewarded with a glimmer of interest and a softening about the face that evidenced his brother yet possessed compassion enough to feel for the oppressed—even one of Saxon blood. But as if remembering she was of that people responsible for his loss, his face returned to its familiar hard lines.
“Were I moved to aid her, which I am not,” he said, “it would be impossible. As she is a possession, she is neither yours nor mine to protect. She is Campagnon’s to do with as he pleases.”
“True, and most unfortunate that.” Determining enough was said on the matter—for now—Cyr said, “Thus, to the training field we go.”
His brother started to turn away. “I shall meet you at dawn.”
“Non. We go there now, Brother.”
“Now, Cyr?” Theriot exclaimed. “It is three or more hours ere dawn.”
“Which we will put to good use without the sun beating down on us. You will join Dougray and me?”
A hesitation, then, “Of course.”
“Maël?”
“I am for sleep. But be assured, Dougray, when we meet at swords again, I shall demand more of you than, I suspect, your brothers shall—the same my sire required of you.”
Dougray grunted. “You flatter yourself. There was only one Hugh, and if any can come near to replacing him, it is Guarin.”
Cyr felt the incoming tide of his cousin’s anger, then the outgoing tide, and it did not come again to that shore. “Hence, all the more reason we must find your brother,” Maël said. “And for you to make good on the surname gifted you.” He turned on his heel.
“Gifted me,” Dougray muttered as he watched his cousin depart. “So it was.” He looked to Cyr and Theriot, then pulled the brooch from his mantle and heaved his shoulders back. The covering dropped to the ground, revealing the lower portion of his tunic’s left sleeve was empty of limb from elbow to hand. “I shall require a sword.” His having been lost upon Senlac and, doubtless, now a passenger in a scavenger's scabbard.
Pushing past the pain of seeing his brother bare his loss, Cyr said, “I shall secure a worthy one. Until then, a training sword will suffice.”
Dougray shrugged.
“And your dagger. From this day forth, you shall wear it on your belt, even if only to remind you of what was required to earn it and will be required to once more wear it with pride.”
“I would think it better to wait until—”
“You will unpack it. You will don it. You will practice with it when you are not at swords. And you will cut your hair and beard.”
“Non, I will not cut them.
”
“You look the Saxon you profess to hate, Brother.”
“More than profess. But as I come right of mind, I find there could be an excellent use for so long neglecting my appearance—that of providing cover.” He looked between his brothers. “Not only do I lack the identifying D’Argent silver amid dark hair, but over the face of a Norman I wear that of a Saxon which will allow me to move unseen among the heathens. And for that, I must become better acquainted with their language.”
Further proof he had done more than brood all day. Albeit greased by vengeance, the cogs of his mind were turning in a direction worthy of a warrior—more, a brother.
“I withdraw that last requirement,” Cyr said. “Now let us resurrect your sword song.”
“You play me foul!” Dougray snarled as he carefully turned his head to peer behind at the one who had set a dull blade against his neck.
“Foul?” Cyr raised his eyebrows. “Far less than your enemy shall, Saxon or otherwise.”
The breath of his seething causing the morning mist to puff and swirl before his face, Dougray remained unmoving while beyond him Theriot regained his feet and slapped at his rear to scatter the dirt gained in being bested—only for the third time in all the hours since Dougray’s trials had begun amid torchlight.
Cyr had not intended to intervene, but this time when Dougray felled Theriot, there had been anger about him rather than triumph as if he guessed his brother showed mercy to encourage him—and bring an end to this training session which Dougray had refused to do a half hour past, though all were weary, dry of tongue, wet of body, and filthy.
“So what will you do now your enemy has stolen upon you whilst you allowed anger to distract you, Dougray? Yield? Or fight Theriot and me?”
“Two against a one-armed man?” he scoffed.
“Many a time you faced and bested several opponents, even whilst wielding a single blade. And it is not as if now you are without a sword arm since, unlike most, you possessed two to begin with.”
Still he seethed, though the mist moved less enthusiastically before his face.