by Tamara Leigh
The ice pouring into Aelfled that so abruptly halted her advance her hood fell to her shoulders, melted. As the surprised warrior also came to life and lunged at her, she whirled away.
Her skirts were her undoing, flaring out behind her and into the grasp of her pursuer. He yanked so hard she would have landed on hands and knees if not for the arm that slammed around her waist and wrenched her back against a chest so firm she lost her breath. She drew another, but before she could cry out, a hand clapped over her mouth.
Then words warmed her ear. “Swallow your scream, Aelfled.”
With so many lives depending on her, there was no relief in knowing it was Cyr who had her. Better one who sought to ravish a Saxon woman.
“Swallow!”
There being little she could do against one far stronger, she released the breath through her nose, jerked her chin.
“I know you to be a liar,” he said, “but if you agree in the sight of God you will not scream—more for their sake than yours—I shall chance removing my hand.”
Their sake? How she hoped it was those of the abbey to whom he referred, not the rebels—that he was unaware they were near.
“You have but to nod again.”
She did so and gasped when he spun her to face him, lifted her off her feet, and pinned her against the shed’s wall with the length of his body.
“Once more, you and I meet in the dark of earliest morn,” he forced upon her memories of Senlac as she peered into what could be seen of his face in the shed’s shadow. “And once more, I search for one of my own.”
His uncle who had died at the hands of Wulf and his friends, his eldest brother who might also have spilled his life upon that meadow. And now…
“Where is my man, Aelfled?”
She felt the rip in her heart begun by Vitalis’s revelation lengthen.
“Tell what happened to the one I gave watch over you!”
She longed to feign ignorance, but it would be useless and prove her more a liar. She lowered her chin.
He lifted it. “If he is dead…”
No more did he make of his threat. No more was needed.
“What do you here?” she whispered, “How did you get in?”
She felt his impatience amid anger, heard it in his voice when he said, “Not the way of your rebels.”
She had thought herself prepared, it surely too much to hope he had not seen those who stole into Lillefarne, but tears stung her eyes. She had failed. Again. More than having the happiness of once more serving her lady stolen from her, that rendered impossible even were she able to reach Isa, she was pained by the fate of those she had not kept safe.
Cyr had not come alone. Doubtless, his men were in her garden and would this moment be in the passage slaughtering the rebels had she not barred the outer door. And that he was here, outside the shed, meant he had seen her exit that place concealing the inner door.
Had he gone inside? Discovered it?
“Why did you so soon return?” he asked, and when she gave no answer, said, “The barrels. You forgot to push them back against the wall.”
Straining throat muscles to keep from sobbing, she held his glittering gaze.
“This night, your rebels belong to me, Aelfled. I thank you for securing the door so they cannot enter here and claim sanctuary.”
Surely there was hope for them, she told herself. Unless he meant to further violate God’s house by bringing soldiers inside, unbarring the door, and attacking those in the passage, the rebels could be let into the abbey later. For a time they would be trapped here, but eventually the watch would ease sufficiently to allow some if not all to escape. Of course, much was dependent on how well the garden’s barred iron door held against the Normans’ efforts to breach it. And they would try, but if it resisted long enough to get her people inside…
She startled when Cyr turned his head over his shoulder and hooted the same as the rebels had done to send a message to their own—twice.
What did it mean? “Cyr?” she whispered and winced at the fear in her voice.
“Rebel though you are,” he murmured, “I like that you call me Cyr.”
Had she?
“Baron D’Argent—”
“What is said is said, little Saxon. Now listen.”
She stopped breathing, and as she strained to hear some thing in the night she was to fear whilst he savored it, she became more aware of his muscular body against her soft curves. And remembered his kiss.
“Pray, release me,” she beseeched.
“So you may seek to unbar the door and deny me my due? Non, I am most comfortable. And very interested in your reaction to the message now being sent by my men upon these walls to the king’s men in the garden.
Lord in Your heavens, she silently prayed, let the door hold. Have mercy on the Saxons. This night, turn Your face back to those You forsook.
What seemed minutes passed, and only when sounds muffled by stone reached her did she realize she had closed her eyes and dropped her head forward. She raised her chin, and feeling the loss of warmth against her brow, was ashamed she was so weak she had set it against the base of Cyr’s throat.
“There,” he said. “My cousin and his men are inside, and those who do not resist will live to answer for their crimes.”
“So soon?” she breathed. “How?”
“The last Saxon who entered the passage ahead of you, feigning a limp so you not question why he lagged, was my brother. And it seems Dougray had no difficulty unbarring the outer door.”
The man she had bumped into in the dark, who had not responded to an apology not due him. Either unlike Cyr he did not know the language of the Saxons, or he had feared his accent would reveal him.
If not for the sound of pounding on the iron door in the shed, she might have cried. Vitalis and his men were desperate to escape the trap laid them, and there being nothing she could do caused anger to sweep aside sorrow.
“Norman pig!” She began struggling in the hope of freeing herself and unbarring the door to let the rebels in.
“Cease!” Cyr barked when she tried to bring a knee up between his legs. “It will be over soon.”
She did not heed him, and surely only because he was averse to hurting her was she able to loosen an arm and rake nails down his jaw and neck.
“I said cease!” He caught up her wrists and pinned them to the shed wall alongside her head.
Panting in his face near hers, hoping her breath foul, she felt her stomach wrench, then bile blaze up her throat.
She did not know how Cyr knew she was about to empty her stomach, but he sprang back and yanked her down to rain-dampened ground. Then he was alongside her where she hunched over hands and knees, sweeping back her hair as she retched.
When her stomach would give no more, she hung her head between her arms. “Why did they not heed my warning to stay away? This would not have happened. You…” She turned her whimper into a sound of disgust, shifted to the side and pushed back onto her heels. As Cyr released her hair and it tumbled around her face, she said, “There is my reaction. Does it please you? Make you feel superior? More the conqueror?”
He did not respond, and she forced herself to attend to sounds beyond the patter of rain.
The pounding on the inner door having ceased, from the other side of the wall where her garden lay, she heard chain mail, voices raised in anger and defiance, whilst others issued commands. Had what transpired not already roused Lillefarne’s residents, it would now.
She raised her gaze to where Cyr was on his haunches before her, now out of the shed’s shadow saw the lines she had scored into his flesh and wondered who had bruised one side of his nose down to his lip. Telling herself she did not care, she returned her thoughts to those for whom she did care.
“I failed them,” she said more to herself than he who did not need to be told. “Now they shall think I betrayed. Again.”
After a long moment, he turned his head and gave a single hoot.
<
br /> This time she did not wonder at its meaning. He had won mightily, whether one rebel yet breathed or a score.
“I am done here, Aelfled,” he said, “as are you.”
It was true. There was nothing left for her here, just as there was nothing for her at Wulfen Castle.
He stood, reached to her. “Come.”
She frowned. “Where?”
“I know not what I am to do with you, but for aiding the rebels you are as much my captive as they.”
There seemed no benefit in resisting him beyond the satisfaction of doing so. But she recalled Isa’s words.
Remember and embrace who you are. A Saxon strong of mind, body, and spirit.
She did not dance to Cyr D’Argent’s song, would not go meekly. If he truly wanted her, he would have to expend more effort than commanding her to follow.
Neck aching over how far she tilted back her head to hold his gaze, she said, “You have no hold over me whilst I am within these walls and have the right to claim sanctuary.”
She caught the flare of his nostrils, heard his deep breath. “As you say, they will blame you for this night, Aelfled. You are not safe here.”
She laughed. “Safer here than with Normans I count as my enemy and who count me as theirs. Safer here than where you shall decide the fate of those whom I do not count as my enemy though you have made them count me as theirs. Non, I remain.”
He took a step toward her, but just as she accepted she would have to fight him to resist being taken over the wall, he stilled. “As you will, but be it the morrow or a month hence, I shall bring you out so you can aid my enemies no longer.”
“I assure you, I shall not be trusted to aid them again. Leave me and think no more on this Saxon rendered harmless.”
“Not possible. My word I give, I will come for you.”
Even if she claimed sanctuary he would breach the walls again, force her out?
As he started to move toward steps that would deliver him to the wall walk, she tossed at his back, “You will discover I have donned the habit of a Bride of Christ.” They were mostly words since she doubted the abbess would allow her to make her profession. And Mary Sarah would be right not to do so, but if the threat kept Cyr from coming again…
It did not portend well that he returned to her though he had been set to leave. And as seemed ever her burden, she wished she had thought through her words.
He dropped down, and despite how little light there was, she could see every line of anger in his moisture-flecked face. And the swelling red lines she had scratched into it. “Truly, you have so little regard for the Lord you would make mockery of vows so you not be made to answer for working ill on your Norman lord and your people?”
Once more, she was bereft of breath.
“Non, Aelfled of Senlac. No matter how godless you have become, that I will not believe of you.”
“You do not know me!” she spewed again and wished him away so she could recover enough of her wits to bind her tongue.
“I know not all of you, but as told, I am certain you were not meant to be a nun.”
Do not say it, she silently begged, then said it. “As also told, I was meant to be here with you? Like this? On my knees, emptying my belly whilst those I was to protect begin numbering their days rather than years?”
“Not here, not like this.” He thrust to his feet and once more offered a hand. “Do not prolong this, Aelfled. Come with me.”
“Non.”
He lowered his arm. “Then I shall collect you in a manner you will like even less.” He turned and strode to the steps.
“What manner?” she called.
He ascended the steps two at a time and did not look back, nor down upon her as he traversed the wall walk overhead.
When he went from sight, doubtless to lower himself over the wall he had scaled, she would have bent over herself again did she not become aware of women’s voices and, moments later, that of the abbess.
Aelfled would have to answer for this night, and even had there been the narrowest possibility she would be allowed to take holy vows, her use of the abbey to aid the rebels would put finish to it.
Determining she would slip from the abbey and persuade her grandmother to leave the village of Ravven, she whispered, “Lincolnshire or Nottinghamshire.” And pushed upright.
“Aelfled?”
She swung around.
The abbess halted, from beneath her hood searched her charge’s moonlit face, then looked around. She paused over the shed, the steps, the wall walk, then heaved a sigh. “It seems you have been caught out, Aelfled. And of greater, more serious consequence, our rebels as well.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Barony of Balduc
England
Two diversions as feared. But since the damage was done, the fire likely extinguished more by rain than the villagers’ efforts, and the perpetrators apprehended at Lillefarne, Cyr had not immediately set out following his return to Stern where he learned the villagers’ hay in the northernmost village of Balduc had been burned.
Those tidings delivered by the guard set to watch over that village, three of whom had been bound and humiliated in the same manner done those who delivered the arrow to the baron come unto his lands, Cyr had cursed rebels so bent on revenge they cared not if their own suffered—and been tempted to once more prove merciless.
Lest he yield, just as he had given charge of Merle and his mercenaries to Theriot, he had given charge of the score of rebels marched to Stern in the rain. Then at Fulbert’s insistence, Cyr and the priest had gone to the chapel and talked and prayed.
Afterward, he had slept little, mind fevered with what had been done on the night past and must be done on the day to come. He would do penance for trespassing on the abbey, though King William would approve of the result, but mostly he was troubled by his encounter with Aelfled.
He knew how to bring her out. Having conceived the idea before leaving her, this morn he had sent Maël and his men to do his bidding. However, more than to ensure she not further aid the rebels, he feared what was perceived as betrayal would see her as dead as the one set to watch her whose body had yet to be found. Too, Cyr could not put from him that he had taunted her over what Maël and his men did in her garden.
Fear had shone from her, as much if not more than at Senlac, and for a moment he thought she lost consciousness when she dropped her brow to his throat. Determining he would not further taunt her, he had only interpreted for her the muffled sounds coming from the inner passage as being capture of her rebels. And been nearly unmanned for it.
How he had known when that mix of anger and fear made her belly turn on her, he could not say. It had been a feeling one surely ought to have only for another known long and well. Such a cur he had felt for causing so violent a response—worse that all he could do was hold back hair whose silken strands his fingers remembered even now whilst grasping reins.
Knowing he deserved her anger, he should not have risen to it again, but when she refused to leave the abbey and threatened to take the veil, sentencing herself to remain ever separate from the world of men—his world—he had given back.
“Fool that I am,” he muttered. Once more pushing Aelfled from his thoughts, he returned to the humid air rushing past as he and his men neared the fields over which a mist not of morn but of dampened smoke eddied. The destruction was as vast as told—crop after crop of hay lost to those who needed it to feed animals that would provide meat and milk to sustain men, women, and children through winter.
As he slowed, Dougray came alongside, and Cyr glimpsed in his brother’s eyes a glimmer not born of resentment…anger…vengeance…
Having dealt the rebels a terrible blow last eve in gaining so many captives and without loss of life on either side—a surprise with Dougray in their midst and considering how easy one rebel had made it for him to assume his place—something had been wrought in the third-born who played no small role in the victory. The warrior was
showing through the layers in which he had wrapped himself nigh on two years past.
Dougray frowned. “For what do you smile?”
Cyr drew rein, and when his brother and the men behind followed suit, said, “I am thinking how glad I am you refused to cut your hair and beard. And wondering how next to use my Norman in Saxon’s disguise to protect this demesne.”
Dougray grunted. “I am sure you will think of something. Until then, it is on the training field I ought to be, not inspecting the crops of heathens destroyed by fellow heathens.”
Cyr would have left him at Stern if not for his brother’s almost deadly altercation in Aelfled’s garden with Vitalis, whom Cyr was certain had led the rebels to Lillefarne.
The Saxons had resisted when the Normans entered the passage and been so ferocious that, if not for the hopelessness of being trapped like mice and Vitalis commanding all to stand down, there would have been dire casualties on both sides. Men of the soil the rebels may have been before the conquest, but exceptional training had transformed them into men of the blade. Though divested of their arms, every precaution had been taken to ensure they did not stir to life outside the passage. But Vitalis had stirred—and mightily—when something was spoken between Dougray and him and the two men had to be pulled off each other.
Whilst preparing to depart the castle this morn, Cyr had happened on his brother and seen animosity in his gaze as it prowled amongst the rebels. Upon noticing Cyr, Dougray had cleared his eyes and face and advised Stern’s outer and inner walls be fit with cells in which to imprison those who acted against D’Argent rule. A better means of separating foes and sheltering prisoners from foul weather such as that which had turned dirt to mud in the earliest hours of morn, he had said, then grumbled England seemed more susceptible to the wet and chill than Normandy.
Cyr was not fooled. Knowing Theriot and the men-at-arms had enough to deal with between the two paddocks in the outer bailey—the western one holding Saxons, the eastern Merle and his men, he had commanded his brother into the saddle.