by Tamara Leigh
Aelfled covered the thin, aged hand with her own, said, “I also pray for her.”
“But still do not believe He hears you, hmm?”
“I see no evidence of it.”
“It is not required He give proof, Child, but He does. Methinks, you are neither listening well nor looking in the right place.”
Aelfled muffled a disrespectful snort. “I am in England. It is conquered. I am upon Wulfenshire. It has been cut and parted to award Normans. I am at Stern. It is my prison.”
Bernia turned her hand up into her granddaughter’s. “I am corrected. You are looking in the right place. However, you are more blind than this old woman who sees Cyr D’Argent in England, upon Wulfenshire, and lord of Stern. A prisoner you are, aye, but of a man who has more a care for you than what he fears Vitalis feels.”
Aelfled sighed. “You are fanciful, you who yet feel love for my grandsire though he is many years dead.”
“Of course I still feel for my man. Though many say love resides in the heart, I say it is not of the body. It is the breath made of two souls. Though the body passes and returns to dust, that breath remains—sweet amid the stench of the world. I wish that sweet for you, Child.”
Such pretty words and sentiment, Aelfled thought, then slipped her hand free. “I am tired,” she said and turned away.
Was Sigward the one? Or merely the easiest to sacrifice to a Norman’s wrath?
Cyr broke his stride beneath the portcullis, drew a breath to ease the roiling. After seeing the remains of the missing man-at-arms, he had ignored Fulbert’s entreaty to join him in the chapel. That he could not do whilst vile images sprang at him from every corner of his mind.
The men who located the man-at-arms and had been attacked by rebels shortly after bringing him out of the wood had warned the body wrapped in a blanket was unsightly, having suffered desecration not unlike that done Saxons at Senlac by Normans who thought it would ease the ache of their own losses—that to which Cyr had nearly succumbed.
He took another breath, then looked behind at the paddock which held the rebels. When he had entered it and ordered Vitalis to come before him, he had known he presented as fearsome to men of the sword deprived of swords. But the warrior had not hesitated. Hands bound at his back, he had halted near enough to be struck without inconveniencing his captor and met the gaze level with his own.
Cyr had demanded the name of the murderer of the Norman in the wood. When Vitalis remained close-mouthed, he had warned all would be punished.
That had pleased Merle and his men in the opposite paddock who called for the blood of cowardly Saxons they believed should have been shed with their countrymen at Senlac.
It took Theriot and his men little time to quiet them.
Before Cyr could issue a final warning, Vitalis had settled into his heels and nodded at the corner where Sigward slowly succumbed to internal bleeding Chanson told could not be stemmed when the symptoms were described to one whose kin refused to allow her near the rebel.
Cyr was not surprised the murder of his man was blamed on one soon beyond the reach of justice. Though he knew it possible the warrior did not lie, he was fairly certain that if another had cast a stone at Aelfled and suffered the same as Sigward, that one would have been named. He had mocked Vitalis over the convenience of crediting the murder to one he so disliked that he and others of his men had ensured Sigward would not rise again.
Vitalis had shrugged, said, “I see you have two choices, Norman. Take my head since all these men serve under me and I am responsible for their actions, or ask Aelfled the name of the one I revealed to her killed the man set to watch the abbey.”
Proof Aelfled was more deceptive—had lied in telling she did not know his man’s fate? Though Cyr hoped Vitalis spoke false, there was also hope she would verify what he told the sooner to be done with the matter and satisfied as much as possible.
When he entered the chamber minutes later, he found Aelfled seated in the chair from which he had watched her sleep, her grandmother on the floor with her back against the younger woman’s legs.
Aelfled looked up, and the long plaited braid with which she crowned the old woman’s head slipped from her fingers.
“Ah, look what you have done, Cyr of the silver,” Bernia named him though he had spoken no word to identify himself. “Distracted my granddaughter. Now she will have to begin again.”
“I have naught else to occupy me,” Aelfled said and raised her eyebrows. “What do you require, Baron D’Argent?”
Deciding to speak in her language to ensure Bernia fully understood and her reaction might be gauged, he said, “Only the truth,” and closed the door and crossed the room to stand over the two. “As thought, the man I sent to the wood at Lillefarne is dead. I would have from you the name of the rebel who killed him, Aelfled.”
When she could not hold his gaze, Cyr stepped alongside the chair and caught up her chin. “Do you have a care for Vitalis and his men?”
Her lids sprang wide. “Of course I do. They are my people.”
“Then you will aid them in an entirely different manner. You will forget I am Norman, forget you are Saxon, and speak one name in truth. Can you do that?”
She swallowed loudly.
“Mayhap this will aid in loosening your tongue,” he said. “It was no quick, thoughtless kill. The young man in my service, hopeful of a good life in England, was mutilated.”
The warmth of her breath against his hand cooled, and he heard Bernia catch her own breath.
“Mutilated?” Aelfled whispered.
“Aye, whoever slew him took pleasure in what he did. Now a name else others shall be punished for his crime.”
She shook her head. “I do not believe you would harm innocent men to ensnare the guilty.”
“Neither would I have believed it, but after what I have seen, I am nearly there again.”
The old woman shifted around and gripped her granddaughter’s knee. “Tell him.”
Emotions struggled across Aelfled’s face, then she reached up and drew his hand from her chin. “When Vitalis came to me in the garden, he told your man had been slain by the rebel scout and his body hidden so it could only be known he was missing.”
“The scout’s name?”
She moistened her lips. “He who injured me—Sigward.”
Cyr delved her face. Was this truth? It was the same Vitalis told and the man had no opportunity to alert her, but that did not mean she did not guess well. Still, leaning toward her speaking true, he strode to the door.
“Do you believe me?” she called, and the distress in her voice nearly moved him to offer assurance. “Cyr! You will not harm the others, will you?”
He stepped into the corridor and closed the door.
“I gave what you asked of me!”
Rather, what he had forced from her—again. Continuing to the stairs, he wondered if it would always be thus with them. Would she who professed to be more conqueror and Norman in the eyes of her own ever trust him enough to willingly give what he asked of her?
Halfway down the stairs, he halted at the realization he was not thinking days and weeks ahead. He was thinking months and years—of a long future with his little Saxon.
“She distracts me,” he rasped and moved his thoughts back to his purpose in seeking her out—to verify what Vitalis told.
Though it seemed too easy Sigward was the murderer, he believed it, causing relief to thrust up through blood-watered ground that had begun to encourage the merciless side of him to send out roots and once more grow like a weed.
Cyr closed his eyes and thanked the Lord for this mercy, then asked for another—to find Guarin alive. And another—to be rid of Campagnon against whom he had no proof it was at his bidding Merle and the others sought to destroy the lord’s hay. Thus far, the only thing he had was a missive from Campagnon expressing shock and outrage over men he had mistakenly trusted.
But Cyr would lay hands on more. And soon.
&nb
sp; Castle Balduc
England
Too much wine, though Campagnon named it inferior. Too much food, though he named it bland. Too much brooding, though he named it sorrow. All because too much he found himself watched by Cyr D’Argent’s men whom he did not wish to know how great the raging of one who claimed to be betrayed by those whose lives he had saved at Senlac.
“Liar, knave, miscreant,” breathed the one who now watched Campagnon as he and others became sluggish over the meal sloshing about their bellies and a day that had turned night well before they rose from supper to converse, boast, jest, and engage in games of chance. “You will suffer what is due you. I vow you will.”
The little finger hooked between two gathered curtains widened the slit to better view Balduc’s castellan as he wove a path from two mercenaries who had yet to fail him as the imprisoned Merle had done to the servant refilling her pitcher at the sideboard.
Leave her be, the hidden one silently commanded. There is naught there for you, devil’s spawn.
Still he groped the woman, and when she tried to pull away, gripped her by the throat and kissed her hard on the mouth. Then he thrust her back and shoved his tankard at her.
As the woman refilled it with a hand that shook so greatly it seemed a miracle she did not slop drink on him, the one who watched whispered, “Do with me what you will, Norman, I shall see you broken long ere you break me. It is me you ought to fear. Strong of mind, body, and spirit, I am Saxon. Never shall I forget it. Ever shall I embrace it. Be it by my hand or another’s, you will breathe your last.” A long, slow release of breath. “Pray soon, Lord.”
Now it was time to send word.
Chapter Thirty
Stern Castle
England
Cyr did not know how the confession was obtained. It was enough to know Maël persuaded Merle to set in writing that it was Campagnon who ordered the burning of his liege’s hay.
And as Sigward’s passing neared, yet more the day delivered. Theriot having given watch over the rebels to men familiar with their language, the Normans had drawn near when Vitalis challenged the dying man to prove he was not a coward—that it was not fear that made him flee Lillefarne but loyalty to one he esteemed above others. It had been a good tact, Sigward confirming he acted on the orders of one he called a Saxon true to the blood, the bone, the marrow. No name had he given, but it was clear he referred to a man rather than a woman.
What little more was spoken between the two was cryptic, but from what Cyr had surmised of that night at Lillefarne, there was dissension among the rebels. Because Lady Hawisa was Dotter and, now too ill to lead, others vied for her position? So ferociously they handed up their own to eliminate contenders?
Cyr nodded. Whomever Sigward served, it was hoped the Baron of Stern and Balduc would be in the wood that night and capture—if not kill—Vitalis and his men.
“With whom are you in agreement, my son?”
Wishing he could say it was the Lord—that he had not drifted away from Him in this holy place—Cyr looked to the priest on the kneeler beside him. “I agree with myself that I am made an instrument of the rebels. And how well I shall like making an instrument of them.”
“You speak of vengeance?”
“I suppose there is that, but more there is Guarin. This day, I shall send word to the rebels and, God willing, they will agree to my terms and deliver my brother to me.”
“And if they do not? Or have only a corpse to bargain with?”
Though were Guarin already dead Cyr wished his body returned, he would yield naught to the rebels for anything less than a brother who yet breathed for fear a lesser bargain could see Guarin murdered. “They give me what I want or their fellow rebels accompany Campagnon and his men to King William.” Campagnon whom Cyr would remove from Balduc on the morrow.
Fulbert thought on that, said, “What of this Aelfled? Will she be part of the bargain you make?”
“Non.” With any other, Cyr would have been ashamed at his lack of hesitation.
“What will you do with her?”
“As told, I think it unwise to deliver her grandmother and her to another shire. Even if the rebels do not root her out, the king could, and she would suffer his wrath for harboring rebels. Were she alone, it is possible she could lose her pursuers, but not in the company of an old blind woman who would slow her and render her more recognizable.”
Fulbert sighed. “It is unfortunate you did not leave her at Lillefarne.”
“I do not think so. Rather than take vows, I believe she would have left, collected her grandmother, and fled Wulfenshire. And what remained of their lives would be spent running and hiding. Non, my only regret in forcing her out—and it is great—is the injury done her.”
The priest raised his eyebrows. “So I ask again, what is to be her fate?”
Cyr moved his gaze to his loosely clasped hands on the kneeler’s shelf, stared at them, closed his eyes. Lord, what do I do with she who has been made more the conquering Norman than a Saxon by association with me? How do I keep her safe in this changed world? Where do I tuck her away so she may live again?
A hand settled on his back. “The fight is over, my son. You have but to cease struggling.”
Cyr breathed deep, opened his eyes. It was over. He knew what must be done. But ere delivering tidings to his little Saxon, he would set in motion Guarin’s release.
“You know I am aware Sigward betrayed you and your men?”
Chest forward, shoulders back—doubtless more a show of aggression than a result of hands bound at his back—the Saxon glared.
A grunt sounded from the right, and Cyr glanced at Theriot who stood outside the paddock, arms propped on the fence’s top rung, in one hand a small dagger, in the other an apple whose skin he sliced away in one long, narrow spiral.
Cyr returned his regard to Vitalis whom he had summoned to the far corner of the paddock distant from his men. “The same as you, I do not believe fear caused your scout to desert you at Lillefarne. I believe he did as planned in the event I brought forces to the abbey, and once it was verified I had, he slipped away, his absence allowing one of my own to number amongst yours. And I believe you and your men were sacrificed in what was hoped to be a river of blood with few if any survivors. Thus, it requires no imagining to conclude there is great division between you and Dotter or you and others who serve Dotter.”
Vitalis continued to stare, the only movement about him glittering eyes, flaring nostrils, perspiration coursing face and neck.
Cyr stepped nearer, and breathing the odor of the man’s long unwashed body, said, “I require something of you, housecarle.”
A flicker in his eyes.
“Aye, though you no longer wear the finery of an esteemed warrior, I know what you are. Thus, I set you a task.”
Still Vitalis did not rise to words in the hope of more quickly gaining answers to the questions slamming about his head.
“I have a message that needs delivering. Do you agree to what I propose, this day I shall provide a horse and send you to your leader.”
The man gave a bark of laughter. “I am to believe you would have me play the herald?”
Cyr smiled. “Either you think yourself too valuable to be released, else you fear whomever you answer to. Since that may be the one who sought your death, it is not entirely shameful.”
“I am too valuable, as well you know, D’Argent. Hence, I question why you choose me.”
“I have watched you as have my men. You are protective of your own and it is clear their loyalty is well-earned. Thus, I am assured my message will be delivered quickly the sooner to see your men freed.”
“Freed?”
Cyr inclined his head. “I wish to bargain with your leader—trade nineteen men, twenty do we count the deceased Sigward—for one.”
“One?” He glowered. “Never.”
“I do not speak of Dotter.”
The Saxon narrowed his lids.
“My brot
her for your men—if he lives.”
“The same brother whom this D’Argent”—Vitalis jutted his chin at Theriot—“sought these months with no proof of his existence other than a rumored sighting?”
“I believe Guarin is alive and has been held by your rebels since the great battle.” Lord, Cyr sent to the heavens, let my hope be worthy of belief.
“For what would we hold a Norman noble if not for ransom, which would have been demanded long ago?”
“That is a question I shall ask my brother.”
“If he lives and your terms are met. What if he is long dead?”
“Though I would recover his corpse and see him buried in holy ground, if he is not delivered to me alive and well, we have no bargain…no trade.” Cyr looked to the rebels beyond Vitalis, saw as much as felt their curiosity. “I shall give your men into King William’s hands.”
Vitalis followed his gaze, and when he looked back around, set his eyes on his captor’s sword belt.
“Because of the dissension among your own,” Cyr continued, “what I require could prove difficult to carry out, perhaps so much it may be best you not deliver my message but act on it yourself.”
The Saxon looked up.
Cyr raised his eyebrows. “I care not how you gain my brother’s release and return him to his family, only that it be done.”
Vitalis kept him waiting, finally said, “I have no cause to value the word of a Norman, but I would have it given on the hilt of your sword that do I deliver your brother alive—and hear me, I am not saying it is possible—you will release all my men. And only to me.”
Further proof of dissension among the rebels.
Cyr set his hand on his hilt. “In the sight of God, I give the word of Cyr D’Argent of Stern and Balduc that do you meet my terms in full, I shall release every rebel in this paddock only to you.”
The man dipped his head. “You have made of this warrior a herald—for a day.”