by Tamara Leigh
Senses assaulted by Dougray’s surge of anger, Cyr growled low, “Stay your hand, Brother. This is for me to give answer.” He ascended the dais and considered Campagnon across the table between them. “You are saying a woman did this to a warrior who survived the great battle?”
Campagnon sneered. “The witch caught me unawares.”
One of the men-at-arms snorted, and when Cyr commanded him to speak, he said, “Hardly unawares, my lord. He was shouting and beating her, causing a great clatter with all he felled in chasing her around the solar.”
Yet more aware of Dougray, Cyr hoped he would not have to intercede as Maël had done with Merle. “What cause did you give her to stick you with a blade, Campagnon?”
Cyr expected the man to draw around him the mantle of ownership and refuse to answer, but he said, “Though my coin bought her, her actions are also of your concern since they threaten the demesne.”
“Speak!”
“I discovered she has been passing information to the rebels which, doubtless, was used in their most recent attack on the castle.”
Cyr had guessed Balduc hosted one or more rebel supporters, but if it was Em who passed along the plan to attack Stern’s hay, there was good in it. That she was the cause of him losing his position seemed fitting justice for one who abused and made of her the basest of chattel.
As if suddenly aware of something he should have been sooner, Campagnon demanded, “For what have you ridden on Balduc?”
Ignoring his question, Cyr said, “Where is the slave?”
“Your men let her get away.”
Cyr wondered if Dougray was also thinking here the means of getting the woman out of Campagnon’s clutches. Were she not found, she could not accompany him from Balduc.
“But I shall drag her from whatever corner she huddles in,” the knave boasted, “and upon threat of death she shall reveal the nest of rebels within my walls.”
“My walls,” Cyr corrected. “And now my brother’s.”
Campagnon’s lids narrowed. “Of what do you speak?”
“This day, Theriot D’Argent takes your place as castellan of Balduc.”
The man lurched out of the chair, groaned and clapped a hand to his wound, braced his other hand on the table. “The king made me your liegeman!”
“A mistake, as I believe William will agree when he learns it was under your orders my hay was to have been burned.”
“A lie!” Campagnon’s saliva misted the air between them. “I had naught to do with that. You know I did not.”
“I do not know that. Thus, it is for the king to determine whether your man, Merle, speaks true or false. And as I am sure he will wish to do so quickly, this day his men shall escort you to him.” Cyr motioned the chevaliers forward. “Take him into custody.”
Campagnon stumbled back, snatched his dagger from its sheath.
It was no contest, though he was skilled enough it would have been a good fight were he not weakened by his injury.
When the warriors had him facedown on the dais, he howled, doubtless over the pressure on his wound.
“As soon as you have his dagger,” Cyr said, “get him on his feet.”
The one with a knee planted in the knave’s back, scorned, “You sound like the one you were beating, Campagnon. A woman.”
It was not he who paid for the insult but his fellow warrior trying to grasp the flailing, dagger-wielding arm. The blade sliced the man’s palm, causing him to rear back.
“I would say he has turned violent, would you not?” Dougray drawled.
Cyr inclined his head. “Wish granted.”
Thus, it was Dougray who relieved Campagnon of the dagger with a deft sweep of the hand. Gradually, he was reclaiming the warrior he had been.
“My slave goes with me!” Campagnon shouted as he was carried from the hall. “It is my right! Find her!”
“We must,” Cyr said when the doors closed behind his protests and threats.
Once more Dougray was all glower. “You will not send her with him, will you?”
“Non, but as he was beating her, her own injuries may require tending, and there is the matter of her being an informant. I would have from her all she knows of Campagnon and what she passed to the rebels.” The shift in his brother’s eyes revealing he did not like it, Cyr added, “However I can, you know I must stop the insurrection, Dougray. Too, if she supports Merle’s confession—”
“You think a Saxon…a slave…one who aids those opposed to William’s rule would be believed?”
“If her tale is the same as Merle’s—a Norman and a warrior—it is possible.” Cyr stepped nearer, lowered his voice, “Are you aware of how much concern you show for one whose name you cannot recall?”
Cyr glimpsed alarm, then denial in Dougray’s eyes before he pivoted away.
“I will find the wench,” he said and strode toward the kitchen passage where servants had gathered to watch from a safe distance.
An hour later, despite the efforts of Dougray and a half dozen men-at-arms, the search for Em proved fruitless. Either she had become a mouse in a hole of which none knew, else amid the commotion she had escaped Balduc.
The latter, Cyr guessed—and that she made her way to the rebels she served. Regardless, she had freed herself of Campagnon.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Stern Castle
England
The dagger of Hugh D’Argent.
It made Aelfled falter and Lady Chanson look up from the scabbard-less blade. With a taut smile, the woman said, “Join me, Lady Aelfled.”
Telling herself she must become accustomed to the title that she not always be wincing, Aelfled glanced at where the woman’s son stood before the hearth in conversation with three chevaliers.
“Pray, Nicola, assure Cyr’s wife I am capable enough of defending myself I need not call on my son should the need arise,” the lady said with a light tone that made the young woman at Aelfled’s side giggle.
Aelfled set her shoulders back, circled the dais, and as she lowered into the chair on one side of Cyr’s aunt and Nicola on the other, said, “I hope you do not believe the need will ever arise where I am concerned, my lady.”
“As oft my departed husband said, certainty in anything, be it of flesh, strategy, or emotion exposes one’s neck to the blade.” The lady touched a finger to the dagger’s point, then raised her hand to reveal a drop of blood. “As sharp as ever. Do you think it last bled my husband?”
Aelfled wished she had not allowed Nicola to persuade her to seek her aunt’s counsel over how to bring the household under her command. But though this was not a conversation she wished to have, here it was, and she supposed it must be had eventually. “It is possible, my lady.”
“You gained the dagger from Lady Hawisa’s son?”
“I did—as he breathed his last in my arms. I know not how it came into his possession, nor whether it was before or after he was dealt the blow that proved his own death.”
“So you cannot say my husband slew him and the other boys?”
Aelfled moistened her lips. “As your husband warned, one cannot be certain of anything, but that is as it appeared.”
After a long moment, the woman said, “Though he had a reputation for being vicious in battle, he would have been appalled over his end and theirs.”
“Cyr believes he must have been severely injured by King Harold’s men to have fallen to boys.”
Lady Chanson nodded. “I suppose that is of some comfort.”
“I am sorry for your loss and your son’s, my lady. I know it is great.”
The lady pressed a thumb to the pad of her crimson-beaded finger, sat back. “Not as great as it could have been. Hugh was not one to welcome love, and so it was gifted at one’s own peril and pain. He was different from his brother who sired my nephews and niece.”
Curiosity roused again over Cyr’s sire, Aelfled leaned nearer. But it was Hugh the lady returned to. “Thus, bit by bit, disappointment by d
isappointment, one reeled in that love.” She looked to her son. “As did Maël, and yet methinks he suffers the loss more than I.”
Aelfled could think of no response, and was glad one was not sought over a matter beyond her knowledge and understanding.
Nicola patted the woman’s arm. “My cousin will come around, Aunt.”
“I pray so, but I see little evidence. When I told him he should keep his sire’s dagger, thinking he would be comforted, he became angry. If only I knew what is in my son’s mind—more, his heart.”
Certain she trespassed on intimate discourse and now was not the time to seek Lady Chanson’s advice on ordering Cyr’s household, Aelfled sat back and wondered how best to approach the cook to discuss the menus. Occasionally, she had been present when Isa coordinated the meals at Wulfen. Much was required to feed so many, but there had been logic to the planning—a balance between using the best ingredients whilst in their prime and making use of foodstuffs of which there was an overabundance or approached a ripeness that would soon see them fit only for pigs.
As Nicola spoke soothingly to her aunt, the great doors swung inward, and the soldier who strode inside announced, “Sir Maël, the Saxon has returned, fully armored and accompanied by ten men similarly outfitted and with extra horses.”
Vitalis. It had to be.
As Cyr’s cousin made the fewest of strides between hearth and entryway, he demanded, “My cousin accompanies him?”
“I do not know, Sire. All but Vitalis are beneath hoods.”
As Sir Maël and his man exited, Nicola leapt to her feet. “Guarin is sure to be without. I must see for myself.”
“Non,” Lady Chanson said, “remain with me. Soon enough we shall know what goes.”
“I cannot sit still. Devise a punishment if you wish, but I shall sooner than later be reunited with the brother two years denied me.” As she descended the dais, she called, “Accompany me, Aelfled.”
Aelfled rose and followed. Other than visits to the garden, she had not been outside since her arrival at Stern when Sigward’s stone dropped her over the horse’s neck. Though Cyr had borne her through the inner bailey, she had been too dazed to look near upon it, but hardly was she able to do so now with Nicola nearly running to overtake her cousin.
When they entered the outer bailey, Aelfled hesitated at the realization once more she must pass the rebels. But assuring herself they knew it was Sigward who betrayed them at Lillefarne, she continued forward and followed Nicola and Sir Maël up steps to the wall walk above the great doors that were open though its gate remained lowered.
Cyr had sent Merle and his men to his king, but the eastern paddock was no more empty than the western, the rebels having been divided between the two, doubtless to exercise greater control over their numbers.
It was difficult to meet the eyes of her fellow Saxons who might think she flaunted her freedom among Normans, but she looked between them and was glad they did not yet know she had acquired the surname D’Argent.
“Non, Nicola,” Sir Maël said when he noticed the two women. “Return to the donjon, both of you.”
“Only do you serve as escort,” Nicola said as she and Aelfled halted before him.
Annoyance lined his face, and when the young woman pushed onto her toes and tried to look past him to those outside Stern, he gripped her shoulders and set her back against the rail. “Stand there—and you as well, Aelfled. Providing you stay out of sight, you may remain. Interfere and I will have my men put you over a shoulder and carry you from here.”
“Just one peek,” Nicola entreated and again tried to peer past him.
“Non, Nicola!”
She rolled her eyes. “Very well, we shall remain out of sight.”
He pivoted and, a moment later, showed himself to those below.
“Sir Maël!” Vitalis’s voice bounded to the top of the wall as if carried by his long legs.
“You return sooner than expected,” the king’s man called down. “I am thinking it is not because you are unable to keep the bargain. Were that so, you would surely flee.”
“You do not know me, Norman,” Vitalis called, “and you are not the one with whom I bargained. I would speak with Cyr D’Argent.”
“Regrettably, he is gone, and it may be night ere he and his men return.”
A long silence, during which Nicola hissed, “Does he or does he not have my brother?”
Finally, Vitalis said, “Do you have the power to act on your cousin’s behalf?”
“I do.”
“Then soon we shall be done here. My leader agrees to the terms, but there is one thing required beyond my men’s release.”
“Dear Lord, he has Guarin,” Nicola gasped. “He lives, at last shall be reunited with us.”
“The bargain was accepted by both parties,” Maël said. “It stands as is.”
“Then it falls,” Vitalis said.
“Maël!” Nicola squeaked. “No matter what he asks, Cyr would agree.”
His head came round. “Be silent!”
“I will not! You know I speak true. Give him what he wants.”
Anger coloring the face Sir Maël turned back to those beyond the walls, he called, “What else does your leader require?”
“Aelfled.”
She of that name nearly choked on her tongue, and Nicola coughed hard as if to dislodge her own from her throat.
“I do not believe my cousin would agree to that,” Maël called. “Hence, your nineteen rebels for—”
“Ere you give answer,” Vitalis spoke over him, “look upon this.”
Beside Aelfled, Nicola drew a sharp breath, on its exhale whispered, “You think it my brother?” Then she hastened forward, knocking her cousin’s shoulder as she joined him at the wall. “Guarin!” She gripped Sir Maël’s sleeve, cried, “Dear Lord, what has been done him?”
Feet feeling as if shod in lead, Aelfled dragged them forward. As she neared, she heard Vitalis call, “Your brother is not well, Lady. Though I assure you he is not mortally ill—at this time—of great benefit would it be were you to persuade your cousin to reconsider.”
“Maël?” the young woman shrilled.
Aelfled closed a hand around the psalter on her girdle, stepped to Nicola’s side, and peered down at those before the castle—a score of horses, only half of which carried riders. And of those riders, all were hooded except Vitalis who was already known to the Normans and the one between two others whose hood was around his shoulders to reveal his hunched figure.
Though the man’s hair was long and tangled as it had surely not been when he wielded a sword against Saxons at the battle that passed England into the hands of the Normans, it was ink black and liberally streaked with silver. As she stared, he gave evidence of life by lifting his head and, with what seemed great effort, turned up his face. It was bruised and cut, but not gaunt as if he had been denied adequate sustenance. When his head dropped, a great sob sounded from Nicola.
“Aelfled, you are summoned,” Vitalis shouted, and she was reminded of when he had said her time at Lillefarne was over—that she was to return to her lady’s service. Now that she was wed to Cyr, that was no longer possible, but the trade was.
Feeling soft ridges beneath thumb and forefinger, realizing she had moved her hand from the psalter to her beautifully makeshift wedding ring, Aelfled looked to Sir Maël. He watched her, and she felt his struggle which would have been non-existent had he not witnessed vows spoken on the day past.
She stepped back from the wall and skirted Nicola. Knowing how greatly Cyr needed his brother restored to his family, and certain he would yield his new wife even were Guarin not in need of medical attention, she touched his cousin’s sleeve and when he looked to her said, “I know you wish to do as he bids.”
“I would were you not Cyr’s wife.”
She inclined her head. “Allow me to solve your dilemma. Guarin has been Cyr’s beloved brother and your cousin far longer than I have borne the name D’Argent. Fo
r him, Cyr returned to England. Now that he is within your grasp and in dire need of care, you must surrender me.”
“It is what you want?” he snapped. “To be with your own?”
She nearly confirmed it in the hope it would make it easier for him to trade away his cousin’s wife, but the thought of Cyr being told such was painful. “I wish to be with the one who left me this morn and said he would hold me again this eve, but I fear that is not the one who shall next stand before me if his brother is lost to him.”
His eyes delved her face as if searching for falsity, but he would find none. Finally, with what sounded desperation, he said, “Cyr could return soon.”
“Oui, but it might also be hours—or even the morrow—which could make the difference between his brother living and dying. Pray, Sir Maël, do not let me be the cause of your family losing another member.”
Still he hesitated.
“They will not harm me.” Of that she was fairly certain since it was now known Sigward was the betrayer.
He nodded. “As you say, I have no choice. Hence, I will release you to them. However, I think you must agree it will be safest for you if those outside these walls remain ignorant of your marriage.” His jaw shifted. “Were it thought you carried a Norman’s child…”
Was the beginning of a babe within? Determinedly keeping her hand from her belly, Aelfled mulled his concern. Vitalis would be repelled by her union with Cyr, but even if she need not fear him, there were others among the rebels who could prove a danger. What the chevalier suggested was for the best. For now.
“I agree, Sir Maël.” Ache in her breast, she removed from her finger the ring woven of hair, next the psalter from her girdle. “Give these to my husband.” She tucked the former between the pages of the latter. “Tell him I pray they—more, he—shall soon be returned to me.”
When he took the psalter, impulsively she added, “I am sorry your sire’s dagger pained your mother and you. I meant no harm.”