Anora swallowed back her tears as she climbed the stairs to her room. What had Joseph and Merton been thinking? What would the Norman do to them all now?
Anger had hardened every line of his body and lent a flatness to his eyes. By the grim set of his lips, Anora knew his patience had expired and the people of Fairhurst would suffer his wrath.
She entered her room and the guard closed the door behind her, the ominous thud echoing off the walls. Tossing a few small pieces of wood onto the fire in the brazier, she watched as flames licked along the fresh fuel, greedily consuming the wood.
Is that what it would be, then? The Normans would consume the Saxons, leaving nothing behind but ash? Was there naught she could do to prevent it? Mayhap if she gave her oath to the Norman and her people followed…would that stay his hand?
She sat on the stool before the fire and wrapped her arms around her.
Nay, she feared not. Joseph and Merton had gone too far. Were the Norman to allow them to live, it would not dissuade others from attempting the same or worse. In her heart, Anora knew FitzGillen had been uncharacteristically patient.
Had she not been in the hall, the enemy might now be dead. The vision of the Norman lying still, his body stiff, his skin gray, sent a shiver through her.
She should not care if the Normans perished. Would it not solve all her problems? She rubbed at her eyes. Nay, Duke William would simply send another of his followers.
Of course, there might not be any Saxons left once FitzGillen meted out his punishments.
What could she do to prevent the slaughter to come?
She knew not, and she swallowed against the bile rising in her throat.
They were doomed.
Chapter Five
Royce rode alone. The muted thump of his horse’s hooves against the spongy decay of the forest floor and the songs of the birds were his only company. The shade of the bower of trees overhead lent a coolness to the air. The smell of pine eased his mind.
He longed to return to Normandy. He hated England and its Saxon people. Their guttural language fell harshly upon his ears. The nobles lacked a polish inherent in all Normans of class. The women were coarse, without grace and, in general, unattractive.
The path he followed curved sharply and his horse whickered, sidestepping as a bent old woman appeared in the road, a large sack dumped at her feet.
“Begone, hag.” He waved his hand at her, even as he brought his mount to a standstill. “And cart your pathetic belongings with you.”
She raised her head from the hunched vee of her shoulders, reminding him of a turtle. Peering up at him from the shadows of the faded black shawl covering her head, she blinked red-rimmed blue eyes at him. Her skin was tinged with gray and blotched with age spots. Squinting up at him, she waved a gloved hand at him.
“Ye, there. Come down off yer horse and help an old woman with her burden.” He winced as her high-pitched command pierced his eardrums. His horse stamped his hooves, backing away from the offensive noise.
“Begone, I say.”
“Ah.” Her head bobbed. “Normans have no knowledge of chivalry, then?” She snorted, plopping herself down atop the sack. “Come, young pup, help an old woman with her heavy load. ’Twill be yer first lesson.”
Royce gritted his teeth. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and slid from his horse. To have his chivalry challenged and then to be called a young pup was more than his pride could tolerate. The old crone would breathe her last on this path.
As he approached her, the sword held before him, she turned a calm gaze upon him. Frustrated by her lack of fear, he leveled the tip of the blade at her throat.
With a flick of her wrist, she knocked his blade aside and stood up.
“Ye’ll not sever an old woman’s head from her shoulders and well ye know it. ’Tisn’t in yer nature.”
Royce cocked his head at her in stunned disbelief. His fury and the lethal point of his sword fazed her not. He glared down at the tip of his weapon, wondering how the woman knew he had never, nor ever would kill a woman, though many thought him quite capable of it.
She tottered to the other side of the path. “Don’t frown so at yer sword.” She pushed through the overgrowth. “It did not betray ye.”
Either she had uncommon courage or she could see into a man’s soul. The thought brought him little comfort. By his experience, women were cowardly beings, taking the easiest path. But this woman confronted him. Nay, she challenged him. As another Saxon woman challenged his father. He shook the thoughts from his head. Women, be they Saxon or nay, could be counted on to bend to any man’s will.
A moment later she called to him, “Come along, then. And have a care with the sack.” Her crackly voice carried from beyond the tangle of bracken.
He glared at the large sack, tied with a strip of cloth. He should ride off and leave her to fend for herself. But nay, she had called him unchivalrous. ’Twas time he proved her wrong.
With his sword sheathed, he took up her bag. He searched for a break in the bracken, and with his horse’s reins in one hand and the sack in the other, he followed the old woman.
She stayed ahead of him, her steps surprisingly spry for one of her obvious age. He watched her covered head bob along as she wove her way through the forest. She drew him farther and farther from the path, and he wondered if she set a trap for him.
Stopping to tie the sack to his horse, he took out his sword, his gaze scanning the area. He glanced at the ground, seeking signs of others, either on horseback or foot. He found only the occasional animal track, but still he did not cease his vigilance.
So engrossed was he in his precautions that he did not at first recognize the pathetic pile of timber and sod. The old woman disappeared into the dark interior through the gaping hole that was the door.
“Ye can sheathe yer weapon, now.” Her chuckle floated on the early afternoon air, and Royce wondered what she found so humorous.
He tethered his horse’s reins to a nearby bush, took the bag down, and marched to the doorway, his sword still gripped firmly in his hand. He dumped the sack just inside, peering into the gloom only to be nudged back by the woman herself.“Needs a good cleaning,” she muttered as she shuffled by him. Glancing up in surprise, her eyes sparked. “What? Are ye still here?”
“This is where you live?”
“Aye. Do ye have a problem with that?” She disappeared into the nearby overgrowth.
Royce shook his head. “Nay.” His gaze traveled over the place she called home. It was evident that it had not seen inhabitants in some time. Where had she been?
“What are you called?” He realized he didn’t know her name, though he couldn’t think why he wanted to. It just seemed the proper question.
There was such a long pause, he wondered if she would tell him.
And then, “Isabelle.” Her response came from the nearby vegetation. A moment later, she appeared with a stout stick and a handful of twigs.
She stopped and tilted her head to the side. “Well?”
Royce raised an eyebrow.
“What are ye called?”
“Royce.”
“So yer mother thought ye would be a king, did she?” She ambled back to the cottage, dropping the stick and twigs.
“I know not what my mother thought upon naming me.”
She popped her head out the door. “Did ye not ask her?”
“Nay. She died when I was but six.”
“Hmm.” She disappeared again into the musty interior.
Royce felt foolish, standing about talking with the woman. He had better things to do with his time. He had started to back away from the hut when she appeared in the doorway.
“Be off with ye now. Can’t ye see I’ve much to do before nightfall?”
Royce bristled at her tone. He felt like an unwanted child, a feeling that reached back into his childhood. Placing his sword back in its scabbard, he untied his horse and mounted, eager to be away.
He
found the path with little trouble and as he made his way back to Fairhurst, guilt started to plague him. He should have inspected the cottage, offered to see to a door. Did she have a cot to sleep upon? Food to eat?
He shook his head. Why was he worried over an elderly Saxon woman with a sharp tongue?
* * * * *
Rosard lifted his sword yet again, slamming it into the shield of one of his men. The clash of steel against wood shimmied up his arm.
“My lord?” The man gasped, sweat running down his face, his arm quivered as he raised his sword again. “I am done, my lord. I give you ground.”
Rosard focused on the man. “Aye.” He lowered his sword. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he thought again of the attempt on the Norman lives earlier. Frustration, his constant companion these days, reared up inside him. What did he have to do to prove to these Saxons they were safe? How was he to force Anora to give her oath? Isolation hadn’t curbed her resistance. Mayhap a diet of bread and water would encourage her to acquiesce to his demands.
“Father, the supply wagons have arrived.” Gyfton broke his train of thought.
“Ah, good.” Rosard acknowledged his son with a nod of his head.“What demons do you battle?” Taking Rosard’s sword and shield, Gyfton led him to the well.
“I tell you, Gyfton…” Rosard pulled the bucket up from the well and dumped the contents over his head. “These Saxons are a stubborn lot.” Rubbing the water from his eyes, he continued. “Have I fired their homes, allowed my men to rape and pillage? Have I salted the earth to render their fields barren?” He shook his head, sending droplets flying from his hair. “I have not killed or maimed one of them. Instead, I’ve seen to repairs and made certain everyone will have enough to eat.” He ran a tired hand through his wet hair. “I have dealt fairly with their complaints, yet they tried to kill us all this morn.” He met Gyfton’s sympathetic gaze. “I tell you, I’m at my end to know what to do with them. Think you an oath from their lady will halt this nonsense?”
“Could be, Father. But would you trust their word?”
Rosard sighed. “That is another problem. I’m afraid they believe they can win this battle, but they must know that if not me, the king would send someone else and like as not, they would suffer greatly under another’s rule. Can they alone conquer William?” He shook his head. “They are a stubborn lot.”
“Will you still hold court today?”
“Aye. I had thought to postpone it after this morning, but I think it wise to carry on, lest they think I’ve given control to them.”
“And can you deal with them fairly after they attempted to kill us all?”
“I must.” He took his sword and shield from Gyfton. “Pray, what happened to the guard stationed in the kitchen? He was to watch out for such sabotage.”
“It would seem Joseph and Merton gave him a purge.” Gyfton chuckled. “And he was in the guarderobe.”
“You find that amusing?” Rosard glared at his youngest son. The boy found humor in most every instance.
“I but picture the lines at the guarderobes if the Saxons are of mind to bring us low.” He chuckled again. “’Tis what I will call it. The Saxon’s Revenge.” He shook his head. “But I will be certain I switch trenchers with my Saxon neighbor afore I eat now.”
“There will be no repeat of this morning. Our food will be prepared by our cook.”
His son groaned. “More reason to switch trenchers with my Saxon neighbor.”
“Mayhap, ’tis a wise course you plan.” Rosard thumped his son on the back. “To the practice yard with you. You should spend more of your time training and less trailing behind the comely wenches.”
With a laugh, Gyfton headed to off to practice. “Aye, Father, but I wish to point out that I do not trail after them. Quite the opposite, they chase after me. ’Tis what makes me so fleet of foot.”
Rosard shook his head. “See that you and Royce are in the hall for court.” Gyfton waved his hand in acknowledgement as he crossed the bailey. His youngest was a fine warrior, but did not look for a fight. At times Royce had called Gyfton a coward, and both his sons had come to dinner with blackened eyes or split lips.
Gyfton was nearly as good a fighter as Royce, but Gyfton lacked the cold fury his elder brother possessed.
And Rosard wondered, not for the first time, what had made Royce so angry.
With a glance at the sun high in the sky, he made his way back to the hall to don clean clothes and ready himself for court.
* * * * *
’Twas the second time in one day the Norman summoned her below and Anora’s nerves were strung taut with fear and worry.
She had spent the last few hours praying for salvation for her and her people. This trip, she feared, would be her last.
She consoled herself with the knowledge that Edmund would be waiting for her. ’Tis what steadied her knees and straightened her spine as she again descended the stairs.
Below she found the tables gone, the benches arranged in several rows facing the raised dais. The Norman sat behind the table, his head bent in conversation with a small man whose fingers were stained black.
A scribe, she thought. And gazing around the room again, she concluded that the Norman would hold court today.
So, this then was his method. He would pass sentence on Joseph and Merton. And, no doubt herself as well for attacking him that first day.
She sent another prayer heavenward. Pray God, she would be strong, but her knees began to wobble and she braced her hand against the wall at the bottom of the stairs.
“My lady? Are you unwell?” Her guard moved beside her and she found concern etched on his face.
“I am fine.”
He gave her a perfunctory nod and led the way to the dais.
She frowned. He would seat her at the table? What, then was this? What nefarious plans did the Norman have?
At her approach, he looked up from his conversation with his scribe.“Lady Anora.” He acknowledged her arrival, scooting over on the seat. “Sit you here.”
Anora clenched her hands in the skirt of her tunic. She opened her mouth to protest and the Norman inclined his head. She snapped her jaw closed, pressing her lips into a flat line.
He smiled.
She narrowed her gaze. He was up to something. And it must bode ill for her.
“Sit, my lady.”
She slid into her seat, keeping as much distance between them as possible.
“I would ask you of ongoing feuds that I might hear today.”
She gave him a startled glance and frowned in confusion.
“Come, my lady. ’Tis for the benefit of the people of Fairhurst. I will deal fairly with them, I assure you.”
She gave an unladylike snort and the Norman chuckled.
He leaned back on the bench, resting against its high back. Idly, he played with the tankard before him, tracing the base with his finger, then nudging it to one side and then the other.
From the corner of her eye, she caught him glancing at her. She kept her lips pressed together while she debated the merits of cooperating with him.
His hand curled around the tankard and his knuckles turned white.
Quickly, before his patience expired, she turned to him. “There is an issue of a goat with a voracious appetite.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “A voracious goat?” He grinned.
“Aye.”
“And what has been done about this goat?”
She shrugged.
His smile faded and his gaze focused on the veil covering her head. She resisted the urge to reach up and touch it. She watched his eyes and wondered at the softening she saw in them.
What thoughts filled his mind?
His gaze met hers and he glanced away, but not before Anora noted a rosy tinge to his cheeks.
Mayhap ’twas best that she not know his thoughts.
“And how long has this been going on?” There was an edge to his question and the guarded look reappeared.
He cleared his throat.
“Can you not tell me what punishment has been meted out?”
“Lester has replanted the garden. But I fear he is not very good at it. And now there are no seeds to replant it yet again.”
“Mayhap the goat should be slaughtered and given to the family that lost their garden.”
“Oh, nay, you cannot.” She reached for his arm, but caught herself before making contact with him. Lacing her fingers together in her lap, she continued, “You see the goat gives milk and is the main source of income for Lester.”
“Ah.” The hall doors opened and people started filing in at that moment, ending their conversation.
The Norman’s sons took their seats. The youngest, she recalled being addressed as Gyfton, beside her, his eldest, Royce, beside the scribe.
And court began.
Anora shifted in her seat when Lester and Mistress Brown approached first.
“Your names?” The Norman’s deep voice rose above the rustle of those gathered and all eyes turned to the table.
Lester pulled his hat off, wringing it in his hands. “Lester Mackle, sir.”
“Widow Brown.” Letty Brown was a bit younger than Lester, her dark hair just showing a bit of gray. She was mother to two young boys, her husband having fallen in battle against the Normans. She held no love of the conquering army.
Anora glanced at Rosard. He arched a brow.
“And what is your complaint?” Rosard asked.
“’Tis his goat.” Letty glared at Lester.
“He has eaten your garden, again, I take it?”
The widow turned a surprised look upon the Norman and then an accusatory glare on Anora. “Aye, and ’twas the last of my seed.” Anora arched her eyebrows, tipping her head a bit, trying to warn the woman to be cautious.“Your lady has told me of this ongoing problem.” He turned to Lester. “What have you done to try to control the goat?”
“Sir, I’ve tied her up, but she eats the rope.” Chuckles echoed in the hall.“I tried to pen her, sir, but she either jumps the fence or eats it.” The gathered crowd laughed.
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