Siege

by Virginia Farmer

  Anora sat completely still, afraid to breathe lest someone notice her. Could they have forgotten her? Hope bloomed in her heart as the last of the Normans disappeared into the forest. She waited a long moment, straining to hear the sound of a returning soldier, but none came.

  Frantically Anora worked at her bonds. Rubbing the rope binding her wrists against the bark of the tree, she prayed Rosard’s horse would continue munching on the grass carpeting the ground. She could not hope to reach Fairhurst before nightfall without the animal to ride.

  A warm trickle of blood slid down from her wrists where slivers of the tree had gouged her skin. Ignoring the pain, she renewed her efforts.

  After what seemed like hours, Anora finally freed herself from the tree. She removed the cloth binding her mouth and approached the horse, taking care not to startle it. “Thanks be to God you are a good horse,” she said, grasping the dangling reins. “You must allow me to ride you, my friend.”

  ’Twas not her way to ride the great beast. She preferred her own two legs to those of the horse, but the animal seemed to understand her need and did not balk when she led him to a fallen tree. Stepping upon it, she put her foot into the stirrup, but the horse stepped away. She hopped off the log, her foot caught. “Nay, please. Be still,” she pleaded with the animal, even as her leg started to cramp from the unaccustomed position. “’Tis for Rosard.”

  The horse quieted and with great effort, Anora removed her foot and led the animal back to the fallen tree.

  She came around to face the horse. “You must let me ride you, else all will be lost.” She rubbed his long nose, tears blurring her vision.

  The horse snorted. Jerking his head up, he nudged Anora’s shoulder. “Oh, thank you.”

  This time she mounted with no trouble. Glancing toward the river, she bit her lip, her obligation to her people warred with her need to find Rosard.

  The man with the red feathers adorning his arrows had bragged of his bolt flying true and straight to Rosard’s heart. Did he still live? Was he even now, clinging to life? Did he lay in the forest, his life’s blood seeping into the Saxon earth?

  She shook the horrifying image from her mind.

  Never before had she such a decision to make.

  Rosard or the people of Fairhurst.

  Images of him flitted across her mind; the way he sat his horse that first day, the pain in his eyes when he looked upon Royce, the grin he shared with Gyfton at one of the boy’s jests, his smile the morning after they wed.

  Her skin warmed with the recollection of the passion they’d shared; the heat of his kiss, the breadth of his shoulders, the shift of muscle as he moved above her, the warmth of his breath against her skin.

  Tears slid down her cheeks, and she turned the horse toward the river. She would find Rosard and bring him home. Pray God he still lived.

  Concentrating on the ground, Anora crossed the river and searched for signs of Rosard. The shadows lengthened, making it difficult to see the prints in the forest floor. She brought the horse to a halt, glancing around to get her bearings. Squinting against the gloom, she found herself near the place where she’d been captured.

  She nudged her mount on, anxiety filling her stomach as she approached the spot. The sights and sounds of earlier filled her mind, but she resolutely pushed them aside and focused on the ground.

  Her heart lurched against her ribs. She swung down from the saddle and knelt before a dark patch of earth. She stretched her hand out, touching the area.

  “Oh dear God.” She examined the pad of her finger.

  Blood.

  A wave of dizziness swept over her, fresh tears filled her eyes. She blinked, and they traced a warm path down her face.

  Wiping them away, she looked around the area, noting long gouges in the earth. She followed them until they ended a short distance away, but found nothing. ’Twas as if he’d been dragged off. Her breathing hitched in her throat. By an animal.

  Helplessness rendered her motionless as she stared at the tracks. She had judged him harshly, accused him of a murder he did not commit. She had fought him, even after he’d won, and he had not retaliated. He had not abused her when he could have. She’d run from him, and he’d lost his life searching for her, seeking only to keep her safe.

  Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. ’Twas naught she could do now. She could not save him.

  She mounted Rosard’s horse and, giving the area one last look, turned toward the castle.

  The shadows had lengthened when Anora caught a glimpse of the outer curtain wall of the castle. Fatigue weighed her limbs, and her entire body ached from the constant jarring of the ride.

  She stopped before leaving the protection of the trees. Dismounting, she slapped the horse on the rump and watched as he trotted back into the forest. She stared after the animal a moment, wondering why it did not head to the castle.

  Shrugging off the question, she turned her gaze to Fairhurst. The evening meal of bread, cheese, fruit and ale had been served by now. Only a few villagers made their way home at this hour.

  Keeping to the woods, she made her way to the western wall. She was the only living soul who knew of the other secret portal. She sent a prayer of thanks for Edmund’s foresight and caution. She held up the hem of her tunic and carefully crossed the shallow path through the moat. Once she climbed up the bank, she pushed through the bracken concealing the tunnel door. The latch lifted with a groan and Anora froze, expecting to hear the call of the guards atop the wall.

  After a moment, she exhaled, worked the latch again and opened the door. She’d only been in this tunnel once, and only a few steps, but recalled Edmund telling her to keep to the right and she would find her way to the entrance of the cellar. Somewhere along the wall was a ledge where she would find a torch and flint to light her way, for the tunnel was dark as a moonless night.

  Her shoes made a squishing sound as she walked down the tunnel, her right hand brushing the wall as she went. Several times she jumped and swallowed a scream at the sound of small, scurrying feet. Where was that ledge? Had she missed it?

  The drip, drip of water was loud in the stillness. Tamping down the panic inching up her throat, she moved her hand up and down as she walked. The stone wall was damp and rough and just as she despaired of finding the ledge, the top of her hand hit against a piece of stone jutting out from the wall.

  Searching the ledge, she located the torch and flint and a few moments later the scrap of metal produced a spark that caught on the torch. With it lighting the way, she could focus on what she would do once in the castle.

  Of Rosard’s two sons, Gyfton was the more approachable; it would be to him she would turn.

  At the end of the tunnel, Anora found the latch to release to door into the cellar, praying Merton hadn’t placed a barrel of salted fish before it and block the way.

  The catch was stiff with disuse and took several tugs to free it. She pushed against the door, sighing in relief when it opened enough for her to squeeze through into the darkened room.

  Closing the door, she again thanked Edmund for his careful planning and the stonework on the cellar side of the door masking the presence of the portal.

  Making note of where everything was, she then doused the torch in a bucket of sand kept near the door from the kitchen. A sliver of light shone from beneath the door, offering a little relief from the darkness.

  She sniffed, and her mouth watered as the lingering smell of fresh baked bread floated from the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d had nothing to eat or drink since morn. Fatigue, both physical and emotional, threatened to bring her to her knees.

  Gritting her teeth against the weakness, she climbed the stairs and opened the door, peeking into the kitchen.

  There were still several people in the room with Merton, and she quickly closed the door. The fewer in Fairhurst to know of her presence, the safer ’twould be for all. ’Twas hopeful Merton would be able to keep her secret.


  She sat down on the top step, her ear pressed against the wooden door, listening to the sounds of the kitchen.

  Footsteps stopped in front of the door and the latch rattled. Anora slipped down the stairs, hiding herself behind a large barrel.

  A single candle illuminated a small area of the room and the person holding it.

  “Merton?” Anora whispered his name before she straightened up from her hiding place.

  “My lady?”

  “Shhh.”

  “But what are you doing in the cellar, my lady?” Merton whispered, glancing up at the opened door leading to the kitchen. “Where have you been? We’ve been worried.”

  “There’s no time for an explanation. Close the door quickly. You must tell no one I am here.”

  He did as she asked and then returned to her side. “But why, my lady? We have guests. I’m sure they would like to know you are here.”

  Anora shook her head. “Nay, Merton, they more than anyone should not know I’m here.” Anora grabbed his arm. “You must promise me you will tell no one.” She tightened her hold on him. “Promise me, Merton.”

  “Aye, my lady. My lord is not here.”

  Anora slumped against the barrel. “Aye, Merton, I know.” Sadness filled her, threatening her composure.

  “’Tis his brother that visits now. I can’t think where my lord has gone. Sir Royce and Sir Gyfton are concerned. They say he went looking for you earlier today.”

  Guilt rode atop the sadness and Anora sighed, pushing the feelings aside. “Merton, there’s no time for this. I need you to get Gyfton down here to me.”

  “Here? In the cellar?”

  “Aye.”

  “But what possible reason could I give him?”

  “Merton, I don’t know, but you must find one. The lives of us all depend upon it.”

  “My lady?”

  She turned Merton around. “Go.” She gave him a push in the back. “Bring Gyfton here as soon as you can.”

  * * * * *

  Royce turned his attention from his uncle and watched the cook move about the hall. He narrowed his eyes. What was the fool up to this time? He glanced at the cup of ale at his elbow. Lifting it, he sniffed, but could detect no odd odor.

  He turned back in time to see Merton leave the hall, a worried frown upon his face.

  Curious as to what the man was up to, Royce excused himself to his uncle and followed the Saxon to the kitchens.

  “My lady, Sir Gyfton is otherwise engaged this eve.”

  Royce pushed the cellar door open a bit more.

  “You must find him, Merton.” Lady Anora’s voice floated up the stairs from the cellar.

  He frowned. Where was his father? He’d thought the two were together and that Rosard was bringing his Saxon wife to heel.

  “We must act now, Merton.”

  Anger flared in Royce’s veins and he clenched the edge of the door.“But my lady, how are we going to do it?”

  How thick-skulled were these Saxons? He slipped inside the door and quietly descended the stairs.

  “Just what are you planning, my lady?”

  The two traitors gasped in unison and turned to face him.

  “And where is my father?” He glared at the woman.

  The lady paled and Royce noticed her red-rimmed eyes, the bruise along her jaw and the scratch marring her cheek. Dirt and twigs adorned her tunic and her wimple was missing.

  He advanced on her, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. “What have you done?”

  “Please, Sir Royce.” She pulled away from him, straightening her shoulders as she met his gaze. “Your father is dead at the hands of your uncle’s man.”

  He stared at her a moment and then laughed. “Are you addled? Do you expect me to believe such a story? That my uncle has killed his own brother?” He laughed again. “Not bloody likely.”

  “Sir Royce.” The lady tugged on his arm and his laughter died. “Your uncle plans on taking the castle.”

  “I know not what games you play, my lady, but they will not work.” He shrugged from her grasp.

  “’Tis not a game I play. Your uncle brought only ten men into the castle with him, but he has some twenty more camped to the east of the castle. When all sleep, he will let his men in through the hidden portal, kill you and Gyfton and take the castle.”

  Royce crossed his arms over his chest. “And how did you come by such information?”

  The Saxon woman had the audacity to glare up at him. “Your uncle captured me in the woods and carried me back to his camp, bound me to a tree and gagged me.”

  “Oh, I see.” He sneered. “And my uncle was kind enough to proclaim his plans in English, just for you?”

  Lady Anora stamped her foot and slapped her hands on her hips. “You dolt, think you only Normans speak French?”

  Royce swallowed whatever response he was about to make, so surprised was he to hear Lady Anora speak to him in his own tongue.

  “You speak French?”

  The lady rolled her eyes. “Why, yes, I believe I do.” Her sarcasm was not lost on him.

  “All this time you’ve understood every conversation?”

  “Aye. But that is not the point.” Frustration edged her voice.

  “Nay, it is not. Where is Lord Rosard?”

  She sighed, a long tortured sound. “I tell you the truth. One of your uncle’s men rode into camp leading your father’s horse and brandishing your father’s sword, bragging of killing yet another Saxon. Your uncle recognized the sword and was quite pleased with his man’s deed. ’Twould make the taking of Fairhurst easier, especially with the information he gained from Arlis.”

  Royce did not believe the woman’s story. Gaspar was family, mayhap theirs was not a close relationship, but still they were FitzGillens.

  “How came you here, then?”

  “Your uncle wished to arrive at the castle before your father’s absence was noted. They left in such a hurry, they forgot about me. I was able to escape my bonds and come here.”

  Royce shook his head. “Your story has many flaws, my lady.”

  “Sweet Mary and Joseph,” the lady muttered to the ceiling. “Can we not discuss this later? You must stop your uncle, else many will die this eve.”

  “How did you manage to reach the castle with such speed?”

  “Your father’s horse was left behind, lest it be recognized.” She bit the words out. “I rode it to the edge of the woods and came the rest of the way on foot.”

  “Hah, yet another lie. The beast will only tolerate him.”

  “Mayhap the animal sensed my need.” She flung her arms out. “How am I to know the thinking of a horse?” The woman took a deep breath and went on. “’Twas not easy, but I managed. Please, Sir Royce—”

  “And how did you enter the castle undetected?”

  She huffed. “There is another secret entrance. Please, Sir Royce, you must believe me.”

  “And you did not search for my father?”

  “Of course I did.” Her shoulders slumped and tears glistened in her eyes. “I found naught but his blood soaking the ground and marks as if he’d been dragged away.” She choked on the last word. When she reached up to swipe at her tears, he saw her raw and bloodied wrists. Unease crept over him.

  He looked closer and read the anguish in her gaze. Could she be speaking the truth? Gaspar seemed quite jovial this eve, not like one who’d just murdered his brother.

  Nay, the woman lied. But his conscience prodded him. Would she go to the extreme of hurting herself to convince him?

  He silenced his inner voice and grabbed Lady Anora’s arm. “Shall we confront my uncle with your accusations?” He started to pull her toward the stairs.

  “Nay, Sir Royce.” She dug in her heels and struggled against his hold. “He does not know who I am, I would keep it that way.”

  “You accuse my uncle of murder, you should do so in his presence.” He pulled her to the stairs.

  “And what will that prove,
Sir Royce? We both know he will deny it. There is only one way to either prove or disprove my story—someone must watch the hall, for the man plans to attack when the castle sleeps.”

  Royce stopped. The Saxon woman had a point, though it did not sit well with him to admit it.

  He reached beyond her, his palm up. “The key, Merton.” He moved aside, allowing the servant to leave. Royce met her gaze. “I shall lock you in until the morn at which time you shall confront my uncle with your claims.”

  He entered the hall. The high table was empty, his uncle had retired during his absence and the servants and soldiers were bedding down for the night.

  ’Twould be a long night for him. He climbed the stairs and settled himself in a shadowed alcove to watch his uncle’s door.

  In the darkness, he fought against the thought of his father’s death. No doubt Anora had simply escaped Rosard and his father slept in whatever shelter they’d found earlier in the day. He did not believe Rosard was dead. He did not know what game the Saxon woman played, but she would find he played it better.

  * * * * *

  “Ah, my friend, what Norman bastard did ye happen upon?”

  The weary voice penetrated the fog of pain enveloping Rosard’s mind and body as he lay amid the brush and debris of the forest. A moan bubbled up from his throat and escaped his lips before he could gather the strength to control it.

  Something tugged at him, pulling him from where he lay and a new wave of pain shuddered through his body.

  “Just a bit farther now and ye can rest.” The voice filled his ears as he was moved again and Rosard hadn’t the strength to fight the blackness washing over him with the renewed pain.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hunching his shoulders against the driving rain, Royce watched from the parapet as Gaspar and his men left the castle.

  As the Saxon woman had predicted, his uncle had gone to the secret entrance of the keep late that eve. Hidden in the alcove, Royce had not stopped Gaspar from his quest, knowing the door at the end of the tunnel had been blocked both from within and without after the siege. And he had been there in the kitchen with candle in hand when Gaspar emerged from the storeroom a short time later.