’Twas late morning when a shout was heard on the parapets.
“A party approaches.”
Anora hurried up the stairs to the wall. Nudging aside the king’s messenger who’d managed to make a pest of himself since Rosard left, she searched for Rosard’s familiar form amongst the riders. But there were more than he left with. Surely he hadn’t caught up with the reivers so soon and changed his mind about prisoners?
Squinting against the sun, a shiver traced up her spine as she recognized the man in the front.
“Close the gates and sound the alarm,” she instructed the Norman guard beside her.
With a nod, he signaled to the other men and the portcullis creaked and groaned as it was lowered. The bell clanged, echoing over the castle. Normans and Saxon alike rushed about the bailey. The few villagers not on the castle grounds scattered, seeking the safety of the dense forest.
“Are we being attacked, my lady?” the messenger whined, backing away.
“Not yet, but you should seek safety in the hall.”
“Open the gates for Lord FitzGillen!” the man at the head of the soldiers shouted.
The guard looked to her for guidance.
“Nay, he and his men are not welcomed at Fairhurst.” Anora fisted her hands at her side. “Tell him to be gone.”
The man relayed her message.
The messenger gasped. “You cannot deny hospitality to a Norman earl.”
Anora turned on the man. “Aye, I can, especially when he is the one responsible for the attack on my husband. He plots against him to gain Fairhurst.”
The man sputtered, but Anora stepped around him and called to one of the guards. “Has Sir Royce returned?”
“Nay, my lady.”
“How many men have we?” Rosard had released a good portion of his army only weeks before, and she had no idea how many remained.
“We’ve thirty or so, my lady.”
“Open the gates. ’Tis no way to welcome your lord’s brother.”
“The gates will remain closed to you,” the Norman guard beside her replied.
“Bloody Norman bastard.” Anora glanced at the Norman soldier beside her. “My apologies, sir.”
“None necessary, my lady.” He stepped to the wall. “This castle is held by Rosard FitzGillen, Earl of Fairhurst, for King William.”
Anora glanced down at the bailey to see the king’s messenger running to the keep, disappearing with the women and children. One of Rosard’s men directed both Norman and Saxon warriors in their placement.
She turned to check the village. From her vantage, she could see the road leading through it deserted, and sent a prayer heavenward that her people had found safe places to hide.
“Lord Rosard is dead. I claim Fairhurst.”
Anora touched the sleeve of the Norman warrior beside her. “Do not tell him otherwise.”
“Surrender Fairhurst now, and I will be lenient. Resist, and I will show no mercy.”
The Norman looked at Anora, his eyes alight with humor. “Ah, he does not know with whom he wars, my lady.”
He turned back to the men across the moat. “The gates will remain closed to you. In the name of King William, leave Fairhurst now.”
He turned to Anora. “My lady, what of Sir Royce? Gaspar could take him captive.”
“God’s bones.” Her mind worked frantically a moment. “I will take care of that. Will you see to the defense of the castle?”
“Aye, my lady.” He frowned. “But how will you manage Sir Royce?”
She smiled a grim smile. “I have my ways, sir. Do not fear.”
Anora left as the Norman shouted out orders.
In the kitchen she found Merton. “I fear our feast will have to be postponed, Merton.”
“My lady?”
“We are besieged again by the Normans.”
“Nay, my lady.” The cook gasped, his eyes wide.
“Aye, Merton.” She stepped around him and went to the cellar, grabbing a candle as she went.
“We’ve supplies enough for a few days, mayhap a week or two, but ’tis all.” Merton followed her.
Anora glanced at the neatly arranged cellar, cursing herself for not being more vigilant. But how was she to anticipate another siege and by another Norman?
“Merton, where is the spitboy?” She turned to see the startled look on the cook’s face.
“The spitboy, my lady?”
“Aye. Sir Royce went hunting this morn. We must warn him of Lord Gaspar’s treachery before the man can take him captive.”
“’Twould be better to get the stableboy, my lady. He has gone hunting with Sir Royce before. Mayhap the boy knows where he would be.”
“An excellent idea.” Anora climbed the stairs of the cellar and went to the stable.
She found the boy watering the horses.
“I know where Sir Royce might go, my lady,” the stable boy eagerly offered.
“Can you find him and warn him?”
“Aye, my lady, but how am I to get out of the castle?”
Anora smiled. “’Tis a secret that you’ll have to keep.”
The boy nodded. “Aye, my lady. A secret.” He grinned.
In the kitchen Anora lit two candles, handing one to the lad before leading him to the cellar. With his help, they moved a barrel aside. Searching the wall behind it, she found the loose stone and the lever hidden there. Holding the lever down, she pulled on the door, opening it to the surprise of the stableboy.
“Have a care, the ground of the tunnel is rocky and wet in spots. Follow the tunnel, but always keep to the left as you go. ’Twill come out near the forest on the western side of the castle. There is a tree with a crooked trunk. It marks the spot where the moat is shallow. ’Tis there that you will cross.” She touched his arm, making sure he understood her. “When you return, keep to the right. Is there aught you should take to Sir Royce? His chainmail, mayhap?”
“Nay, my lady. ’Twould only slow me down. I will bring Sir Royce back here.”
“Be cautious when you leave the tunnel.”
The boy nodded. Flashing her a grin, he stepped over the threshold, the light from his candle flickering on the rough walls.
“God go with you.” She watched him until she could no longer see the glow from his candle.
* * * * *
It had taken Rosard and the men until nightfall to get to the border.
“I had thought we would catch them here,” Godwin said as he stood beside Rosard.
“Are they usually found here?”
“Aye. Mayhap our information was slow getting to us.”
Rosard nodded. “’Tis too dark to track them now. Have the men set up camp, but do not light any fires. If they are near, I would not give up our position.”
“My lord, they are long gone, along with the cattle.”
“Still, I will take no chances.”
“How many have they taken?” Rosard asked Godwin.
“Eight. ’Twould be good to recover five, my lord.”
“Why did they not simply take three?”
Godwin grunted. “Then we would not come to retrieve them.”
Rosard let out a frustrated groan. “Their pride is that much?”
“Aye, my lord. ’Tis the thing which escapes many in England. ’Tis not just a necessity to them, but a sport. Some would even call it a Scottish tradition.”
Rosard shrugged and turned to his bed of pine boughs and blanket. ’Twas a poor substitute for the soft bed he shared with Anora. He swallowed a sigh. ’Twould not do to sound like a lovesick lad, though he felt like one now.
He settled on his makeshift bed, pushing down the end of a limb that poked his back.
Nay, ’twas not his bed at Fairhurst, nor the warm arms of his wife.
Damned Scots. He would never understand his neighbors to the north.
Morning came amid a dense fog. Everything and everyone was damp. The men were grumpy and rubbed their arms against the raw chill that
hung in the air. Rosard’s bones ached, and again he cursed the men who made this trip necessary.
After breaking their fast on bread and cheese, washed down with water from a nearby spring, Rosard and his men set out to track the reivers.
’Twas some hours later that they finally came across the trail of the Scots.
Godwin knelt down to examine the tracks, then brought his gaze up to follow their direction.
“’Tis the Robsons,” he said, rising. “’Twill be another few hours before we’re close enough to see the cattle.”
“That long?” Rosard loathed being gone from Fairhurst and Anora another night.
“Aye, my lord.” Godwin rose and met Rosard’s gaze. “And we must wait ’til dark to gather the cattle and return to Fairhurst.”
“Why can we not simply take them now?”
Godwin shook his head. “My lord, ’twould be suicide.”
“But they know we will come. ’Tis but a game they play.”
“’Tis one of life or death, my lord. And a matter of pride.”
Rosard exhaled. “Very well.” ’Twas stupid, he thought to himself as he mounted up following after Godwin and one of the Saxon soldiers.
Glancing back, he met Gyfton’s gaze. His son grinned at him, seeming quite pleased with the adventure.
’Twas good to see him smiling. After Liselle’s wedding, he wondered if the boy would ever smile again. If naught else could be said about this trip to the border, it had taken Gyfton’s mind off his broken heart.
Later, the Saxon soldier scouting ahead returned.
“My lord, the cattle are but a league ahead.”
Rosard looked up to the sky. The sun was fast descending, casting a red hue to the bellies of the clouds.
The men traveled on a little farther before finding a place to rest and await nightfall.
“We are here only to take back Fairhurst cattle—all but three,” Rosard whispered, lest his voice carry in the still evening. “Defend yourself only if necessary.” The Normans nodded. “Follow the lead of Sir Godwin and the other Saxons. They’ve the experience in this.”
The moon shone brightly in the inky night sky and Rosard met each man’s gaze. “We are one.” The men nodded. Relief loosened Rosard’s shoulders as Norman and Saxon grasped arms.
They stayed within the shadows of the trees ringing the clearing where the cattle grazed. In the distance, Rosard spotted the dark outline of several men sitting before a small fire.“When the fire burns low, then we will strike, for there will be but one guard. We will have the element of surprise.” Godwin stood beside Rosard, his voice low.
Rosard nodded.
They waited and when the moon was high in the sky, the light from the fire diminished.
Quietly mounting up, and with last minute instructions, the troop of men set out to gather the cattle.
At the first sound of jangling harness, the Scots stood up, stamped out the embers of the fire and gathered their ponies. The reivers expertly cut three head of cattle from the group and amid shouts and whistles, herded them north.
Rosard, Godwin, Gyfton and another Norman turned to pursue the Scots, leaving the others to deal with the remaining five animals.
The thunder of hooves on his right pulled Rosard’s attention from the chase. He spotted a lone horseman riding into the clearing. The rider looked back over his shoulder and a moment later, three more riders burst from the forest.
He swung his gaze to the first rider. The man was urging his horse faster, unaware he was on a collision course with one of Rosard’s men. The din of pursuit drowned out Rosard’s shout of warning.
The horses collided. The animals’ squeals of fear and pain filled the clearing. Both mounts went down with their riders. The horses lurched to their feet, and in the moonlight he saw the animals trembling.
Gyfton turned his horse around and went to help the men. As he neared, the Scot stood and tried to mount his horse. His son went to help the man. A brief skirmish ensued and by the time the man had gained his saddle, the three others in his party arrived. There was much shouting of which Rosard understood nothing. Some of it was directed at Gyfton, but most was turned on the Scot’s companions.
A moment later, the four galloped off.
With a shout to Godwin, Rosard pulled back on his reins, giving up the chase.
“God’s blood.” Rosard started toward his son and the downed man.
Rosard reached Gyfton’s side.
“How bad is it?” He glanced down at the Norman soldier whose face was ashen.
Gyfton glanced up and shrugged. “I know not, but he has a gash to his forehead and is unconscious.”
With the help of the other soldiers, the wounded man was taken into the forest where they joined the others.
“My lord?” Godwin stepped over to Rosard. “How is he?”
Rosard shook his head. “Unconscious.” He glanced from the wounded man to Godwin. “Will we be safe enough here?”
“Aye. The Scots have left. We can light a fire tonight.”
“’Twas odd how this happened. The reivers seemed as surprised as we to see the other group of riders come from the treeline.”
“Aye. Mayhap they arrived late.” Godwin turned to watch the men as they set up camp.
“Aye.” Rosard looked beyond the ring of men to the cattle. “Think you there will be five come morning?”
“We’ll set watches through the night, but ’tis doubtful the reivers will return. They have what they need.”
Rosard nodded, somewhat mollified.“My lord?”
Rosard turned to meet the worried gaze of the Saxon warrior attending the wounded man.
“Aye?”
“’Tis the wounded man, my lord. His leg is broken.”
Air hissed between Rosard’s lips as he inhaled. “Are you certain?”
“Aye, my lord. I pulled it straight and bound it with two branches. But I fear our return in the morn will be slow.”
Rosard nodded. “I thank you.”
Rosard wandered away from the center of camp. God’s knees, yet another night sleeping on the ground. His bones would ache for weeks. And he would be quite late returning to Fairhurst.
And his lady wife.
Chapter Eighteen
Dark clouds blocked the sun as Anora stood on the battlements, watching Gaspar and his men. He had spent the better part of the day sitting his horse and staring at the castle. A few of his men had entered some of the cottages, dragging out her people’s belongings. One man had approached one of her villein’s homes with a torch in hand and an arrow launch from the parapet by a Norman crossbow had halted the man before the fire could be set.
Gaspar howled his anger and shook his fist. “I will put each of these huts to the torch do you not open your gates.”
“And there will be a bolt to halt each attempt.” The Norman who’d managed the battlements glanced at Anora then turned back to Gaspar. “Have a care not to be in the path of one of the arrows.”
A short time later Gaspar and his men rode through the deserted village and away from the castle. Thanks be to God, the alarm had sounded well in advance of Gaspar’s arrival, sending her people into hiding.
“’Tis not over. He will return,” she said, glancing at the Norman guard beside her. “Pray the villagers stay hidden.”
“Aye, my lady. Gaspar FitzGillen is known for his cruelty. ’Tis said he is like a berserker when enraged.”
Anora rubbed her arms against the chill that stole over her at the Norman’s words, recalling her capture by Gaspar.
“He cannot hope to take the castle with such a small army.”
The Norman’s words did little to assure her. She shook her head. “Do not be fooled, sir. He has hidden his forces in the forest. To underestimate his treachery will spell our defeat.”
“Aye, my lady. You are right. I will double the guards.”
“Thank you, sir.” She left him to his duties.
Entering the great hal
l, she paused a moment to take in the quietness of the keep. Only a few servants moved about, tending to their daily chores. The children would have been taken to the room beneath the eave, supervised by the women. No doubt the king’s messenger huddled in their midst.
Anxiety churned in her stomach. Would the stable boy find Royce and return soon? Pray God Gaspar did not capture them, for then she would have to negotiate with him. And his word could not be trusted.
Could she play his game? Sacrifice her self-respect, her honor, to save a man who’d shown her nothing but contempt?
She stared down into the embers of the hearth.
Would she put her people at risk for such a man? Aye, she thought with a sad smile, Royce was her husband’s son. And for Rosard, she would risk all.
He and the others were not expected until the morrow. Mayhap she should send word to him. She shook her head. ’Twould take too long.
Doubts and worry followed her as she busied herself within the keep. After checking on the children and seeing the messenger exactly where she expected, Anora went to her solar to inventory her herb box. Pray God none would need her care, but ’twas best to be prepared.
* * * * *
“My lord?”
Gaspar looked up as the soldier ran up to him.
“Yes, what is it?” Frustration sharpened his words. He craved Fairhurst, but hadn’t the siege engines he needed to bring about the quick surrender of the castle.
He focused on the breathless man before him. “You have deserted your post?” Anger flared, an unnatural heat whipped up through his veins. A white-hot pain filled his brain and he brought his fist up.
“My lord, I’ve found a way into the castle.” The words tumbled from the guard’s mouth, staying Gaspar’s hand.
The pain receded, and he relaxed his hand. “How?”
“I watched as you ordered, my lord, and a boy sprinted out from the brush on the west side of the wall.” The man shifted and glanced down at his feet. “I didn’t know what to do, follow the boy or examine the brush?”
“Get on with it, man. I care not for the boy. Tell me what you found.”
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