Siege

by Virginia Farmer

  “Aye, my lord.” The soldier pulled in a deep breath and exhaled. “’Tis overgrown with brush and bracken, but ’tis another portal like the one on the other side.”

  Gaspar’s gaze shifted back and forth as he grappled with this bit of good news. A grin stretched his lips as a plan formed in his mind.

  Fairhurst would be his.

  * * * * *

  As Anora sat rolling fresh bandages, muffled shouts drifted up from the hall. She paused, straining to hear. Just as she placed the bandages in the box, the door to her solar banged open.

  She jumped up, her gaze snapping to the opening. The blood rushed from her head.

  Gaspar.

  “Well, well. I had wondered what became of you.” He advanced on Anora, a malevolent gleam in his frosty blue eyes. “’Twould seem you lied, eh?”

  Anora stood her ground as he came nearer.

  “‘I do not live at the castle.’” He mimicked her words, a snarl on his lips. His arm shot out. The back of his hand connected with her cheek. Her head snapped to the side. She turned back and met his gaze, fighting the need to press her hand against her stinging skin.

  “So, my lord,” she infused her words with all the scorn and hatred bubbling in her veins. “You’ve come to make a feast of your brother’s bones?”

  “Bloody Saxon whore.” He snatched her arm in a ruthless grip. “Time for you to join the other servants below.”

  Anora struggled in his grasp, and he sent another stinging slap to her face. He grinned. “I love it when a woman fights, makes the taking of her that much more pleasurable.”

  Her stomach turned and bile climbed her throat. Half dragging her down the hall, he shoved her toward the stairs. After stumbling over several steps, she managed to make it to the bottom without falling.

  Gaspar shoved her into the group of servants huddle to one side of the room, three of his guards watching them.

  “My lady.” Merton gasped, catching her as she stumbled into their midst.

  “My lady?” Gaspar roared, spinning around to face Anora. “Did you say ‘my lady’?” He advanced on the cluster of people, his gaze focused on Merton.

  “Who is this woman?” He yanked the cook from the group. “Tell me or you’ll breathe your last.”

  “’Tis Lady Fairhurst,” Merton stuttered, his gaze going to Anora.

  Gaspar looked at her and arched his brows and then he laughed. “You mean my brother had not the bullocks to end your pitiful life when he took possession of the castle?”

  He shoved Merton back.

  “I am sorry, my lady,” the cook whispered to her.

  “Shh, Merton. ’Tis all right.”

  “I cannot abide weak Normans or lying Saxon whores.” His malevolent gaze locked on Anora. “Your days shall end today.”

  Anora swallowed her fear and straightened her spine. Narrowing her gaze, she refused to look away from the ruthlessness lighting his eyes. “’Twill be you who breathes his last this day.”

  “Lord FitzGillen, I must protest.” The messenger’s voice rose above the shuffling feet and Gaspar turned to the stairs.

  “Must you?” He propped a hand on his hip, arching a brow as he watched the man descend the stairs.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Gaspar nodded to one of his men and, as the messenger trod the last step, he was grabbed and shoved into the group of Saxons.

  “I do not care to hear your protest,” Gaspar growled.

  “But—”

  “Do keep your mouth shut,” she muttered to him. “Else he will end your sorry life.”

  The shuffle of many feet snapped Gaspar’s attention away from her. A cruel smile stretched his thin lips as more of his guards rushed from the kitchen to the doors of the keep.

  The messenger gasped beside her as one of the warriors passed, the quiver slung over his shoulder filled with arrows, their red flight feathers standing out brightly against his dark tunic.

  “My lady,” he whispered, nodding to the man.

  She simply arched a brow at the messenger and turned her attention back to Gaspar.

  ’Twas obvious he had found the west entrance, else there would have been sounds of fighting in the inner bailey. Pray God, the stable boy had escaped Gaspar’s clutches and Royce would be warned.

  At Gaspar’s nod, the men slipped outside.

  He turned his attention back to Anora.

  “Where are my nephews?”

  “They are away.”

  Gaspar’s gaze raked over the servants around her. From the corner of her eye she caught Merton’s confirming nod. Pray God he kept his silence about Rosard.

  “Away? Where?”

  Relief lifted her shoulders. “Sir Gyfton is gone to the Borders.”

  “And the other?”

  “Sir Royce is out hunting. I know not where.” He had not captured Royce, else he would not have asked his whereabouts. The stable boy must have gotten away, but not unseen, she thought as she watched Gaspar.

  “When did he leave?”

  “This morn.” Would Royce return in time? Despair and doubt darkened the edges of her mind. Royce had only three men with him. What good would they be against Gaspar and his men?

  Muted sounds of combat rolled through the high windows. A loud thud against the door brought Gaspar and his guards to attention. They turned and a moment later, the door burst open and the men of Fairhurst filled the opening.

  Gaspar snatched Anora from the group and held a dagger to her throat.

  “Lay down your weapons, lest I open the throat of the lady.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Anora recognized Royce’s voice behind them.

  Gaspar spun around with her, the blade of his dagger digging into her throat. A trickle of warm blood from the stinging wound traced a path down her neck.

  “Ah, back from the hunt, Royce?”

  “Aye, but I think the prey here much more to my liking.” He took a step forward.

  “Nay.” The blade sank a bit deeper into Anora’s neck. She held her breath, awaiting the moment when the cold metal released the warm, life-giving fluid from her body. “I will kill her do you come closer.”

  Royce’s cruel laughter echoed in the hall. “Think you I care for the Saxon whore my father took to wife?”

  “Wife?” The dagger lifted away from her neck. “He married the whore?” Gaspar guffawed.

  “Kill her if you will, but you will not take Fairhurst.” Royce lifted his sword, nodding to his uncle. “I see you wear my father’s sword.”

  “Aye, ’tis a fine blade.” Gaspar clamped his forearm across Anora’s chest and pulled the weapon from the sheath at his side. “But ’tis mine now. As is this castle.”

  “Bastard.” Royce lunged forward. “My father lives.”

  “Nay,” Gaspar shouted, shoving Anora aside to fend off the younger man’s assault.

  The grind and slash of swords filled the hall as Royce’s men engaged Gaspar’s guards. The servants scattered out of the way, but Anora was little aware of the grunts and groans of the fight behind her. The ferocity of the two combatants held her immobile.

  Royce drew first blood with a quick arched swing to Gaspar’s middle. The slice of cloth and his gasp of pain brought a cruel smile to Royce’s mouth.

  Swords slashed, and the men moved in a deadly dance. Gaspar’s blade slowed. Though his skill equaled Royce’s, he hadn’t the strength and endurance of the younger man.

  Blood dripped from Gaspar’s wounds, and the floor became slippery.

  “I tire of playing with you, Uncle,” Royce taunted and with lightning speed, he thrust and parried. Gaspar’s sword arm shook as he met each of Royce’s blows. Backing away from the assault, Gaspar slid on the blood-slick floor. His blade flew from his hand as he went down.

  “Royce!” Anora shouted as one of Gaspar’s guards advanced on Royce’s back.

  Royce spun around, blocking the man’s blade. At the same time, Gaspar rose, his dagger aimed at Royce�
�s back.

  “Royce!” Anora screamed again and launched herself forward to protect his back.

  A look of surprise crossed Gaspar’s face as his blade sank into Anora’s chest. A burning pain filled her body, a roaring sound filled her ears.

  The surprise on Gaspar’s face changed to shock and Anora peered through the haze of pain as Royce’s blade slid into his uncle’s stomach.

  A chill stole over Anora, and her eyes slid closed.

  Royce stared down at the Saxon woman, shock paralyzing him. Blood soaked her tunic, forming a puddle on the floor beneath her.

  In a daze, he looked at the scene around him. His gaze settled on his uncle and the way the man’s face twisted in shocked pain.

  Words gurgled from his lips. “We are alike.” He coughed, blood trickled from his mouth and more words spilled out. But Royce understood only the last two. “My son.”

  He looked into the man’s cold, blue eyes and knew the truth. Gaspar’s final breath rattled in his chest, and his head lolled to the side.

  A barrage of emotions pressed down upon him and he stood frozen, staring at the man he’d killed and the woman who’d taken the blade meant for him.

  Voices filtered into his consciousness. He was shoved aside, as many hands sought to aid their lady.

  Jerked from the paralysis, Royce said, “I will take her.” He pushed into the group, lifted the woman in his arms and climbed the stairs.

  Gently, he laid her upon the wide bed in the chamber she shared with his father. A blessed numbness filled his mind, squeezing out all emotion as he gazed at her face, pale against the linens.

  A raucous noise invaded the room.

  Several Saxon women rushed in, crowding around the bed.

  “We must stem the flow of blood,” one said beside him.

  “We need a healer.”

  “But Lady Anora is the healer.”

  A woman elbowed her way in. “I will tend Lady Anora.” She cast an accusing glare at Royce, and nudged him aside.

  “Ye’re not a healer, woman,” one of the women said.

  “I’m the best she has.” The woman huffed.

  A healer.

  The paralysis of his brain lifted.

  Isabelle.

  As he rode for Isabelle, questions kept beating in his mind. Why? Why had she saved him? What drove the woman to take the blade meant for him? There was no love lost between them, of that he was certain. So, why?

  He arrived at the old woman’s cottage without finding the answers to his questions.

  Royce halted. “Isabelle!” he shouted.

  The old woman pulled aside the hide door and peered up at him. “Here now, what ails ye?”

  He slid from his horse. “You’re coming with me.”

  “Eh?” Isabelle shook her head and backed away. “Nay.”

  He strode forward and her red-rimmed eyes widened. “Ye’re wounded.”

  Glancing down at the blood soaking his tunic, he cursed. “’Tis not my blood, but that of my father’s Saxon wife.”

  “Lady Anora? Ye’ve killed her, then?”

  “Nay,” he shouted, then shook his head. “We’ve no time for this.” He grasped the old woman’s arm and pulled her to his horse. She grunted when he tossed her onto his saddle and mounted up behind her. Digging his heels into the animal, they thundered off, Isabelle’s fingers clutching the front of the saddle.

  They rode swiftly to Fairhurst. Royce concentrated on the track they traveled, pushing away thoughts of what awaited at the castle.

  In the bailey, he dismounted. Swinging Isabelle off the horse, he set her on her feet. “Get you to her room and see that you save her.”

  She hunched her shoulders, clutching the worn, black shawl around her face. “Do not think to demand miracles, young Royce. ’Tis not the way of life.” She climbed the steps and at the door to the keep, she stopped. “Show me to Lady Anora’s chamber.”

  Royce tossed the reins of his mount to the stable boy and led the way through the great hall. Ignoring the men removing the bodies of Gaspar and his men, he climbed the stairs to the room where the Saxon woman lay.

  Isabelle elbowed her way through the women wringing their hands and sobbing beside the bed.

  “Fetch me boiled water and clean linens,” Isabelle ordered. “Is there no herb box in this castle?”

  The women glanced up in surprise, but at the old woman’s glare, they sped off to do her bidding.

  Isabelle arranged the linens, exposing the covered wound. She lifted a bloody pad and peered at the gash. Replacing the pad, she asked, “How did this happen?” She placed her fingers upon the side of her patient’s neck.

  Royce started to back out of the room, but halted, his tongue thick in his mouth.

  “Well?” Isabelle turned from the bed, fixing him with a stern stare. “If ye did not do this, who did?”

  He swallowed. “Gaspar.”

  “Ah.” She nodded. “The one who tried to kill Lord Fairhurst.” She turned back to her patient. “Bad blood, that one has.”

  The women returned with an herb box, bandages and a pitcher filled with steaming water.

  “Ah, good.” She looked up from her patient and took the box from the woman. “Put the rest there.” She nodded to the table. “Now begone.”

  The women filed out, casting cautious glances at both Royce and the old woman.

  He fell in behind them.

  “Not you.” Again her words stopped him. “Stoke up the fire and then clean your dagger with hot water.”

  Royce did as she ordered, then took up a place by the door.

  The woman rummaged in the herb box, opening sacks and smelling the contents of each. She set aside three. She poured water into a bowl and washed her hands, and then dumped the contents of the bowl into the chamber pot she pulled from beneath the bed. She filled the bowl again and added more herbs.

  Using the fresh water, she bathed the Saxon woman’s wound.

  “Put your blade in the fire.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but snapped it shut as she glared over her shoulder at him.

  Settling the dagger in the fire, he stood back.

  “Will she live?” He stared at the old woman’s back as she worked.

  “She has lost much blood. ’Twill take a miracle.”

  When the blade glowed a bright orange, Isabelle ordered him to wrap the hilt in cloth and bring it to her. She tightened the linens to preserve the woman’s modesty.

  “Ye must hold her down, now. Do not let her move.”

  Royce nodded, handing her the knife. He placed one arm over the patient’s waist and the other across her shoulders.

  Isabelle nodded and removed the bloodied pad from the deep cut.

  The blade sizzled, a thin ribbon of smoke rose from the wound and the woman whimpered, too weak to struggle against the pain. Royce clenched his teeth against the sounds and smells.

  Finished, Isabelle applied an unguent from a small pot to a fresh pad and with Royce’s help, wrapped a bandage across the woman’s chest to hold the pad in place.

  Next the old woman poured warm water from the pitcher into a cup, adding several pinches of herbs from one of the sacks.

  “Lift her up carefully.” She moved beside the woman and tipped the cup to her lips, pouring a little at a time down her patient’s throat.

  Then she sat on the stool beside the bed.

  “Now we wait.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “How is he doing?” Rosard asked Godwin as they slowly made their way home. Behind them the Saxon soldiers herded the recovered cattle.

  “Bearing up, my lord.” Rosard glanced back at the Norman guard, his face white, his lips a slash in his face. His lower leg was braced between two straight sticks held there by strips of cloth gleaned from the undertunics of several of the men.

  They rode at a slow pace, resting often for the injured man. The cattle seemed content to graze, which made the going even slower with the frequent stops t
o gather the animals. Never had he seen such stubborn creatures.

  He grinned. Well, mayhap there was one creature as stubborn.

  Anora.

  Of late, her happiness made her glow. Rosard straightened a bit in his saddle. He had made her happy. ’Twas not that they did not disagree. He chuckled. Oft times he purposely goaded her. He would not have her change. But she caught him at his game, and still she played it, responding more and more outrageously until they were both breathless with laughter.

  They had traveled through the day and the long shadows of twilight brought an end to their day. They were still far from Fairhurst and had to make camp.

  An unexplainable anxiety sent Rosard to pacing the camp. A fire snapped and flickered in the center of the clearing, the smell of smoke hung in the air. The low rumble of the men’s conversations filled the silence of the night.

  “Is aught wrong, my lord?” Godwin stepped into Rosard’s path.

  “I but chafe at another night on the ground, Godwin. I’ve become soft, I fear and long for the comforts of my own bed.”

  Godwin chuckled. “Aye. Mayhap ’tis the comforts of Lady Anora’s arms as well, eh?”

  Rosard’s surprised gaze met Godwin’s.

  “I have come to accept the way of things, my lord. When I gave my oath, ’twas not because my hand was forced. You have a genuine care for the castle and its people. While another would have butchered all within the walls, you patiently worked to gain their trust.”

  “Ah, Godwin, ’tis good to hear you say such.” He clapped the Saxon on the back. “I am sick of war. I crave contentment in my old age.”

  Godwin smiled. “And I too.”

  Later, Rosard settled on yet another bed of pine boughs. Peace was finally his, he thought gazing up through the trees at the star twinkling above.

  So why then was he filled with anxiety?

  * * * * *

  Royce strode from the stables to the keep. The mounts of his father and the others were not in their stalls. They had yet to return form the Borders. Concern tightened his forehead. ’Twas yet another worry, he thought as he crossed the moon-dappled bailey. If they did not return by midday on the morrow, Royce would send men out to search for them.