Releasing Henry

by Sarah Hegger

  A tall, rangy man stepped to the front of the villagers.

  Alya had seen him in the crowd that attacked the manor. Her gut tightened as the fear memory surfaced, to be replaced by a scalding anger that made her sway in the saddle.

  Lady Mary nudged her mount closer to Alya’s. “Hold steady,” she murmured. “Do not give them the satisfaction or seeing you break.”

  “Aye, Bardolf.” Henry turned back to the man. “Beatrice could have married a prince. To my mind, she did, no matter what his birth.”

  Expression set and mutinous, Bardolf kicked at the turf.

  “I blame myself in part.” Lady Mary nudged her horse closer to Henry’s. “If I had done years ago what I intend to do today, perhaps you would not have thought it fell within your rights to judge who my son takes to wife, or who this family welcomes into its bosom.”

  The elders exchanged glances. Father Mark stepped forward. “What do you intend to do?”

  “My son brought to his home the woman who had stolen his heart. The same woman who gave him hope and joy through the long, dismal days of his captivity. He brought her to us believing we would welcome her because he loved her at first, and then come to love her as our own.”

  “Heathen.” The insult whispered across the green.

  “Heathen.” Lady Mary’s tinkling laughter seemed horribly out of place. “She is as Christian as you or I. Even more so, because her faith was challenged daily in the country in which she was raised.”

  “Perhaps if we had seen her at mass.” Father Mark ducked his head and fidgeted with his cross.

  “She should come to mass in the village?” Henry’s voice rang across the green. “So you could shame me once again by whispering behind her back, casting aspersions on her good name, jeering at her, and making up stories? She should come to the village so young louts can waylay her and threaten her?”

  Henry’s fiery gaze fixed on the villagers. As if he stopped himself from yanking out his sword and running them through, his fist lay balled on his thigh near his pommel.

  “For shame.” Lady Mary’s voice rang across the green. “With your actions, you have shamed me and you have shamed yourselves. Three are dead and two more good men may die because of this, and the girl I have come to love as one of my own bears a wound deep in her heart.”

  Tears pricked Alya’s lids. All of this and the ring of truth in Lady Mary’s declaration made her heart ache. How she still longed for acceptance.

  “There are barons in this kingdom who would raze this village to the ground after what you did.” Sir Arthur joined Henry and Lady Mary. He waved his hand to encompass the neat, whitewashed thatched cottages about them.

  From Sir James and his men came a murmur that sounded like they were merely waiting for the sign to unleash their brand of vengeance on the villagers.

  “My lord.” Father Mark wiped his brow with his sleeve. “You cannot mean to punish an entire village for the actions of a few.”

  “A few?” Up went Lady Mary’s brow. “How many attacked you, sweeting?”

  With a start Alya answered the unexpected question. “About twenty.”

  “Indeed.” Father Mark cleared his throat. “I misspoke. But you cannot mean to punish everyone for the actions of some.”

  “Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do.” Pure steel ringed Roger’s voice as he moved his horse beside Alya. “The actions of last night have shown me clearly on what footing castle and village now stand. You have the twenty to thank for that.”

  “Then I beg you.” Sweat gleamed on his pate and face. “We can all see you have the might to do as you will. I beg you for the sakes of the village innocents.”

  “Show me these innocents.” Lady Mary searched the crowd. “If you have never glanced askance at either Bahir, Alya, Newt or Garrett, step forward. If you have never uttered a bad or judgmental word against either of them, come and stand freely before me and I swear you will come to no harm.” She made a graceful, sweeping motion. “Those whose thoughts have never condemned my new family, I invite you to declare your innocence before all.”

  Father Mark paled. “Surely, the children…”

  Villagers shifted. A man near the back of the crowd hurried away from the green. From behind the cottages came the rest of Anglesea’s men. On horseback and on foot they blocked any escape. Muttering rose within the villagers, and Alya swore she could smell the sharp acrid tang of their fear.

  Suddenly she was not so sure what the family intended. Until this moment she would have sworn the gentle, gracious Lady Mary would not allow her rage loose against the village. Alya was less sure of the calm, poised stranger sitting perfectly still and straight in her saddle. This woman could do anything and the men with her would obey her without question.

  Alya glanced to Henry for reassurance, but his face remained stony and blank. William and Roger were no better. She could not condone a bloodbath. Not even for Bahir and Newt. “Roger?”

  Under the direct intensity of Roger’s gaze, she faltered before she found her courage. “You cannot mean to do here what happened last night.”

  “Can I not?” Roger raised his brow. “If I do not send a powerful message, then how do I know that next time it will not be one of your children who face mob justice?”

  “I understand, but…” But what? Words failed her and she glanced at Henry.

  Gaze warming, he nodded his encouragement.

  “If we wreak death here, that makes us no better than the cowards who came last night with their axes and their pitchforks.” She swallowed to ease the dryness in her mouth. “If we refuse to listen to reason then we are just as vicious and stupid as they were.”

  Squabbling gulls sounded loud in the absolute silence over the village green and its people.

  “She begs for you.” Lady Mary turned to the villagers. “You went to kill her and her people last night, and here Lady Alya begs for your lives.”

  “My lady.” Father Mark had tears in his eyes as he gazed at Alya. “I cannot…no words…” He dropped to a knee.

  Rulf and Red Alfred copied his actions.

  Slowly and in singles and then groups, villagers took their knees until only a few hardened souls remained standing.

  “Here is what will happen.” Roger spoke at last. “I want the men who took part in last night’s atrocity and I want them now.”

  As the crowd stepped away from them, Alya’s heart hardened again. These faces she remembered, ugly and jeering in their rage and their cruelty. For them she had no pity. “You were more courageous last night,” she said. “Then you did not hide behind women and children.”

  “Quite so.” Henry threw her a hard look, the message clear, to leave this with him.

  The men left standing in the center of the green numbered twenty-three, and ranged in age from barely old enough to shave to gray headed. Shoulders thrust back, still not cowed, stood the one Newt had called Miller. The one who had stirred the men to tie up Bahir, and then had carved gashes into Bahir’s ribs.

  A younger man stepped forward, face pale beneath a mop of brown hair. He dropped to his knee. “I beg for your mercy, my lady.”

  As if he had opened a floodgate, more men stepped forward and threw themselves before her and Lady Mary.

  “Henry?” Roger turned to his brother.

  “Hang them.” Henry pointed at Miller and two men standing defiant beside him. “Hang them and once they are dead stake their bodies here in the green as a reminder to all of their shame.”

  One of Miller’s compatriots buckled, and dropped to his knees. He gibbered and cried for mercy but Henry barely even glanced at him. “As for the rest of you who took part in last night, you have forfeited your welcome here. The compact between lord and yeoman is clear and you have broken your side of it. Thus, you are no longer welcome to make your living from our demesne, no longer entitled to the protection of the castle, and no longer will you call Baron Anglese
a lord.”

  A woman in the crowd sobbed and prayed aloud.

  “So be it,” Roger said. “You will leave here today with what you can carry. If your family chooses to go with you, they too are no longer welcome in this demesne. You have until sundown.”

  Henry picked up his reins. “After that, if I see you, you will be hunted down like the curs you are, and I will unleash the full weight of Anglesea upon you.”

  Chapter 35

  Lady Mary tried to insist Alya move back to Anglesea, but she could not. With Newt and Bahir deemed too ill to move, Alya’s place was with them at the manor. As damaged as it was, she still felt more at home there, and she clung to that stability.

  After they left the village, half the armed party returned to Anglesea and the other half escorted her back to the manor. Henry joined her escort and rode silently beside her the entire way. Bone-achingly tired, she rode into the manor long after sunset.

  Fast asleep in her chair, Elizabeth sat beside Newt.

  Newt seemed to be breathing easier. His skin was still warm to the touch but he did not seem any worse than when she had left.

  Bahir slept as if he might never wake. Once in Cairo one of the house slaves had fallen from a wall. No bones had been broken, in fact he did not even bleed from any seen wound, and yet the young slave had slept as Bahir did now. A deep, heavy sleep that rested just this side of death. Taking his hand, she sat on the ground beside his cot. He had to wake up and be well again. Surely God could not be so cruel as to take her father, and Bahir, and her dear, sweet Jamila so close together?

  She must have fallen asleep because she awoke to Elizabeth moving quietly about.

  “You’re awake.” Elizabeth had tidied her hair and changed into chausses and a tunic. She still looked utterly female, even in men’s clothes. In truth, the chausses clung to her hips and bottom like a skirt never would.

  Bahir’s hand felt less clammy in hers and she rose to her knees to examine him. “How are they?”

  “Not much change.” Elizabeth grimaced. “Although Bahir grew a little restless earlier. I don’t want to give you false hope, but I believe he might be trying to wake.”

  False or not, Alya would grasp at any hope.

  The door opened and Nurse and Ivy entered.

  Ivy went immediately to Newt and examined him.

  Nurse gave Elizabeth a top-to-toe searching look. “Your father seems to think you have a gift for healing.”

  “I do.” Elizabeth raised her chin, then dropped it. Not many managed to stand chin to chin with Nurse and Alya applauded Elizabeth’s wisdom. “At least, I believe I do and I would like to learn further.”

  “Hmph!” Nurse adjusted her constricting wimple. “Tell me what you have done and then we’ll decide if you have any skill in this sort of thing. It takes an iron belly to be a healer.”

  With Nurse and Ivy there, the room was too crowded, and Alya stepped into the stable yard. The amount of work that had taken place stopped her for a moment. Already Chester and his men were stacking new wood to replace what had burned.

  On her way across the stable yard she recognized a few faces from the village. What must Lady Mary have promised or threatened to get those here? The fire had destroyed the east wing of the manor house, but fortunately the hall and the still-being-built west wing had escaped with only some blackening.

  Hoping to find something to eat and a change of clothes, Alya headed that way. The aroma of beef and bread cheered her complaining stomach as she entered the hall.

  More people than she expected milled about. Some of them sat and ate, others stood about and chatted, still others worked at scrubbing the walls clear again. The new faces also belonged to villagers. A rotund woman offered her a tentative smile and bobbed a curtsy. “Lady Alya. May I bring you a something to eat?”

  Hungry or not, Alya did not trust any villager near her food. “Thank you, but nay.”

  “As you wish, my lady.” The woman looked crestfallen as she backed away.

  Three more times she was offered food before she made it to the great hearth. There she found her own bowl and ladled stew into it. She waited until she saw someone else chew and swallow before she attempted her own meal.

  Whoever had made the stew knew what they were about. Carrots, onions and parsnips added their flavor to the hearty beefy goodness. Not a grand meal but one with working folk in mind, aimed at feeding their tired bodies. With no Cook presiding over this kitchen, she might even add her spices to the meals. Fire had taken some of the storerooms. When she could find the energy, she would check and see what remained of her inheritance.

  Finding a quiet corner, Alya perched on a bench to eat her stew.

  Glances swiveled her way and turned again. One or two tentative smiles were offered to her, but she did not engage.

  A hush fell over the hall when Henry entered.

  He spotted her immediately and made his way to her side. Rocking the bench beneath her, he took a seat by her side. “Are you well?”

  “I am.” Her belly tightened and she had to force another bite down her throat.

  A woman approached with a bowl and handed it to Henry. He had no qualms about accepting it and tucking in. Then again, these people had not been intent on his death. “How are Bahir and Newt?”

  His question dragged her away from her musings. “Not much change. Nurse and Ivy arrived and are with Lady Elizabeth now.”

  “Ah.” Nodding, Henry chewed and swallowed. “If anyone knows what to do it is Nurse and Ivy. If Bahir and Newt can be helped at all, those two will do it.”

  So many unspoken words lay between them and Alya was too tired to even attempt any of them, so she doggedly ate until her bowl was empty. She rose to return it to the hearth.

  “Stay.” Henry caught her hand and tugged her down to the bench. “So much has happened and we need to speak of it.”

  “Nay, we don’t.” Talking had never been a strength between them. Setting all that had happened today aside, Lady Mary, the village and even the people here now. None of that made a difference if he still could not accept her fully and with no reservations in his heart. He admired her, he gave every indication of enjoying her body, and at times even of liking her company. But for as long as doubt lingered with Henry as to if he had made the right choice of wife, she could not be his wife. “I have nothing left to say.”

  “Perhaps I have much to say.” His blue eyes were solemn. “Would you allow me the opportunity to share what is in my heart?”

  Now he chose to share with her. But it was too late. Bahir may have paid the ultimate price, and Newt as well, and Alya did not want to hear it. “Do I have a choice?”

  A small frown puckered his brow. “Of course.”

  “Then I choose not to hear it. Right now, there is nothing you can say that would make any difference. I thank you and your family for today at the village, but it came too late to help me or Newt or Bahir.” With nothing more to lose, she did not hold back her words. “I could accept them and their suspicion of me so much more readily if I felt that you were on my side.” Shaking off his light hold, she stood. “But you are not wholly on my side.” She held up her hand when he would speak. “You brought a foreign wife to your home and now you are not sure you should have done so. Perhaps if you were more sure of your choice, others would not dare to question it.”

  * * * *

  Henry visited the infirmary after dinner. He had been cowardly about coming before now, afraid to confirm the worst.

  Bandages white against his dark skin, Bahir lay on one cot. Top to tail on a second cot slept Newt. So many bandages covered him it was hard to see skin. Dear God. Henry’s stomach churned. Newt must have lost a frightening amount of blood.

  Ivy rose from her seat beside the fire and put her mending on the seat. “You have come to see how they fare.”

  “It looks…” The words jammed in his throat and refused to come out. If he did not say it
aloud perhaps it would not be true, but Bahir and Newt both looked dire.

  “It often does.” Ivy ran a protective hand over the rise of her rounded belly. She and Tom expected their first child in the winter. “But Lady Elizabeth did a good job cleansing the wounds and closing them. There is always hope, Henry. You must know this by now.”

  Her pregnancy had made Ivy so lovely she was fae-like. It had also made her more hopeful. After checking on both men, she took up her mending and sat down again. “Sit with us for a while.”

  With the small fire warming his back Henry took a seat at her feet.

  “I remember the day Beatrice rescued Newt.” Needle moving swiftly through the cloth Ivy laughed softly. “Such a strange, ungainly looking boy. I might have left him to his fate, but Bea could never turn her back on an injustice.”

  “Real or imagined.” Henry returned Ivy’s smile. Before his pilgrimage, he had deplored his sister’s huge heart. Even mocked the passion with which she embraced life. He saw her differently now. Souls like Sweet Bea’s were rare and precious. Without their relentless belief in joy, the rest of the world would be a bleak and cheerless place.

  “Did you know Newt harbored feelings for Bea?” Speaking to Ivy was safe as keep walls. She never spilled all the secrets whispered to her.

  “How could he not?” Ivy chuckled. “She was like a beautiful, golden avenging angel come to save him.”

  An image of Newt, bedraggled, filthy and foul-mouthed as he had been then, crept into Henry’s mind. And another of the day Newt had stepped in front of Father’s destrier and saved Faye’s life. Then later still, when he had arrived at the docks trussed and under Gregory’s guardianship.

  Newt had not wanted to be a squire. Henry laughed at the memory of Newt’s angry gaze searing him from above the gag Gregory had put over his mouth.

  The anguish caught him by surprise. One heartbeat he was laughing with Ivy and the next the pain near doubled him over. “He has to live, Ivy.”