by Karin Tabke
Still holding her breath, Isabel came to the bottom of the stairwell. Very slowly, she felt for the latch that would open the door to the outside. Cool air rushed at her, and Isabel gulped great mouthfuls of it. Sunlight filtered through the dense bramble of the mulberry bush that shielded the secret stone door from view.
Isabel crossed herself quickly as she said a silent thank you to her great-grandfather Leofric. When he constructed Rossmoor, he made certain that if his wife’s Norse family came to call without an invitation, there would be an escape route. And now it served Isabel well.
Because of where the entry was positioned, all Isabel had to do was move along the manor walls to the high stone wall that surrounded Rossmoor. Hidden behind another overgrown mulberry bush was a passage through the stone wall to the outer fringes of the forest. She found the latch and slipped through the other side to meet with a waiting Ralph.
“You did not encounter any Normans?” Isabel asked, surprised to find the smith waiting so soon with a cart laden with food.
“The Normans may have their own stench, but they cannot tolerate the stench of the tanner’s hut. I made that my third stop. They are no doubt still gagging up their morning meal.”
Isabel smiled and picked up an even pace beside Ralph as he pulled the cart toward the thick copse of trees. “We may not match the fierce Norman knights in weaponry and horse, but we outman them with our wits. Let us hope the rest of Saxony is as wily as we, Ralph.”
Rohan sat astride Mordred, the forest quiet and morose around him, his nose raised in the crisp November air. Like a wolf’s, his nostrils twitched, then flared. His prey was near. He could smell the stench of their terror.
There had been nothing left of the small camp the villagers had made. Only blood-soaked earth and cold embers told their story. There was not even the remnant of a cloth or a trencher of food. It was if they had been plucked up by a hand in the sky.
Rohan looked up through the thick canopy of trees. Sunlight filtered through the bleak branches, casting a deathly pall over the eerie silence.
“They watch us, Rohan,” Thorin said from his right side.
Rohan nodded, narrowing his eyes to see more clearly into the thick bramble. They were at a disadvantage. His men were best met in the open, where the great destriers could be easily maneuvered. As they were, his Blood Sword knights would be hard pressed to wield their great swords and battle axes in a worthy manner. Their mounts would be climbing over the next man’s, and confusion would reign supreme.
Rohan had never backed away from a fight in his life, but his gut told him should they press the point with these marauders on this terrain, the loss of his men would be substantial.
“Aye, they watch and wait for us to pull closer together. ’Tis not the best of positions for us, my friend.”
“We would kill each other in our efforts to slay them.”
Rohan nodded. “’Tis their folly to underestimate the power of our arsenal.” He grinned and said, “So let us give them a taste of what we are capable of.”
Thorin grinned in return. “Aye, my bow cries for attention.”
Rohan pulled his long bow from the leather sheath that cradled it on his saddle. Instead of one arrow, he drew three and notched them.
His men followed suit. Because the copse was so thick and the cowardly raiders hid low beneath it, Rohan aimed his trio of arrows at an angle that would have maximum impact and penetration.
He released, as did his men. The hissing sound of well-placed arrows stirred the air in a hideous scream, followed by Rohan’s deep, gut-wrenching battle cry. Seconds later, human screams erupted from the bramble. Rohan and his men notched more arrows and let them fly.
More screams erupted from the bramble. The forest shook as the bodies of the cowards fell or turned to flee in the thick cover. Rohan sat astride his mount with no intention of following them deeper into the forest. He pulled another three arrows from the quiver and notched them. This time, he aimed at a higher angle, giving the arrows more of an arch to catch up with the fleeing marauders. Once again, his men followed suit. The sweet hissing sound of the arrows as they launched into the sky gave Rohan shivers. While he was knight first and foremost and found the broadsword made for his hand, he and his men were also expert archers and had learned the skill well. It had come to their aid more times than he could count. For sometimes a sword or an ax was not the weapon to see the job met.
More screams erupted, this time from deeper in the forest.
When several more barrages of arrows brought no cries of pain, Rohan nodded, satisfied that while they might not have eliminated the destructive raiders, enough damage was done to prevent another attack anytime soon.
Rohan turned in his saddle and looked down at the upstart squire of the lady Isabel. “You would learn soon enough, boy, that Norman knights are versed in all aspects of weaponry.”
Russell swallowed hard and nodded.
Rohan reined Mordred around and raised his hand to his men. “There is naught else for us to do here. Let us patrol this land we have conquered before we return to Rossmoor.”
Rohan’s blood warmed when he spoke of Rossmoor. But it was not for the impressive stone edifice. Nay, it was for the stubborn wench who called herself lady of the manor. To his utter astonishment, he found himself thinking of the maid and the excitement she wrought from him over the thrill of the kill.
He shook his head in self-loathing. She was but one of many women who could turn a man’s head. And there were scores more like her in this godforsaken land.
As Ralph led her deeper into the frigid forest, Isabel noticed the quietness surrounding them. It was as if she stepped through a graveyard. The air here was colder, the color dimmer. The morning frost lingered, marking their passage with a soft crunch of frozen turf. The birds she was used to hearing chirp cheerfully in the sunshine were silent. It was if their joy had been struck from them.
Isabel could well relate. In less then two months’ time, her life and the lives of all of Saxony were twisted inside out. A foreigner claimed the throne of England. Her father and her brother gone to war, mayhap both dead, her lands and people decimated by cowardly raiders and then the arrival of the Normans.
She shivered hard and pulled her fur-lined cloak tighter around her shoulders. A sad smile crossed her face. The mantle was of fine Norse mink. Fully lined, the outer fabric a luxurious embroidered velvet. A gift last Michaelmas from her father. He had commissioned it for her. Part of her wedding trousseau. He had insisted she take it as an early gift from an aging father. She was happy to accept it.
Isabel swallowed hard. Her wedding date was planned to mark the spring slaughter. Would Arlys come for her? Would he demand she be given to him as was promised by her father?
He had been patient all these years. Their betrothal contract was forged when she was but a young girl. Two years after her first courses, she was promised as wife to the earl. But with her mother’s passing coming right before the time she was originally to wed, her father hesitated. He could not bear to lose his wife and his daughter in the same year. He insisted that Isabel stay as lady of the manor until Geoff took a wife. Arlys was not happy and even petitioned Edward to force Alefric to honor the contract as it was originally written.
But Alefric was godfather to several of Edward’s court favorites. Alefric was also a benevolent patron of the saints and had stood steadfast beside Edward when Godwin would have stirred up civil war.
And so Arlys was doomed to lose his petition. To show good faith, Alefric gave the earl a portion of her dower lands in Mercia. The balance of her dowry, one of the richest ever to be recorded, would follow on the wedding day. Anger roiled in her belly. Would that she still retained those lands! At least she knew her father’s treasury was well hidden deep in the caves. Some months before Edward’s death, Alefric being the wise man he was and foreseeing the future, had moved the chest of silver to the caves. When they heard of William’s intent to sail to the shores
of England and claim the throne, they sighed in relief. Rossmoor may be taken, but the silver would serve them well to buy passage to friendlier climes should the need arise.
But until such time, the coin would await the lord’s return deep in the caves of Menloc.
Isabel didn’t like the dark, dank caves. The bats were many and ferocious. Tales of the lost souls who wandered the deep crevices crying out for others had terrified her since childhood.
And whispers about the witch there grew with each passing year. ’Twas said she was the one responsible for the lost souls in the first place and that she was mightier than any warrior and wove her clothes from the hair of her victims. Isabel had loudly protested when her father picked the caves as the hiding spot for his silver.
“But Father!” she had cried. “The witch will shear you and pike your head to add to her collection!”
“Nay, child.” He had shushed her. “I know of what I speak. Now, let us see to the chore.”
And so it was done.
At least, Isabel thought, all was not lost. Mayhap if her betrothal to Arlys was null, she could wag the silver under the nose of a new potential husband. She let out a long breath. It occurred to her then that she was not unhappy she would not wed with Arlys. She could not exactly say why that was, but she knew part of it was that he was older, and he spent most of his time at court instead of tending his shires, but those were silly reasons. Arlys was, or had been, a powerful overlord. He was a good match for someone of her station. United, they would be a most formidable couple. Amongst the most powerful in England.
Isabel sighed and watched her breath darken in the chill of the air. But Arlys did not stir her heart. And his touch did not elicit the warmth that Rohan’s did. Aye, Rohan disturbed her on many levels, and Holy Mother forgive her, but on more than a few occasions, her thoughts conjured up his naked, powerful body.
Isabel stumbled, and had she not had a firm grip on the wagon, she would have tumbled to the hard earth.
“Easy, milady,” Ralph said, steadying her. “We are almost there.”
And so Isabel pushed the troubling thoughts of the dark knight far from her.
Nine
A small clearing emerged from the thick copse of trees. A large fire blazed in the middle. Several small makeshift huts hugged as close to the flames as safety permitted, drawing the meager warmth while forming a snug semicircle around it. Several people looked up, their bleak, forlorn faces nearly as pale as the frosty turf. Those from Alethorpe Isabel instantly recognized, those from Wilshire, a two-day ride from Rossmoor, she barely could.
As recognition dawned on the villagers, their faces morphed from despair to pure joy. “Milady, milady!” they cried in chorus, then enveloped her in a mass of frightened, tired humanity. Isabel’s heart swelled with love, and as she hugged them to her, warm tears trailed down her cheeks. She feared to speak lest her voice crack and they would think her weak. Instead, she kept her head down and wiped the tears with the sleeve of her gown.
Once she had collected herself, Isabel stood back and painted on a fierce smile. “Have faith! Lord Alefric and Sir Geoff have yet to return. When they do, we shall see our lands more settled. Until then, let me tend to you, then I urge you all to come to Alethorpe.”
Several people cried out in fear. “The Normans!”
Isabel nodded. “Aye, the Normans abound in my hall, but they are not bent on the same destruction as the raiders. At least for now, the Normans will protect us. It is more than what you have here.”
“Milady, the Normans would slit our throats whilst we sleep,” Ralph said, disdain lacing each word. “I would stay here before returning.”
Isabel turned shocked eyes on the smithy. “Ralph! You would desert your wife and daughters in the village?”
He shook his head, his dark eyes hard. “I would bring them here.”
“’Tis folly. The raiders are many. They maim and plunder. You would perish here with no food.”
“I have a sturdy spear. The others have bows.”
“Aye, and you are capable. And whilst I allowed you to hunt two days a month in the lord’s forests, the Norman may not be so generous. The stores and larders at Rossmoor are plenty. The Norman has promised to see the smokehouse refilled as it depletes.”
Ralph shook his head. His brows furrowed. “Have you been persuaded by the Norman, milady?”
Isabel gasped, shocked at his accusation. “Nay! I think only of your safety and the safety of the others. Out here in the middle of the forest, you are easy pickings for starvation and the raiders. At Rossmoor, you have a chance.” Isabel pulled the heavy tarp from the laden cart. “Mildred,” she said to the old midwife, “have Blythe help you distribute the food we have brought. Be frugal with it. I have no guarantee when more will be forthcoming.”
The woman bobbed her head and set about the chore. Isabel turned back to Ralph. “Show me to the wounded.”
She followed him to a larger hut set back behind the smaller ones. As she ducked in, pushing back the tattered fabric that acted as a door, the stench that met her nostrils caused the bile in her belly to rise. She stopped in mid-step and struggled to keep her meager breakfast down.
Ralph steadied her. “Some of the wounds have festered too long, milady. I fear they are beyond saving.”
Isabel nodded and motioned to Brice, Mildred’s sturdy grandson, to follow her out to the fresh air. “Bring the pallets out here near the fire. Heat two cauldrons of water to boiling.”
He turned to do her bidding, but she grabbed his shoulder. He turned dark brown eyes up to her. “And Brice, fetch me a good sharp ax and a dagger.” The boy paled considerably, but he bobbed his head and scurried to do her bidding.
“Have you the stomach for it, milady?” Ralph asked from behind her.
Straightening her back, Isabel turned and looked up into his dark eyes, only to find quiet concern for her. “Aye, I have no choice. They can either lose a limb or lose their life. I will give them each the choice.”
As so it was to be. When Paul, Ralph’s brother, was brought to her and deposited on the pallet, he passed out from the pain of his arm being disturbed. Isabel pulled back the rough fabric stuck into the deep gash in his forearm. The stench that rose from the wound had the kick of a destrier. Isabel breathed in through her mouth. The flesh around the gash was black. Thick green and yellow pus oozed from the swollen appendage. The poison had worked its way up to the elbow.
She touched his brow. It was hot with fever. Isabel pressed her hand to his cheek. He opened his eyes. Bleak and hopeless, he stared at her. “Paul, I cannot save your arm. But I can save your life if you allow me to—” she swallowed hard—“allow me to sever it from you. ’Tis the only way to keep the poison from spreading.”
He nodded and closed his eyes. Isabel raised her gaze to Ralph, who kneeled beside her.
“I shall need your brawn, Ralph. If the arm is to be cleanly severed, it will take more than a sharp blade and my meager strength.”
“Tell me what to do.”
Isabel got to work. She formed a tourniquet several inches above the black flesh and gave it time to numb the poisoned part of Paul’s arm. She asked for rope and was given several lengths. She tied one at each of Paul’s ankles and the other two on his wrists. The sturdier men would pull him taut so that he could not thrash and impede Ralph’s aim. Last, she found a solid branch and gave it to the man to bite down on.
“My pardon, Ralph, for asking such a thing of you. Had I the strength, I would do it myself,” Isabel softly said.
“I am honored, milady.”
She turned her gaze back to Paul, who despite his dire straits was fully awake. The fear on his face was almost enough to turn Isabel away. But she held fast. She crossed herself and said a silent prayer. “’Tis for the best, Paul. I will cauterize the stump, and the pain will ease as well as the fever.”
He nodded. “Do it now!”
Isabel gave the signal to the men, and they pulled
his limbs taut. Ralph raised the ax, and in one swift strike, he brought it down, severing the arm in half. Paul’s screams disturbed the eerie quiet of the surrounding forest. Isabel could not fight back the bile this time. As discreetly as she could, she released what was left of her morning meal onto the hard earth. She wiped her sleeve across her mouth and bent to the chore of cauterizing the wound.
And so the afternoon went. She did not count the severed limbs, fingers, or toes. She did not count the pale, lifeless faces of those she could not save. She did not count the times she thought she could not stomach another wound or bathe another body raging with fever.
When the last of her people was tended to, Isabel looked up to Ralph, who appeared as weary as she felt. “Ralph, it seems the thieves were more bent on maiming than killing. What manner of man does this?”
The old smithy squatted next to her. He stared into the waning fire for a long time, not speaking. He clasped his gnarled hands, the lines in them deep and cracked. “The men are well armed and skilled in the art of war. Some I would swear were of Viking blood, but they bore no colors.” He looked at her. “In truth, I know not whence they came.”
Isabel put a comforting hand on the man’s sinewy arm. “Viking blood runs deep among our people, Ralph. Could it be kin?”
The smithy frowned and shook his head, but he turned angry eyes on her. “Who kills his own kin?”
Isabel thought of the answer. She did not like what was obvious. “’Tis not so hard to think of in these times. Harold’s own brother sought to slay him for the crown. With the Normans’ trespass, I fear we will see many strangers swarm our land, most more than willing to kill for a piece of it. Even du Lac’s own brother challenged him.” Isabel thought of Rohan, and her body quivered. So involved in her tasks, she had not given him a thought since her arrival in the glen. She looked up toward the darkening sky. He would have returned to Rossmoor by now. She trembled to think of his fury when he discovered her gone.