by Karin Tabke
As the death cry trailed off, the knights charged, and the ghosts in the forest rose, answering with their own battle cry. What moments before had been a quiet forest now swarmed with battle ax–wielding Norsemen, accompanied by several of Harold’s men still bent on winning the day.
As Isabel broke through a small clearing and stopped, she scanned the forest. Though barren, there was still much brush and bramble to muddy the view. Nowhere did she see the yellow muslin cloth of Deidre’s dress. Shivering in the cold, Isabel looked over her shoulder, debating whether to return to the manor or continue her search for the Saxon woman. An inner voice told her the woman was bent on betrayal.
Isabel forged forward until she came to a well-worn path. As she turned a bend, she stiffened. A man approached. By his long hair and beard, she knew he was Saxon. From his rich clothing, she knew him not to be a churl.
When he spied her, his face lit up, and his pace quickened. Caution prevailed. Isabel stood, hand on the hilt of her dagger, ready to defend herself.
“Lady Isabel!” he cried, coming closer. Isabel scrunched her face in confusion. She did not recognize the Saxon. He continued toward her, his face beaming. “’Tis me, Cedric, Lord Dunsworth’s reeve.”
Memory dawned and with it more confusion. Why was he not with Arlys?
He crossed himself several times and made a deep bow. “Praise God you are here. I have come for you.”
More confusion reigned in her head. “Why?”
“Milord bade me bring you to him. He wishes to see you married posthaste.”
At Cedric’s words, Isabel’s heart stumbled in her chest. “How fares your lord?”
“He is well. He makes plans. Support rallies for the young Edgar. We pray for your support. Come with me now. He grows anxious for you.”
As much as she wished to be free of the Normans, Isabel hesitated. “I cannot leave my people, Cedric.”
“But your betrothed wishes you to come to him.”
She shook her head. “I am afraid that is not possible right now, Cedric. I—”
“My lord has news of your brother, Geoff.”
Her head snapped back, and her heart raced in her chest. There were no sweeter words to her ears. “He lives?”
Cedric grinned and nodded. “Aye, but he is wounded, and at least a day’s hard ride from here. Come with me, Lady Isabel. Come with me to your lord, and he will take you to him.”
Isabel nodded but still hesitated. Indecision waged a war inside her. Desperately, she wanted to see her brother and tend to him. To bring him home. But what of Rossmoor? And what of Arlys? She shivered, the cold having nothing to do with her chill. Nay, it had to do with thoughts of the dark and brooding Norman. Would her people suffer under his wrath?
“Come now, there may be little time left for him,” Cedric urged.
Isabel took a tentative step forward, then another and another. She had only one brother. She would see to him.
As they moved down the path, a bone-chilling cry from deep within the forest stopped them both. Cedric turned pale and wild-eyed toward her. It sounded as if death arose and was on the prowl for souls. Isabel wrapped her arms tightly around herself, having no mantle. “What was that?” she breathlessly asked.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the blood-curdling sound. “The devil’s battle cry, milady.”
She allowed him to drag her down the path, then deep into the wood, away from Rossmoor, away from the people who needed her most. Closer to the raiders even Rohan could not altogether quell. Her step slowed, but Cedric pulled her harder. If what Cedric said was true and her brother lay wounded, she would go to him, but not like this. As much as she yearned to see him and bring him home, the odds of her arriving safely at their destination were slim. But more than that, her people needed her. And if she were honest with herself, she did not want to see Arlys. Not yet.
She yanked her hand free from the reeve’s grasp. He turned abruptly and grabbed it back. “Nay,” she said, shaking her head. “I cannot go with you now. My people need me. More hide in the forest. ’Tis my duty to coax them out.”
Cedric’s tawny brows knocked together. “But milady, do you not wish to see Sir Geoff before he meets his maker?”
Isabel swallowed hard, and her hands trembled. “Aye, I do, more than anything, but if he lives now, he will live long enough for me to come to him. I must return to Rossmoor. Cedric, give my regrets to Lord Dunsworth. Tell him I wish him well and look forward to seeing him soon.”
She turned and stepped away from him, but Cedric stopped her with his hand wrapped around her arm. Isabel whirled and stopped short. Cedric’s eyes morphed from warm and friendly to dark and dangerous. Slowly, he shook his head. “My instructions were clear. Do not return without the lady Isabel. I will not disappoint milord.”
Isabel pulled her hand, and he pulled back. “Arlys will understand my loyalty to Rossmoor. Surely, you can make him understand.”
“Nay. There is more to it than that. He requires your treasury. Milord builds an army. Many come from the north to fight for our cause. When he triumphs, his lands will be restored, as well as all of Saxony.”
“’Tis madness right now! William storms London. His knights prowl the English countryside armed to the hilt. ’Tis rumored he has thousands more mercenaries on their way. The time is not ripe!”
“Aye, it is! The Witan is strong. The nobles rally. The time is now! Wouldst you stand in the way of Edgar, the rightful king?”
Isabel shook her head. “Nay. I support Edgar and will do my part to see him rightfully take the throne, but I am not so naïve as to believe William can be quelled now. His rampage is without mercy. He will see the entire island wiped clean of Englishmen.”
Cedric shook his head. Isabel persisted. She grabbed his hands and pleaded with him. “These last nights les morts, his elite death squad, have resided in Rossmoor. I have heard their talk. Not only does William have support in Westminster, but his army is still strong. He has coffers to back his claim. He will prevail if challenged now.”
“There is more at stake.”
Isabel eyed him. “What more?”
“You are worth a hefty ransom.”
Isabel laughed, the sound bitter. “Who would pay good silver for me? I have been reduced to a slave.”
“De Monfort has shown interest.”
Isabel gasped as realization dawned. “’Tis a ruse! Arlys does not send for me! Cedric, how could you play me false?”
As she backed away from him, he moved toward her. “For the cause, milady. De Monfort has money, and he is willing to part with a goodly sum of it to have you.”
Isabel shook her head. “Nay! I will not go to him. You would have to kill me first!”
In a violent reaction to her challenge, Cedric struck her in the face, the force of the blow landing her on the forest floor. The shock of his action and the searing pain in her jaw stunned her. The copper taste of blood filled her mouth.
Cedric yanked her up by the arm and pushed her forward. “Be warned, milady, we are desperate men in desperate times. If the devil Norman wants you and is willing to pay, then he shall have you!”
“You lied about Geoff!”
Cedric nodded. “Aye, and I am sorry to give you hope, but I knew of no other way to have you come with me.” He drew a short sword from his belt and poked it at her belly.
“Go, and do not try to flee from me. You will regret it.”
Isabel turned in the direction they had been walking. She held fast to the knowledge that while Cedric may have leverage with his strength, she knew the lay of the land. Indeed. She caught a small sob. She and Geoff had slain many an imaginary dragon in these woods, and not far off were the caves. She shuddered but decided she would fare better with the witch than with Henri de Monfort.
Several paces ahead of Cedric, she stumbled and dropped to her hands and knees. As the reeve moved to right her, Isabel rolled hard into his knees. As he tumbled backward, she hurried to
her feet and ran for her life.
Cedric shouted for her to stop, promising her glory should she side with him and Arlys, promising that once the ransom was paid, they would rescue her. And it occurred to Isabel at that moment that Arlys was as involved in the ploy to see her ransomed as was his reeve. Though she did not wish to wed the earl, his betrayal of her caused her great pain. She was but a pawn to every man. Anger spurred her forward. She would be no man’s passage to greater glory. She would rather live a life of solitude. Isabel plunged headfirst into the wood. As she crested a knoll, she lost her footing and plummeted in a steep fall. She rolled endlessly, twigs and leaves biting into her skin, the hard earth forcing the breath from her chest.
When her body finally came to rest against a large boulder, she lay with her face planted in the cold, loamy earth. The sound of heavy footsteps from above pushed her forward. Ignoring the pain in her limbs, Isabel scurried to her feet, looked up, and screamed.
Twenty
More than a score of armed men charged the Norman knights. Rohan ran the first one within range of him through with his lance. He pulled the weapon free from the listing warrior and with his right hand drew his sword and brought it down for the final blow, separating the man’s head from his body.
Rohan roared as a raider chopped at his calf, the blade biting into the thick leather surrounding his boots and mail. Enraged, Rohan kicked the attacker from him. He hurled his short lance at the Viking. It hit true through his neck. The man gurgled, blood bubbled from his mouth, and he fell dead to the forest floor.
Rohan pressed the stallion deeper into the fray. Two ax-wielding Saxons rushed him. Mordred chopped through them, his spiked armor tearing into the men’s thighs. Rohan hacked one down, and the other, now behind him and having managed to regain his stance, found Rohan’s blade backhanded deep into his gut.
Wheeling the stallion around, Rohan charged into three Vikings bent on hacking Russell into bits. As Rohan swung his mighty sword around his head, chopping at the assailants, their heads tumbling to the ground, Russell blanched white.
Rohan scowled and reined in his horse. “Man up, boy. William will want able Saxon knights.”
Russell’s eyes widened, and immediately Rohan whirled around in his saddle just as the blade of a battle ax swiped in front of his face. He felt the breeze of it too close. He jabbed his sword into the chest of the man wielding it. He turned back to Russell to find him engaged with a man who had come up on the other side of Rohan. While this was no immediate threat to himself, Rohan’s knights having sufficiently quelled the attack, Rohan called to Warner as he saw several men flee into the wood. “See that those cowards do not see the break of the next day!”
Rohan turned back and watched as the young squire thrust and parried his short lance against the last of the Norsemen who had chosen to stand and fight. Russell was outmanned, outweaponed, and outseasoned, but Rohan held his position. There was no better experience for a young warrior than actual battle.
And as the knights gathered around the dueling pair, the Norseman knew he was doomed, and not by the red-haired boy he fought but by the black knights circling him.
In a last-ditch effort, the Viking let out a blood-curdling battle cry, and knowing he would soon meet Wodin, he brought his battle ax down for the fatal blow just as Russell gave one last thrust of his lance. It fell short of its mark. The boy’s blue eyes widened in terror.
Rohan swung his blade, severing the Viking’s hand from the ax. The Norseman screamed in pain, then stood in stunned silence as he looked at the bloody stump that was once his hand.
Rohan dismounted and strode toward him, his blade raised. Casually, he pressed the tip to the man’s chest. “Who leads you?” he demanded.
The Viking shook his head, his eyes wide.
“Tell me, or you will lose a limb each time you deny me.” Rohan moved closer, his blade digging into the fur pelt that covered the man’s chest. When he refused to answer, Rohan hacked off his right arm.
The man screamed and sank to his knees. Blood spurted in a high arch from the stump. Rohan raised his blade again, this time intending to hack off the left arm. “Hardrada!” the Norseman screamed.
Rohan pressed the sword into the man’s belly. “Hardrada is dead.”
The Viking looked up through narrow eyes, violence burning hot in them. “And so shall you be when the devil is through with you!”
Rohan roared and hacked off the left arm. The Viking fell back onto the earth. Blood spurted from both stumps. He closed his eyes and breathed, “The devil wants his due.”
With both hands, Rohan took up his sword and plunged it deep into the warrior’s chest, skewering him into the ground like a spitted boar.
Russell choked when Rohan withdrew the blade and raised it high in the air. The blood of half a score of men mingled on it.
Rohan turned shrewd eyes on the squire. “Your lady has sacrificed much for your life, boy. I would see you home alive this day.”
Russell nodded and swallowed hard. He bobbed his head and murmured, “My thanks for my life, milord.”
Rohan bent and wiped the blood from his sword on the Viking’s leg. He turned back to Russell. “You would do well to train more often with my men. Next time, I may not be so available.”
Russell hastily nodded, his color returning. The crashing of horses’ hooves broke into the carnage-laden clearing. Warner raised his blood-soaked sword and saluted Rohan. “We gave the cowards the ride to hell they deserved.”
Rohan nodded and sheathed his sword. He mounted and rested his gauntlet-encased hands on the high pommel and leaned forward to survey the carnage. “Methinks, my good fellows, we have two different groups of raiders amongst us. Armed knights and these foot soldiers.”
Thorin moved closer to Rohan. “Aye, these men are led by more than revenge.”
“Rohan,” Ioan said from behind him, “the devil is indeed at work here.”
A hard shiver wracked Rohan’s body. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “Aye, and who else bears the name with such aplomb?”
“Henri?” Warner said.
Rohan nodded. “Aye, my brother’s heart is filled with hatred. He seeks to destroy everything that I covet.”
Warner shook his head. “But Rohan, he does not have the coin to pay these men.”
“He can promise it,” Thorin interjected. “He can also give promise of land. Is it not why we are all here?”
Warner nodded. “He is foolish to think he can best you, Rohan.”
Rohan urged his mount to where one of the Saxons lay slain. He dismounted and raised the man’s leather hauberk to reveal his tunic. A red fox on a green field stared back. “’Tis the colors of the earl, the lady Isabel’s betrothed.” Rohan ripped the patch from the garment and stuffed it into his hauberk, then mounted. Anger seethed. Did the maid have a hand in this? Was she in contact with the earl?
Rohan whirled his mount around and said to no one in particular, “Let us ride and seek out my brother.”
As Isabel pushed back, Cedric’s body slammed hard into her, sending her sprawling forward, where she fell once again into the hard earth. The soft, loamy smell of the forest floor mingled with the stench of rotten flesh. She screamed again, the sound buried in the dirt. Cedric yanked her up by the hair. He raised his hand to strike her again, but his arm froze high in the air. His eyes widened, and he froze.
Isabel followed his gaze, knowing he saw the sickening sight that had caused her to scream. In a large semicircle before them, several pikes with decapitated heads in varying degrees of decay stared gruesomely down at them. The warning to trespassers was clear.
“’Tis the work of the witch,” Cedric breathed. Grabbing her tighter against him, he slowly backed away from the awful sight. Her wits regained after the shock, Isabel yanked her hair from his grasp. Surprisingly, Cedric did not fight her action.
Isabel used his fear to strengthen her position. “Aye, ’tis Menloc. Shall I call to the w
itch?”
Cedric paled and vigorously shook his head. “Nay!”
Isabel smiled, fighting her own fear. Cedric was now concerned for his own welfare. Slowly, Isabel edged away from him toward the pikes. “She prowls this forest in search of rapists and looters, ’tis said, for revenge against her own raped daughters and slain husband.”
“Shut thy mouth,” he hissed, not wanting to draw the witch.
Isabel raised her voice. “Would that I could tell her you were willing to sell me to the devil himself for the right to land!”
Cedric implored her with his eyes to keep silent. She would not. Isabel pointed to a fresh head. One of a Viking. “One of your hired men, Cedric?”
He shook his head but not with the conviction of an innocent man. His plot began to take fuller shape, and her fury built.
“Did you and Arlys promise the Norsemen land and wealth for their part in terrorizing your own people?”
He remained silent, but the hatred in his eyes spoke the truth.
“Why, Cedric, why kill your own people?”
“’Twould rally those who chose not to fight against the Normans.”
Isabel shook her head. “You are wrong. ’Tis the Normans they look to now for protection!” Her hands fisted at her sides. “You are a fool!”
He stepped closer, the witch forgotten. “Nay, your father’s treasury is well known. With it and the ransom from the devil Norman, we will be able to buy the best mercenaries. With them, we will win the day!”
He grabbed her arm and yanked her back toward the hill. “I do what I must for the good of England. If it means a few of us should fall to save the throne, then so be it.”
“You are mad to think so, Cedric. England is lost.” As Isabel said the words, she knew them to be true. The Normans were fierce and determined, the Saxons as well, but the difference was that while a few such as Cedric and Arlys were willing to sacrifice some of their countrymen, the Normans were willing to wipe the entire race from the face of the earth. Her chest trembled as a hard sob wracked her. Hot tears followed. The battle was lost; to continue to fight meant more misery. She straightened, throwing her shoulders back, and sniffed. “I will not abet you, Cedric, on any level. My oath is to my people, and I will keep them safe at all costs, and that includes keeping them safe from you. If that means accepting William, then so be it.”