by Maura Seger
They followed her gratefully. When she had them settled in the kitchens before bowls of steaming stew and mugs of ale, Brenna went in search of her sister. She found her in the chapel. Edythe did not seem to be praying. Her eyes were open, staring unfocused at the plain wood cross hung over the altar. She stood stiffly, her arms limp at her sides. Her face was paler than ever and her breath came shallowly.
"Edythe?"
No response. Brenna edged closer. She had never seen her sister like this. The brave, stalwart woman she knew seemed to have vanished. There was nothing left but a beautiful shell that appeared close to crumbling. "Edythe!"
The slender shoulders quivered. Her voice, when it came at last, was barely a whisper. "I... must go... to him... He must not be alone..."
Brenna swallowed hard. She had no idea what had so possessed her sister. Certainly, the circumstances were not good and Harold might very well be in grave danger. But the idea that she should go to him...
"It will be over by now," Brenna murmured gently, easing an arm around the other woman. "Messengers will come soon, and then Harold himself. You will see."
Edythe shook her head. Still staring straight ahead, she said: "No one will come. My lord... needs me... I must go."
Knowing full well that she was not the sole member of her family afflicted with intransigence, Brenna doubted there was much use in trying to argue with Edythe. But still she had to try. "It would be better to stay here, with the children. He will expect you to. What if he comes here and you are gone? Harold will be very worried."
"You don't understand," Edythe whispered, turning at last to face her sister. "He cannot come. It is up to me." She drew a deep breath that shivered in her throat. "I will leave in the morning. The children will stay here. They should be safe, at least for a while."
Deeply worried, not the least because she had the dread sense that Edythe saw something she did not, Brenna said, "Then I will come with you. You cannot go alone."
"No," Edythe insisted. "It is too dangerous. Stay here, until something can be worked out."
"You said," Brenna reminded her softly, "that you valued my company."
A silent battle waged within Edythe. She did not want to go alone. A great chasm of fear lay just before her and she was afraid she would not be able to cross it. If anyone could help her, it was Brenna. But how could she put her own sister in such peril?
Brenna had no difficulty divining the other woman's thoughts. Quietly, she said, "One of the last things Guyon said to me was that he had finally accepted the fact that I would not be left behind. If a stubborn Norman can face up to the inevitable, you should too."
The vision of Brenna obstinately following her to Hastings restored a little of the light to Edythe's eyes. "It is true," she admitted, "that I would like you to come with me."
"Then it's settled," Brenna declared. Briskly, she set about making the necessary arrangements. "Tomorrow morning, you said? Very well. We will need ponies, food, men. Thank heaven the weather is warm. How many days will it take? Five? Six? We can camp in fields at night, there are plenty of streams. Fodder will be no problem." A smile touched her delicate features. "Years from now, I will tell Alain how he made his first journey to meet his uncle." Silently, she added, "And perhaps, if God is truly merciful, his father as well."
At the mention of the baby, Edythe looked aghast. "You mean to take him with you? Oh, of course you do. I should have realized you would not leave him. Brenna, you must reconsider. It is far too dangerous. Bad enough you should come along, but with an infant... No, I cannot allow it."
A look Guyon would have recognized crossed Brenna's face. "It's too late to reconsider. We have already agreed I am to go. As for Alain, the trip will be good for him. With all the women here, he is becoming spoiled."
"But the journey will be difficult," Edythe began in a last-ditch effort to convince her sister she should stay behind, "and who knows what perils we may face. It would be better for you to—"
"I've made up my mind," Brenna interrupted firmly. She was not above taking advantage of Edythe's distress to get what she wanted. "Now I will send your serving woman to you. You are very pale and it might be a good idea to lie down for a while. In the meantime, I will speak with the housecarls. We will be ready to leave at dawn." Before Edythe could say another word, Brenna hurried from the chapel. She spent the rest of the afternoon in frenetic activity, using the myriad tasks that had to be seen to before they left to keep her thoughts at bay.
Lying in a carrier slung across her front, Alain slept peacefully. He woke only to suckle before drifting back into his infant dreams. Brenna envied his composure. It was all she could do to keep a calm face and not let the servants see her growing fear. She could not exactly say that Edythe had the sight—that mysterious and terrifying gift of seeing into the future—but her sister had often sensed events before they became generally known. It was never a good idea to disregard Edythe's concerns; too many times they had proved well-founded.
Unable to sleep that night, Brenna spent most of it stitching a shirt for Guyon. She had no idea if he would ever wear it, but the simple action somehow brought her closer to him. From time to time, she glanced at Alain in his cradle. His eyes were closed but she had noticed that day that they were already the same tawny shade as his father's. Her throat tightened as she wondered yet again when Guyon might see his son, or what his reaction would be when he did.
Crumbling the shirt on her lap, Brenna wondered if Guyon might deny the child's parentage. He had been conceived such a short time before they parted, and the cause of their separation could be so easily misunderstood, that any man might be pardoned for doubting his wife's fidelity. Brenna herself knew how easy it was to cast a bad light on the most innocent occurrences. Hadn't she been guilty of just that at Falaise? If Guyon had spent these last months believing she had betrayed him, how unlikely he would be to simply welcome their reunion, especially when she brought a child with her.
Some part of Brenna's mind understood that she was worrying over Guyon's reaction in order to block out the fear that he might not be at Hastings. If there was a battle, there would be deaths on both sides regardless of the final outcome. For Edythe's sake, she had to pray that Harold was alive and victorious. But for her own, she uttered a fervent plea that Guyon—even if a prisoner—would be unharmed. Nothing else, not even his acceptance of Alain, mattered as much.
Toward dawn, Brenna managed to doze briefly. She woke with a start when her serving woman entered the bower. "The men are ready, my lady, and your sister awaits you. Is there anything you want me to pack?"
Brenna shook her head, as much to clear it as in response. She had gathered together some clothing for herself and Alain the night before. Gesturing to the bundle, she said, "Just take that out to the pack horse. I will follow quickly."
Pausing only long enough to wash her face and swallow some small amount of the food the woman had brought, Brenna hurried to the bailey. Alain slept peacefully in her arms. She could nurse him on the road, or when they stopped for rest. Securing the blanket around him, she looked for Edythe.
Her sister was saying farewell to the children. The two boys, the eldest just thirteen, and the three girls, including three-year-old Gunluld, made a solemn group. They were far too well-trained to weep, but their anxiety was clear. Many times they had seen their father go away, but never before had their mother set off without him. That break in the order of their lives, added to the tension pervading the keep, made them fearful. Something was happening they could not understand.
The younger children clung to their mother until the nursemaids gently eased them away. Edythe's eyes were misted as she touched her eldest son's head tenderly. "You must set an example for your brothers and sisters," she murmured. "Help them to be brave."
The boy nodded somberly. "I will, mother. Don't worry, we will be all right. We will await your return... and father's..." His voice trailed off as he bit his lip hard to keep back his sobs.
He was almost a man, son of the bravest and noblest king in the world. He would be worthy of his heritage. Turning to the senior housecarl, the boy said firmly, "I charge you to care for my mother. Guard her with your life and protect her from all harm."
The man inclined his head respectfully. In the grave-eyed child he saw the promise of the father he followed with unswerving loyalty. The frustration he felt at not being with his lord on the battlefield eased a bit. Leading the Lady Edythe's horse forward, he helped her to mount.
Final admonitions were given and farewells exchanged before the party rode past the high, timbered wall around the keep and into the great forest of the Weald.
For four days they followed the forest path as it wound southeast toward the chalk cliffs guarding the coast. The air grew chiller, though not uncomfortably so. The leaves began to change, turning the woods ablaze with orange and yellow and crimson. From time to time they passed the low huts of peasants. To these people, who hurried to greet them as soon as they saw they were English, they gave what news they could but got none in exchange. No one had passed that way, heading north, since Harold's last messengers.
On the fifth day, the trees began to thin. They were nearing the high ground of Telham Hill north of Pevensey Bay. Brenna grasped her child more closely to her as they approached the spot where she and Guyon had been separated. Memories of that day almost ten months before flooded back, so absorbing her that she did not at first notice the men heading toward them.
Only when their escort reined in sharply did she realize anything unusual was happening. Some fifty yards down the road, a rag-daggled band of Englishmen was moving slowly. Several of the men limped, others needed the support of their comrades. One lay on a stretcher slung between two ponies. As they drew closer, Brenna could see dirt and blood stains on their leather jerkins and torn tunics. Some were weaponless, others without the shields customarily carried by the fyrd. All looked beyond exhaustion.
The senior housecarl turned to Edythe. "Wait here, my lady." His tone was courteous but with an undercurrent of steel that allowed no argument. Brenna edged her horse closer to her sister's. A muscle twitched in Edythe's jaw. Her knuckles shone white against the reins. Waves of tension radiated from her as her attention locked on the scene taking place just up the road.
The men stopped when they saw the housecarl approach. They stood quietly on the edge of the road as he questioned them. A few spoke, most remained silent. Brenna saw heads droop, shoulders sag. She saw the housecarl stiffen and say something sternly to which the men replied with a hopeless shrug. Eyes, deep set in weary faces, looked past the mounted warrior to the group behind him. Eyes that brushed over the two women and were quickly averted.
The housecarl turned and rode back to them. His face was gray and he could speak only with great difficulty. "M-my l-lady..."
Edythe held up a hand. "Not yet," she whispered thickly. "Let them pass first."
The men shuffled by slowly. Their surreptitious glances showed that they recognized the beautiful woman sitting so straight and proud on the caparisoned horse. The profound sorrow of their expression told the rest. Without any word being said, the leather helmets they wore were pulled off. Bareheaded, they moved past. Last in line was a young man of not more than fifteen years. He paused before Edythe, glancing up at her hesitantly. A dark flush suffused his grime-streaked face as he murmured, "My lady, we tried. Truly we did." In the reddened eyes raised to the beautiful woman was a heart-wrung plea for forgiveness, not simply from Edythe but from all of English womanhood shorn of protection from the conqueror.
Compassion softened Edythe's features. She leaned forward in the saddle, touching a hand to the boy's brow. "Go back to your home, lad," she said gently. "The harvest is bountiful and your family must need you. This is what my lord would wish."
The boy nodded mutely. Tears ran down his hollow cheeks as he moved on. When he was gone, the housecarl rasped, "The Normans are camped just over the next rise, at Senlac Meadow. We must turn back."
Edythe turned to him, but long moments passed before her eyes focused on the battle-hardened veteran hard pressed to contain his despair. Some far different scene held her inner gaze. "No," she said with unexpected firmness. "I must go on."
"My lady!" the housecarl protested, "you cannot. There... there is nothing you can do."
Edythe's chin lifted stubbornly. Her voice trembled but her intent was clear. "You are wrong. There is one more service I may do my lord." She paused, looking around at the shocked faces of the escort which was just beginning to fully understand what had happened. More gently, she continued, "I will understand if you do not wish to accompany me. There has been too much death here already to risk more lives. You will stay with my sister, to protect her and the child."
Now it was Brenna who objected. "No! We began this journey together and so we will end it. With or without the escort, I am going with you."
"The baby..." Edythe began in an effort to dissuade her.
"... must live with the consequences of what has happened here," Brenna interrupted. "I cannot protect him from them. We both know that."
Reluctantly, Edythe nodded. Turning back to the escort, she said, "I realize that your oath of loyalty to my lord binds you to guard us. But I now release you from it. You have families of your own to be concerned about. Go back to them."
"Do you think us so low that we would abandon you?" the housecarl growled. "Which of us could face our family if we let you go on alone?" The other men nodded firmly. Without waiting for orders, they formed up around the women in a guard of honor made all the more impressive by the ease with which it could be destroyed.
In silence, the little band moved on. The day grew warmer. A few last flies buzzed the horses. A flock of geese swooped overhead, turning south. Alain fussed a little in his mother's arms but she was able to quickly soothe him. As they neared the rise above Senlac Meadow, sounds began to reach them. The wind carried the crackle of cookfires, relaxed laughter, the neighing of horses, and something more— the stench of death.
Topping the ridge, the party halted. Brenna breathed in harshly. Across the soft ground washed by early autumn sunlight lay bodies, so many that their number was beyond imagining. Many lay with arms and legs flung out, some still locked in combat with the enemy. Scavengers were already at work. Though it was day, wolves and wild dogs prowled the edges of the clearing, dragging off severed limbs or even whole corpses. Most of the dead were English, already stripped of clothing and armor. Though they were now beyond all pain, the piercing vulnerability of those naked forms made Brenna choke.
She fought back tears as Alain began to whimper. Even to one so young, the pervasive sense of desolation was unmistakable. Automatically murmuring to him, Brenna dragged her gaze past the dead to the camp set up on the edge of the battlefield.
Gaily colored banners raised above bright-hued tents waved in the breeze. Men lounged in front of the tents, drinking wine, talking among themselves, or sleeping. Nearby a makeshift corral held several hundred war horses which servants were busy feeding and watering. Supply wagons at the camp's perimeter were being rapidly unloaded. Before a freshly dug pit, rows of shrouded bodies lay waiting for burial. Brenna watched as a priest moved among them sprinkling holy water.
At the center of the camp stood the largest and most luxurious of the tents. Covering almost as much ground as a good-sized hall, it was made of dark blue canvas trimmed in red. An awning above the entrance was held in place by two spears taller than any man. Above the tent fluttered a banner Brenna quickly recognized as belonging to Duke William.
Lifting a hand, she pointed. "There."
Edythe followed her direction. She stared at the tent in silence. The housecarl looked also. Clearing his throat, he said, "Let me go first, my lady. To explain who you are and secure safe passage for you."
Still looking at the tent, Edythe murmured, "Who will secure your safety? Rather than watch you cut down, I will go first."
Despite his protests, Edythe took the lead. With Brenna beside her and the men drawn up just behind, they headed down into the camp. Relaxed though the victorious Normans might be, they were not so confident as to let their guard drop completely. Sentries spotted the small band while it was still on the ridge. As they moved toward the meadow, Norman knights rode out to meet them.
Only the presence of women kept them from instantly drawing their weapons. That and Edythe's quick order to her men not to go for their own arms. She addressed the knights steadfastly. "I am the Lady Edythe, handfast wife to King Harold Godwinson. I wish to see your Duke."
The young Norman leading the group stared at her in unbridled astonishment. He had heard of the exquisitely beautiful mistress who shared Harold's bed and life, but never had he expected to meet her. Certainly not under such bizarre circumstances.
Stuttering, he murmured, "L-lord William will b-be surprised, my lady. Y-you really should not be h-here."
Edythe stared him down impatiently. "But I am here, and when that becomes known, the Duke will not appreciate your delay in bringing me to him."
Instinctively responding to the voice of authority, the knight inclined his head. Whatever doubts he still had were smothered by the urgent desire to turn the problem over to someone else. Ordering his men to surround the English but not harm them, he led the way into the camp.
The ordinary post-battle tasks of cleaning weapons, counting booty, and relating exploits ceased as they passed. Men glanced at the party, looked away, then stared in wide-eyed amazement as they realized what they were seeing. Before they reached the Duke's tent, a small group had collected behind them. Brenna stayed close to her sister as the housecarls looked around warily. Only great discipline and concern for the women kept them from drawing the weapons their hands itched to hold.
The young knight vanished into the tent to relate the news that was undoubtedly already known. He reappeared almost at once. "This way, my lady. The Duke will receive you." In his excitement, his breath came in pants, reminding Brenna of an overexerted puppy. She fought down an hysterical desire to laugh and followed Edythe.