by Regan Walker
“Aye, your mother said as much.” The wind blew Rory’s red hair across his forehead. “And, if you are willing, I would be your bannerman, as Sir Alain carries the banner for the Red Wolf. What say you?”
“So be it! I can think of no better knight to have at my side or at my back.”
Maugris ambled up to Alex and tipped his silver head back to take in the tall banner. “Ah the wolf rampant rises,” he said in his mysterious way of speaking. “Soon ’twill fly above the red hart. I have seen it.”
Alex and Rory stared at the wise one, who promptly turned and meandered away.
“I do wonder if Maugris knows the meaning of his visions,” said Alex.
“ ’Tis that prophecy again,” said Rory, watching the old seer disappear into the crowd.
“Aye, and I know no more now than the last time he spoke of it, save a wolf rampant flies on my banner.”
“Whenever he speaks like that,” said Rory, “it brings up bumps on my skin. ’Tis eerie the way he sees things.”
“Aye.” But Alex had no more time to think on it. His men were mounting their horses. “If we are to arrive in Durham before the king, we had best be going. ’Tis at least two days’ ride even with favorable weather.”
Alex slipped his foot in the stirrup, launched himself into the saddle and walked the black stallion to the head of the column. Rory, holding the banner in the leather sheath affixed to his saddle, rode behind him. Alex’s squire, leading the destrier, rode with the other men.
Beneath him, Azor was restless, but Alex could not leave until he bid his parents goodbye and glimpsed the face of the woman he would miss the most.
His parents stood together at the door of the hall, along with his friends’ fathers, Sir Geoffroi and Sir Maurin and their wives, Lady Emma and the redheaded Cassie. Jamie had come from the gate to stand next to Lora. As captain of the house knights, however reluctant he was to remain behind, his priority was to guard the demesne.
Alex raised his hand to acknowledge his parents.
Not far away, Merewyn stood in the shadows of the manor, her cheeks glistening with tears. It tore at him to see her so. He wanted with all his heart to call her to him for a last kiss, but he could not allow the others to think she was more than a friend. Not for her sake. Not yet.
With his shouted command, the score of men followed him out the gate.
* * *
Merewyn hastily looked down at her feet, brushing away the tears, unwilling for any to see the pain she kept hidden in her heart. When she looked up, Alex was already through the palisade gate. Would she ever see him again? She vowed to remember always the way he sat so erect upon his great stallion, his long raven hair flowing over his mail-clad shoulders and the long sword sheathed at his hip.
There was no banter, no teasing, with his men this time, only the somber faces of knights going to war, determined to face the king’s enemies without fear.
Behind Alex, Rory carried proudly the new banner, proclaiming to all the Black Wolf now rode in his own right. No longer merely the son of a legend, Alex was becoming a legend himself.
She choked back the tears.
Every step he took away from Talisand was a step away from her.
How long might he be gone? Would it be months, as Jamie expected? Would he survive the coming battle? In that instant, cold fear lashed at her insides. Losing him to death would be far worse than losing him to a wife chosen by the king. At least with the latter, he would still live.
He had to survive. A legend could not die before his time. Comforted with the thought, her mind raced to what would happen when the fight with the Scots was over. Would the king Alex so loyally served betroth him to Lady Adèle? The Norman woman had been so sure she would wed Alex. Mayhap it would be so. Merewyn could not bear to see again the smug smile on the woman’s face were that to happen. Nay, she must be gone before that day arrived.
She turned and slipped into the manor to change her clothes. In her chamber, she donned the archer’s tunic, hosen and leather jerkin that cloaked her femininity. Her bow spoke a word of rebuke for her past sins. She ignored it. Picking up the bow and quiver, she set her course for the stables. This time, she would practice her shooting with Ceinder.
As she would in her new home—in Wales.
* * *
Night was falling as Alex stared into the fire his squire had built and thought of Merewyn’s tears. Once this campaign was over, he vowed never to see Merewyn cry again. He would fill her life with laughter and her belly with their sons and daughters.
Above him the sky was as dark as his mood. The night air was cold, making the fire welcome. He held out his palms to warm them in the heat of the flames. Thus far, they had been spared rain, for which he was grateful. Rain made a knight’s travel miserable.
He and his friends had caught three hares now roasting on a spit stretched over the fire between two forked branches thrust into the ground. His stomach rumbled at the smell of the meat. “Are the men settled in?” he asked Rory who sank onto the log beside him.
“Aye, and cooking their own suppers. Your squire and mine are seeing to the horses.”
Guy approached with a leather flask he thrust at Alex. “Here, warm your bones with some of Normandy’s wine.” Alex accepted it gratefully and took a drink before passing it to Rory. The red wine was welcome after a hard day of guiding his men across vast open spaces, then picking his way through rocky outcroppings and sparse vegetation.
“Tomorrow should see us in Durham,” he told his companions, “well before the king is expected to arrive.”
“ ’Tis best we arrive afore him,” said Rory. “William waits for no man.”
* * *
Alex held his fist in the air to halt his men as they emerged from the woods a short distance from Durham. The countryside spread out before him, golden fields dotted with scattered woodlands. But that was not what had sent a chill crawling up his spine.
“What is it, Alex?” asked Rory coming alongside him on his right at the same time Guy appeared on his left.
“Something is amiss,” he said. “See the fields of ripe flax in the distance?”
“Aye, what of it?” asked Guy.
“They lie half-harvested yet there are no villeins, no carts nor any cattle to be seen. ’Tis as if the whole city has drawn into itself, hiding behind Durham’s walls.”
“Could word have reached them of William’s army marching north?” asked Rory.
“Possibly,” Alex said, considering what might have happened. “Or, it could be the Scots frightened the people into abandoning their fields and hiding their cattle.”
“I was always taught the Northumbrians like neither the Scots nor the Normans,” said Guy.
“Your mother, Lady Emma, would know,” Alex said, casting a glance at the younger knight. “In York, she saw the worst of the Conqueror’s wrath and after, Malcolm was known to raid even before this.”
“Aye,” said Rory, “we will find no welcome here.”
Turning Azor, Alex faced his other men and gestured to the woods. “We will camp here for the night. Be vigilant on your watches for we do not know who yet roams the woods or if all the Scots have departed.” He then made assignments as to who would hunt and forage and who would take the first watch. The squires would gather wood and build the fires.
Alex reserved for himself the work of spying out the land to see what might be learned.
Turning back to his friends, he said, “Leave the banner, Rory. Let us water the horses and then see what lies beyond these woods.”
By the time the three of them left the camp, the sun was low in the sky but still provided ample light for the mission Alex had in mind.
Not knowing what they might find, they had donned their helms and carried their shields, their weapons at the ready.
The land they scouted bore the marks of the season, spring crops ready to harvest, winter seed not yet sewn. Sloping, gorse-covered hills and scattered leaf-strewn woodl
ands surrounded all.
Rocky outcroppings sometimes slowed their progress, but eventually they crested a hill to look down upon the city of Durham to the east. Around the elevated walled city meandered the River Wear. Dense vegetation grew tall on either side of its banks.
They were just heading down the slope when Alex spotted a large group of mounted warriors to the north, as many as two hundred. The riders wore mail, but then, both Normans and Scots did. Narrowing his eyes and scanning the group, he spotted the familiar banner of Nigel d’Aubigny, a white lion rampant on a bright red field.
“ ’Tis Sir Nigel,” he said, urging Azor down the hill to where the baron sat on his horse surrounded by his knights.
Alex and his friends posed no threat to the large group of knights but they were closely watched all the same, heads turning at their approach. Since he carried no banner, neither his father’s nor his own, they were not recognized until they drew close.
Sir Nigel rode out to meet him. “I’d know that stallion anywhere. Greetings, son of the Red Wolf! How is your father?”
Alex grinned, pleased to find a friend when he could have so easily encountered an enemy. “He is well at Talisand and sends his regards and his eldest son to carry the message.”
Sir Nigel chuckled, took off his helm and extended his arm to Alex. His gray-streaked brown hair was still thick and framed a lined face.
Alex doffed his helm and accepted the arm of friendship. “Cainhoe and Bedfordshire are a long way from Durham. Do you ride with William’s army?”
“Aye, the king asked me to take a strong force ahead to chase the Scots north. Word of our arrival had its effect. Malcolm must have mistaken us for William’s full army. When we got here, the city was caught between the remnants of the Scots fleeing north and our knights advancing from the south.”
“And the people of Durham? We’ve seen none.”
“Holed up in the city,” Sir Nigel said, looking over Alex and his two companions. “How many of you are there?”
“A score of knights and men-at-arms camped in nearby woods. We only just arrived. Do you expect William soon?”
“Tomorrow, I should think. He rides with his brother and Duncan, King Malcolm’s son. Even Ranulf has come. The man’s no warrior but mayhap William feels in the need of a priest.”
Alex laughed. They both knew Ranulf had few, if any, duties as the king’s priest.
“Tonight you and your men must join my camp,” insisted Sir Nigel. “Many of the knights with me are of an age with you and the conversations around the cook fires will no doubt have them telling outrageous tales of their valor.”
“Thank you,” said Alex. “My men might enjoy that.”
* * *
Merewyn stood behind Cecily, helping her student to square her stance. “Keep your feet apart the distance between your hips.”
Cecily dutifully adjusted her legs. The morning sun filtered through the trees to fall on the leaves that had drifted to the ground forming a cinnamon-colored carpet beneath the girl’s feet.
The two boys, ever with her, watched from a nearby rock as the lesson proceeded. It was not her first and the boys were slowly losing their interest.
“It feels awkward to stand this way,” Cecily protested.
“I know. It did for me as well, but you will get used to it. And once you find the right stance, you must do it every time the same way.”
Cecily squared her shoulders in a determined manner and placed her toes so they just touched the arrow Merewyn had laid across the ground as a guide. “When do I get the bow?”
Merewyn reached for the small bow that had been the one she used for her own training. “How about now?”
Without moving her feet, Cecily beamed up at Merewyn. A year younger than Tibby, Alex’s brother, at nine summers, Cecily already had a will of iron.
The lesson continued as Merewyn showed Cecily how to hold the bow, how to keep her arm almost straight and how to hook the bowstring with her fingers and pull it back to her chin. “You must practice every day until it is as natural as breathing and the bow becomes an extension of your arm.”
Several minutes of practice later, Merewyn called a halt when she detected Cecily was tiring. “Tomorrow we shall begin again.”
“When do I get to shoot an arrow?” the young redhead asked.
Merewyn smiled, remembering when she had been just as impatient. “In a day or two. The better your form, the more likely your arrow will hit the target.”
The young girl sighed. “All right.”
“Come on, Cecily!” shouted Tibby, who had been shifting about on the rock, apparently desirous of playing another game. Once the boys had seen how much work learning to be an archer required, they had decided to wait to see what their friend’s lessons produced. So far, Cecily was doing well, but the lessons had only begun.
Cecily ran off to join her companions.
Snatching up the girl’s practice bow and her own, larger bow, Merewyn headed back to the manor. Before she had gone very far, her stomach lurched and her mouth filled with saliva. A sudden urge to spew up the meal she had eaten an hour before took hold of her. Ducking behind a tree, she leaned over and heaved. Wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve, she leaned against the tree, feeling weak.
She was never ill, but mayhap there had been a touch of mold in the grain used in the gruel.
A moment later, feeling better, she pushed away from the tree. By the time she got back to the manor, it was as if it had not happened. How strange.
The next morning after Cecily’s lesson, Merewyn went to see Ceinder and the same thing happened. Only this time, she was in the stable when the urge to spew came over her.
Jamie, who had been in the stable, hearing her retch into the straw, came to her aid. “Merewyn, what is it?”
“ ’Tis nothing,” she said. “ ’Twill pass.”
“You are ill?” His concern was evident.
“Nay. It happened yesterday, too. Mayhap my gruel of late does not suit my stomach.”
“Come, sit on this stool.” He gestured to a stool in the corner and she sat. “Your face has no color.”
“Thank you,” she said with a half-hearted smirk. A few moments later, she began to feel better. Jamie still stood beside her. “See,” she said, rising from the stool, “I am now hale and, I trust, no longer without color.”
“Merewyn, I am no stripling lad, nor even a young knight. I have observed many women act as you have and always the cause is the same. Forgive me for asking, but could you be with child?”
Merewyn stared at the beam of light falling onto the straw. Yes, I could. They had come together only a few times but in her mother’s case, it had taken only once. Merewyn’s flow was often irregular, but it had not come this last month. Yes, she could well be with child. Alex’s babe! Excitement for the babe and fear for her future warred within her.
Turning her face to Jamie, she nodded. “Promise me you will say nothing.”
“I will say nothing, but I must know, ’tis Alex’s child?”
“If I am with child, Jamie, it could only be his, for I have known no other.”
“I thought as much. You two were very close before he left to meet the king. I have long suspected there was more than friendship between you. You need have no fear. Alex will wed you, I am certain.”
She shook her head vigorously. “You know as well as I that Alex must wed a noblewoman, most likely the daughter of the comte de Vermandois. Lady Adèle is the king’s choice for Alex, not a woman like me.”
“But he cares for you, I know it,” insisted the blond knight. “He would never have allowed this to happen otherwise. He is honorable.”
“Oh, Jamie, I know that. But you must understand, I cannot let Alex take me as his wife. Do you not see what would happen if I did? The king would be very angry with him and, in time, Alex would hate me for robbing him of his king’s favor and the lands a marriage to a noblewoman of Normandy would bring. Even Talisand m
ight suffer.”
Jamie let out a sigh. “You care for him, I see.”
“I do, too much to see him give up his future for me.”
“Well, if not Alex, you must wed another.” Raising his chest, he declared, “I would be your husband, Merewyn, should you have me.”
His blue eyes were earnest, his words true. He would do it and she loved him for his noble offer. But she could never allow him to marry her when he loved another, as she did. She smiled at him, grateful for the man he was. “Nay, I will not have you, dear Jamie.”
He returned her a puzzled look.
“You love Lora, Jamie, I have always known it. It is Lora you should wed, not me.”
His gaze suddenly shifted to the straw at his feet, confirming her assumption.
“But what about you?” he asked, raising his head to meet her gaze.
“Do not worry about me, Jamie. My mother bore me alone and I can bear this child the same way if I must. I am not without friends. In Wales, I have many.”
His brow furrowed. “Alex will not like it.”
She picked up her bow and quiver of arrows. “Alex will never know.”
CHAPTER 11
Alex sat atop Azor next to Sir Nigel watching the thousands of mail-clad knights and men-at-arms coming toward them from the south. They swarmed over the land like locusts, their silvered helms reflecting the afternoon sun. Impatient to be about the king’s business, Alex was pleased William’s army had finally arrived.
Without turning, he said to Sir Nigel, “Now, at last, we can pursue the Scots.”
As the army drew closer, Alex saw the king and his brother, Robert, riding ahead of the barons and the army.
Behind the king to one side walked his archers, hundreds strong. Their green and brown clothing was not unlike the bowman’s garb Merewyn wore, but not one rode a horse. Merewyn would love to have seen it. His chest tightened as he imagined her smiling at him from her Welsh pony, her bow slung over her shoulder. She was brave enough to ride with William’s army, he had no doubt.