by The Vow
“Do you bide your tongue, demoiselle. There are among my men those who understand your language, and might take it amiss should they overhear your boast.”
“Do you deny it?” She leaned back against the cairn and crossed her arms over her chest to hide her angry trembling. She felt the Norman’s gaze rove over her, dark and speculative behind the nose guard of his metal helmet.
Something like amusement flickered for a moment on his face, and he shook his head slowly. “Nay, I do not deny that you bested me. But look you who has the advantage now. I will not be reminded again of your brief good fortune in catching me off guard.”
“I thought it was more skill than luck that—” she halted. The humor in his eyes had vanished, and she was unwilling to press him. If fortune was with her there would be another time.
One of the Norman soldiers approached them then, a burly man with a young face and old eyes. His manner was respectful but not submissive, and he waited until he had his leader’s attention before he spoke.
“We searched the storehouse and secured the grounds, Sir Luc.”
“Ah, Captain Remy, tell me what you found.”
The captain hesitated, his eyes flicking to Ceara before returning to the knight. “We found a small boy hiding under a pile of hides in the storehouse. After some coaxing, he told us that the old lord’s daughter led the uprising, sir—my lord. Her name is Lady Ceara.”
She almost laughed at his mangled pronunciation of her name, the Frankish lisp obliterating the r instead of emphasizing it. Sir Luc was not so ignorant, and flashed her a thoughtful glance as he repeated her name more properly.
“Keera is it? And the lady is alleged to have led men in battle? I do not think so. It is either a ruse to allow the true leader to escape or a plan to confuse us, Remy. See if you can get the truth from these stubborn Saxons.”
Remy grinned, his craggy features relaxing. “I will discover the truth. It does not take much to frighten Saxons, sir—my lord.”
“Do not exert yourself over proper titles, Remy. It will be as difficult for me to grow accustomed to the new rank as it will be for you. And until William confirms it, I am not yet the new lord of Wulfridge.”
“The king keeps his word, and you have kept yours by taking the fortress and subduing the rebels. The documents are only a formality.”
Ceara stood stiffly. She dared not betray her understanding of their tongue, but it was growing increasingly difficult not to voice her outrage. Poor Rudd. She had hoped they would not find him, but the Normans had been thorough. He was only twelve—easily frightened, as this captain had so contemptuously remarked. Surely they would not harm him, but they spoke so casually of “subduing the rebels.” The men they had subdued had names, families, lives of their own. Did that matter to them?
Nay, it did not, she answered her own question bitterly. Not to conquering warriors who thought only of victory, not what these lands meant to those who loved them. Most of England lay raped and charred beneath the Norman boot, a wasteland where fertile moors and forests had once lain. Little had been spared, and entire villages had died of starvation that first winter after the Norman invasion. Even monasteries had been razed, priests murdered. Wulfridge now risked the same fate, as she had known from the start. It was the gamble she had taken for freedom from the Norman yoke.
All for naught.
“Do you walk willingly with me, or would you have your people see you dragged?” Sir Luc was asking, and Ceara recovered from her rumination with a startled jerk.
“I am a Celtic princess. I do not need to be dragged to my death like a bullock at Samhain, Norman.”
His lips curled slightly. “No one spoke of death. Yet.”
Despite her growing fear, she kept her voice cool and steady: “I am already acquainted with Norman justice. Do you visit it upon small boys as harshly as you do women?”
“If it is deserved.” His gaze was keen. “If you speak of the boy you were hiding in the storehouse, he is safe. And will be as long as he obeys. It is a lesson you might consider, demoiselle, to keep you safe from harm.”
“Do not think to deceive me with honeyed words, for I know your intent.”
“I think you do not,” was the soft reply, and he lifted his sword to indicate the direction of the hall. “Saxon royalty should precede even a Norman knight, so you may walk ahead of me, princess.”
A hot flush warmed her cheeks. He was mocking her, of course. She suppressed the impulse to defy him, even in this, and held her head high as she walked past him. She half expected to feel the sharp nudge of a sword in her back.
Her entire body ached, bruised and bloodied, drained from the strenuous exertions of the day’s battle, and she walked slowly. I cannot display weakness, she thought raggedly, not in front of Normans, and certainly not in front of my own people. Wulfric, you should be here now … you would know what to do, how to keep these Normans from destroying us.…
She stumbled over a broken stone and caught herself, using the distraction to wipe an angry tear from her eye. Wulfric would never give advice again, would never come to her with laughter in his eyes, teasing her and enraging her at times, but always there. He was gone forever. They were all gone. If only her father had listened to her before it was too late. But he had not. He kept his sworn oath to the end, and it had destroyed them all.
But she had made a vow of her own.…
THE HALL was littered with dead bodies and Norman soldiers. Ceara steeled herself. Familiar faces glazed with the mask of death must be ignored, for it would give her enemies another weapon to use against her.
Yet it was more difficult than she anticipated. Even the unarmed and defenseless had been killed. An elderly servant sprawled just inside the door, his sightless eyes staring up at the high ceiling and blackened beams of the hall. She looked away.
Behind her, Sir Luc prodded her forward with the flat of his sword. “Advance to the dais, demoiselle. I would have you near me.”
Ceara jerked forward. The reply she meant to be light and mocking came out in a choked snarl: “I did not think you would grow enamored of me so quickly, Norman.”
“You nurture false hopes, demoiselle.”
“ ’tis you who nurtures false hopes if you think to hold what you have slain so many to take! Justice will win out, and you will reap the fruits of murder that you have sown, vile Norman, I swear it!”
His hand closed on her bare arm, fingers digging deep to cut off her accusations.
“Do not be misled by my gentle nature. I will not long suffer your barbed words.” The cold menace in his voice chilled Ceara to the bone, but somehow it allowed her to regain her composure.
She suffered Luc to push her to the dais where Lord Balfour had once held sway. His heavy hand pressed her down to the tiled lip of the platform, but she resisted just enough to signal her continued rebellion before she sank to the floor. Only then did she realize how utterly bone-weary she was, how her limbs shook with fatigue. The days had been long, the nights short and sleepless.
Ceara watched numbly as Norman soldiers moved the dead bodies from the hall, detaching herself from the painful sight and the knowledge that Wulfridge was no longer hers to command.
Shattered wooden benches and tables were removed, torn wall hangings pulled down, the floor swept clean of debris. Ceara did not speak, made no protest even when her armor was demanded of her, but yielded it up silently. Clad only in a short tunic, she sat on the cold floor and watched as the Normans stripped everything. The woven Saxon wahrift that decorated the walls were removed with little regard for their brightly colored beauty, leaving the stone beneath barren and cold.
One soldier asked Sir Luc about clean rushes as none could be found. Gesturing at the floor, the Norman complained in nasal French, “These barbaric Saxons do not even know how to cover a floor decently, my lord.”
Ceara bristled in silent disgust. Rushes. In her hall, covering the exquisite beauty of the ancient tile floors! Blind ass
, he was too intent upon destruction to see the masterpieces that had endured through the ages. It confirmed her belief that all Normans were barbaric and crude.
But Luc surprised her. “No, Alain, do not cover these floors. It would be a pity to hide such craftsmanship and beauty with straw.”
“Not use rushes?” Alain frowned slightly, then glanced up at Ceara with a swift scrutiny that made her uneasy. He had half-lidded hazel eyes and a face that many may have called handsome, yet made her think of a coiled serpent. But his smile was bland, his manner cordial as he inclined his head deferentially. “As you wish, Sir Luc—my lord. What then shall we use to cover the floors?”
“Our feet.” Luc waved a hand in impatient dismissal, and observed tartly that he should not be bothered with petty housekeeping details. “Inform Captain Remy that he is to oversee the distribution of duties, since it was his failure to control his men that caused the deaths of unarmed servants.”
“At once, my lord.” Alain backed away, but not so quickly that Ceara missed the gleam of triumph in his eyes. Could there be strife among these Normans?
She wanted to smile in satisfaction, but dared not—not yet, when keeping her understanding from the Normans might still win her freedom. So she kept her head down, her attention on her folded hands, clenched together so tightly that her knuckles grew white with strain as her home was transformed into a Norman abode.
When Ceara could bear to look up at the hall again—completely changed now, with furniture moved and familiar hangings gone—she recognized Hardred, one of her father’s thralls, being pressed into service by the Normans. While she had never liked him, she could not help a feeling of pity that he was now a slave to Norman whims. Just as she was.…
She shuddered and Luc leaned forward, his mouth close to her ear as he murmured in English that soon a fire would be built to warm them. His breath was heated against her cheek, his presence much too near, too immediate, so that she found it difficult to reply, or even to breathe. Did he think a few kind words would replace the deeds of the day? Impossible. And she refused to acknowledge his pretense of courtesy.
After a moment of stubborn silence, he laughed softly. “Ah, little Saxon,” he said in French, “you are as fierce as the men of your land, but you are now brought to hand, as a tamed gyr-falcon. Your wings have been clipped, but you will not admit to defeat … perhaps it will not be so boring a journey as I had thought, delivering a rebel to William in chains. And perhaps you may yet find that being conquered is not all that you fear.”
Chains? Ceara tensed, that word standing apart from the others, ringing ominously in her brain. She was to be chained. Hatred sparked anew. Did they think to humiliate her? She would not have it. She would fight him, escape or die rather than be presented to the Norman king weighed down in chains and shame.
Was it not shame enough to be forced to sit at the feet of the enemy in her own hall? The hall where she had played as a child under her parents’ loving eyes? And well this man must know it, for he kept her here as a prize to display before her own people as well as his. She was branded now, tarred with the brush of defeat.
And I will escape, she vowed silently, her fingers curling into such tight fists that her hands began to ache. Yes, she would flee into the forest beyond Wulfridge if given the slightest chance, retrieve her beloved wolf and leave this land behind. Wulfridge was no longer hers, would soon be swallowed up by the Norman horde and become unfamiliar. Ah, everything she had done was wrong, save for sending Sheba away to safety. But how safe would the animal remain with Normans prowling fen and wood? They slaughtered everything, these savage invaders, leaving nothing alive for the use of Saxon inhabitants. Not even elderly servants were spared, and certainly not those who defied them with sword and hatred. If she did not escape, she would die as well.
It seemed an eternity before Luc leaned back and away from her, though he kept a hand on her shoulder, his fingers toying with her loose hair. Did he never tire? He had not yet sat down, but stood behind her like an avenging angel while his men kept Saxon prisoners at work clearing the hall.
Ceara did not betray the turmoil inside her by word or gesture, yet it gnawed at her while she sat silently at the Norman’s feet. Time lagged endlessly. Nor did she betray her distress when Saxon captives were brought before Sir Luc weighed down in heavy chains. The men, bloodied and yet hostile, were offered a choice between swearing fealty to him and to William, or death.
“Know you,” Luc warned, “that if you swear to me, you will keep your oath or suffer the consequences. I do not tolerate treachery, and would respect a man more for the unwelcome truth than a false oath.”
The silence that fell over the hall was oppressive, rife with foreboding. Ceara held her breath, mutely pleading with each man not to yield to the Norman foe.
But she was disappointed, as each man bent the knee to Sir Luc and swore fealty to him and to William, swearing to ply arms only for the Norman rulers. Not one abstained, not even Kerwin, the grizzled captain who had been her father’s finest commander.
“You have made wise decisions this day,” Luc said to the grim-faced Saxons. “I have need of good men to serve me, and will see you rewarded justly for loyal service. Go now and have your chains removed and your heads shorn to the Norman mode, so that all will know of your free choice.”
Ceara closed her eyes, sick at heart. This, then, was the end.
The sickness stayed with her long after the men were led away. They would return to homes and families, while she was to face her fate alone. But had she not known this from the first? Yea, she had known when she took up the reins of command and convinced Balfour’s men to follow his daughter that she risked more than they did if she failed.
At last Luc took his seat, and a table was dragged to the dais and laid with platters of meat, bread, and cheese, as well as flagons of ale. She did not touch the trencher that was placed before her, but stared with such pointed disdain at Luc when he bade her eat that he did not persist.
“Rebellious Saxon. Starve yourself if it pleases you, then.”
A small smile touched the corners of his mouth, and she was struck by how much younger he seemed then. Without his helmet and coif, she could see that his dark hair was longer than most Normans’, with tousled locks covering his ears and almost brushing against his broad shoulders. Strong black brows soared over his inky eyes like hawk wings, and a rough stubble of beard shadow darkened his cheeks and jaw. Despite a thin scar at the corner of one brow, and another along the square line of his jaw, he was a well-favored man. Yet he was still Norman—still the enemy—and thus detestable to her eyes.
Her disdain did not have the unsettling effect on him that she would have liked. Instead he seemed to find amusement in her aloof silence, and took advantage of any opportunity to goad her with comments made to Captain Remy in English, so she would be certain to comprehend. But she understood the game, and controlled her temper with an immense effort.
Torches burned low, pungent sparks flickering to the tile floor as the Normans ate and drank, celebrating their victory over the Saxons now being forced to serve them. Most of those pressed into service were young and untrained, and looked terrified as they stumbled clumsily about in a desperate attempt to satisfy the victors. Acrid smoke from green wood filled the hall in drifting layers and stung the back of her throat. The smell of burnt meat mingled with the stench of unwashed bodies and spilled ale. What tables were not shattered had been set up along the length of the hall, and wooden benches flanked the long oaken slabs. The enemy filled Wulfridge’s hall with laughter and boasts and the retelling of their victory until Ceara wanted to cover her ears with her hands. Stark pride was the only tether that kept her bound to the Norman at her side. She would not give him the satisfaction of admitting her longing to flee, so sat stiffly with her head held high.
But exhaustion left her almost reeling. She longed for her bed, yet dreaded the coming night. Already, she had seen the few women of the hou
sehold disappear, and could only imagine their fates at the hands of these rough men. No less would be her fate, she was certain. Luc had kept a hand on her all evening, playing with her hair and occasionally stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers, as if she already belonged to him. Unnerving in itself, but coupled with the knowledge of what was surely to come, it was almost enough to undo her.
The moment came far too soon. He rose to his feet, a careless hand still on her shoulder. His fingers pressed into her flesh. “Come, demoiselle. I would seek rest this eve, for the morrow comes early. You may show me to a bed.”
Stubbornness and fear kept her seated, and tension made her tongue sharp. “ ’tis customary for dogs to sleep at the door, Norman. Seek your rest there.”
“Do you intend to join me?” His tone was mild, but his fingers dug into her shoulder painfully. “You may once have been the lady here, but Wulfridge is no longer yours to command. Lest you wish to sleep on stone yourself, you will show me to a soft bed instead of a cold portal.”
She managed a shrug that did not dislodge his grip. “Wulfridge has long been mine to command, and I prefer my own chamber.”
“Foolish little pagan. If you test me, it will be to your discomfort, for my patience is near gone and I will deal with you harshly. Now rise. I do not intend to quarrel with you in front of the entire hall. I have more pleasant pursuits in mind for this eve.”
Ceara stiffened. The last was spoken loudly enough for her people to hear, his clear English carrying the length of the hall. She glanced up. Dismay flickered on familiar Saxon faces, while the Normans looked smug at her plight. Captain Remy had the temerity to laugh, a grin creasing his face, and he lifted his cup in a salute to his lord.
Reckless fury surged through her, and she forced a serene smile as she obediently rose in a graceful movement. Even as she stood, at last, on a level surface with Luc, he was much taller than she. Yet she would not be intimidated. Not for his satisfaction, nor the entertainment of his men.