by Ling, Maria
We? Leofe thought in bewilderment. "I don't know," she said. "They may not turn on her at once -- or maybe they've already done so." The idea tormented her, she hadn't so much as thought of it before, and now it might be too late. "I don't know," she said weakly. "I hope they've left her alone."
"Right," Henry said in weary resignation. "I can see that I'll need to play the fearsome lord for a while." He turned back to his brother and launched into a lengthy speech of such forced calm that Roland eventually subsided into the occasional muttered oath.
"Good," Henry said at length. "A nice sensible excursion. In force, yes, full armour, quite prepared to do brave battle against a handful of peasants. You can always rely on my brother to favour bloodshed. He'll take you along as well, and you can pick out your sister from the rest of the drabs. With your mother and any other sisters or cousins or nieces or aunts you happen to have lying around, I'm sure. I'll be only too pleased to extend my hospitality to them as well."
"I am very deeply grateful to you, my lord," Leofe said, and offered him a curtsy. He stared at her as if she'd sprouted horns, then stalked off and spoke to the grooms.
Roland seized her by both arms, pushed her back against the stone wall and fixed her with a dark look. She had time for a flicker of fear that she'd said or done something to displease him, before he nodded and gave her that careful close-lipped smile. Then turned and strode away, she pressed her back against the wall and thought he must have tried to tell her to stay. Which she would do, she had no task here, she was at leisure now to dread facing her family again.
But if it got her sister away, she would do even that. Or got assurance of her safety, at least, maybe the sight of a party of knights would be enough to guarantee it. Everyone knew what happened to men who crossed Norman lords and their troops. And what happened to women, too, just for getting near them.
Which hadn't happened to her yet. It occurred to her to wonder if they were really such hideous brutes as she'd always been told. Her father and brothers had talked on about how decent English men were different, how Normans would rape any English girl they happened on, and she'd deserve it too, just for being seen. That had always sounded evil to her, but they'd beaten her when she said so, and after that she kept silence. But now -- no, it was evil. A woman was not responsible for the actions of a man. He had his own will, his own conscience, greater strength, and far better standing in law than she. It was cruel and absurd to blame her for his decisions. Though cruel and absurd were the best words Leofe knew for men.
Except these, maybe, strange as it was to find decency in Normans. She'd never had a man defend her before, let alone reach out at a word from her to defend her little sister. That had always been Leofe's task, as best she could manage, she'd stood before her sister and taken the blows on herself. Whereas now --
She shied at the sudden appearance of a knight in mailcoat and helmet, but she'd know that faint sigh and raise of the hands anywhere. "Roland," she said, to show that she'd recognised him, and was startled to feel a smile try to creep onto her face.
More knights, and they did scare her now, all iron and leather and curt voices. She watched them mount, braced herself for being hauled aloft, and then saw Roland and what she presumed must be Henry locked in one of their brotherly rows. Henry -- yes, it was him, she recognised the voice, even when it gabbled as now -- turned to her.
"You don't ride," he said. It wasn't a question.
"No," Leofe admitted.
"Good," he said. "Then you're not going near either of my wife's horses. You can have my son's pony, it goes wherever the rest go. Just hold on to the mane and don't fall off."
"If I do," Leofe said with a tremor in her voice, "will I die?"
"Yes," Henry said. "Instantly. And good riddance, too." He flipped a gloved hand, and a small horse was led forward. Roland lifted her up, sidewards, she didn't dare pull her skirts up high enough to straddle the animal as the men did. Instead she clung to the mane and wanted to cry. It was so far to the ground, she was sure she'd break every bone if she did fall.
Roland smiled up at her, made a small shushing sound, caressed her arm. It reassured her, the drop to the ground didn't look quite so high. But when the pony started to walk, she had to choke down a whimper. She'd never ridden a horse before, never realised how abrupt the lunges were with each movement. Her fingers closed frantically on the coarse thick hairs of the mane, she held her weight as close to the middle of the creature's back as she could, prayed that she wouldn't topple.
It hadn't felt this bad with Roland, she thought. He'd held her then, she'd had no fear of falling, and she'd been blind with terror and rage in any case, it hadn't occurred to her to fear such a little thing. She measured the distance to the ground again, it wasn't quite so bad, she didn't really believe she'd die if she struck it. Break bones, yes, and that could lead to death, she'd seen a bad break turn to fever and then the grave. But it wasn't so great a fall, her first shock had misled her, and Henry -- beast that he was -- had played on that. Yet she smiled now, unexpectedly, as she remembered the dry tone of his voice. At least he hadn't cursed her out for a fool.
A strange pair, those brothers. She'd never met men like them. And now they were riding out like this, in force, at a word from her, to save an innocent young girl from beatings and death. She could admire that, she could love a man who --
She broke that thought abruptly, with a blush that burned her cheeks. Oh yes, fine thing to imagine, that they'd care for her in such a way, either of them. And one was married, too. Maybe her father and brothers had been right, maybe she really was a whore.
She'd settled into a rhythm now, understood the pony's movements well enough to follow them with her body. Though it was a long way to the village, she'd ridden forever with Roland, at least it had felt like forever at the time. She'd been so snared in fear and grief, the ride had lasted an eternity. And this was not much better, she saw field after field that she did not recognise, clumps of houses forming villages whose names she did not know. This would go on forever, and she was sore now, and beginning to feel very foolish. Perhaps her sister was in no great danger, or no worse than before, and Leofe didn't truly know these men, she thought they'd want to save Ymma but perhaps they'd only take her for themselves. Leofe worried now, that she'd done the wrong thing in mentioning it, that silence might have been the better choice. And perhaps Ymma wouldn't wish to come, perhaps they'd seize her and drag her away by force, and after that --
She couldn't live with herself if they did such a thing.
But she had her knife again. She had that. And with her sister close by, if the men allowed that, Leofe could at least make a quick ending of it all.
***
CHAPTER 3
They were in the churchyard, all of them, in a thunderous mood matched by the darkening sky. They'd have carried the corpses into the church, Leofe thought suddenly, cleaned them up and made them fit, readied them for burial. The shade of the stone walls provided the coolest place to leave them until the graves were dug, and the stout oak door could be made fast against rats and prowling foxes.
She felt sick, now, to think of it. And that could have been her body, she reminded herself, except she wouldn't have been cut down and carried into the church, to be buried with sacred rites -- no, she'd have been left to rot, while rats and ravens gnawed at her decaying flesh.
But they came forward now, grim men hefting scythes from the vestry, scowling at the mailcoats and the blank-faced stares from under iron helmets.
Henry jumped his horse over the low stone wall and rode across the churchyard to meet them. The air lay heavy and still with the expectation of a storm.
"You've trespassed on my privilege," Henry called out, loud enough that Leofe could make out every word. "You've broken the peace on my land, threatened Norman lords, presumed to try a case that belonged in my own manor court, and attempted murder. All of you share in the responsibility for this. But I will hear your side of the ma
tter, if one of you dares to speak for the rest."
They hadn't expected that, Leofe thought with sudden glee, as she watched the stirs and murmurs. They'd been ready for a fight, not the cool listing of their own errors.
And then she winced as her father stood forward, glared at her and then at Henry, and said: "I will speak, if you'll hear me."
"Go on."
"That girl -- " he stabbed a finger in Leofe's direction -- "is a witch and a whore and no daughter of mine. What arts she's used on your lordship and your lordship's men, only you and she know. But I can tell you that she's fit to be hanged. As for threatening Norman lords, no man here is fool enough to do that."
"Just defenceless girls," Henry observed, his tone not so much dry as desiccated.
"Such girls as she are never defenceless."
"She has a sister, I understand," Henry said.
"She does," Leofe's father said. "Who is my property to do with as I wish, and no Norman lord can deny it."
"I deny it," Henry said. "Bring her to me."
Two of the men stepped forward, scythes raised. Roland snapped out a command, and six bows rose in return.
"As you can see," Henry said, "I have the means to make my wishes respected. Bring the girl."
The men stared at him, at the bows, at each other.
"What do you want with her?" Leofe's father demanded.
"To try out her arts, of course," Henry said. "She'll have learned them from you, I'd imagine. Witching or whoring -- which do you want to be tried for, in my own manor court?"
Leofe's father winced in his turn. "I'm innocent of both."
"And can you bring twelve free men to swear to that?"
"Of course."
"And they'll swear just as readily that both your daughters are steeped in sin, and through no fault of yours?"
"They will."
"Then I'll have to make some changes here," Henry said. His voice cut through the air like a sharp edge through warm butter. "It seems I've allowed liars and hypocrites to flourish. Which is my fault, and I own it. I'll take it up with my confessor in due course. You, on the other hand, are under my rod and I'll exact appropriate punishment for your sins."
"I don't -- "
Henry turned to another man. "Bring the girl now or face the same discipline yourself."
The man -- one of her father's neighbours -- put down his scythe and strode past Leofe with a glare of hatred.
"As for the rest of you," Henry said, "you'll all be summoned to answer in my court at a time of my choosing. Be ready."
"We're free men," Leofe's father said. "We have the right to be tried by the county justice, on behalf of the king."
"Then appeal to him," Henry said. "I am content to abide by his decision."
Leofe turned at the sound of sobs. The man returned, dragging her sister by the arm. The girl's face was bruised from blows, and she stumbled as if barely able to walk. Leofe's belly seared with rage. She was used to taking such violence herself, but in her absence, it was her little sister who had suffered instead.
Roland froze at sight of her, then gave a sharp commanding whistle. The man stopped, stared up at the face above the mailcoat, abandoned all thought of argument. Shoved Ymma forward, so hard that she banged into the horse. Roland leaned down and put on hand on her arm to steady her, made the low reassuring murmur Leofe recognised, shook his head as the girl winced from pain or fear.
"Kill her for all I care," the man said. "Kill them both. We don't need slatterns around here."
Roland didn't understand the words, but he caught their tone and their meaning well enough, for he straightened up and drew his sword. Ymma flinched back.
"I'm here," Leofe said. "They won't hurt you." At least she hoped and prayed they wouldn't. But no life offered here, in any case.
Her sister stared up at her, pitiful eyes wide with reproach. "You left me," she wailed. "You left me to face them alone."
"Not from choice," Leofe said. And felt a sting of -- anger? frustration? -- that the girl obviously hadn't reflected, even for a moment, on the fact that she'd only suffered what Leofe had suffered many times before, and often in her stead.
But they could settle such matters later. Leofe's fingers clenched on the pony's mane, and she leaned down to take her sister's hand. She had some vague notion of hauling her up, but reason warned her not to try. They'd both fall.
Roland had come to the same conclusion. With the man retreating pace by pace towards the gate into the churchyard, Roland mastered his temper and sheathed his sword, then dismounted. He lifted up Ymma, and Leofe wrapped her arms around the slim body, as Roland had done with her, and prayed they would make it safely back to the castle. Or out of sight at least, if they could get clear of the village and its evil men, that would do for a start.
"Where's Mother?" Leofe asked the hiccuping girl.
"She said I was -- she called me a -- "
And so the notion Leofe had barely admitted to herself that she harboured, of rescuing her mother too, fell to the ground and crashed into pieces. Because her mother was no true mother at all, neither loved nor cared about her daughters, not if it kept her safe from the fists of men. Let her take her own chances then, as she'd always left her daughters to do.
"We're leaving," Leofe said. "You and me."
"To go where?"
"Their castle." Axford, but she wouldn't mention that just now. She didn't want the men coming after them, on any excuse. And they might not know the name of the place. She hadn't, after all.
"How will we live when we get there?"
"I don't know," Leofe said. It was the kindest thing she could think of. Because the truth would frighten the girl, as it frightened Leofe herself. But it was better than this. With men like Roland and Henry, it must be. And better than death, or at least she hoped it was.
"You'll be summoned," Henry said. "Until then, I suggest you comport yourselves with the semblance of decency."
"We have every right to beat our own children," Leofe's father said. "And wives, too."
"I don't argue with that," Henry said. "Beat them as much as you like. But scar or maim or kill them, and I'll have your eyes and hands and testicles in return. As will the county justice, never doubt."
"I'll ask him that myself," Leofe's father said.
"You do that," Henry replied. "See if you come back alive." He turned his horse and rode back across the graveyard, jumped the low wall, led his knights back down the lane. Roland's archers put bows and arrows away, and turned to follow. Leofe nudged the pony, and it slipped in beside Roland's horse, which suited her well. He gave her a small, reassuring smile and leaned over to pat her arm.
Still fearful, Leofe craned her neck to see if the men made any move to follow. They didn't: they were being faced down by Guillaume's party, which lingered outside the wall. And then turned, as if reluctant, and rode away, each man watching over his shoulder for a while before facing around towards Leofe, who flinched at their grim stares.
It was over. For now. She had her sister, for all the girl squirmed and grumbled and complained of discomfort.
"Do you want to stay?" Leofe threatened. "Because you can. I'll drop you right here and you can go straight home to Mother. And face whatever they do to you then. Because I won't come back for you a second time."
"You're horrible," Ymma said. "You've always been mean."
"I'll drop you then," Leofe replied.
"Not here," Ymma said. "Somewhere they can't get to me."
Leofe took that for permission to carry her away, and they rode on towards Axford castle, surrounded by mounted knights.
***
"Look," Henry said. "You can't bring them to the castle. I don't want one English girl in the place, let alone two. Besides, I need my archive back. The steward was asking questions before dinner."
"Do you have a better suggestion?" Roland replied.
"I do, as a matter of fact. It'll keep them away from the men, too, which I'd imagin
e is a point you favour."
"Go on, then."
"Well," Henry said, studying the fields on either side as if they held an answer, "if you're absolutely set on indulging this questionable taste of yours -- "
"Don't tell me," Roland said. "You have a mistress."
"As it happens," Henry replied, "yes, I do."
"In that village over there?"
"Near it, yes."
"Say, half an hour's ride from the castle, just about right for pretending you've spent the afternoon on a tour of the demesne."
Henry shot him a glare. "Stop pretending you know me. It's a quarter hour at most. Leaves time for a nap afterwards, too."
"Lazy fuck."
"You don't have children."
"None that I know of," Roland admitted. "So she'll house them, will she?"
"If I say so," Henry said. "Not happily, I don't imagine, but it's better than letting my wife catch sight of these two. There's a second bedroom, her personal maid sleeps there, it can be turned over to your use for the duration. Just tip her well when you leave. And she speaks English, so you can get her to translate for you. Nothing too obscene, mind. I don't care what you do to them, but keep my own property out of it."
"English girl, then?" Roland taunted.
Henry's eyes froze with distaste. "Certainly not. Good Norman blood."
"But not pretty enough to marry well?"
"Barren, so her husband put her aside. Conveniently discovered consanguinity in the fifth degree. I got the wardship. After a bit of wrangling, but it was worth it."
"And the fault was definitely on her side, not on his?"
"He's got three children on his second wife, while she remains without."
Roland grinned. "That would suit you."
"To perfection," Henry agreed. "Point is, she'll house them. And we'll tour the demesne together for the occasional afternoon during your stay. After all, you'd be the man to take over if anything should happen to me. Manage the estate until my son comes of age and can inherit. I'll talk to the sheriff and the county justice. Meant to get the scrolls and seals in order before you go in any case."