by Tamara Leigh
“I wish you to aid the rebellion.”
She blinked. “Me?”
“Once our numbers are sufficient and well trained, we shall strike at the Normans however we can. On occasion, that will require you hide rebels here where Normans will not think to look.”
“We are all women within these walls, my lady! Allowing men to enter would not be borne.”
“And need not be. These walls shall be replaced with stone and a passage built into them as at Wulfen. There you will harbor rebels until it is safe for them to depart.” At the young woman’s hesitation, Isa added, “That is the anything I require of you—and that you speak of it to none.”
“Not even the abbess?”
“I shall deal with her.” Isa frowned. “She is too young for so esteemed a position. What know you of her?”
“Very little, so few words have we exchanged.”
“Is she well regarded by her flock?”
“Those who do not resent her youth are respectful.”
“And those who resent it?”
“I speak of older sisters who believe her position should have been given to one of greater experience.”
“One of them.”
“There are several the old abbess would have been pleased to have replace her.”
Aelfled’s observations of little use, Isa said, “You may return to your prayers.”
“Will you come again soon?”
“Doubtful. If I require anything, I shall send Vitalis or another.”
Aelfled curtsied. “As you will, my lady.”
When she went from sight, Isa returned to the abbess. “We must depart.”
The woman inclined her head. “Godspeed, Child.”
Spoken by one more a child than she! But it was as those of the Church addressed young and old, Isa reminded herself.
As she swung atop the destrier, she reflected women should not be restricted to gowns. So much easier it was in chausses and tunic to properly sit a saddle and move with the horse.
She patted the neck of the flaxen-maned mount she had made her own and wondered again what to name her Norman prize. But as she started to urge him after Vitalis, a hand touched her knee.
“Abbess?” she said, peering into the woman’s upturned face, the angle of which emphasized a slightly cleft chin.
“I would offer words of encouragement, my lady. Words all require in these darkest of days.”
Isa inclined her head.
“You, like many, feel God is punishing our people, aye?”
“What other explanation is there?”
The woman’s shrug seemed an unholy response. “We cannot know the mind of our Lord. All we can do is remember and embrace who we are—Saxons strong of mind and body. And spirit.”
Isa stiffened. Though not the exact words inscribed by Gytha, they were near enough fine hairs rose across her limbs.
“Godspeed, Child,” the abbess said again and walked opposite.
When Isa drew alongside Vitalis, her man said low, “She unsettles you.”
“Indeed. We must inquire after her.”
“What do you fear?”
“That she is not as she appears, that she may be much more.” She sighed. “But it will save until I have secured a son.”
Lincolnshire
England
In one thing, the Wulfriths could be likened to Normans—their attitude toward slavery. And did one know their history, they might understand that hatred.
Might. Just because one did not like something done to them was no guarantee they would not do it to another.
When Isa was not averting her gaze, holding her breath, and grinding her teeth, she was searching for one capable of fooling the Normans. But none of the boys led to the block and presented like wares to enthusiastic buyers and leering observers fit. Unfortunately, they neared the end of the offering, the last of the slaves having been herded from a tent to join the line to the left of the platform.
If not for the need to maintain anonymity, Isa and Vitalis would have joined other buyers in going tent to tent to examine the slaves to be auctioned. Instead, observance was limited to those who shuffled toward the block.
“What think you, my lady?” Vitalis nodded at the boy near the back of the line who had turned his profile toward them.
He was the right size and hair a similar color though shorn—likely due to lice infestation. From the side he was hardly familiar, but face on he might be near enough the look of the noble boy whose name he would take so those who had not seen her heir in some time could be persuaded the difference was due to maturation.
The boy turned forward again, and Isa looked to Vitalis whose face was in shadow the same as hers, both having remained beneath hoods as could hardly be thought strange in such cool weather that continued to threaten rain.
“Size and coloring.” She nodded. “But his face is very angular, chin long. If only he had more the look of the smaller one ahead.” She nodded at the boy who stood behind a young woman Isa guessed was his sister, the hand she reached to him clasped by his. It was good his accompaniment to the block meant they would be sold together. Otherwise, Isa would be tempted to choose this one who bore a good resemblance to her son but was shorter and slighter of build—two years younger, she guessed.
“Unless you resign yourself to returning to Wulfen empty-handed, the shorn one will have to suffice, my lady.”
“Aye, soon the king’s men come.” She returned her regard to the boy she would have little time to shape into one who appeared worthy of the name Wulfrith and there fixed her attention to avoid looking nearer on the atrocity of humans sold like beasts—and in the case of pretty young women and girls, men’s playthings.
Still, she felt their fear, pain, and shame as she had felt the agony and indignity of her own captive at a distance—and more so when she had recognized it was Guarin D’Argent chained to the posts.
Isa tried to return to the present and set her mind on transforming the hard-faced boy into one given the name of Wulfrith, but the Norman warrior was in her head again. Vitalis said D’Argent healed well and had been provided greater quality and quantity of food and drink, good bedding and clothing, and torchlight. A fortnight longer, her man assured her, and the most skilled of their rebels would begin testing their training against the enemy—if he cooperated.
Vitalis said he seemed not at all grateful for his improved circumstances, that he merely stared at those who came and went and refused to answer questions put to him.
Instinct, Isa had assured Vitalis. When it came time to prove he was worth keeping alive, the Norman would raise his dull sword and beat back those set at him. Since he was destined for Normandy rather than a shallow grave in English soil, he would fight.
A commotion yanked her back to the auction—cries, shouts, bodies surging forward and carrying her with them.
“What goes, Vitalis?” she demanded.
As he pulled her against his side, she followed his gaze to the block, and there was the young woman and her brother displayed for the buyers. Hands that had been joined in line reached to re-establish contact broken by two slavers, one who pinned the woman to his broad chest with an arm beneath her breasts, the other who hooked the flailing boy beneath a muscled arm.
“We were to be sold together!” the young woman cried. “It was agreed!”
It was terrible enough to witness the siblings’ desperation and fear, but to feel and hear the excitement of the crowd as if they were presented a great feast…
“Dear Lord,” Isa gasped.
“Look away, my lady.”
She could not.
The struggling boy calling for his sister was carried to the far end near the steps the slaves climbed to be sold to others born into this world the same as they, while the young woman was hauled to the edge of the platform. As she looked wildly around with eyes that appeared of different colors, the bidding resumed.
Three voices rose above the others—one belongi
ng to the auctioneer behind his stand, the other two of men who sought to outbid the other. Of note was one of the buyers Isa could not see over the crowd spoke with the accent of the invaders—a Norman whose people were opposed to slavery though, in this instance, surely only because it was abolished in his own country.
After fierce bidding that nearly muted the cries of brother and sister, it was the Norman who made the young woman his possession.
“The name of the one who has purchased the witchy-eyed wench?” the auctioneer called.
“Chevalier Raymond Campagnon!”
So disturbed was Isa that the man’s name nearly slipped past. “Vitalis, he is the one—”
“Quiet, my lady. There is naught to be done.”
“But he is—”
“I know.”
Of course he did. She had shared the contents of Gytha’s missive, among them the belief Le Bâtard had awarded a portion of her lands to one of that name. It had to be the same, and that he was so near Wulfenshire could mean he was set to claim his reward and introduce slavery to her lands.
“All the more reason your face remain hidden,” Vitalis said.
“Em!” the boy cried, and Isa thought her heart would burst when he strained toward his sister who was being carried down the opposite steps. So much did his flushed, tear-streaked face resemble Wulf’s when her son had learned of his sire’s death, Isa’s knees started to buckle.
Vitalis tightened his hold on her. “I see it too, my lady.”
And now the boy would be sold to another who could take him so distant brother and sister might not meet again. And further yet if, like many who had not commanded the minimum bid, he was sold to slavers who would transport him across the sea to lands with a healthy appetite for trade in humans.
“I shall see you back to our escort and return here to purchase the shorn boy.” Vitalis started to turn her from the spectacle.
“Nay, I want the younger one.”
His frown was large enough to see its every line amid shadow. “He is too small—easily a hand in height and width.”
“I want him! Do you not bid, I shall.”
His nostrils dilated, but he nodded. “As my lady commands.”
Certes, you are the fool he thinks, she silently rebuked, then said, “Draw near and pay what you must. I shall rejoin our escort.” It was enough to know she had purchased another human without seeing it done. Though the boy would not suffer the life of a slave, the paper citing his sale to one of false name would list him as such. And she would burn it to the finest ash.
Lest Vitalis insist on escorting her back to her men, during which the boy could be sold to another, she said, “Go,” and pulled free and began pushing her way through a crowd eager to close the gaps behind her.
Vitalis’s concern for her choice of a son was well noted alongside her own. The boy was too small, but he would be well fed and, did he experience sudden growth as had her Wulf near that age, soon he would be nearer the right size. Her household retainers would know the truth, but not the Normans. As for the villagers who on occasion had looked upon her son, she would keep him isolated as long as possible to warp their memories lest they speak without thought in the presence of the enemy.
All will be well, she assured herself as she hurried toward her escort. If Campagnon takes possession of my land ere the Normans are ousted and has he occasion to come into my presence, he will not recognize the urchin made to look a noble. And when I take back my lands, easier it will be to reunite brother and sister.
“Worthy,” she rasped and ignored the inner voice that once more named her a fool.
Chapter Nine
Wulfen Castle
England
The last of the great Wulfriths had said that were one’s anger justified it could be harnessed, mounted, and ridden such that its power was spent on worthy causes.
Isa’s was worthy, but the boy in whose presence she had burned the parchment that made him her possession appeared unmoved.
He no longer cried, having shed his last tears days past when, no matter how hard he strained to see beyond Vitalis with whom he shared a saddle, no glimpse of his sister did he gain as the town receded.
Anger now ally and companion, the only one with whom he conversed behind eyes too blue to resemble the softly grey-blue of the boy he was to become, he stared into flames that had devoured proof he was a slave.
Isa looked to Vitalis, saw where he stood to the left of her bed he stared at the table where Gytha’s missive no longer sat though the dagger did. She ought to hide it as well and did not understand why she did not now she knew its owner lived. What stayed her?
Drifting back to when her enemy had given it to her, she was swept by a sense of comfort and safety in a world lacking both—and awe it had been gifted by one worthy of great fear.
Feeling again the brief contact with the warrior’s fingers as she had gripped the hilt and felt not cold steel but warmth imparted by his hand, she caught her breath. And slapped on an expression of frustration when Vitalis’s head came around.
He shrugged, as much at a loss over the boy as she.
Isa looked back at the one recently turned nine who must become one nearer eleven. “Boy,” she eschewed the name on the document by which he would no longer be known though she was not yet able to address him by his new name. “We are of the same language, you have heard all I have told, and I believe you are learned enough to grasp it. Now is the time to ask questions.”
He glanced at her where she stood on the opposite side of the hearth behind a chair whose back she had folded her hands atop, immediately returned his gaze to the flames.
Annoyed, she gripped the chair’s back. Were he reachable, how was she to draw near? The question turned her thoughts to Wulf. When he was being difficult, testing the bounds of her tolerance for rebellion—
She shook her head to scatter memories of her son, tensed as they scrambled to catch hold of something to arrest their flight.
How do I reach this boy? she silently demanded. Think!
Instead, she heard Wulf’s voice, as angry now as last summer when the mother of her rather than the Wulfrith protested her ten-year-old son exchanging his dull sword for the keen one gifted by his sire.
If I am to become worthy of the name Wulfrith, he had shouted, you must no longer see me first as a son but as one destined to bring glory to your sire and his sire before. Memory of your love for a boy I would have sustain me as I fight toward manhood, but a different love shown me now, one that passes my leash into Father’s hand until I surpass its limits and myself unfasten it.
His passion and depth of maturity had silenced Isa. When she could speak, she had apologized, taken his hand, and led him to her husband whom she had also offended. She had beseeched Roger’s forgiveness and, seeing his anger recede, left the two with the killing sword and retreated to the solar. Alone with Aelfled, she had permitted herself only enough tears to soothe her burning eyes.
Husband and son had been right, but the answer she now sought was found in Wulf’s words—your love for a boy I would have sustain me as I fight toward manhood…
She could not love this boy, but a semblance she must show to build a foundation to sustain him as he was forced toward manhood years earlier than expected of him.
She stepped out from behind the barrier made of the chair, crossed to him, and sank to her knees. “I know you are frightened.”
“I am not!”
She moistened her lips. “I know you are confused.”
“I am not!”
She blinked away flecks of spit. “I know what was done your sister and you was wrong.”
His face contorted. “They lied to us!”
She took his hands in hers and they jerked, but he did not pull free. “Dear boy, tell how your sister and you fell to slavers.”
More tears rimmed his eyes. “We gave ourselves to them. Had to.”
She had heard of such. Faced with starvation or other cruel
ties that might end in one’s demise, free men, women, and children sold themselves into slavery.
Instinct again, that of survival which required Guarin D’Argent provide a measure of training to his enemies. “You were very hungry, then?”
“Not yet, but winter is here, and…” He gripped her hands. “Our mother died last year, our sire in the great battle. Though our aunt took us into her home, there were too many to feed. She said the only way for all to survive the cold and Normans was for Em and me to be sold as slaves, that the coin would ensure our brother and sister lived. Though we thought we could bear it were we sold together, and it was as the slavers promised, the men who wanted my sister did not want me. They tore us apart.” He sniffed hard, swallowed. “What will become of Em? What will that man do to her?”
Isa longed to tell him it was possible his sister would be near, to assure him Em was fortunate to have been sold to the Norman rather than the man whom Vitalis had learned sold the services of joy women across Northern England, to give him hope the Saxon rebellion would soon triumph over the Normans and reunite him with his sister. But she dare not.
He would know he was not a slave no matter the coin paid, but she needed him to need her. And that meant only enough hope to motivate him to become worthy of the name he would take and just enough hopelessness he did not go in search of his sister.
“I cannot guess Em’s fate,” she lied. “I can only provide the means to ensure if there is an opportunity to reunite you, you will be strong and capable enough to take it.”
He bowed his head. “I am frightened, my lady, and ashamed I am so weak.”
She released one of his hands, cupped his jaw, and raised his eyes to hers. “Let me make you brave. Let me make you strong.”
She startled when he wrenched free. And again when he came off the chair, dropped to his knees, and flung his arms around her neck.
“I will be your Wulfrith.” He nodded. “I will help you send the evil Normans back across the sea. I will do everything you ask. For our people. For Em.”