by Tamara Leigh
“It is as our king decrees, my lady. As for the tribute, it covers just over half your lands.”
The tensing of her legs and tightening of her hands on the chair arms keeping her in her seat, she said, “Then half my son’s lands are to be given to one of William’s men?”
“Two of our king’s men.” He drew a rolled parchment from the purse on his belt and stepped forward.
Immediately, the ring of chain mail and creak of boots left and right was answered front and center, evidencing her housecarles were prepared to defend their lady whilst the king’s men prepared to defend themselves.
“Lady, I mean you no harm,” Maël D’Argent growled, halting at the edge of the dais. “I wish only to present this.” He raised the parchment.
As her men outnumbered those granted entrance, the greater number of the chevalier’s entourage left outside in the cold of a day whose frost was just beginning to thaw, she beckoned Maël D’Argent forward.
He mounted the dais and set the parchment in her palm.
She unrolled it, and a crude rendering of her lands appeared, nearly down the center of which was a line dissected on the left by a horizontal one. Those two portions, one northwest of Wulfen Castle, the other southwest, were to be stolen from her. The only good of it was she would retain the slightly larger portion upon which Wulfen Castle sat—and more importantly, the far eastern corner where the rebel camp continued to expand.
As for the centrally located abbey, she was fairly certain it was this side of that vertical line. Regardless, her family had endowed it and would continue to do so—and reinforce it with the wall whose construction progressed well considering winter weather often turned the workers from setting stone to cutting the great blocks in preparation for days of sufficient warmth.
“How old are you, Wulfrith Fortier?” Maël D’Argent asked.
Isa snapped up her chin, gave a four-fingered tap. Hoping the boy frowned in a convincing show of anger over the theft of his inheritance, she said, “My son is—”
“Surely so fine a lad of Norman and Saxon breeding can answer for himself, my lady.” The chevalier raised his eyebrows.
“He can, but well I know my son, and in this moment he exercises great restraint as trained to do.” She slapped the backs of her fingers against the parchment. “To be expected since he has just learned the fealty gifted King William is of so little regard half his inheritance is lost.”
She shifted around, inwardly winced at the confusion on the boy’s face that portended a show of fear, and set a hand on his arm. When he looked to her, she smiled and continued in Norman-French, “It is as our king wills, Wulfrith. Loyal subjects that we are, we must accept he knows best.” She tapped a single finger.
“Oui, Maman.”
It was not that he spoke more than was required of him that made her heart shudder, but that he named her what had only ever passed Wulf’s lips.
She was glad of their audience, else she might have snapped at him for being as bold a usurper as the Normans. It had to have been unintentional, for beyond deception, a mother to him she was not and could never be.
She turned back to the chevalier. “Quite mature, would you not say, for one who has barely attained his eleventh year?”
As expected, surprise shone from the eyes he swept over the boy who, at best, would be thought a runt.
“Now tell, Sir Maël, who am I to esteem as neighbors?”
He considered Wulfrith a moment longer, said, “The northern piece is given to Sir Raymond Campagnon who…” A pause as if he did not like the words he was instructed to speak. “…distinguished himself during the great battle.”
Then the boy’s sister would be near. Isa was relieved the one at her side did not exude emotion, evidence he had been too distraught at auction to attend to the Norman’s name. Since she could do nothing to reunite brother and sister whilst the latter was the property of another, it was best he remain ignorant until the Normans left England.
“The southern piece,” the chevalier continued, “is given my cousin, Cyr D’Argent, who greatly distinguished himself in battle.”
Another blow, and it took all her control to remain unmoving.
Almighty, she sent heavenward, not only do You make my neighbor the one who saved my maid from ravishment and saw the face of my real son whilst concealing his body, but You place him dangerously near the brother made my prisoner and let it not be revealed until I named another my heir—and to one who is likely the son of the D’Argent who slew my boy!
“You know the name, my lady?” Sir Maël asked.
Easily he saw around the backside of her, meaning once more she failed her sire.
“I have heard it, albeit preceded by the word Merciless, and know it to be nearly as esteemed as the Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings.” He need not be told she had personal knowledge of the latter’s Norman family from whose lands Wulf had fled to bleed out his life alongside men.
“Both well earned, my lady.”
Was that a warning she not move against the man given a quarter of her holdings? “I look forward to receiving your cousin at Wulfen, Sir Maël.”
“It is his younger brother, Theriot D’Argent, whose acquaintance you shall first make.”
Another accursed D’Argent! How many were there? And what of the third matter the chevalier had yet to address? Also a blow?
Before she could move him to it, he said, “As my cousin, Cyr, has returned to Normandy, Theriot is to administer his English lands in his stead.”
Reprieve then, time in which to find a way out of the hole she had dug herself in presenting to this cousin her only son whom Cyr D’Argent might realize had been substituted for the noble Wulf he had carried to the wood. If only Aelfled had not identified herself as being of Wulfenshire!
Isa frowned. Of all the lands in England…
This was not happenstance. Cyr D’Argent had chosen Wulfrith lands as his reward. Though Aelfled denied granting him favors for his aid, perhaps she lied. If not, then the Norman must have found something much to his liking in that lovely young woman.
Having taken little care to guard her expression, she said, “A very good piece of land your cousin shall hold—far worthier than that awarded Campagnon.”
“As I determined at the king’s request and for which it was given to my kin.”
Then he had scouted Wulfenshire before approaching her walls? It seemed so—and furtively since neither her patrol nor the villagers had carried word to her. “When will your cousin return to England to take possession?”
“I cannot say. As it appears his oldest brother was lost upon Senlac, he may now be heir to his sire’s Normandy lands, and with that comes great responsibility.”
She longed to tell him that honor yet belonged to the man she hoped to restore to his family—and that it would leave Cyr D’Argent empty-handed when she had her lands back in their entirety.
“I am sorry for the loss of his brother,” she said. “I hope all is quickly resolved the sooner to allow him to return to my country and administer his English holdings.” That last was among the greatest lies she had ever told.
“If Cyr is his sire’s heir,” the chevalier said, “he may petition the king to pass Stern to his younger brother.”
Until England was Saxon again and Guarin D’Argent returned to Normandy, that would serve her well.
The cousin sighed. “In the meantime, be assured Theriot will prove a good lord for his people upon Stern.”
Never his people, she thought. Mine. And I shall do all in my power to keep them safe no matter who they are made to answer to.
“I pray you speak true.” Isa extended the parchment.
“You may keep it, my lady.”
“Generous, but I have more accurate renderings of my family’s lands.”
“Which must needs be altered to reflect the new boundaries of ownership.”
Wasted time, she thought and set aside the map. “Now the third matter, Sir Maël.
Pray, let us be done with it the sooner to see you and your men refreshed and my household at ease.”
His lids narrowed, but though the reception of Le Bâtard’s men would be considered inhospitable were they Saxons, it was beyond hospitable for Normans.
“As you have an heir and have given tribute,” the chevalier said, “King William has allowed you to retain control of your lands—”
“Half my lands.”
He inclined his head. “Beneficent since he was inclined to see you wed again to provide your son a firm hand as he moves toward manhood.”
“Was inclined?”
“You are of the family Wulfrith, a name so respected in England it reached the ears of Duke William years past.”
“As is our due, Sir Maël.”
“Hence, King William would have Wulfen continue training up warriors—for him.”
So grasping! It was not enough his warriors had proven their superiority upon Senlac, he wanted more—the better to slay the conquered.
Isa breathed deep. “He does my family much honor, but as he knows, my husband died at Stamford Bridge. What he may not know is the greatest of Wulfen’s trainers perished with him—Jaxon, Alfred, and others. Thus, I fear our reputation is a thing of the past, lost to the soil the same as the blood of Saxons who gave their lives in fighting back Norwegian and Norman invaders.”
She knew her hatred leaked out, but the longer he stood before her in place of Le Bâtard, the looser the stopper.
“What of your knowledge of Wulfrith training, my lady?”
“Mine?” She spread her arms. “As you can see and men decree, I am but a woman learned in the sharp point of a needle rather than a sword. Little do I know of the means by which my sire and grandsire trained up warriors.”
He set his head to the side. “Inquiries were made, and it was learned your sire taught you basic defense.” Before she could concede, he continued, “However, after the last of your brothers passed, he determined to train his only remaining child in the ways of the warrior.”
She laughed. “Would that were so. He tried for a time, but I had not the body nor mind. Thus, he made another son in wedding me to Roger Fortier and passed to my husband the wisdom and techniques for raising boys into men worthy of defending our country.” Not entirely a lie, only that she had not the body nor mind to become a warrior. Given more time, greater patience, and much practice, she might have become a semblance of Boudica as Guarin D’Argent named her. But as if her sire had sensed his end, he had yielded to King Edward’s wish to wed Hawisa to a Norman so sons would be born of their union.
“That was also told the king,” Maël D’Argent said, “and that following your sire’s death, often your husband consulted you to ensure Wulfen maintained its reputation.”
Another laugh, another lie. “I was unaware I had so great an admirer he whispers flattery and exaggeration in William’s ear. I am honored, but fie on him for raising hopes that must be dashed. Mostly it was Jaxon and Alfred who provided my husband direction.” She sighed. “Pray, deliver to King William my regret I am unable to swell his army with worthy warriors. And convey my gratitude for acceptance of my tribute that permits me to administer Wulfen until my Norman son comes of age.”
She raised a hand, gestured at the ladened chest. Now the chevalier and his men could take the tribute and drink and eat on their way out of the hall.
But Maël D’Argent gave the chest a dismissive look and shifted his regard to the boy. “You have undergone training, have you not, Wulfrith?”
Grinding her teeth, Isa tapped one finger.
“Oui.”
“Of course he has,” she bit, “but surely I need not tell you he is far from a warrior, the most intensive training coming between the ages of fourteen and twenty.”
“You need not. Trained by my sire, my course was the same.”
Isa shied away from thoughts of the man who had slain her child, but the question slipped in—had the murderer looked anything like his son? Might she be gazing at a much younger Hugh D’Argent?
“Well then, what is your motive for asking this of my son?” she asked.
“Only upon a strong foundation can a worthy warrior be raised. It is possible much can be learned of your sire’s techniques from what was taught the boy.” He looked around. “And your housecarles surely warranted Wulfen training.”
“Indeed.” Isa did not like the turn of conversation but was relieved the focus was off the imposter. “Many received training from my sire and their skills are exceptional, but the best either returned home to serve their own families or became the king’s housecarles. Regardless, none advanced far enough to themselves obtain the position of trainer.”
“Yet much could be learned from what was taught them.”
“Doubtful. Now, pray, refresh yourself and your men for the ride ahead.”
Though his smile lacked sincerity, the curve of his lips and show of teeth was of benefit to his disfigured face, allowing a glimpse of what once had set many a maiden’s heart aflutter. “Lady Hawisa,” he said, then to the boy, “Wulfrith.”
She gave a three finger tap to indicate a smile was warranted.
Maël D’Argent stepped to the side, lifted the chest bound for Le Bâtard’s treasury, and descended the dais. He and his men took drink and food whilst standing and, at last, the great doors closed behind them.
When the boy at Isa’s side leaned heavily against her chair, she touched his arm. “You did well.”
Pleading in his eyes, he said, “I was so afeared, I could understand little of what he spoke.”
“In time, you will understand all.”
“Then you will keep me?”
It was so desperate a question she ached that he thought he must ask it—and determined the need to speak to him about addressing her as Maman could wait. “Have no doubt, Wulfrith. Now go to the kitchen and tell Cook you are to have the pick of the pastries.”
His eyes widened. “May I?”
“As many as you like.”
He smiled so brightly she regretted anticipation of the sweets should bring him so much pleasure. Like many a commoner, his diet had been deficient, especially of meat. In the hope of strengthening and more quickly growing his body, he followed a strict regimen befitting a warrior, and that rarely included sweets her sire had called the food of women and children.
“Go,” she said again, and the swing of his arms and reach of his legs brought to mind Wulf at that age. She looked away before he reached the kitchen entrance, turned her thoughts to Cyr D’Argent, and prayed ever he would remain absent.
Chapter Twelve
Wulfen Castle, England
April, 1067
The blood-thirsty thief was gone. But there was no relief to be had. Le Bâtard, who departed Normandy a duke and returned home a king, had left behind cruel men who continued subjugating England in his name.
Also gone across the channel were high-ranking Englishmen taken as hostages to deprive Saxons of leaders capable of organizing rebellion in his absence.
“No reprieve,” Isa murmured and looked to Vitalis who sat in the chair opposite her in the solar.
“None,” he agreed, then nodded at the missive in her lap. “What is of such import Aelfled wrote it rather than have me deliver it by word of mouth? If you can say.”
He was offended the young woman was secretive though he was Isa’s most trusted man. Doubtless, Aelfled’s terrible failing made her overly cautious, and Isa did not begrudge her.
“’Tis of less import than your own tidings and those of Abbess Mary Sarah.” The first being Raymond Campagnon and Theriot D’Argent had arrived to take possession of their stolen lands and were accompanied by scores of Norman soldiers and craftsmen to begin raising castles. The second being an assault on two novices who had left the abbey for the pleasure of walking the wood on a spring day. They would not do so again.
They lived, but their virtue was lost, bodies bruised, and a final cruelty dealt in
hair being shorn close to the head. The angry abbess entreated her patroness to quickly complete the work on the stone wall and see the surrounding lands more heavily patrolled—by whatever means necessary, she had spat at Vitalis who said it sounded as if she referred to the use of rebels.
It sounded the same to Isa, though how the woman thought it possible the Lady of Wulfen could honor such a request could only be guessed at. And her guess came back around to the discomfort felt in the abbess’s presence. Unfortunately, answers to inquiries made of her were so vague as to be useless.
“Very well.” Vitalis sighed. “I shall have to be content with being but the bearer of Aelfled’s sealed words.”
“Pardon, my mind drifted,” Isa said. “Of course I will share her concerns. She has heard of the two in possession of half my lands and is shocked she knows the names of both. It comes as no surprise she recognized that of Cyr D’Argent since he aided with…”
She waved a hand as if it were possible to wipe away so great a loss, and in the breath she drew closed the door on her outward expression of grieving. “But what she knows of Campagnon surprises.”
Vitalis clasped his hands between his knees. “What and how, my lady?”
“She says not only did Cyr D’Argent aid in concealing the boys in the wood, but he averted an attack on her by Campagnon and one of his companions.”
Near unbelievable, Isa mused. Not only had a D’Argent removed both her and her maid from the dangers of the battlefield, but the brothers had sought to prevent their ravishment. Might that have been God speaking into the dark come upon them? Regardless, how fortunate Aelfled had not been violated before Cyr D’Argent appeared, whereas Wulfrith’s daughter, who knew how to defend herself, had—
What? she demanded of elusive memories, then as done time and again determined she had been strong and worthy enough to sever the pig’s life before he took what she would not give. Of course she had.
“My lady?”
She opened her eyes to find Vitalis standing over her.
“Are you ill?”