by Tamara Leigh
“Much depends on how much rock must be moved and maintaining the passage’s integrity to prevent the loss of life. Now let us discuss the trap to be laid for the Normans who offended God.”
For a half hour, they spoke of the dozen rebels chosen by Jaxon and Vitalis and the two females to be used as bait—in this, a necessity, but they were the best of the women and now trained to defend their persons.
Hopefully, the rats who came sniffing for sweet morsels would not long keep rebel morsels waiting.
Chapter Fifteen
Lillefarne Abbey
Wulfenshire, England
She believed herself prepared, thought she had an appetite for violence considering what those men would have done had this not been a trap, and yet…
“I warned this no place for a lady,” Vitalis growled.
Lowering her gaze from the faces of the Normans slain within hearing of the bells of Lillefarne on the third successive day of lying in wait, Isa considered the purses on their belts. Surely, what was affixed to them had moved the rebels to such frenzy they would not heed her command to cease so the men could be judged in the rebel camp. Those present had themselves handed down the sentence. Doubtless, had the third Norman also sported the bundled hair of a ravished novice, neither could his death have been prevented.
Guessing Vitalis feared this sight returned her to Senlac, Isa said, “I am more than a lady. I am Wulfrithdotter. Though I must hide from our enemies the name and face behind these rebels, I will not sit by whilst others fight. I will be present wherever and whenever I can.” She swung out of the saddle and was grateful her legs held despite ashamedly soft joints.
All eyes on her, excepting those of the face down Norman whom Zedekiah straddled, she strode forward and halted alongside the one denied the opportunity to affix hair to his purse. Unlike his companions, he would not die, but she had no fear of him looking on her with his face turned opposite and the big rebel pressing it into the dirt.
“Give the word, Dotter,” Zedekiah spoke the name by which the rebel leader upon Wulfenshire was increasingly known. “’Tis time he join his friends and have his back scrubbed with the fires of hell.”
She looked to the hard-eyed women who no longer appeared the godly prey of the godless. After their novice’s gowns were torn, faces scratched, and the eye of one reddened, they had aided in dispatching their attackers.
“Filthy Saxons,” the Norman spat.
Zedekiah backhanded his head, causing him to yelp.
Isa lowered to her haunches and considered his short hair that was several months beyond its last grooming—the same as his facial hair though the latter was mostly fuzz.
Guessing him a score aged, she bent near. In the rough, creaky voice of an old woman, she said in his language, “Filthy are Normans who take what does not belong to them, who claim it is the Church of England that must be reformed, who ravage women who have given hearts and lives to the Lord. But fear not death, boy.”
Ignoring the murmur of dissent going around the wood, she continued, “Providing you give something in return, you shall live.”
“What I will give is the point of my dagger, hag!”
Zedekiah struck him again. “Give the word, Dotter!” he beseeched as the man shrugged a shoulder up to his ear as if that little hunch would shield him.
“Boy, is your lord Raymond Campagnon?” she asked. “Or is it Theriot D’Argent? Another?”
He did not answer.
No matter. He had only to be followed to learn to whom he delivered her message. “When my men finish with you, tell your lord this—Two Norman sinners dead this day. Unless he leashes his dogs, that number shall rise.”
“He will kill you!”
“Ah, but I am many. I am wrath. I am vengeance. And I have little to lose, whereas you…” She sank fingers into his hair, scraped nails over his scalp. “You are long without a shave, Norman. What would Le Bâtard say to see you thus?” She stood. “Fear not, we shall remedy your shame.”
Pleased by the degradation to come—appropriate considering what hung from the purses of his companions—she said in Anglo-Saxon, “Apply a dagger to his hair, close to the scalp.”
“That is all?” Zedekiah exclaimed.
As the Norman writhed and cursed—proof he was not entirely unversed in her language—Isa considered him. Though beaten and marked with blood drawn by blades he had survived, more could be suffered by one who had intended ravishment.
Noting how fine his garments, especially compared to those of the women rebels who had this day traded threadbare tunic and chausses for simple gowns, she said to Zedekiah. “Do you not think it unseemly a Norman dresses so well?”
Understanding shone from his eyes, but not satisfaction.
She motioned the women forward. “Here a reward well earned. When you have knocked him senseless, remove his clothes and divide them between you. Ere you leave him to the wood, deliver another blow to ensure he does not soon recover.”
“Aye, Dotter,” they grumbled, as displeased as the others.
As Isa returned to the destrier she had impulsively named, she heard the blows dealt, and her thoughts went to Guarin who no longer provided his enemy the satisfaction those behind surely felt at doing unto a Norman a small measure of what had been done them.
She mounted Anglicus, looked to Vitalis. “See the Norman followed to verify to whom he answers and know at whose walls to leave his dead.”
Both were fairly certain it was Raymond Campagnon who would have turned ravisher had Cyr D’Argent not interceded with Aelfled. Unlike Theriot D’Argent, the slave-owning Norman was slack in raising his castle and allowed his men—mostly mercenaries—to wreak havoc across Wulfenshire.
“Aye, my lady.”
“And commend the women. They made this easy for all.”
“It is the men with whom you are not entirely pleased.”
“With those you chose, I am mostly pleased. They did as instructed until Jaxon’s men riled them beyond good sense.” She reflected nearly all the latter had been recruited from other shires, those from Wulfenshire more inclined to draw near her man, Vitalis.
“Regardless, it is hard to regret the end result, my lady. The dead Normans would have slain ours did we not slay them.”
“The manner in which it was done is what disturbs. I but bore witness to battle’s end at Senlac, but I cannot believe the thirst for blood was as great as this whilst the fighting raged.”
His brow grooved. “You fool yourself. I was not there to lend my sword arm to our king, but I have experience enough to assure you what you saw here keeps men alive when death takes measure of one’s height and breadth to determine the place of eternal rest. It is bloodlust. Recall the state of the thousands of bodies amongst whom you walked on Senlac, and no further proof need you the thirst for blood was far greater there.”
His rebuke offended, but it was his due. Just as she had heard her father warn if the savagery come over men fighting for their lives was not embraced, sooner they would be dead, she could not forget those whose blood had weighted the hem of her skirt.
Vitalis set a hand on her shoulder. “If you are to go forward in leading the rebels, you must accept this. And do not doubt your Norman accepted it upon Senlac though mercy he now shows those far beneath his abilities.”
My Norman. She turned that over and accepted Guarin was that, though not as Vitalis made it sound. She raised her chin. “Put to the sword Normans who seek to put Saxons to the sword, but our rebels will not kill indiscriminately.”
“Jaxon—”
“I care not what he wants, nor Harold’s mother.” That last was added in consideration of what Vitalis had informed her this morn. Jaxon had brought into the camp an aged housecarle. In the absence of introduction, by his garments and bearing it was surmised he was from the stable of a Saxon noble most high.
The man was shown the settlement, including D’Argent’s cave, and the rebel guarding it overheard the housecarle
say he expected great sport to be made of the prisoner before he was put down. Jaxon had held his tongue, but no word need pass it to know he was in accord.
Isa cleared her throat. “There is a difference between killing and murdering.” As well she knew from what she had done on that hill, though exactly what her assailant had done continued to elude. “Both infect the soul, but methinks the latter more a plague with little hope for a cure. Once we rid our lands of Normans and the rebels return to their families, I will not have so deadly an infection spread amongst our own.”
She thought he would argue, but she saw consideration in his eyes, then he said, “In defense only, for the preservation of life when death looks between us and them.”
“That is as I command, and be assured I expect Jaxon to oppose me.” She looked around, saw the senseless Norman had only his braies about him. To the left, a woman stepped into his chausses beneath a hitched skirt. To the right, the other drew the tunic over her gown, then lowered to her knees. A dagger in one hand, she caught up the Norman’s hair.
And so the resistance moved a step nearer to ousting Normans from Wulfenshire. And all of England.
Gaze fixed on riders who numbered eight, heart knocking at her breastbone, Isa said, “Who do you think ’tis?”
“Likely of Theriot D’Argent since we are on his lands.” This from Ordric, one of four housecarles who had met her at the appointed place to escort her home whilst the rebels returned to camp.
He was wrong on two fronts. While England’s crown sat William’s head, the younger brother but administered lands awarded to the absent Cyr D’Argent. And they were her lands, which she would hold again in their entirety.
She looked sidelong at Ordric, knew from his grimace he sensed her anger over misspoken words. “We should have taken the long way back to Wulfen,” she said, wishing she had not insisted on saving a quarter hour’s ride. When the party ahead learned two Normans were slain in the wood near Lillefarne Abbey, she could become a suspect for having been in the vicinity.
Blessedly, she had donned a gown over tunic and chausses before departing the wood. Only her boots were amiss, visible since she sat astride rather than sidesaddle. But she was of Wulfrith.
“Aye, Theriot D’Argent and his men,” Ordric confirmed, and she saw why he was certain. The black hair of the one at the fore was cast with silver. Once he boasted a handful more years, would he be as silvered as his eldest brother?
As the Normans closed the distance and the man’s face became clearer, her heart beat harder. She had noted Maël D’Argent’s resemblance to Guarin, but this was greater—so much she guessed here was her captive when he had five fewer years about him.
As Theriot D’Argent reined in twenty feet distant, his men fanned out left and right. “Your business upon Stern?” he said in her language.
She raised her eyebrows. “Habit only. I am—”
“Lady Hawisa. This I know. And I am—”
“Theriot D’Argent,” she spared no sarcasm. “This I know.”
He shifted in the saddle. “I wondered when we would meet.”
“As did I. Were you not so occupied with raising a castle against people who were once mine, I am certain you would have behaved as befitting a nobleman by presenting yourself at Wulfen Castle weeks past.”
His eyebrows rose. “I have been occupied, though not so much I would not have come had the Lady of Wulfen behaved as befitting a noblewoman and issued an invitation.”
She gasped loudly, looked to Ordric. “What goes here? Might this be a first—a Norman who does not issue his own invitation?”
A corner of her man’s mouth convulsed. “Had I not taken wax from ears this morn, I would not believe it, my lady. Might he be an imposter?”
Were Theriot D’Argent offended, he masked it with a chuckle. “My cousin did not prepare me for such good humor from those whose lands were awarded a D’Argent. It is good there are to be no bad feelings between our families.”
“None at all!” Isa put her head to the side. “However, I must make complaint against your cousin for giving the impression the one to administer Stern is many years a man, not a… Forgive me, but you could not have been much more than a pup at Senlac. Did you squire for your brother?” Bold exaggeration. He was nowhere near the fuzzed boy-man recently shorn and soon to return to his lord attired in braies.
Seeing something flash in his eyes, she waved a hand. “Ah, but I see you have earned your spurs since. A fine beginning.”
He gave what sounded a genuine laugh and sighed. “Oh Lady, I am… What is the word?” He searched the heavens, reverted to Norman-French. “Enchanted, oui. If it is true no invitation is required, I shall enjoy sitting beside you at hearth and speaking soft, sweet words sure to win your hand.”
Lest he saw movement about her own eyes, she decided to end this—after one last insult. “You reach too high, Chevalier. Waste not soft, sweet words on one who will never take a Norman to husband.”
“Never? Once you did.”
“As King Edward ordered my sire’s only remaining heir. But since now my son is Wulfen’s heir, I am of no use to a landless Norman. You must look elsewhere—and for one of fewer years, I advise.” Not that she was much older, but small though that barb, she liked it.
“I shall consider it, my lady. Now tell, what habit finds you upon D’Argent lands?”
“Surely you can guess.” When he did not, she said, “Though Stern’s people and those of Balduc are no longer mine, I am rightly concerned and seek assurance their needs are met.”
“Admirable, but unnecessary. The Saxons upon Stern adjust well to their Norman lord and are in need of naught.”
No lie as told by the reports come to her from rebels who occasionally slipped home to their families. Thus far, those of Stern had no great grievances against this Norman. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of those upon Balduc.
“What of the rebels?” she asked, deciding here a means of sowing further doubt should he suspect her a party to the ill heaped on Norman ravishers.
“They are about, my lady, but thus far their cowardly deeds are so minor as to be forgettable, even laughable.”
He exaggerated, but once he learned of the two slain he would find naught over which to express mirth.
“Too,” he continued, “they are more inclined to trouble Baron Campagnon.”
“As they also trouble me.”
He frowned. “I would think you suffer least from those who prowl Wulfenshire.”
“Because I am Saxon?” She harrumphed. “Such consideration I might be given did I defy King William.” How it pricked to name him that! “But having bent the knee, I am believed a traitor to my own and worthy of vengeance.”
“What vengeance that?” His words dragged disbelief behind them.
“Theft of stores and livestock, an attempt to burn a village, and contamination of a well.”
“I have heard Campagnon’s lands suffer the same.”
She sighed. “The rebels are my people, and I understand their anger, but they must be stopped.”
“Indeed, especially if the mother of Harold directs them.”
Certes, it was not Gytha, though she continued to make demands Isa continued to ignore lest the lives of her people were rendered disposable. Determining further talk would seem too much protestation, she said, “I am glad to have made your acquaintance. Now I would visit my people upon Stern and see for myself they fare well.”
“I must ask, my lady, if you are truly concerned, why have you not visited sooner?”
She was glad to have an answer at hand, more that it presented another opportunity to make her less a suspect. “My health has been poor since the loss of my husband.” More, my son, she did not say. “It seems grief is a disease unto itself, so terrible often I wonder if ever I will be whole again.”
“I think you are right in naming it a disease,” he said solemnly.
He did not elaborate, and she was glad. Had his th
oughts not turned to the uncle who had murdered Wulf, then likely Guarin whom he must believe dead.
“Very well, Lady Hawisa, I grant you permission to ride upon these lands.”
Bristling over his choice of words, she said, “Generous.”
“Which village?”
“Ravven,” she named the closest and in this direction.
“The day wanes. Allow me and my men to escort you.”
She stiffened. “Even did I lack an adequate escort, I would not impose.”
“No imposition.” He motioned her forward.
“My lady?” Ordric said low.
This day Saxons had trapped Normans. Now Normans trapped Saxons—albeit in a less deadly manner.
“I think we must,” she whispered, “and it would be good to show myself to the people and speak to their concerns.” She urged her mount forward.
As she and her escort neared, Theriot D’Argent and his men turned their mounts toward Ravven. When Isa reined in behind them, Guarin’s brother said, “I would be honored if you rode at my side, my lady.”
And safer, she thought, though unless he intended her and her men harm, she would not work ill on him.
As she drew even with the young D’Argent, Ordric forced a place between her and a chevalier on her opposite side.
“Boots, my lady?” the keeper of Stern asked.
She looked full into his face. Though she had known he resembled Guarin, she winced over how much—and had to suppress the impulse to assure him his brother lived. “Oui, boots, and surely you have also noted this one born of the renowned Wulfrith rides astride the same as a man.”
His bunched brow eased. “So she does, and that it is no palfrey.”
Isa patted the destrier’s muscled neck. “A worthy mount.”
“Acquired from Normandy, I wager.”
Hoping it too great a stretch he was acquainted with Anglicus before the beast was made Saxon, she said, “You have a high regard for those come out of Normandy, Theriot D’Argent.”
“Rightfully so. As evidenced by our victory at Hastings, the use of horses in battle is essential to my people. Thus, we breed the finest, and your steed is quite fine. So I am right, hmm? Out of Normandy.”