by Tamara Leigh
The latter, Isa guessed where she concealed herself amid trees. She had sensed no lies about the Norman messengers Vitalis questioned. Too, a shrewd man in unfamiliar lands would be attentive to the lay of the road, hills, leas, and bordering wood during his first pass. Then there was the advantage of a disciplined progress. The less commotion a sizable entourage made, the sooner it would become aware of and prepare for an attack.
Not that they were in danger this day, Isa mused as she glanced around at what remained of her party, three of whom distantly kept watch over the intercepted messengers. Six strong, they were but a shadow of those whose training had been interrupted. A pity that, good progress having been made since dawn.
As confirmed often these three days since she arose from her sickbed, all was not well among her rebels. The division between those drawn to Jaxon and those to Vitalis had grown during her recovery. In the hope of uniting the two, she had taken a dozen each of the patrol and sortie for training in stealth.
Such great numbers in one place made them vulnerable, but less in the absence of Theriot D’Argent who had departed Stern with a sizable host to continue the search for his brother across the border in Lincolnshire. Though he was now more distant from where Guarin could be found, not so the approaching brother who came to take possession of lands stolen from the Lady of Wulfen.
An hour earlier, a contingent of Vitalis’s and Jaxon’s men challenged to steal past one another had been distracted by two of the enemy on fine horses and, yielding to temptation, taken them to ground.
Beaten, bound, blindfolded, and gagged, the Normans were brought to Isa. The missive they were to have delivered to Campagnon told that Cyr D’Argent and an escort of the king’s men would require a night’s lodging at Balduc. Most curious this since they bypassed Stern which would sooner see William’s baron assume his lordship and offered more comfortable accommodations.
Hoping whatever was afoot proved ill for Campagnon and Em would send word soon, Isa had ordered nearly all her rebels to return to camp in parties of six, each taking a different route, while she remained behind to observe the Normans’ passing.
“There.” Vitalis jutted his chin at the rise where the dust birthed pennants, spear points, the heads of men and horses. The entire entourage—of the numbers reported and unhurriedly advancing—was visible before Isa could identify the silvered black hair among those at the fore. However, that marker was not of one D’Argent but two—perhaps three, the last less liberally adorning a woman. Regardless, only two were heretofore unknown. Though they were too distant to see well their faces, the size and bearing of one was offensively familiar. Here came Maël D’Argent, doubtless in command of the king’s men.
Movement to the left drew Isa’s regard to Sigward, whom she had ordered to remain behind to speak with him about Jaxon’s visits with Gytha’s man. He had raised his bow toward the distant Normans. She hesitated, certain he would not defy her command to kill only for the preservation of Saxon lives, but he drew back the string of a nocked arrow and sighted its flight—surely on one of silvered black hair.
“Nay!” She sprang toward him.
The fingers holding the string taut at his cheek were beginning to open when she snatched the bow’s upper limb. The arrow released, not in the midst of heavily armed Normans but the leaved canopy.
“Accursed woman!” Jaxon’s man spewed.
Another wrench, and she had the bow from him. “What do you—?”
He lunged at her.
“Sigward!” Vitalis roared.
Isa could have let her man defend her, and perhaps she should have considering how much this day’s training made her ache, but she growled, “He is mine!” and dropped the bow and drew her dagger ahead of Sigward drawing his.
It seemed irony her one instruction with Jaxon gave her the greatest advantage over the rebel whose skills were mostly exclusive to the bow and his ability to scout. Before he could fully pull his blade from its scabbard, she dodged the fist he swung and delivered her own knuckles to his gut and an elbow to his jaw.
He stumbled back and hit the ground, then she was astride, pinning his upper arms, dagger to his throat. “How dare you!” she hissed, not for fear of being heard by the entourage whose advance provided adequate cover, but lest her voice carry to the captured messengers. “Regardless of whether you hit your mark, you would have incited them to turn their forces into the wood, revealing us and putting our lives at risk!”
That was the greatest reason for averting the arrow’s flight, but her first thought had been for its target. More than many, Sigward was capable of piercing the neck above chain mail at a good distance. The possibility she would be responsible for the death of Guarin’s brother who had aided Aelfled was intolerable.
“A worthy risk,” Sigward snarled. “Half a dozen I could have bled ere they were upon us, among them their leader.”
“Half a dozen Normans for half a dozen Saxons—among them your leader,” Isa snapped.
Mouth contorted, he glanced at where Vitalis had halted alongside her. “Release me!”
He was dangerous, defiance of her edict and the hatred pulsing from him further proof of how precarious her command and the necessity of being present among her rebels.
“Get off me, Woman!”
“You will not disrespect our lady!” Vitalis barked.
“This is between Sigward and me,” Isa reproached, then bent near the rebel. “You are of Wulfenshire. Wulfenshire is of Hawisa Wulfrithdotter. Either you follow your lady’s orders or you leave. Are we of an understanding?”
He closed his lips over his teeth.
“Answer me!”
“We are of an understanding…my lady.”
Dangerous, she reminded herself and slowly withdrew her dagger and rose. “Return to camp.”
He was cautious in rising, and when he moved toward his bow, she said, “Leave it. And your arrows.”
He struggled several moments, then removed the quiver from his back and handed it to her.
She jutted her chin in the direction of the camp. “Go.” As he set off, she swept up the bow and gasped as pain lanced her injury.
“My lady?”
“’Twas only a twinge, Vitalis.”
“You should be abed.”
“How can you say that after what you just witnessed?”
“Your presence among our ranks is critical. Given a few more days to ensure—”
“I am well!” She removed an arrow, then hung quiver and bow over her uninjured shoulder. After a glance at the approaching entourage, she said, “Come,” and ran to where the remaining rebels guarded the messengers.
Standing over the kneeling and blindfolded Normans, in the voice of an old woman, she instructed them to deliver an arrow to the Baron of Stern and inform him its absence from the merciless one’s heart wiped clean her debt. Then she directed her men to hasten their captives ahead and out of the wood.
Minutes later, astride her destrier alongside Vitalis, the multitude of Normans having passed, she caught her breath as the enemy halted their progress at the appearance of bound and bedraggled men ahead.
“I think it a mistake,” Vitalis murmured.
She also questioned the wisdom of what she had done. It was one thing to relieve the messengers of thick-soled boots, exchange their fine garments for threadbare ones, and cut their hair close to the scalp as done the novices, quite another to deliver her own message.
Still, it was no impulsive act sending an arrow to Guarin’s brother other than by way of a bowstring. It was an act of mercy, warning him to guard his back so he not suffer being pierced the same as she. But her words…
Unless there were other Saxon women indebted to Guarin’s brother, it was to Aelfled his thoughts would travel and the mother of the noble boy slain upon Senlac.
Lord, just as my body is slow to heal, so is my mind, she sought to converse with Him who had abandoned England. Pray, heal me that I not fail my people while we dwell in th
is darkness absent Your grace and forgiveness.
Pain above her collarbone making her aware she pressed a hand to it, she lowered her arm. But Vitalis had seen.
Before he could admonish her again, she said, “’Twas not a mistake. It was a threat, one he would be a fool not to heed.”
“Threat? It sounded more a warning, an attempt to protect Guarin D’Argent’s brother.”
Pressing her lips, she returned her attention to the Normans who had not grown so distant she was unable to pick the D’Argents from amongst them. As revealed when the woman passed near, she was young. Though her hair was not as silvered as the men’s, ten years hence it might be.
Was she the D’Argents’ sister? Another cousin? Regardless, what impelled that family to bring her to this unsettled country? It was the same Isa had pondered upon learning Maël D’Argent had escorted his widowed mother to Stern six months past.
Almighty, how bold and fierce these Normans! Though she did not wish to believe Guarin’s warning they were here to stay, there was little evidence otherwise. Gytha might not have abandoned hope of reclaiming the throne for her family, but her failure was so great her influence withered. As for Edwin Harwolfson, it was said his numbers remained insufficient to seriously challenge the conquerors. Would they ever be sizable enough?
“Please, Lord,” she breathed as Sir Maël and the Baron of Stern broke from the party, rode ahead, and dismounted.
“’Tis time you returned to Wulfen,” Vitalis said as the disgraced messengers were loosed.
She preferred he escort her to the abbey to warn Aelfled her savior had finally followed her to Wulfenshire, giving the young woman greater reason to be cautious when she stole away to visit her grandmother as she was forbidden to do. However, Isa was so fatigued her limbs quivered. And she hurt. Had the strain of this day’s exercises undone her healing? Or but worsened that undoing?
Her throbbing injury had awakened her several times throughout the night, but she had arisen before dawn with no thought of altering her plans. And easier it had been to stay the course in the absence of opposition, the physician having taken ill after tending villagers laid abed with fever.
Did she bleed again? Might the peculiar scent hovering about her be infection? Were Vitalis not present, she would check her bandage for seepage.
Determining the morrow was soon enough to journey to Lillefarne, and all the better were there more to tell by way of Em, she said, “Let us ride,” and turned the surefooted Anglicus toward Wulfen Castle.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Wulfen Castle
England
Fever. Pained joints. Infection. But so slight were they, Isa saw no reason to reveal her state to Vitalis who had passed the night at Wulfen Castle and escorted her to Lillefarne this day. However, having often felt his watchful gaze during the ride to and from the abbey, she knew he suspected. As had her former maid.
Entering Wulfen’s great hall alongside her man, Isa cast back to her meeting with Aelfled. She had seen the concern on the young woman’s face even before it was revealed her savior had arrived upon Wulfenshire. Only once had Aelfled’s disquiet eased—over Em’s tidings that Campagnon’s inability to end the rebellion afflicting his lands had caused him to forfeit Balduc, and that barony had been added to Cyr D’Argent’s award of Stern.
The same as her lady, Aelfled’s relief was dampened by the king’s proviso Campagnon remain in the capacity of castellan, administering Balduc for its new lord. Since its people would remain subject to his cruelties, Isa had instructed Aelfled to prepare to hide rebels at the next full moon when Balduc’s hay would be taken, its concealing hedge and inner stubble set afire to make it appear an act of complete ruination.
The young woman did not like the role she played, but she would participate, and all the more willingly for worry over her lady.
Isa halted before the dais and turned to Vitalis. “Much gratitude for accompanying me. I pray your return to camp is uneventful.”
He inclined his head, then startled the same as she when the floor shook and a low rumble sounded through the castle.
“Nay!” she gasped. Following the death of a worker and injury to several during the first months of the underground passage’s construction, further precautions had been taken against collapse. Though it slowed progress, there had been only minor incidents since. This was nothing minor.
Isa sprang onto the dais and around the table. Followed by Vitalis, she swept aside the curtain and ran to the corner of the solar where a mist of dust drifted to the floor. Another rumble as she ducked behind the tapestry, a great exhalation of dust and dirt when she opened the passage’s door.
She dragged her tunic up over nose and mouth and through its weave beseeched, “Dear Lord, preserve them!” Then narrowing her lids against the sting of dirt, she began her descent amid the glow of torches and the shouts of men in the bowels between castle and wood.
“Turn back, my lady,” Vitalis urged. “I shall—”
“As shall I!” A moment later, she stumbled and he caught her up.
Then they were moving again, negotiating the stone-laid passage to that of carved-out dirt and rocks supported by hundreds of timbers and immense boulders and slabs that often forced the miners off a straight course. The deeper they went, the less light due to the thickening cloud of dirt and the blast of air and debris that had extinguished many torches.
Isa was gasping and coughing when they reached the first of those aiding the workers fallen beneath buckled timber. “How many?” she asked the man who dragged a groaning worker past.
“Four, my lady. Certes, two dead.”
She clenched her hands. Will You forever withhold forgiveness, Lord? she silently questioned. Forever delight in punishing my people?
“Delight,” she whispered. It was sacrilegious to think He enjoyed the Saxons’ suffering. And might she also wrong Him by insinuating the collapse was His doing? Perhaps it was hers. Other than when her injury laid her abed, once a day she ventured into the underground to survey the progress and ensure the workers’ wellbeing. Had she done so more often and closely supervised construction…
She breathed in dust-tainted air, once more lowered her mouth into her tunic’s material, and continued forward.
Over the next hour, Vitalis and she labored alongside workers and men-at-arms to recover the other three pinned beneath the rubble. Blessedly, the deaths numbered no greater than the two, though one of the injured would ever limp—could his leg be saved.
Isa had just begun to aid in clearing the debris when pain pierced her upper chest, her head lightened, and she collapsed.
Vitalis swept her up, carried her to the solar, and summoned the physician. After the two spoke distant and low, her man returned to the underground.
“Fool woman!” admonished the physician who had arisen from his sickbed to tend the injured. “Accursed martyr. Irresponsible. Selfish.”
She gasped. “I sought to—”
“Deprive your people of a worthy leader? Aye, you did.”
“I am a Wulfrith,” she said as he turned her onto her side. “’Tis my duty…” She coughed with such force, she nearly cried out.
“Your duty, my lady?” He pushed aside the shoulder of her gown, probed her injury. “To die the same as your son? To extinguish the Wulfrith line? Aye, that would make your sire proud.”
She wanted to rebuke him but set her teeth and tightly closed her eyes.
Shortly, he pronounced she had further undone her healing and gave her a choice. “Remain abed and leave your people to fend for themselves a fortnight, else stay the course and leave them to fend for themselves the remainder of their lives.”
She swallowed hard. “I shall remain abed.”
He jerked his chin, then left her to prayers for those dead and injured in her bid to provide the castle folk a means of escaping the enemy, a loss that could have been prevented.
Not so, according to Vitalis when he reappeared, so duste
d with dirt the auburn of his hair looked brown.
Isa eased up the pillows, peered at him where he halted alongside the bed. “If not faulty construction, what?”
“An argument between the two who died. Before the others could intercede, their words became fists and their brawl knocked out several timbers.”
“Dear Lord.” She pushed a hand through her tangled hair. “What was their argument?”
“One tried to convince the other continued resistance was futile, that countless more lives would be lost if Saxons did not accept Norman rule. The other named him a coward and threatened to kill him.”
Struggling against the comfort of tears, Isa said, “Now two Saxons dead, and no Norman in sight.”
“And the hope of breaking into the wood a sennight hence lost,” Vitalis said. “’Twill take days to remove the debris choking the passage, then the timbers must be set aright.”
Wasted effort? she wondered. More lives lost to such arguments? “Of the men who died, who do you think right, Vitalis? He who would have us stop resisting the conquerors or the one who would have us throw them off no matter the price paid in Saxon blood?”
He shook his head. “I have no doubt of Jaxon’s answer, but I have none, my lady. Because it is too soon to determine? I am too stubborn to accept Norman rule? I am too ignorant to know?” He shrugged. “The only answer I can give is assurance I shall stay your side no matter your answer.”
Isa wished it was his Saxon arms she wanted around her, his chest beneath her cheek, his words in her ear. But they were not. “I thank you, my friend. Now I shall sleep.”
He bowed and started toward the curtains.
“Vitalis!”
“My lady?”
“Keep Guarin D’Argent safe.”
“As ever, though much depends on how safe he wishes to be.”
Following his departure, she tried to sleep, but her thoughts were too cluttered with memories of this day’s losses and the losses of all the days stretching back to when a warrior of silvered hair forced his way into her life—the day she had feared her son would prove her greatest loss. And so he had…