by Tamara Leigh
Was Guarin D’Argent right? Was her fight for naught? Despite Saxon resistance, William had been making his formidable self known to England for nearly two years, and there looked to be no end to his rule beyond the hope Edwin Harwolfson could rally enough Saxons to send the invaders back to Normandy.
Should she cease resisting? Accept him as her sovereign? Other Saxons would not, among them Gytha and Jaxon. If Isa withdrew from the resistance, she would have to watch her back the same as Normans lest the next arrow or blade was delivered by one of her own. And if her report of Wulfen crops being burned became reality, more her people would suffer.
Staring at the solar’s darkening ceiling, she pleaded, “What am I to do, Lord? What is England to do? Is our punishment insufficient to end this terrible season? Or is the Norman way the only way forward? Joining with our enemy the only means of surviving?”
She waited, but when one hour passed into the next and she neither heard nor saw nor felt the answer, she determined to sleep away her pain.
As she began to drift, she heard a voice, glimpsed a face, felt a presence. “Guarin?” she breathed. He was only memory, but she wished he were here to further persuade her of the direction she should go. If any could, it was he who had a care for her as he ought not. As she had a care for him…
Chapter Twenty-Four
Much had transpired since she sent the arrow to Cyr D’Argent six days past. Or was it seven? Did it matter?
It did.
Seated in the high seat carried to the hearth to evidence the Lady of Wulfen was truly ill as long feigned, Isa fixed her gaze on the doors across the hall. As she waited for them to belch forth Cyr and Maël D’Argent, she recounted events to place herself in time over which a grey haze persisted.
Aye, seven days since the Baron of Stern’s arrival. Six since the passage’s collapse and the beginning of her confinement for healing. Three since Cyr D’Argent confronted Aelfled at the abbey and tried to return the arrow she rejected. One since he had overseen the harvesting of Balduc’s hay before its time as if warned he would lose it.
That last had nearly incited Isa to climb out bed. Instead, she had sent Vitalis to collect Aelfled on the night past, though not until this morn had she felt well enough to grant the young woman an audience.
Aelfled had confessed to impulsively warning Cyr D’Argent to bring in his hay during their reunion, then told he had come to her a second time during that harvesting. It was then he voiced suspicion the Lady of Wulfen was Dotter and asked Aelfled to deliver terms of surrender to the rebels.
An air about the young woman and her defense of the Norman had caused Isa to ask if the two had been intimate. Aelfled had confessed to a kiss and assured her lady it would not happen again.
All of great concern, especially D’Argent’s terms of surrender—if by summer’s end the rebels disbanded and returned to their homes, all would be pardoned providing they surrendered those responsible for the murder of the Norman family. Nearly impossible were they not Jaxon’s men, impossible were they.
Vitalis was less inclined to trust Aelfled, but he was no Jaxon. As angry as he was with Isa’s former maid, he would accept the forgiveness his lady extended to one whose actions were born of a longing to end this soul-eating unrest.
At the end of their meeting, Isa had encouraged Aelfled the same as Gytha had in her first missive to remember and embrace who she was—a Saxon strong of mind, body, and spirit—then extracted a promise that for penance due Wulf, Aelfled would act the woman and not the fanciful girl who had allowed the enemy to seduce her.
As Isa had watched her depart, naming herself a hypocrite for allowing her own heart to be moved by a D’Argent, Vitalis appeared with tidings two of that family were outside her walls. Now they were minutes from being inside.
She glanced across her shoulder at where the boy who every day grew nearer a man stood erect. If not this day, soon she would be called to account for him. Regardless, both were prepared for the tale she would spin to prevent Normans from thieving what remained to her.
She drew close her robe’s lapels, smoothed the coverlet tucked around hips and legs, reached to her hair. And dropped her hand back to her lap. That which Roger had loved was unsightly, long without benefit of soap and the ordering of a comb, but as with her feigned illness that had become reality, it would serve the encounter to come. She could not appear less the lady and leader of rebels had she set all her mind and resources to it.
Confirming her housecarles and servants were strategically positioned around the hall, she returned her regard to the doors.
Shortly, there came the sound of boots on the steps outside, and she raised a staying hand to the porter. When silence once more descended, she inclined her head. It was time to meet her fourth D’Argent and once more face the second.
Unlike when first her home was sullied by the usurper’s men, the helmets of these warriors were removed in advance of their entrance. Thus, immediately she confirmed the only ones of import were two followed by an escort of greater number than she would have allowed if not for the need to lessen the chance Vitalis and Aelfled were seen stealing away from the castle.
Long of thick muscle, broad of shoulder, silvered of hair, the D’Argents halted at a respectable distance.
Out of a ruined face less unsightly than the last time he was at Wulfen when the scars were more prominent and the surrounding flesh the color of anger, the king’s man considered her.
Did Maël D’Argent see what he was meant to see? A widow wasted away from grief? Or did he see beyond her loss to the rebel leader who had strained an insufficiently healed body lest Jaxon wrest from her control over the Wulfenshire resistance? Did he see she who had trained when she ought not? Did he see she who had descended into the underground passage to recover the fallen?
“I am pleased to once more be welcomed into your home and presence, Lady Hawisa.” The chevalier bowed curtly. “Allow me to present my cousin and your neighbor, the long-awaited Baron of Stern, Cyr D’Argent.”
Discomfited more for how Aelfled’s savior looked at the boy than his resemblance to Guarin, Isa cracked a smile. “Neighbor. In another life, my vassal and keeper of Stern.”
He stepped forward. “I am honored to meet you, Lady Hawisa Wulfrithdotter Fortier.”
Were she not so unmistakably ill, his emphasis on dotter would have alarmed though Aelfled had warned he suspected she was the rebel leader.
His bow was as short-lived as his cousin’s, and when his gaze returned to her, she said, “It would be false to say I am honored, but…” Pain piercing her shoulder to breastbone, she drew a slow breath to dissolve the black dancing before her eyes. “…I am grateful for the aid you gave my maid upon Senlac.”
His eyebrows rose as if in amusement, but his regret sounded genuine when he said, “I am sorry for your loss, Lady Hawisa, and that of the other mothers whose boys died. A great tragedy.”
“For you as well—more, your cousin.” She looked to that one. “Oui, Sir Maël, when first we met and you gave your surname, I knew it was your sire slain by mere children, but I was fairly certain you were unaware my son was one of those boys. I was correct?”
“Quite so.” His brow rippled. “And now I am curious, my lady.”
Grateful to have had time to construct a tale to explain the boy given the name of Wulfrith, she raised her eyebrows. “Well I know how uncomfortable—near painful—curiosity’s itch, so how might I salve yours, Sir Maël?”
“All those boys died, including the noble amongst them, and as it is told you had one son with your Norman husband, who is this boy at your side?”
That boy, now conversant in Norman-French, stepped forward.
“Non, Wulfrith.” She caught his arm. “It is for me to correct what this Norman insinuates.”
“But my lady mother—”
“For me!” As if to punish her for being so harsh, once more pain tore through her, requiring all her will not to fold over herself. Out
of the corner of her eye seeing Ordric draw nearer, she raised a hand and shook her head.
“My lady,” Cyr D’Argent said, “perhaps you ought to rest. If you would provide our party with drink and viands, we will wait until you are better able to discuss those things which brought us to Wulfen.”
Thereby delaying their departure…
She eased back and looked to the boy. Seeing apology in his eyes, she released him and returned her attention to the Baron of Stern. “Let us finish this now. I have not the stomach nor heart to prolong it.”
Though she offended, curiosity turned his expression. “May I ask what ails you?”
She nearly refused, but she had yet to answer Sir Maël and here seemed a good place to deliver her carefully woven tale. “The physician knows not, so perhaps it is grief—for my eldest son, my husband, my country.”
Cyr D’Argent’s gaze sharpened, and a glance at his cousin revealed she had his attention as well, both having noted her use of the word eldest.
“Will it kill me?” She shrugged. “Time will reveal what only the Lord knows.”
And now to display the fine threads of her tale. Angling her head at the boy, she said, “This is Wulfrith—he who, until his brother’s passing, was named Alfrith. As is custom in many a Saxon noble family, the eldest son is given the name of his sire from whom he gains his inheritance. As these lands belonged to my family rather than my Norman husband, our son was named for my sire. As is also custom with my family, should the heir die or prove unworthy, his name is passed to the next in line who sheds the one given him at birth. So it was with my sons.”
Sir Maël’s brow pinched. “Inquiries were made, my lady, and though most are unwilling to speak of your family, a few told you gave your husband but one child. So who lies?”
She raised her chin higher. “None.”
“Then?”
“It is the superstition of the—” As if she had dropped the shuttle with which she worked her tale’s threads, her words fell away. She coughed to open her throat, pressed fingers to her lips, reached to Ordric. Moments later, she sipped wine passed to her.
Throat soothed, she lowered the goblet. “As told, none lie. Superstition of the ignorant is the reason many believe I birthed only one son. Tell, Sir Maël, is your king so intolerant—even fearful—of those things rare that the educated might name him uneducated?”
“Certes, he is not, Lady Hawisa. No heathen your king.”
“Then I need not fear for my Wulfrith whom I birthed minutes after his brother.” She smiled, nodded. “He is a twin.”
He looked nearer on the boy, as did his cousin who surely compared him to the one slain upon Senlac, noting he was considerably slighter of form than he ought to be for his age. But thus it could be for those who had shared only a womb and, at most, resembled the other.
She raised her eyebrows. “Naught to say, Sir Maël? Or, unlike your educated king, do you believe twins are of the devil?”
“I do not.”
“I am relieved, though still there is that other belief twins are proof of a woman’s adultery—two children, different fathers. Would you accuse me of such, deny half my Wulfrith’s blood was drawn from your own little Norman stream?”
His narrowing lids revealing her barb pricked, he said, “I would not, but there remains the question of how none knew you bore two sons.”
She sighed and shifted her gaze to his cousin. “Is it really so different in Normandy, Baron D’Argent?”
He raised an eyebrow.
Attempting to disguise growing discomfort as dwindling patience, she rolled her eyes. “Only those trusted knew I bore two sons—including my husband who cared enough for his reputation and mine to ensure neither of us was besmirched by the superstitious. Thus, Alfrith was raised by a trusted Saxon family and reclaimed when my eldest son—yet a mere boy though now he would be a young man—was murdered by your cowardly uncle.”
The son of that man lurched toward her, and his cousin caught his arm. “Maël!” he said, and well he ought to control the king’s man with her housecarles readying to defend her.
Withholding the signal they awaited, she reached to the boy. When he set his hand in hers, she drew it to her shoulder. So comforting was his touch, for a moment it seemed her lost son was at her side.
She swallowed hard. “Now, what other business have I with my neighbor?”
“Loose me,” the king’s man growled.
Cyr D’Argent hesitated, then did as bid and looked to Isa. “It is more the king’s business than my own, though I am to oversee it.”
“Speak.”
He reached to his sword, and when her men stirred, slowed.
Though not surprised by what shared his blade’s scabbard, Isa fixed confusion on her face. “An arrow, Baron?”
“Would you do me the kindness of looking near upon it?”
“For what?”
“To determine if you recognize it. A great service you would do your king to whom you have given your allegiance by aiding in returning this to the rebel who sent it to me.”
She gave a snort that triggered a cough, took another sip of wine. “How would I know one arrow from another? I am no archer. I am a lady.”
“You are also Wulfrithdotter. If all that is told of your family is true, I cannot believe you ignorant of weapons. My own sister, young though she is, has enjoyed the benefit of many brothers trained at arms.”
Isa handed the goblet to Ordric, then affecting an air of boredom, motioned Aelfled’s savior forward.
He came, but only near enough she had to reach to take the arrow. As she examined it, he said, “The message delivered with it was that it was intended for me and its absence from my heart wiped clean a debt owed. Thus, I thought your Aelfled sent it, but no longer.”
She frowned. “Your belief that little mouse could be responsible tempts me to question how fit you are to hold and defend Stern, Baron.”
Once more she offended, but something else glimmered in his eyes. Suspicion? Had she gone too far in naming Aelfled a mouse? It was on the bloodiest of battlefields he had first encountered her.
Lest Isa make another mistake, it was time they departed. “Non,” she said and held out the arrow. “It is far more believable I had this delivered to you since I am hardly pleased my son’s inheritance was greatly reduced to reward Normans.”
“Then you are the rebel leader known as Dotter?”
He was not one for prolonging a game—if he deigned to play.
Wistfully, she said, “Oh, that I were. Such would have made my sire proud. However, as much as I dislike your William, for the sake of my son and people, I am now his subject the same as I was King Harold’s and King Edward’s before him. Thus, you may be assured an enemy does not dwell within these walls.” She raised the arrow higher, extended it further, but he refused it.
“Regardless, my lady, the rebellion upon these lands must cease. Do they not, at summer’s end King William will send an army to root out the rebels and no mercy will he show.”
It was as difficult to continue playing a part as it was to sit erect, but she feigned the surprise of one delivered terrible, unexpected tidings.
“It is decreed that should the rebels disband and hand up those responsible for the murder of the Norman family,” he continued, “without fear of reprisal they may return to their homes and resume their lives.”
“Resume,” she murmured and, aching over all that was lost that could never be regained even were the Normans ousted, lowered the arrow to her lap. “A generous offer. I pray it reaches those desperate men so they may act upon it. Too much and too long the people of Wulfenshire have suffered.” She set her head to the side. “Are we finished, Baron? I am exhausted.”
“One more thing. Have you word of my brother, Guarin? It is believed he was sighted on these lands a month past.”
Though she had thought herself prepared for that, it was a struggle to maintain a passive expression. “I know only that you
r youngest brother is so certain it was this…Guarin, he neglects Stern to search for him. But chances are that just as I lost a son upon Senlac, you lost a brother—a difficult thing to accept in the absence of a body.” Not that it was much easier in the presence of one, she thought, struck by memories of dragging her boy out of his shallow grave. Blinking back tears, she said, “As told, I am grateful for the aid you gave Aelfled in ensuring I knew my son’s fate. I wish you good day.”
Cyr D’Argent nodded. “We shall meet again, Lady Hawisa.”
“Your arrow.” She offered it again.
“I believe it is where it belongs, my lady. Good day.” He and his cousin pivoted and strode toward the doors, followed by their escort.
Once they exited the hall, Isa closed her eyes. She ought not regret refusing them offer of drink and food, but she did. Unfortunately, what time she had given them had nearly depleted her.
“My lady?”
Dropping her head back, she met the boy’s gaze and patted his hand. “You did very well, Wulf.”
If not that each time she thoughtlessly named him that, his eyes widened and he had to suppress a smile, she might not have realized she did so.
“I thank you, my lady.”
She inclined her head, started to call for Ordric, instead said, “May I have the aid of your arm in returning to the solar?”
This smile he did not suppress. “Of course, my lady.”
“Lady mother,” she corrected, then lest he think too much of it, added, “The more ’tis spoken, the less likely either of us will trip over it in the presence of our enemies.”
He nodded, and when she rose, drew nearer and set her hand on his arm.
Aided by one incapable of bearing as much weight as Ordric, it seemed a long walk to the solar, but he kept her steady. Retaining her robe against the chill prickling her limbs, she sank onto the bed and slowly turned to set her back against the pillows.