by Tamara Leigh
Clumsily, the boy lifted her lower legs onto the mattress and swept the covers over her.
Though Isa hated being made to feel helpless, she thanked him and lowered her lids.
Silence. Guessing whatever he wished to say could not wait, she looked to him. “Pray, speak.”
He bobbed his chin. “Mayhap ’tis not for me to know, but will you give the Normans what they want?”
“What is it you think they want?”
“What remains of your lands, mayhap even your death and that of the Wulfrith line.”
She nearly protested his conclusion, her thoughts having flown to the D’Argents rather than the Normans from whom they sprang. “That I will not do.”
“Then you will heal so you may keep your people safe and ensure ever there is a Wulfrith in England—a hundred years hence, two hundred, three?”
That last would require either she become an instrument of Gytha or the one increasingly known as William the Great, wedding another she did not want and birthing another who could easily be snatched from her regardless of whether the unrest in England boiled or simmered.
Though the thought of another husband and child wounded, the boy’s sincerity soothed. She caught up his hand. “I am abed where I do not wish to be. Am I not, Wulfrith?”
“Aye, my”—he cleared his throat—“lady mother, but I overheard the physician tell the cook ’tis a miracle you have remained abed this long and you are as likely to undo your healing again as you are to breathe.”
She could not fault the man. “Be assured, Wulf, in the absence of great danger, I will follow his instructions the sooner to heal and keep my people safe.”
He grinned, and she thought how handsome he would be once he left behind the awkwardness of youth. “Then I shall see Em again, will I not?”
She wished she could make that promise, but as long as his sister belonged to Campagnon, she could not. Just as she dare not reveal how near she was. “You have my word I will do all in my power to reunite you.”
He drew her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “And I shall continue to pray for you every day and every night, my lady mother.”
Even if she knew how to respond, her throat was too tight to breathe life into words. Inclining her head, she drew her hand from his.
I am coming to love him, she thought as he strode from the solar. And nearly choked, not because the silent admission stank of betrayal but that it hardly seemed such.
Isa pressed the heel of a palm between her breasts. Despite how worn she felt, the beat of her heart was strong.
Still I am here, it seemed to say. Fill my empty places, Hawisa Wulfrithdotter, and I will fill yours.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Wulfenshire Rebel Camp
England
Speak, Rosa.”
Though she sealed her lips, she would reveal what he asked of her—and what he was certain she had come to tell. As ever, she required coaxing to relieve her of guilt over confiding in a Norman.
“Ill has befallen your lady, aye?”
Her widening eyes confirmation, Guarin wished he was concerned only for how it would affect the good amongst the rebels. But he saw Hawisa again, felt how well she fit his arms, recalled her mouth beneath his, and was moved as only she had ever moved him.
Muscles tightening beyond the rigor to which he had recently subjected them, he prompted, “She is too long absent to be well, Rosa. It has been…” He feigned numbering the days since telling Hawisa to go home and heal. Was she gravely ill because she had not? Likely. Her leadership of the rebels on shifting sand, only the inability to rise from bed would keep her from doing so.
Hoping he did not know her as well as believed, he said, “It has been a fortnight since she was here, aye?”
Rosa’s brow cramped. “I believe.”
Fifteen days, he silently corrected. Feeling every tedious sunrise in this loathsome cave, he shifted on the folded mantle that had long lost the scent of its owner and eased back against the cool stone. “Tell, Rosa, else leave me to my own good company.”
Her teeth plucked at her lower lip, then she stepped alongside and lowered to sitting. “I know not all, but what I do know took much effort to listen in on, and ’tis not good.”
He shrugged, which often greased her tongue.
“That man came again,” she hissed.
Gytha’s man, as ever she referred to him. Counseling patience since pushing Rosa first in the direction of her lady’s health could close her up, Guarin nodded for her to continue.
“He told Jaxon my lady met with the Norman warrior finally come to claim the barony given by your king—those Wulfrith lands known as Stern.”
Anger over the theft of Hawisa’s lands nearly made him curse. Certes, if Rosa knew his mind in this moment, she would more quickly spill her tale in the belief she did so to a fellow Saxon.
“Most curious,” she said, “this new baron of England shares your name.”
It was difficult not to react to that, but he maintained a passive enough expression she continued, “Either D’Argent is a common name in Normandy, else he is a relation of yours.”
One finally come to claim his reward, meaning Hawisa knew all along one of his brothers—or cousin—was to become her neighbor. Another shrug to mask anger, then a lie. “A common name, though mayhap he is known to me.”
Far more believable a lie, his uncle had instructed, when truth is sprinkled on it. Guarin had mostly eschewed such advice as his sire would have him do—until Hawisa Wulfrithdotter.
“Know you one named Cyr?” Rosa asked.
He drew a slow breath. “I have heard of one.” Silently, he added, Only one. And I know him well, indeed. “You say this Cyr D’Argent met with your lady?”
She nodded. “And that man told Jaxon she does not look long for this world.”
Of a sudden, seething over what Hawisa had withheld from him was replaced by concern. “Gytha’s man was present when your lady received Cyr D’Argent?”
“I know not, but if ’tis true Harold’s mother has eyes and ears in every corner of England, he need not have been present.” She sighed. “But I take the long way around so you understand how serious this.”
“How serious what?” Not that he could not guess since long he had expected what was now more possible with Hawisa gravely ill.
“Jaxon told that man the rebels who side with Vitalis are weak and must be dealt with else they will be the downfall of the Wulfenshire rebellion. Then that man said Lady Hawisa’s son is the means of gaining control of Wulfen.”
“Her son?” Guarin voiced his surprise.
Rosa blinked. “As often as the two of you meet, I assumed you knew she had one.”
Had, the one upon Senlac lost to her. “Only one?”
She inclined her head. “That is my understanding.”
Had he made an assumption he should not have? Been misinformed? Was it this woman who misunderstood? Or was something else at work here? “Continue, Rosa.”
“Jaxon said with Lady Hawisa bedridden, now is the time.”
“To do what?”
“He did not say.”
Because it was told before she eavesdropped? Regardless, Jaxon readied to move against his lady.
“I believe ’twill be this eve when…” Her brow convulsed as if she questioned the wisdom of revealing more.
He gave a bitter laugh. “Unless you possess a key, Rosa”—he jerked at his chains—“or strength well beyond my own, I am of no threat to any but you. And as you must know by now, I would not harm you.”
She inclined her head. “Nor my lady.”
As evidenced by his present captivity. “Nor your lady.”
“You would aid her if you could, aye?”
Considering the outcome of the last time he had done so, would he again? More averse to answering himself than her, he said, “I do not believe I need further prove myself. Now finish the tale.”
“This eve, myself and others a
re to create a diversion, drawing Cyr D’Argent opposite a sortie Vitalis shall lead to take a great crop of hay in the North. ’Tis the usual order of things, and I would think little of it had I not overheard what went between Jaxon and that man—and what followed. Ere the sortie departed camp, Vitalis’s scout took ill and Jaxon insisted on Sigward replacing him. Does it not smell foul, Norman?”
It reeked. “It does.”
“And so I fear our diversion will be of no aid, that the sortie is not meant to return and ’twill be to Normans they fall.”
Hearing tears in her voice, Guarin set a hand atop hers. “You warned Vitalis?”
“I tried but could not get past Jaxon, but Vitalis is no fool. He was displeased at Sigward being thrust on him, so surely he will watch him closely. Will he not?”
Guarin released her hand. “As you say, he is no fool. And neither are you. Now promise me something.”
“Aye?”
“When you venture out this night, you will set aside your worry so it not prove your downfall.”
Her eyes moistened. “Did I not know ’tis a lady who weighs upon your heart and mind, I might believe I did the same.”
“Rosa—”
She held up a hand. “I may be simple, but I know people. Did I not, still I would wish you dead.” She pushed upright. “And greatly I would err in seeing only the Norman, rather than the good man who made a wrong decision.”
He stood and, looking down on her, thought how vulnerable she appeared and was glad it was an illusion. “This eve, think only on your safety and of those with you, Rosa. Do not—”
“—be a martyr,” she spoke over him. “Do not yield my life without a fight. So you have said before, and as told before, I will make good use of your training in service to my people. If God wills, on the morrow you will enjoy my company again.”
He believed her, and yet he sensed… What? Her death?
She started to turn away, came back around. “Are there other Normans like you, Guarin D’Argent?”
“I have no doubt, just as I have no doubt there are more like you. Indeed, there are many worthy Saxons in this camp.”
“Do you think ever our two peoples will be at peace?”
Blessedly, ever was a very long time. “I do.”
“I would like to see it.”
“Then exercise much caution this eve so on the morrow you may thank me for all I have taught you.”
Laughter clipped, once more she started to depart.
This time, Guarin halted her. “I do regret my decision, Rosa, especially if I am responsible for any of your losses.”
She considered him, nodded. “Until the morrow, Norman.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Wulfen Castle
England
They were so near to breaking into the wood, it seemed impossible anything could dampen the joy of knowing that, despite the lives lost during the passage’s construction, many would be saved in the event of an attack on Wulfen.
But now the first of two missives delivered this afternoon. It was expected, but not the contents, so lulled was Isa by the rebellion’s success in harrying the enemy. Jaxon told that one of two diversions she had approved to ensure the rebels bettered Cyr D’Argent had suffered a casualty, that of a rebel of the sortie sent to Castle Balduc to burn a portion of the hay stored there following its early harvest.
Which rebel? Though she knew she should put the loss behind her, thinking forward as her sire would have her do, it mattered—be it a noble life or a common, a man’s life or a woman’s, a Saxon’s life or a…
Norman’s? She shook her head. That should not be a consideration. And it would not if not for—
“Cease,” she rasped and tossed aside Jaxon’s two-sentence message and snatched up the one from Lillefarne. As it followed on the heels of last eve’s bid to take the great crop of hay in the North so it could be sold in Lincolnshire, likely it bore news of the large sortie whom Aelfled was to have hidden within the abbey’s wall until pursuers abandoned the chase.
“Glad tidings,” she entreated and broke the wax seal and unrolled the parchment.
I, Mary Sarah, by the grace of God the Abbess of Lillefarne Abbey, greet Lady Hawisa and beseech you to gird your faith for what I must tell of the events of last eve and this day.
Isa sought to do as asked, but that which she girded was so loose, its buckle so bent, she feared it would fall, entangle her feet, and drop her on her face.
She resumed reading.
Last eve, one no longer dear to you secreted Saxon rebels within our wall, unaware the Baron of Stern and Balduc watched from the wood. He and his host breeched God’s house and captured the rebels, including your former housecarle. Blessedly, our residents suffered no harm, and it appears no rebels paid with their lives. All were bound and, I presume, marched to Stern Castle. Alas, there is more to tell.
Isa caught back a sob. More? Worse than the capture of Vitalis and his men? She read on.
Though it would be unseemly for the one from whom you have turned your face to remain at the abbey after endangering our women, I would not have had her depart as she did. Under threat of harm to her grandmother, whom Cyr D’Argent ordered taken from the village of Ravven this morn, he drew her out.
The capture of Aelfled, whom Isa had determined to return to her service at Wulfen, would have been a terrible blow had she been taken by a Norman other than the one whose aid on Senlac evidenced he was cut from the same cloth as his eldest brother.
Isa returned to the missive.
I believe she has also been delivered to Stern Castle to answer for acting against our king.
Our king. Did the staunch Saxon claim the usurper out of fear her missive would be intercepted by the enemy? Regardless, Mary Sarah ensured she but appeared a sympathetic bearer of tidings.
In closing, I thank you for your generous support of our abbey, Lady Hawisa, and I hope these events that bear witness to the Saxons’ struggle to reclaim a place in a much-changed England end the persecution you and your people have endured for bending the knee. Let us pray the great one is not long in returning peace and glory to our lands. Amen and amen.
The great one—worded in such a way it could as easily apply to the Lord as to William or a Saxon, whether the latter sprang from the efforts of Gytha or Harwolfson in the South.
Isa dropped the missive alongside Jaxon’s. Eyes falling on the other thing also sent by the abbess, of which no mention had been made in writing, she lifted the bundle and stood from the bed.
Experiencing no lightness of head, legs steady, and only mildly discomfited by her injury, it would be easy to persuade herself she was well enough to ride to camp and oversee preparations for the recovery of Vitalis and his men. But if she undid her healing again…
As she must trust Cyr D’Argent would do Aelfled no harm, so with his captive rebels. Just a few more days, and she could be the leader her people needed. And between now and then, Jaxon would come to Wulfen and they would devise a plan to recover the captured rebels.
Men Jaxon might prefer remain imprisoned, the unwelcome thought pierced her.
“He will come,” she said aloud and stepped into the dust-stirred light slanting through an upper window. She unwound the string crossed a dozen times around the bundle and unrolled the cloth.
It was the dagger she had given to Vitalis to prove it meant nothing to her. Ignoring the flirtatious sapphire, she stared at the initials inscribed in steel, surprised her man had not filed them off—as if he had intended to reunite the weapon with its owner. That it was returned to Isa had to mean Vitalis, certain of capture by the brother of its owner, had left it behind. And somehow the abbess had known to send it to Isa.
“Who are you, Mary Sarah?” she murmured. “What is it you wish of me?”
Wulfenshire Rebel Camp
England
“Aye, she is dead.”
Guarin stared at the burly man who feigned no sorrow over the pronouncement.
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br /> “A pity since she had more courage than most of her sex—and some skill at arms,” Jaxon continued. “But little good either did her when she fell into the enemy’s hands.”
Pierced by the passing of a Saxon for whom he had a care, Guarin rasped, “How did she give her life?”
Jaxon crossed his arms over his thickly muscled chest. “In service to her people. Saxon courage, Norman.”
“How?” Guarin bit.
“’Tis believed she turned a dagger on herself so she not be made to betray us.” He shrugged. “Certes, a better end for her than those she lost to your kind.”
Nearly strangled by the longing to drive a fist into that smug face, Guarin said, “We are done.”
Jaxon chortled. “Might you have been fond of her?”
Pushing off the stone wall he had settled against when the camp commander entered the cave as he had not in a year, Guarin knew the grind of his jaw and fists at his sides would be seen as a challenge. Chained though he was, he was well with being at so great a disadvantage should the miscreant draw nearer—even if, in the end, it provided Jaxon the excuse to end the life of one he had never intended to live beyond a few months of torture.
“I am tempted,” the Saxon warrior drawled, “and mayhap I shall yield, but there is more you ought to know of last eve.”
Now he would boast of the success of the diversions and the number of Normans felled.
Jaxon’s lips curved at the center of a beard bound beneath his chin by a large gold bead. “Most unfortunate for the Normans, not only must we avenge the loss of Rosa but that of my pupil, Vitalis, and the men of his sortie who were captured whilst seeking refuge at Lillefarne Abbey.”
Guarin’s muscles tensed further. Like Rosa, Vitalis and those of the sortie were good men and women whose minds might be given to vengeance but not their souls. Not so those of the patrol who blindly followed this man’s lead.
Once again responding as Jaxon wished, Guarin said, “They are also dead?”