by Tamara Leigh
Did it? Isa swept her gaze around. Were it greater, it was not by much.
“Numbers only,” Pendery said. “Of more import is what each man brings to the battle. Can you say half yours are experienced in bloodletting? A quarter? If you stay the course, William will make but another example of you.”
Jaw bulging, Harwolfson looked to the usurper’s army, then once more lowered his voice. More unheard words, interrupted by scornful laughter, then what might be negotiation resumed.
Gaze drawn to Jaxon where he stood at the head of the infantry, Isa saw his color was so high it appeared he sat too near a fire. Just as she had threatened his plans, Harwolfson might, but would Jaxon retaliate?
As she had warned the rebel leader, it was possible. This could be Jaxon’s last chance to slaughter Normans and send fleeing survivors back across the channel. Were he denied, what had he to live for?
Of a sudden, Harwolfson reined around. As he surveyed his rebels, Isa prayed he would also conclude that even with greater numbers, the Saxons faced further defeat. This time, however, nearly all the cost would be paid by common men and women and the battle of Darfield decided far sooner than that of Hastings.
Harwolfson’s gaze lingered on Jaxon, moved to Isa, then he gave a slight nod and returned to Pendery. Shortly, the infant began to shriek, and Rhiannyn and his half-Norman son departed to allow the men to resume their discussion.
When Maxen Pendery himself put heels to his mount to deliver their words to the usurper, Jaxon commanded, “Speak, Edwin!”
Harwolfson turned his mount sideways and considered the one who approached on foot. “I have not summoned you, Jaxon. Return to your place and await my instructions.”
The warrior continued forward, causing the murmurings of rebels to rise.
Vitalis leaned near Isa. “Now we shall better know the man this Harwolfson is.”
Compatible with Jaxon, Isa recalled his claim. If so and a challenge was issued for authority over the army, who would prevail? Regardless, William would use it to his advantage—if it could be determined what transpired on this side of the field. For this, Harwolfson had turned sideways, blocking the enemy’s view.
Jaxon halted and further defied his leader by gripping the destrier’s bridle. The only movement about Harwolfson an adjustment of shoulders and shift of hips, he looked down on the warrior whose usefulness may have come to an end.
Turning his profile to the ranks, Jaxon cast his voice wide. “We are here! We are battle ready! We thirst for the blood of those who bleed us! Tell, Harwolfson, why the greatest host of rebels our country has seen is not at arms!” As if for emphasis, he slammed his hand to the hilt of his sword. “Tell why we wait on the usurper! Surely not because of a misbegotten, Norman-stained babe. If that is it, the warrior of you is down around your ankles, and when the man made a woman trips over him, she will take the rest of us to ground with her.”
Dear Lord, he does challenge Harwolfson, Isa lamented and looked to men and women near enough to hear every word of Jaxon’s challenge. From their expressions, most feared a clash. Of those who appeared to welcome it, the majority were rebels who had chosen Jaxon over Vitalis and Isa.
“My lady?”
She looked down at the one who had come alongside and saw from Em’s expression that just as the young woman’s night into dawn search failed to uncover word or sight of Eberhard, neither had her perch in a tree this side of the field. From high above, she had watched the rebel army move out of the wood, hoping that vantage would confirm or refute the youth’s presence.
Isa set a hand on her shoulder. “’Tis a good thing your brother is not here, as I would not have you—”
“He may be on that side.” Em nodded at the Normans.
That he had gone there in search of Campagnon was a consideration from the beginning, but one about which nothing could be done.
Isa forced a smile. “I think were he ever here, he has returned north, and greater his need for you there than Harwolfson’s need for another rebel here, Em.”
Resentment brightened her eyes. “Only if Harwolfson fails us. Does he not, I shall stand with our people.”
Knowing she could not argue her down, Isa looked to the mounted warrior and her sire’s man who yet refused to accept horses had a place on the battlefield.
Silence prevailed, while beyond them Maxen Pendery continued to converse with his king, and Guarin—
She swept her gaze to Harwolfson and saw he had moved his regard from Jaxon to the infantry. A slight nod caused three men to step from the ranks and advance, while over a score slipped into the path earlier made for Harwolfson.
Whatever the old warrior had planned, he had not foreseen this—his followers’ way forward barred and no apparent dissension from others.
“Traitor!” Jaxon swept his sword from its scabbard.
Before he could assume the proper stance to swing at one astride, the man he meant to supplant twisted in the saddle, unsheathing his own sword and arcing it downward. Harwolfson could have slashed Jaxon’s neck, but he stopped the blade alongside the great vein and snarled, “Loose it!”
Jaxon held to the sword pointed heavenward, but when the rebel leader drew a line of crimson across his neck, opened his hand. That with which he had taught many a warrior dropped to the grass.
“You ask why we are not at arms?” Harwolfson shouted as his summoned men advanced on Jaxon. “’Tis because I, the leader of Saxons who look to me to aid in returning them to a life worth living, seek to do that.”
“Leader!” Jaxon’s throat muscles bulged. “You are too fearful to lead men, Edwin!”
Harwolfson’s only response was to relinquish him to warriors of a size and strength to subdue him.
Vitalis leaned toward Isa. “He knew Jaxon would trouble him ere the woman brought the babe across the field. You warned him?”
“I did, though I do not think he required it. He understands Jaxon well.”
As the old warrior was forced toward the wood—to put him from the rebels’ minds and prevent dissension that would draw further attention from the Normans—Harwolfson urged his destrier down the front line.
“We are resolved!” he addressed his army. “We are courageous! We are mighty! And we are wise!” He swept an arm toward the enemy. “That is my son, she who birthed him Norman. It is true terms are sought with Le Bâtard, but terms favorable to all.”
“What if they are not?” someone shouted.
“Then we proceed as planned. And regardless of whom God favors this day, many will die both sides, and those left behind will suffer—children, wives, husbands, mothers, fathers. Mayhap such great sacrifice will bring peace to our lands, mayhap not. But do we seek terms this day whilst we possess so great a power the usurper stands to lose much no matter who is victorious, there is hope for us beneath heaven.”
Harwolfson turned his destrier and started back. “I am prepared to die here the same as you, and so we may if he who wears England’s crown does not yield to our demands, but I ask you to trust me and let my decision be yours. Will you?”
As voices of what sounded mostly agreement rose, Em gripped Isa’s knee. “He betrays us. Jaxon is right—all for a Norman-fouled babe.”
Isa peered into her flushed face. “I know you think it so, and I do not doubt the child causes Harwolfson to reconsider as he might not otherwise, but surely you feel our people’s relief.” She jutted her chin at the Normans. “Such does not run rampant through them. If it treads there, it does so cautiously lest it step on anger rising from disappointment over having no blood to spill.” She paused, struck by how distant these words from those that would have passed her lips two years ago. “Thus, do we not come to terms, likely Saxons will be worse for it.”
Em pivoted and began shoving her way past the Rebels of the Pale.
“Em!” Isa started to dismount, but Vitalis gripped her arm.
“Let her go, my lady. Pendery returns.”
She wavered, settled
. Further reasoning with the young woman would have to wait until it was known whether Isa must lead her rebels into battle.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Terms were made. Though there were dissenters among the rebels, most went the way of Edwin Harwolfson.
All Saxons present would be pardoned for taking up arms against their king and allowed to return home. Harwolfson would be granted custody of his son whom the mother was either willing to relinquish or unable to prevent being taken from her. Of immense value, he would be awarded a sizable demesne. Of great contention, his lands would border those of Maxen Pendery, placing him under the watchful eye of the usurper’s man. But it was done. Or nearly so…
Hostages were required to ensure the good behavior of Harwolfson and his followers.
What surprised that should not considering what had transpired this side of the field while Le Bâtard conversed with Pendery, was the first name on the list Harwolfson submitted to the conqueror—that of the last renowned trainer of warriors.
Long William had coveted Jaxon’s knowledge in the hope those who defended England in his name would be more formidable. Hence, of the dozen offered up, among them rebel leaders that included Saxon nobles whose land had been confiscated, Jaxon was surely the most desirable. If he could not be persuaded to impart Wulfrith techniques, then for however long his life in captivity, no others who opposed Norman rule would have the advantage of that training.
Of those delivered to the center of the field, he was the only one who came bound, gagged, and prodded by the point of a sword. Several of the others who had filed past the Saxon army minutes earlier had exuded anger lest William choose them from amongst the offering to spend years, if not a lifetime, beneath the usurper’s heel. If they behaved, they would be allowed to attend the king’s court, but since they would be outsiders and never trusted, no life was that for a proud Saxon.
Once all were assembled facing the Norman army with Harwolfson mounted ahead, an armed rebel positioned behind each hostage, and in back of them a dozen rebels astride, Le Bâtard advanced. And among the dozen who accompanied him beneath a cloudless sun four hours higher than when first the armies amassed was Maxen Pendery, Maël D’Argent, and Guarin.
From where Isa remained among the Rebels of the Pale, she watched the latter draw nearer. When he reined in with the conqueror, she guessed it was as near as she would ever again be to him, his time in England drawing to a close.
My heart he shall take with him, she thought and told herself to be glad. Better it dwell across the sea than die here within her breast, even though never would he know it numbered among his possessions.
William was pleased, though the Saxons would not know it from his expression, Guarin thought as he considered the king who sat to the right. By negotiation that cost little, a war had been averted whose victory would have cost the lives of numerous Normans.
There had been a moment Guarin sensed William’s pride and vengefulness would sacrifice those who fought for him, but sense had prevailed—better victory that did not reduce the number of warriors needed to keep control of England than victory that saw more Saxons than Normans dead. And sweeter the bargain made with Harwolfson that Jaxon was among the hostage offering.
William had been suspect, having thought he would have to press the rebel leader hard to see that one handed over, but Harwolfson was no fool to allow one made his enemy to move freely about England. And Guarin was grateful for his foresight that would ensure the warrior could do Hawisa no further harm.
As William considered the rebel leader mounted thirty feet ahead, Guarin looked to the bound Jaxon whose gaze awaited his. And felt satisfaction that all had come around, his tormentor now at the mercy of Normans. But unlike Guarin who was forced to bide his time to stay alive, he did not think Jaxon capable of passing so many days, weeks, and months as a captive. Perhaps not even this one day, so great the rage he exuded.
He becomes the mad wolf he sought to make me, Guarin thought. If he is not already. And that is good. His days count themselves down.
“Edwin Harwolfson,” the king addressed his adversary, “Harold’s housecarle.”
“King Harold’s royal housecarle,” the man corrected, like many aware William objected to acknowledging his predecessor had worn the crown that now belonged to him.
William laughed, and even men who did not know him had to hear how false that gust of air. “Well, Edwin Harwolfson, no longer King Harold’s royal housecarle—now my man—I am pleased no more of my subjects’ blood had to be let this day, that you are a man of…reason.”
“The same as you,” Harwolfson said in Norman-French.
“Perhaps.” William jutted his chin at the offering. “I am well with this selection of hostages. As you surely know, the trainer of Wulfrith warriors appeals most. I wonder, were I to take the bit from his mouth and bonds from his hands, what would he do?”
“As ever, seek to return an Englishman to the throne,” Harwolfson said.
“Bring him near,” William ordered.
The rebel leader peered over his shoulder and nodded at the one who held Jaxon at sword point. He and another gripped the warrior’s arms and drew him forward. It took no effort, Jaxon averse to the humiliation of struggle.
When he was placed ten feet distant from the king, William said, “I am thinking there is no persuading you to train warriors for me.”
Jaxon’s upper lip curled.
“Remove the gag,” the king ordered.
When it was done, the Saxon circled his tongue behind his lips and stared hatred at the one he could not defeat.
“You wish to kill me,” William mused. “The same as you slew the Norman family passing over Wulfenshire, eh?”
Jaxon smiled the smile to which Guarin had become accustomed when the beatings had buckled his knees, giving his weight to manacled wrists.
Suppressing the impulse to touch those scars with their ridges and pits that extended from wrists up the backs of his hands and heels of his palms, Guarin ground his teeth.
As if sensing the control he exercised, Jaxon turned his smile on another he also wished to kill.
“Ah, that is right,” the king said. “You know Guarin D’Argent. For—how long?—two years?” He put his head to the side. “That is a long time not to kill a man you detest. Unless it was not for you to decide his fate.”
What was not tense about Guarin tightened. William hoped to fill the spaces left gaping in the tale of his vassal’s captivity.
“Might my man be the reason you betrayed the daughter of Wulfrith—rather, Dotter? Did she forbid you to put an end to him?”
Maël leaned near Guarin. “And now I am glad you revealed so little of your ordeal.” He arched an eyebrow divided by the scar. “You might think I betrayed.”
That Guarin would not believe of him. “I know you would not.”
“William is not a man easily fooled, Cousin, and as his bloodlust has no battle upon which to vent it, I fear he intends to make much of you and the lady.”
The same as Guarin feared.
“Where is she, Jaxon?” William demanded. “With her Rebels of the Pale? Those who defeated you at Wulfen Castle before fleeing to Nottinghamshire?”
Now Guarin was the one who wished to assure another he would not betray. But Hawisa had to know her rebels’ bold exploits on that shire had become known to William following the castle folk’s return to Wulfenshire.
The king raised his chin and surveyed the Saxon army that was too distant to hear what was spoken here.
He sees her, Guarin thought, and surely not for the first time. The pale worn by her mounted rebels marked them, as did her golden hair and place alongside Vitalis.
“Why is Hawisa Wulfrithdotter Fortier not among the hostage offerings, Harwolfson?” William asked.
Fingers clamped around Guarin’s arm whose hand had gone to his sword hilt. “Be still!” Maël growled. “We are in the midst of warriors most loyal to William the Great.”
“Have your men fetch her so I may better choose my hostages, Harwolfson.”
“Quiet your face and body as my sire taught you,” Maël rasped.
A lesson well learned. Much Hugh had liked angering his young pupils and dispensing punishment for their inability to hide what was in their minds and hearts.
“Harwolfson,” William said, “our terms are dependent on valuable assurance you will conduct yourself well henceforth—and I am thinking Dotter quite valuable.”
The Saxon unlocked his jaw. “She is a woman.”
“Indeed, but one who behaves a man, leads men, wields weapons alongside them, and plagues Normans.”
“Only those who work ill upon your English subjects.”
“So she may say, but who am I to believe? A defiant Saxon or a loyal Norman?”
Harwolfson’s face darkened. “I do not think you wish me to answer that.”
“You are right. Much I tire of Saxon lies, deceit, and argument. Now if you truly wish a bloodless end to this day and pardon for those who took up arms against me, deliver Lady Hawisa.”
Reason, more than Maël’s hand on him, prevailed over Guarin’s desire to challenge William for making her a hostage. For a time—perhaps years—she would be the king’s captive, but she would live as was unlikely should battle commence.
The rebel leader turned his destrier sideways and ordered two mounted rebels to escort Hawisa to the middle ground.
“Best she not be given warning of my reason for wishing to become acquainted,” William made his command sound like advice.
She would come regardless, Guarin knew—sacrifice herself to save the many.
“Do as he wishes,” Harwolfson said with grudging, and Guarin realized this was not the first time he had avoided respectful, formal address in speaking to or referring to the king. Though William might let it pass now, he would not always. As a vassal, Harwolfson would be required to show deference, beginning with properly titling William as his king and liege.