Chrestien shuddered—less as a result of the damp chill, and more over the prospect of being forced into matrimony. “No, in truth, had he not been so sheltering, I would be on my way to the altar now—but not to take the veil. In my mind, ’tis surely something to be grateful for.”
“Though you do not regret it for Adelaine’s sake?”
“Nay.” Chrestien shook her head. “Adelaine was born to be a good man's wife. ’Tis her nature to be nurturing and loving, and ’tis only fitting she should have a husband to cherish.”
Sighing wistfully, Chrestien's thoughts drifted back to the wedding. Her sister had worn the most beautiful bliaut of pale blue brocade with gold thread woven intricately into its fabric and a blue velvet mantle trimmed with ermine—a more lavish gown than any she had ever seen, much less worn. A chaplet of gold cord, from which fell a silken veil, had adorned her plaited gold hair. And Chrestien had experienced a momentary twinge of regret that she would never don such finery, but she knew it was for the best. How many times had her father fretted aloud over the beatings Chrestien would earn? Nay, she was hardly fit to be any man’s wife—at least she knew it.
For a last minute affair, the wedding feast was quite impressive as well. Food of every sort was provided, as was wine by the cask—poor gritty wine, but wine nevertheless. Hopefully, Adelaine would teach them how to make a good vat of vin—for that alone Aleth would cherish her to no end.
To Chrestien's mind, the only event that marred the celebration was that of the bedding. While Adelaine was being prepared by her ladies’ maids, the men had hoisted Aleth aloft and carried him into his chamber. And before Chrestien had realized what was to ensue, she was swept by a horde of men into the chamber along with the wedded couple, where the drunken party chanted their demands. Had Adelaine not begged Aleth to send the mob out... Chrestien crossed herself over the thought. She might have been forced to undress him for her sister.
Above them, the heavens swelled with angry blistering clouds that threatened to unleash their furious torrents. As she watched the dark swirls overhead, she could only hope the blackness was more bluster than warning. But within seconds it was sprinkling, and then the heavens burst with all the fury they contained. She was soaked to the bone within minutes.
Chrestien followed Aubert’s quickened pace until the troop entered the protective shelter of the forest. Then she took the lead. Aubert would tarry, she knew, in an attempt to elude the downpour.
“I like not the route we have chosen,” Aubert said warily.
Chrestien couldn’t help but agree. “The woods are filled with shadows.”
The trees had not yet lost all of their summer green, keeping what little sunlight that remained from their misty domain. A shudder passed through her as she realized that, though it was the shorter route and would keep them dry, it would also put them at the mercy of cutthroats. She swallowed convulsively, for she could only hope her mesne was intimidating enough to keep the marauders at bay.
* * *
Weston sat with his back against an old oak. Its aged, gnarled branches swooped toward the misty ground like huge outstretched arms. Next to him, Michel stood, carving a wolf’s head into one of the low hanging branches. He was becoming quite adept at carving the likeness, and took pride in his newfound artistry, but the sight of his artwork only rankled Weston. “Will you leave my mark upon every tree we pass?”
Michel shrugged. “A dog pisses to mark his territory,” he offered good-naturedly. “Why should a wolf be any different?”
Weston rolled his eyes.
Michel added with a grin, “What better way to warn Normandy of your presence here—so they can run home to lock their doors and say their prayers that the Silver Wolf spare them.” He chuckled then, delighted by his description.
Weston said naught and did not laugh.
Michel knew he did not relish the reputation, but he couldn’t quite leave off with the jests. They had known each other far too long, and had been friends long before they were liege and lord. In fact, the tales of Weston’s ruthlessness were greatly exaggerated. No matter that he took great pains to spare lives when possible, it seemed the worst was believed of him. He had seen gentle ladies and village folk cross themselves at the sight of his banner and, even in the heat of battle had spied grown men—so-called warriors—pissing themselves. Weston was not the man to trifle with, to be sure, but neither did he cut down innocents and murder babes in their beds.
Realizing his jest had not been taken well, Michel sought to change the subject. “’Twas wise to give the men respite for the night. The rains would have given them the ague.”
Weston cast him a baleful glance. “We should be nigh to Lontaine by now and instead we’re sitting idly by, admiring your artistry.”
‘True,” Michel agreed, refusing to be goaded. “But we would be half dead as well. What good would a dead army be?”
“In fact,” Weston maintained, “the rain would have given us an advantage, covering our approach.” Plucking up a blade of grass to worry between his teeth, he added, “By the time they spied us, it would have been far too late. After all, de Lontaine left only a daughter to guard his keep, and she would be foolish enough not to take necessary precautions.”
Michel nodded, but he did not entirely agree. Woman or nay, he wasn’t so certain Lontaine would surrender its mainstay to England so easily. However, Weston was his liege—friend or nay—and he seemed so certain of it that Michel didn’t dare contest him—particularly not in the mood he was presently in.
It seemed to Michel that Weston didn’t have much respect for women and Michel well understood why. His mother was a lady, his father a landless knight—not her lord husband. His mother’s husband had agreed to cover up the scandal—not wanting the world to know his ladywife had lain with another. So, reluctantly, Lord de Burghe had accepted Weston as his own. But the truth was never hidden long. In time, the landless knight became a lord in his own right and had demanded acknowledgment of his firstborn son. Hence Weston de Burghe, third son of a baron, became Weston FitzStephen, bastard son of a lowly lord, who incidentally now had three legitimate sons to take his place. And Weston was left with naught but the respect of his men.
To further Weston’s distaste for the female gender, the ladies at court—especially those duly wedded—all seemed to throw themselves at his feet were he to give them but a fleeting glance. Weston needed but raise a dark brow to them, and they would follow him to his pallet like bitches in heat. For some reason, Weston’s reputation seemed to intrigue every one of them. Every lady wanted to be the one to tame the untamable Silver Wolf.
Seeing the sour expression on Weston’s face, Michel introduced a lighter topic. “I heard tell Lontaine itself was a bestowal from de Montagneaux.”
Weston shrugged. “That should tell you how thick the blood ran between them.”
“Then ye have doubts over de Montagneaux’s loyalty to Henry?”
Weston eyed him pointedly. “’Tis not my place to question the King’s affairs.”
“That is not what I asked and well you know it.”
Weston shrugged again. “I know little of Montagneaux, though what I know, I mislike.”
“And what do you know of Lontaine?”
“Only what is rumored,” Weston admitted. “It appears the man was a recluse.”
Michel nodded and grinned, thinking that for once he had uncovered something a little more than his proficient liege lord. Weston usually made it a point to learn everything he could of his adversary before taking on a siege.
Michel sought to enlighten him. “I heard tell that de Lontaine’s ladywife died in his arms during the birth of his only child... in the donjon tower. Some say her spirit still haunts the old castle... and that the widowed de Lontaine locked his daughter away in that same tower where her mother had died. I’ve heard say she is deformed, twisted during birth, and that is why he allows no man to enter his gates. ’Tis ashamed of her, he is.”
> Weston gave him an aggravated look, but it did not deter Michel. “’Tis said, in fact, that de Lontaine often met messengers outside the perimeter walls, dismissing them without even the courtesy of a warm meal and a night’s rest. Many said he would turn his own allies away did they arrive without notice.”
“As I have said, the man was a recluse,” Weston agreed, “but he is dead and cannot defend himself—since when have you taken to gossiping like an auld woman, Michel?”
“You’re a cantankerous bastard today,” Michel countered, frowning, and only dared to say so because they were apart from the rest of the men, who were busy setting up camp nearby.
“And you seem to take great joy in my discomfort,” Weston countered. “I am sick to death of seeing that wolf’s head carved on every—“
Voices caught their attention… not of their own company.
Michel’s head cocked. “Speaking of women,” he said, his brows colliding.
Weston too furrowed his brow.
Curious, the two men peered through the underbrush and waited as the voices neared. And then, they saw it—both at once.
Weston shook his head in disbelief and Michel laughed aloud. Weston gripped his arm.
“That is the tiniest knight I’ve ever beheld,” Michel marveled. “I thought these Normans were descended of Northmen?”
Weston said nothing, merely watched the small troop as they cantered toward him.
“The man’s helm looks as though it will fall from his dwarf's head—’tis too big for the runt. Think you he has stolen the armor, Weston? Surely, it cannot belong to him!”
Weston rubbed his chin, deliberating the possibility as the small troop passed clangorously by. The white gelding was not an animal given to poor knights and it moved with the lad with familiar ease. The two had been together long.
“Nay,” he said finally, peering up at Michel. “Would you follow him unless decreed by birth?”
Michel shook his head and whispered, “You have a point. But God’s breath! Look at them… some wear helms, but no nose guard. Others wear ill-fitting hauberks, impregnated with holes... yet others none at all. What manner of soldier equips himself so meagerly?”
“Not soldiers,” Weston said with certainty.
Morning mist rose from the forest floor, engulfing the legs of every horse and rider.
“They carry Normandy’s banner,” Michel pointed out. “Think we should intercept them?”
Weston put his finger to his lips to quiet his friend, and continued to ogle the cavalcade as they passed by. “Nay,” he whispered. “These men can do no harm to Henry. Let them go in peace.”
Michel nodded as the last of the sad troop disappeared around the bend and when they were gone, he and Weston shook their heads and started back to camp.
They had taken but a few steps when the thundering of hooves echoed behind the little troop, and they dove into the refuge of the underbrush again—just in time to watch a second cavalcade fly by.
This one traveled with purpose, and within seconds, the clanging of metal could be heard in the near distance. Anguished screams pierced the air—the sound of dying men.
Weston did not dally to hear more.
Chapter Four
At least fifteen had fallen by the time Weston and his men came to the little troop’s rescue. It was impossible to tell from which mesne the dead belonged as their liveries were bloodied beyond recognition. The assailants were startled by the arrival of yet a third cavalcade and their bewilderment was their undoing.
Weston felled two knights before they knew what had befallen them. When he spotted the tiny knight upon the white gelding, cornered, he started for his attacker but was intercepted by another. The bloodshed continued only long enough for Weston to down two more men, then the second party dispersed and disappeared into the forest, like rats at the break of daylight. Once the attackers were gone, he started again for the little knight, intending to capture him as he was certain the beleaguered troop would throw down their arms and accept defeat once their leader was taken. It was his intent to simply end the battle, interrogate the little man, then let them all go. He wanted no more bloodshed. But so much for good intentions—he was thwarted again by the most formidable man in the little knight’s company.
Aubert recognized the Silver Wolf’s insignia, but vowed to give his life to protect his blood. He had the element of surprise on his side, and was successful in knocking the Wolf from his mount. Unfortunately, his lance caught in a kink in the Wolf’s armor, and he tumbled to the wet ground along with the ominous silver-mailed warrior.
The Wolf was the quicker to regain his footing.
Aubert came to his knees and rose with a war cry, lifting his broadsword high, but he was pierced in the belly before he could regain his footing.
Chrestien screamed when she saw Aubert fall.
Her knees buckled as she lifted her heavy sword, and with strength she didn’t know she possessed, she charged the silver knight standing over Aubert. She knew she took him unawares by the look of shock he wore upon his face. Her sword entered just below the shoulder blade of his armor, and the feel of rending flesh sickened her.
Blood spurted from the wound when she removed her sword, and her stomach heaved in response. But it was the last thing she saw before she heard the clang of her own helm against her skull and she kissed the dirt.
* * *
“’Tis a nasty gash, my lord.”
Weston grimaced as Guy, his young squire, gave his wound a generous dose of vin before applying the ivory needle to his flesh.
His captain stood before him, his boyish face contorted by a wry grin, and Weston cursed his state that he could not give his old friend a good thrashing for his obvious enjoyment of Weston's pain.
Michel’s shoulders shook with ill-suppressed mirth and when he could control it no longer he threw his head back and howled with laughter. “God’s teeth! Were it to be known the mighty Wolf was felled by a bloody elf—”
Weston was near the point of forgetting his injuries and belting his friend senseless, when they were interrupted by another of his men. Red-faced—half out of embarrassment, half out of anger—Weston turned to the lad and tipped his head. “What is it?”
“What would you have us do with the prisoners, my lord?”
“Tell the guard I will be there as soon as Guy finishes stitching my wound.”
The nervous messenger turned to leave, just as Guy indicated with a wave of his hand that he was already done.
Rising, Weston tipped Michel a warning look. “You, my friend...” He shook his head. “You try me.” He moved past him, out into the night, his temper on edge.
Wiping the smile from his lips, Michel followed him out of the tent.
Together they entered the tent he’d designated for the prisoners, and Weston scrutinized the three men lying before him. Unfortunately, there were only two left alive of the first cavalcade, and he wasn’t at all certain they would not perish as well. The tallest was badly wounded—unfortunately by Weston’s own hand, but at least that one stirred in pain. The other one, the tiny one Weston assumed to be the leader, was lying as still as though his life were already spent.
The third prisoner was of the second cavalcade, and it was this one Weston would deal with first. After inspecting the flesh wound the man had sustained, he was certain the man was feigning unconsciousness. He proved it by slipping the dagger out of his belt and setting it to the man’s throat. The man opened his eyes at once.
“Who owns your sword arm?” Weston asked quietly, firmly.
The man did not answer.
“To whom do you swear?” Weston demanded. “Tell me or I will carve the apple from your throat.”
The man’s response was to hawk up a gob of spittle and spray it upon Weston’s boots, which brought the black leather toe slamming into his face.
The man reached up to swipe away the blood from his split mouth, smiling as he did so. Weston’s boot slammed int
o his face yet again, sending him to oblivion.
Now Weston was satisfied the man was unconscious.
With the bastard out of his way for the time being, he turned and knelt beside the dwarf knight, inspecting the man's head gingerly. He lifted the closed eyelids, then stood and rubbed his whiskers, considering the man thoughtfully. He could not tell from whence these men hailed for the armor bore no insignia—and neither troop had flown banners. But it seemed to Weston that they could not have ridden past Montagneaux without being seen. In fact, although he couldn’t swear it, he thought they had both come from that general vicinity.
Chrestien lay unmoving.
As soon as she had spied the tent flap stirring she had closed her eyes at once. She didn’t dare face her captors yet. They were King Henry’s murderers and she hated the beasts for killing her father. And now they had wounded poor Aubert, who in all likelihood lay next to her perishing. Aye, she’d spied the snarling wolf’s head upon the banner displayed outside the tent, and had silently cursed the murdering English.
Jesu, but how did she get herself into such predicaments? Her head was pounding now with all the fury of a battering ram. Had he cuffed her upside the head perchance? She didn’t believe she was wounded elsewhere.
She heard boots chew the ground as the man walked away, then it was quiet again.
Was she alone?
Or was he standing over her, staring?
Slowly, she cracked her eyelids, and peered up through dark lashes. Two men were staring out the entrance of the tent, their backs to her now. The tallest one still had his sword in his scabbard. If she could but summon the courage... she might seize it... but if she tried and did not succeed, she would surely be cut down.
Then again, if she did not at least try... she might be murdered anyway.
Alas, she must try.
A look to her right revealed a bloody-faced, unconscious man.
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