Juliana Garnett (38 page)

He thought of her often. He hoped she heeded his command and her vow, and was safe in the confines of the castle. It had been signed with a flourish,
Luc Louvat, earl of Wulfridge
.

Arrogant, perhaps, but the essence of the man was there in the sanded ink and the wax seal imprinted with his ring. The signet depicted a wolf’s head, familiar and defiant. Odd, that a man so named had come to take her lands. It was almost as if her father had sent him to her, for Lord Balfour had said that Wulfridge needed a man who is as fierce as a wolf to hold it, not a she-wolf. At the time, she had been furious. Now, she knew he was right.

Beside her, Sheba began to pace, huge paws padding along the top of the wall as the animal picked a path over the jagged stones. Ceara followed the wolf’s gaze over the battlement and saw in the distance faint plumes of smoke rising above treetops to smudge the dusky sky. Her throat tightened. Surely Luc would not lay waste to his own lands. Not even if churls defied
him or the villagers closed their shop doors against him would he destroy his own resources. Would he?

She shifted uneasily. In the courtyard below came the rumble of soldiers, and she glanced down uneasily as men began to scurry back and forth with hasty purpose. An air of grim preparation clothed their movements, as cauldrons were dragged from storehouses, leather hides pulled out, and the smell of heating pitch rose into the air. By the time she reached the bailey, the activity was fevered, chaotic.

She sought out Lieutenant le Bec, castellan in Luc’s absence, charged with keeping the castle safe. He spoke rough English, but was too hurried to do more than tell her that news had come of an army’s approach.

“Men from the north, my lady, from what we know,” he added, then moved away before she could ask more questions.

Men from the north? Danes? Or Scots? She hurried to the castle, and found the hall in an uproar. The room was being stripped of valuables which would be hidden in one of the underground vaults Luc had restored. Servants took care to remove everything down to the fragile glazing from the window.

It was an organized procedure, carried out under the swift, capable direction of the squire, Alain. She found him in the corridor outside the hall.

“Alain, tell me, what do you know?”

“Little more than you, most like. Here, boy—Rudd. Do not bother with that tapestry, but take instead the gold and silver vessels to the vault.”

Ceara grabbed the squire’s arm when he would have pushed past, too agitated to care about property. “Curse you, Alain of Montbray, tell me what word has come to your ears before I flay you for disobedience!”

That halted the squire, and he looked at her with cold eyes. “I owe allegiance to my lord, not you, with all pardon for my bluntness, Lady Ceara.”

“Yea, but I am one of Lord Luc’s prized possessions, so do not be so insolent that you allow me to be lost in the confusion.”

Her veiled threat convinced him, and he sighed impatiently. “The Scots approach. They are garbed for war. It is a great force, and with only a single troop left to defend our walls, Lieutenant le Bec has sent out an urgent message to Lord Luc that we are under attack. I do not think we will be overrun, as our defenses are stout, but it might be difficult for the earl to relieve us if he is in the midst of besieging Oswald.”

Fear skipped along her spine, but she nodded. “I am not unaccustomed to assault, you may recall. I have experience with this. Have our vassals been summoned?”

“Messengers have gone out to Leofric and Eadwine. The towns have been warned to shut their gates, those that have walls, and the villagers cautioned to take cover against the invaders. The coastal towns are advised to move all merchant ships from their harbors. That is all that can be done for the moment.”

“It is enough. We will hold the castle until my lord arrives to defend us.”

Alain gave her an odd look, a little smile at one corner of his mouth. “You seem confident he will come, my lady.”

“He will come.”

“And if he is delayed by Oswald? What then?”

“Do you seek out worries, Alain?”

“Not when there are worries aplenty without seeking.” Alain shifted from one foot to the other, anxious to be gone. She did not delay him longer, and hurried to her own chamber, Sheba at her heels.

The wolf was uneasy with the armed men running to and fro, and let her distress be known by rumbling moans and brief howls. Ceara comforted her briefly, then moved to the wooden chest set against the far wall of the solar. Hidden in the bottom was the gladius that had long been hers, beneath what was left of the Roman armor. The leather straps of the armor were worn almost in two, as they had been for some time. She withdrew
the short sword and hefted it in one hand with a smile of satisfaction. Much better than her dainty little eating dagger that was all Luc would allow her to wear, a pitiful weapon in her opinion. This old sword had endured through the ages, kept sharp at the grindstone, carefully cherished by many before her.

Now she strapped it around her waist, fastening the buckles that held it secure over her blue kirtle. At once, she felt better. If need be, she could defend herself.

Sheba put back her head and howled again, black lips dark against the white of her fur, eyes slitted. The wolf sensed danger, and reacted with restless anticipation.

“Shush, cony,” Ceara soothed, stroking the thick white fur of Sheba’s ruff. “There is naught to fear. We will hold until our lord comes, and together we shall drive out the invaders. This time, we fight together.”

Sheba swept a tongue across Ceara’s cheek, but did not cease her restive prowling about the chamber. It was likely to be a lengthy wait, and Ceara finally left the solar to join the others in the hall.

The wolf came behind her, a low whine in her throat as she followed Ceara through the corridor, now strangely empty of guards. All had been called to man the walls and gates. Dark shadows shrouded the far end of the passageway, where construction was still under way though the hole that had waylaid Robert had been well covered now.

The hall was empty of Luc’s fine Norman furnishings. Little remained to indicate that woven tapestries had covered the bare walls, or gilt salt cellars and silver nefs had held spices for their food. Even the feather bolsters that cushioned chairs and benches were gone.

Alain was quite efficient, it seemed. She smiled a little, and moved to the far end of the hall where the
table dormant
remained in place, a huge, heavy oaken slab that had served her father and his father before him. Motifs of ancient Celtic deities
were still etched into the sides and framework of the table, intricate swirls and coils that resembled the ornamentation of her mother’s pendant. At the thought, she put up a hand to touch the amber and silver necklace around her neck.

In the confusion, it might very well be lost—or taken. It should be in the vault with the other treasures, tucked safely away until danger had passed. Turning, she left the hall again, Sheba a white shadow slinking behind her with hackles raised and eyes alert.

Below Wulfridge, in the deep chambers dug aeons before by invaders long departed from England, Luc had chosen a single vault to hold valuables. An iron door had been fitted to the only entrance, and a lock secured the door with a thick hasp. It was a good-sized chamber, with walls chiseled of rock that were damp from the cold, musty air of the sea. Huge chests ranged along the walls, lined with spiced wood that had been treated with pitch to withstand the moisture and keep mold from the bolts of precious cloth.

The door was ajar, and a single torch lit the dank chamber with fitful light. Ceara drew off the pendant, and stood in front of one of the chests. The lid was heavy, as high as her waist and curved, a massive chest indeed.

With an effort, she managed to open it, straining at the weight of the lid. She was impatient to get back to the hall, and coiled the silver and amber pendant into a jewel-crusted chalice, then slowly lowered the lid, puffing with exertion.

When Sheba snarled, Ceara turned swiftly, letting the lid fall the last bit with a loud crash. The sound was muffled by thick stone, quickly smothered in the gloom. Torchlight flickered. The wolf crouched low, teeth bared, hackles stiff along the line of her back.

Invaders could not have breached the walls in the time it took for her to come down to the vault, Ceara reassured herself, and she moved toward Sheba with cautious steps.

“Who goes there?”

The sound of her demand faded quickly. Just outside the
door a shadow moved, and she put her hand on the hilt of her sword. Heart pounding, she cleared her throat and again demanded that they show themselves.

Still no reply, and Sheba’s low snarls grew into violent rumbles. With a hand on the wolf’s back and the other hand around her drawn sword, Ceara approached the vault door. No doubt the wolf just sensed an armed soldier beyond the door, still ever wary since the incident with Oswald’s man.

It was quiet in the bowels of the castle. Her steps made an eerie shuffling sound over the stone floor, and she put out a hand to push the heavy door open wider. Everything happened so quickly that she had no time to think. Someone grabbed her wrist, there was a curse, snarling growls, and the flash of steel, and she was jabbing with her short sword at the shadowed figure of a man, vaguely aware of a white streak of fur before the man screamed. Sheba’s fierce attack brought more curses and screams, and then another man was there, and a sword lifted high into the air, a silvery glitter in the dim light as it descended in a deadly arc.

Ceara screamed at the same time as the wolf, a high-pitched wail of terror and pain and hatred that bounced off the corbeled walls of the hall outside the vault in deafening echoes. A final yelp, then Sheba dropped, her white body spouting blood from a deep slash across her ribs. Ceara fought free of the man holding her, trying to reach the wolf, but she was dragged away. Turning, she lashed out with the sword, slicing it in a wicked gash that met with temporary resistance against vulnerable flesh and bone before wrenching free. The sound of mortal wounding rent the air, and one of the men staggered and slid to the floor near Sheba’s body, his sword clattering uselessly on stone.

The other man held her fast, his arm around her neck though they were of like height, and Ceara grasped his forearm between her teeth and bit down hard. Grunting with pain, he slammed her hard against the wall. Lights exploded in front of
her eyes like the brief flare of a thousand candles. The gladius went flying from her hand. Her head rang. Grief and rage choked her, and her hair tangled in front of her eyes so that she could hardly see. Slowly, he began to drag her back into the vault, though she still struggled weakly.

It occurred to her that the man’s curses were in the Saxon tongue, panting and furious but familiar. This was no Norman enemy who dared slay her wolf and assault her, but another Saxon.

With a tremendous burst of strength fueled by fury, she threw off her assailant and sent him hard against the wall. She darted for the door, but he caught her and swung her around, slamming her into one of the heavy chests with a force hard enough to stun her for a moment. Panting, on her hands and knees, she peered up through the tangle of her hair as the man bent to retrieve her sword from the stones. Torchlight slid along the red-stained blade in runnels of reflected light.

“You have bloodied your sword on your own man, my fine lady,” came the hoarse taunt, and Ceara’s blood chilled. He laughed harshly. “Aye, your brave rescuer was cut down by the very one he sought to help.”

Ceara threw a glance toward the still body on the floor, but his face was turned away. She glimpsed fair hair, and closed her eyes. Loathing and grief welled up in an overwhelming tide, and she fought the encroaching darkness that threatened to envelop her. She must be alert to thwart this enemy, for she had the sinking feeling that he could bring down not only Wulfridge, but Luc, as well. Why had she not sensed this threat from within?

Opening her eyes, she rallied enough to push herself upright and face the gloating man holding her sword. “Kill me and you will surely die.”

“Ah, but, lady, your death is not what will bring the Norman wolf running to meet his own fate.…”

L
UC MOUNTED HIS
destrier, grimly rejecting the town mayor’s excuses that he had not seen Oswald. The siege had ended with assault, the successful breaching of the fortress walls and the taking of Oswald’s holding. Yet Oswald had escaped. There was no sign of him. Nor could any of his men say where he had gone. The search had led them from Rothbury Forest north to Oswald’s other holdings.

“Burn it,” Luc ordered, casting a last brief look at the village that had harbored the rebel baron. Torches were lit and set to thatched roofs despite the wails of the occupants who tried to drag out what belongings they could before the flames consumed all. Luc watched dispassionately. He had spent near a week searching for Oswald. It had not taken long to effect the fall of the fortress, yet the search for the rebel baron had ranged far afield, through towns and villages like this last one that had set up a brief resistance. It had been quickly quelled with sword and fire. But no Oswald.