Juliana Garnett (5 page)

“Are you so fearful, then? You, a brave Norman?”

Angry sparks diffused the darkness in eyes she had thought
pure black. Her barb had found its mark. Ah, so he was not as invulnerable as he seemed. Yet this knight wore only a mail coif and leather tunic as armor, as if contemptuous of the Saxon warriors he’d fought so savagely. She had seen him earlier in the courtyard, laying about him with wicked slashes that took men down in a wide swath. It was then she recognized the man she had taunted from the walls, the leader of this Norman rabble. Standing before him now, she fought the wave of despair that threatened to undo her. Accustomed to tall men, she was yet overpowered by the height of this knight. He was taller than most, and broader of shoulder, yet it was not his height that had defeated her. Beneath his leather tunic was lean, powerful muscle and skillful efficiency that had rendered her appallingly inadequate. All her practice and skill had not won the day for her, though she had come closer than she ever dreamed. It was a small victory—but one to savor: the memory of how she had briefly held a Norman knight at the point of her sword. If not for the dreadful weakness in her exhausted limbs, perhaps she would have yet triumphed.… But it was done, and she must answer to this dread foe with her life and liberty, and that of her people.

A curious crumbling at the back of her knees threatened to send her sprawling, but she steeled herself with stubborn determination. She would not quail before these Normans, would not shame her lineage by showing weakness to the enemy.

They stood beneath the trees around her father’s grave, and fall leaves fluttered from almost bare branches with a rustling sound like old bones, covering the ground at their feet. Fitting, that the death of the season marked the death of Wulfridge.

Looking away from him, Ceara cleared her throat and focused on the low stone wall that the Romans had built so long ago. A cold gust of wind blew against her face and bare arms, smelling of sea tang and faraway places she would never see.

“The legacy is mine, Norman.”

“Impossible. No woman alone inherits land and title.”

Her gaze swerved back to him. “No? When my father died of mortal wounds inflicted by Normans at Senlac Hill, the title and lands came to me. It is our way. In days of old, women fought alongside men.”

“If your father died of wounds inflicted at Hastings, he took a long time about it, little Saxon.”

The mocking reply continued to ignore her claim, and her chin lifted. “Aye, so he did. Lord Balfour suffered greatly at Norman hands.”

“And you have sworn to avenge him.”

“Perhaps.” She couldn’t help a bitter smile. “Do you think that is why I raised an army? Why I do not tolerate Norman swine rooting on my lands? Ah, you are a petty man, for all that you are cunning, Norman.”

“Am I.” It was more statement than query, and the thin curve of his mouth was without humor. He shifted, and his dark eyes were so piercing she looked away when he said, “But I can recognize vengeance, even cloaked in the guise of fidelity.”

Ceara stiffened with irritation. How did this Norman cur speak the Saxon tongue so well? Most Normans spoke only French, disdaining as too barbaric the native tongue of the country they had conquered. Managing a calm she did not feel, she met his gaze steadily. “ ’tis indeed loyalty that prods me. Perhaps to Wulfridge more than my country, but for reasons a barbaric Norman would never understand.”

“Would I not?” He straightened from his lazy stance and turned to beckon to the men who had joined them in the clearing. Switching back to Norman French, he bade the men, “Search thoroughly for the Saxon warlord, as the old lord is dead. They must be hiding their new leader.”

Ceara looked down to hide the anger in her eyes. Did he think her so foolish that she would not bother to learn the language of the enemy? From beneath her long lashes, she surveyed this knight standing with his feet braced wide apart and leaning with casual confidence on the hilt of his long sword. He looked
much too sure of himself—as if she had not bested him in front of his men.

“Nay,” she said loudly in English, “you would not understand loyalty to a legacy. Your understanding seems limited to the heritage of the sword, and not even that very skillfully. I know of no
Saxon
warrior who has e’er had my blade at his throat so quickly.”

For an instant, she thought she had gone too far. The Norman turned toward her, and in his grim visage she saw a ruthless intent that made her stumble back a step against the stones of Balfour’s cairn. Jagged edges of rock dug into her armored back and scraped against her bare thighs. The knight closed the space between them, so near now that his breath stirred a loose tendril of her hair where it lay against her cheek. His voice was soft:

“Do you bide your tongue,
demoiselle
. There are among my men those who understand your language, and might take it amiss should they overhear your boast.”

“Do you deny it?” She leaned back against the cairn and crossed her arms over her chest to hide her angry trembling. She felt the Norman’s gaze rove over her, dark and speculative behind the nose guard of his metal helmet.

Something like amusement flickered for a moment on his face, and he shook his head slowly. “Nay, I do not deny that you bested me. But look you who has the advantage now. I will not be reminded again of your brief good fortune in catching me off guard.”

“I thought it was more skill than luck that—” she halted. The humor in his eyes had vanished, and she was unwilling to press him. If fortune was with her there would be another time.

One of the Norman soldiers approached them then, a burly man with a young face and old eyes. His manner was respectful but not submissive, and he waited until he had his leader’s attention before he spoke.

“We searched the storehouse and secured the grounds, Sir Luc.”

“Ah, Captain Remy, tell me what you found.”

The captain hesitated, his eyes flicking to Ceara before returning to the knight. “We found a small boy hiding under a pile of hides in the storehouse. After some coaxing, he told us that the old lord’s daughter led the uprising, sir—my lord. Her name is Lady Ceara.”

She almost laughed at his mangled pronunciation of her name, the Frankish lisp obliterating the
r
instead of emphasizing it. Sir Luc was not so ignorant, and flashed her a thoughtful glance as he repeated her name more properly.

“
Keera
is it? And the lady is alleged to have led men in battle? I do not think so. It is either a ruse to allow the true leader to escape or a plan to confuse us, Remy. See if you can get the truth from these stubborn Saxons.”

Remy grinned, his craggy features relaxing. “I will discover the truth. It does not take much to frighten Saxons, sir—my lord.”

“Do not exert yourself over proper titles, Remy. It will be as difficult for me to grow accustomed to the new rank as it will be for you. And until William confirms it, I am not yet the new lord of Wulfridge.”

“The king keeps his word, and you have kept yours by taking the fortress and subduing the rebels. The documents are only a formality.”

Ceara stood stiffly. She dared not betray her understanding of their tongue, but it was growing increasingly difficult not to voice her outrage. Poor Rudd. She had hoped they would not find him, but the Normans had been thorough. He was only twelve—easily frightened, as this captain had so contemptuously remarked. Surely they would not harm him, but they spoke so casually of “subduing the rebels.” The men they had subdued had names, families, lives of their own. Did that matter to them?

Nay, it did not, she answered her own question bitterly. Not to conquering warriors who thought only of victory, not what these lands meant to those who loved them. Most of England
lay raped and charred beneath the Norman boot, a wasteland where fertile moors and forests had once lain. Little had been spared, and entire villages had died of starvation that first winter after the Norman invasion. Even monasteries had been razed, priests murdered. Wulfridge now risked the same fate, as she had known from the start. It was the gamble she had taken for freedom from the Norman yoke.

All for naught.

“Do you walk willingly with me, or would you have your people see you dragged?” Sir Luc was asking, and Ceara recovered from her rumination with a startled jerk.

“I am a Celtic princess. I do not need to be dragged to my death like a bullock at Samhain, Norman.”

His lips curled slightly. “No one spoke of death. Yet.”

Despite her growing fear, she kept her voice cool and steady: “I am already acquainted with Norman justice. Do you visit it upon small boys as harshly as you do women?”

“If it is deserved.” His gaze was keen. “If you speak of the boy you were hiding in the storehouse, he is safe. And will be as long as he obeys. It is a lesson you might consider,
demoiselle
, to keep you safe from harm.”

“Do not think to deceive me with honeyed words, for I know your intent.”

“I think you do not,” was the soft reply, and he lifted his sword to indicate the direction of the hall. “Saxon royalty should precede even a Norman knight, so you may walk ahead of me, princess.”

A hot flush warmed her cheeks. He was mocking her, of course. She suppressed the impulse to defy him, even in this, and held her head high as she walked past him. She half expected to feel the sharp nudge of a sword in her back.

Her entire body ached, bruised and bloodied, drained from the strenuous exertions of the day’s battle, and she walked slowly.
I cannot display weakness
, she thought raggedly,
not in front of Normans, and certainly not in front of my own people. Wulfric, you should
be here now … you would know what to do, how to keep these Normans from destroying us.…

She stumbled over a broken stone and caught herself, using the distraction to wipe an angry tear from her eye. Wulfric would never give advice again, would never come to her with laughter in his eyes, teasing her and enraging her at times, but always there. He was gone forever. They were all gone. If only her father had listened to her before it was too late. But he had not. He kept his sworn oath to the end, and it had destroyed them all.

But she had made a vow of her own.…

T
HE HALL
was littered with dead bodies and Norman soldiers. Ceara steeled herself. Familiar faces glazed with the mask of death must be ignored, for it would give her enemies another weapon to use against her.

Yet it was more difficult than she anticipated. Even the unarmed and defenseless had been killed. An elderly servant sprawled just inside the door, his sightless eyes staring up at the high ceiling and blackened beams of the hall. She looked away.

Behind her, Sir Luc prodded her forward with the flat of his sword. “Advance to the dais,
demoiselle
. I would have you near me.”

Ceara jerked forward. The reply she meant to be light and mocking came out in a choked snarl: “I did not think you would grow enamored of me so quickly, Norman.”

“You nurture false hopes,
demoiselle
.”

“ ’tis you who nurtures false hopes if you think to hold what you have slain so many to take! Justice will win out, and you will reap the fruits of murder that you have sown, vile Norman, I swear it!”

His hand closed on her bare arm, fingers digging deep to cut off her accusations.

“Do not be misled by my gentle nature. I will not long suffer your barbed words.” The cold menace in his voice chilled Ceara to the bone, but somehow it allowed her to regain her composure.

She suffered Luc to push her to the dais where Lord Balfour had once held sway. His heavy hand pressed her down to the tiled lip of the platform, but she resisted just enough to signal her continued rebellion before she sank to the floor. Only then did she realize how utterly bone-weary she was, how her limbs shook with fatigue. The days had been long, the nights short and sleepless.

Ceara watched numbly as Norman soldiers moved the dead bodies from the hall, detaching herself from the painful sight and the knowledge that Wulfridge was no longer hers to command.

Shattered wooden benches and tables were removed, torn wall hangings pulled down, the floor swept clean of debris. Ceara did not speak, made no protest even when her armor was demanded of her, but yielded it up silently. Clad only in a short tunic, she sat on the cold floor and watched as the Normans stripped everything. The woven Saxon
wahrift
that decorated the walls were removed with little regard for their brightly colored beauty, leaving the stone beneath barren and cold.

One soldier asked Sir Luc about clean rushes as none could be found. Gesturing at the floor, the Norman complained in nasal French, “These barbaric Saxons do not even know how to cover a floor decently, my lord.”

Ceara bristled in silent disgust. Rushes. In
her
hall, covering the exquisite beauty of the ancient tile floors! Blind ass, he was too intent upon destruction to see the masterpieces that had endured through the ages. It confirmed her belief that all Normans were barbaric and crude.

But Luc surprised her. “No, Alain, do not cover these floors. It would be a pity to hide such craftsmanship and beauty with straw.”

“Not use rushes?” Alain frowned slightly, then glanced up at Ceara with a swift scrutiny that made her uneasy. He had half-lidded hazel eyes and a face that many may have called handsome, yet made her think of a coiled serpent. But his smile was bland, his manner cordial as he inclined his head deferentially. “As you wish, Sir Luc—my lord. What then shall we use to cover the floors?”

“Our feet.” Luc waved a hand in impatient dismissal, and observed tartly that he should not be bothered with petty housekeeping details. “Inform Captain Remy that he is to oversee the distribution of duties, since it was his failure to control his men that caused the deaths of unarmed servants.”

“At once, my lord.” Alain backed away, but not so quickly that Ceara missed the gleam of triumph in his eyes. Could there be strife among these Normans?