LITMIR.BIZ

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darkness. They looked to one another for courage as the frightened children dug in their heels, torn between the terror of the unknown dangers of the forest and the men who threatened to steal them away.

      In the end, the women made for the woods, but the moment of hesitation had cost them, and even the most fleet of foot were no match for the marauding men.

      The women screamed for their children and shouted curses at the men who had taken them. Serine’s voice rang out above the rest. “Steal back your children before it’s too late,” she urged as she rushed through the throng of fierce men and desperate women.

      “Find the screaming harpy and silence her,” the raven-haired leader ordered. But even as he spoke, the cooking fire in one of the huts spilled across the rushes, and the embers burst into flames that lit the darkness.

      The shadows evaporated, and with them the men, who disappeared into the night. In the silence that ensued, the only sound was the cry of a bird calling mournfully, “Too late...too late...too late....”

      * * *

      The thatched huts were but wet embers and the Celts were gone with most of the village children as the exhausted villagers congregated outside the keep, where they dropped to the ground like fallen sparrows. Young women sobbed openly while old men wept silent tears. As Lady of Sheffield it was Serine’s duty to see to the health and welfare of her serfs. It was well within her ability to treat their wounds and illnesses, but there was nothing she could do to heal their aching hearts—hearts that could not be eased until that which had been lost was recovered.

      “I will not allow those heathen savages to get away with this,” Serine told Dame Margot. “They’ll not steal my son without feeling my wrath.”

      Dame Margot, Dowager Lady of Sheffield, and Serine’s stepmother, wrung her hands in despair. “We are but a few weak women. If only the men were here instead of off on Crusade.”

      “But the men aren’t here.” Serine’s chin set in determination.

      “Then there is nothing we can do. We cannot hope to overcome men who are trained to fight, even if there are no more than a score of them. They overpowered us so easily it looked like child’s play.” Margot shifted nervously. The Lady of Sheffield was far younger than her husband, and quite set in her ways. Dame Margot knew how it felt to be the young bride of an older lord, and indulged Serine in many ways, but she could not stand by and allow the mistress of Sheffield to endanger her life and the lives of her serfs in a hopeless cause. As dowager she must do her best to make Serine see the futility of her proposal.

      Sensing that Dame Margot was making ready to try to stop her, Serine went to the top step and stood silhouetted before the door. Her russet hair caught in the wind in wild disarray and her dark eyes flashed as she called out for the attention of her serfs.

      “Good people, hear me!”

      Weary heads lifted and tears dried as a spark of hope crept through the crowd.

      “Our children have been stolen. If we want them back we must go after them.”

      Hope was replaced by disbelief. Surely the young mistress had gone daft with grief.

      “We cannot fight those pagans, m’lady,” a voice cried out. “They’ll kill us dare we challenge them again.”

      “I do not intend to fight,” Serine told them, “but I intend to steal our children back and bring them home.”

      “But how can you hope to do that, Lady?” the alewife asked. “We have neither the strength nor the weapons.”

      “We do not need strength. We have skill and stealth. And what we have lost is far more precious to us than to them,” Serine returned in a voice that held firm despite the quivering in her stomach. “We will steal back our children one by one if need be.”

      “Lady.” Hildegard, the alewife, lumbered to her feet. “We were lucky in this raid. There was no killing or looting. Nor did they rape or pillage. If we follow them and put ourselves in their paths we will suffer all that we have been spared.” She scrubbed a tear from her face and continued, “I want my childer back as much as anyone here, but I know when I am beaten, and I be no match for an army of thieving Celts.”

      Serine looked out over the women’s faces. They were resigned, without hope or purpose. Their children had been stolen away while their men were off fighting a holy war. It was up to Serine to make them believe in themselves again. She must find a way to make them willing to go after their children. Their children, and Hendrick, her son.

      For without Hendrick all was lost and the sacrifice of her youth to the whims of an old but powerful husband would come to naught. If there was no heir to the estate it would revert to the Crown, and Serine had sworn a blood vow that it should not be so. This was her land. The land for which her ancestors had fought and died. And although, as a woman, Serine could not inherit in her own right, she had given all to secure it for her son.

      Drawing her courage about her like a shield of valor, she tried once more to call the villagers to her cause. “‘Twas no army, but a thieving band of Celts,” Serine shouted. “I doubt there were more than twenty men for all their shouting and bluster.”

      In truth she thought it to be nearer twice that number, but few of the women were able to count.

      “And we have weapons,” Serine assured them. “Nearly every woman here can shoot an arrow or set a trap.”

      “Oh, no! My lady,” Hildegard protested, “we know nothing of such things.” It boded no good that their lady suspected they were capable of catching and killing the wildlife that lived in the forest. A serf’s life was forfeit if caught poaching on the master’s land.

      Serine put her hands on her hips. Her dark eyes narrowed and she scrutinized each face. She knew the doubt and fear that plagued the minds of her people and realized she must end those fears if her plan was to succeed.

      “I have seen you hit your mark with an arrow, or return with game from your traps. I have seen you. Many times. The keep has windows and I am not blind. But my land is rich and fertile. Wildlife abounds, enough for all to share. Now I ask you to bring the skills you have been using to stock your larders and use your knowledge to bring about the return of our children.”

      The women stared, openmouthed with surprise. What sort of lady was this who knew they took the master’s meat and did nothing? They looked at one another in astonishment.

      “Who is with me?” Serine held out her arms, calling for support. “Who is with me? Or do I go alone?”

      No one moved. They stood like statues, hardly daring to breathe. Then there was a shuffling in the crowd.

      An old woman emerged, an English longbow over her shoulder, a quiver of arrows on her back and a patch over one eye. “I stand with you, m’lady. I can shoot as well as any man, and will follow wherever you go. As long as you don’t go too fast.”

      “But how can you hope to hit your mark?” Serine asked. “You have but one eye.”

      “Had two when I was born,” the old woman told her. “But I lost the one to an errant arrow. Decided then and there I would never be satisfied until I learned to conquer the thing that had maimed me. You’ll find me as good a shot as any man. Only one eye is needed to send an arrow to its mark.”

      Serine gave a sigh of relief. She saw the old woman’s determination and knew her admission to her prowess with the bow gave Serine the solution she needed.

      “Thank you, Old Ethyl.” Serine held out her hand and the one-eyed woman came to stand beside her. “And who else?”

      The fact that Old Ethyl openly carried her bow and just as openly declared that she knew how to use it gave courage to the others. Several women stepped forward, including Hildegard, the alewife, who drew a strong leather cord from her pocket.

      “I cannot shoot an arrow, and that’s no lie. But I can set a trap big enough to catch a small animal

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