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Saxon Lady. Margo Maguire
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Aelia should have known Osric would react thus. He took much of what was said as a personal challenge. And even if Selwyn had given Osric a worthy task, her brother must have felt insulted to be excluded from the battle.
She had to raise the alarm and assemble a company of men to go to Osric’s rescue. ’Twould mean going to battle in the dark, in territory that was unfamiliar to many of the Saxon warriors who had come from distant lands. Such a conflict could very well prove disastrous.
Mayhap there was a better way.
Sending Grendel to the armory to sup with the men, Aelia made her way to the east wall, where a narrow tunnel had been dug a generation before. There was no point in sending a battalion of men into the Norman camp when one small warrior could accomplish the task, at far less risk.
Aelia knew the territory well. She’d been raised in these lands, had ridden her steed there and hunted with her father and Godwin.
She would try to catch Osric before he had a chance to get into the Norman camp. If he somehow managed to elude her, Aelia would decide upon another likely course.
The ferocity of Ingelwald’s defense came as no surprise to Mathieu Fitz Autier. That they would send a child assassin was either ridiculously stupid or colossally brilliant. The boy claimed to be Wallis’s heir, and if it were true, he would make a fine hostage.
But the matter could wait until the morrow. His men were battle-weary and the boy was safely gagged and tied for the night. If Wallis wanted him back, he could surrender at daybreak when all parties were rested. Then Mathieu would take the Saxon lord prisoner, along with his sons and the daughter, Lady Aelia.
King William’s orders had been clear. Mathieu was to personally escort his Saxon prisoners to London, where they would be publicly displayed and executed.
All was quiet in the encampment. Mathieu did not believe Wallis would attempt an attack in the dark, but he had posted guards to give early warning in such an event. Carrying a torch, he walked among the small canvas shelters that housed many of his soldiers, and headed toward his own tent. It was a large dwelling, serving not only as his sleeping quarters, but as the place where he and his commanders met to strategize, planning their movements and battles.
He ducked under the flap and pulled it closed after him, then walked to the center of the tent. Tugging his tunic over his head, he poured water into a basin and tended his own wounds. For the first time, he allowed his thoughts to touch upon the archer whose arrow had sliced so close to his cheekbone.
It had been a maiden.
Even from a distance, with golden hair tinged red in the sunlight, she was a delicate beauty who’d stood out among the rough soldiers on the battlements. An odd prescience had come over him when he’d first seen her, taking hold of him like an iron fist squeezing his ribs and the bones of his spine. The ground had seemed to shiver under his feet. The sensation had disoriented him sufficiently to put him at risk, and he’d only come to his senses when his helm had been torn from his head.
A moment later, when the arrow grazed him, he’d looked up and caught her gaze. It was as if…
No, he was no young swain easily infatuated by a comely face. Besides, this was a Saxon woman, one who would kill him if given the opportunity. She had nearly succeeded this morn.
Mathieu washed the wound in his cheek. It likely needed sewing, but he would not disturb Sir Auvrai now to tend him. Mathieu stretched his shoulders and back and took note of several new bruises. ’Twas the price of war: no more, no less. But this time, when William’s enemy was routed, he would be master of the spoils.
Victory here assured Mathieu of the land he’d craved for years, and marriage to the most beautiful woman in all of Normandy—Lady Clarise, daughter of Lord Simon de Vilot.
Mathieu had served William for years. As the bastard son of a noble father, he had fewer rights than his legitimate half brothers, and no possessions beyond his horse and his armor. Yet he’d earned the respect and affection of his liege lord, who was now king of England. Soon, Mathieu would collect his reward. As overlord of Ingelwald and all its neighboring lands, and as son-in-law of Simon de Vilot, Mathieu would be no less than his brothers’ equal.
No, he would surpass them.
Aelia derided these ignorant Normans for making camp right beside the river. Did they not know that the rushing water masked whatever sounds an intruder might make as she slipped unseen into their midst? There was clutter here, too, making it easy for her to hide as she watched the men bed down for the night.
Silently, Aelia slipped under a discarded tarpaulin, keeping one corner lifted in order to see out from beneath it. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. With deliberate effort, she slowed her breathing and calmed her nerves as she settled in to wait. She had not seen Osric in the flickering torchlight, but all was quiet in the camp. If her brother had killed Fitz Autier, ’twould not be so, unless the Norman’s dead carcass remained undiscovered.
Where would he be?
A moment later, Fitz Autier walked into sight and that odd, shivery feeling came over Aelia once again. This time she was sure it must be fear for Osric that caused the strange sensations. The bastard strode through his camp, passing right in front of her. This Norman whose reputation had preceded him to Ingelwald was just a man, not some warrior god with powers beyond those of any mortal.
Yet his physical stature was greater than any Saxon she’d ever known. Without his armor, his chest was a wall of granite and his arms thick with muscle. His hands worked at the buckles and laces of his tunic and chausses as he walked, and Aelia wished he would desist. Surely he would not disrobe before reaching his shelter, not when the night was so chilly. She had no interest in seeing his flesh bared.
He finally ducked into his tent, and Aelia would have made a run toward it, but two sentries came close, taking away her moment of opportunity. Was Osric waiting for Fitz Autier inside that tent? Would he be able to kill the Norman without help?
Osric thought much of himself, and though he knew how to handle a knife, he was no match for a full-grown man—especially not one like Fitz Autier, who was as likely to spit a young Saxon lad on his sword as he was to take him hostage.
Aelia had to move. She had to get Osric out of there before he found himself on the wrong side of the blade.
Though anxious to leave her hiding place, she had no choice but to wait for the sentries to pass out of sight. She forced herself to remain still and watch for activity within the camp, half expecting Osric to emerge stealthily from the Norman’s tent with his bloodied knife in his hand.
Waiting for the best possible moment to move, worrying all the while, she observed the guards on the perimeter of the camp, wondering whether or not Osric was inside Fitz Autier’s tent.
If he was not, then Aelia herself would accomplish what her brother had set out to do. Osric’s idea had been a good one, though ’twas not suitable for a young boy to carry out.
When the guards and their torches were out of sight, Aelia slid quietly from the tarp and crawled to the Norman’s tent. She lay perfectly still, listening intently for sounds within. But all was silent. She heard naught.
Was Osric inside, awaiting the perfect moment?
The flap was loose and Aelia slipped under it, disturbing the canvas as little as possible.
Once inside, she held still for another moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Campfires burned outside, casting a small amount of light through the fabric walls. Aelia’s eyes were drawn to the figure who lay upon a fur pelt.
He was unmoving, but not dead. And Osric was not here. Aelia heard the Norman’s breathing, deep and even in sleep. She drew her knife from its sheath at her waist and crept toward him, past the center pole, past the suit of armor that lay in an orderly arrangement near the far wall.
When