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Saxon Lady. Margo Maguire
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The Norman tightened his grip on the reins and turned his horse, signaling Sir Auvrai to follow. “You might have mentioned this before now, demoiselle.” His tone was gruff, ill-tempered.
She took a deep, quavering breath and held on to the horse’s mane. “I thought—”
Aelia heard the first arrow hit Fitz Autier’s armor, but he seemed to suffer no damage. He retreated so fast she had difficulty seeing whether the other knight followed him to the safety of the trees. They were under attack, and Aelia felt the Norman lean over her to protect her from the volley of arrows that rained down from her father’s high walls.
She did not understand. Why didn’t he just throw her into the line of fire and be done with her?
Fitz Autier’s mounted regiments advanced, but the soldiers made way for their leader as he rode through their ranks, retreating well behind the line of battle.
He beckoned two of his foot soldiers. “Take this woman and her vexing brother back to camp!” She felt his hands encircle her arms and he swung her to the ground. “Tie them securely, and don’t take your eyes off them.” He lowered his visor and turned toward Ingelwald as Sir Auvrai dropped Osric unceremoniously beside her.
Aelia watched the two Normans turn to the battle. Neither one looked back.
The sounds of battle horns and clashing swords raged in Aelia’s ears. She barely noticed her hands being bound by the Norman guards, nor did she heed Osric’s torrent of curses and complaints when they were tied together with a sturdy rope. She heard men’s angry voices in the distance, and the clash of steel upon steel. The unmistakable tones of taut bowstrings and loosed arrows filled her ears.
One of the guards gave her a shove and they started on the path toward the Norman camp. There was a better route, but Aelia would not show it to them. There might come a time when she and Osric would need to use it, and ’twould not do to have the Normans too familiar with the terrain.
Ingelwald would fall to Fitz Autier. The absolute certainty of it shook Aelia, and she stumbled blindly as they trod across the uneven ground in the woods. Her life as she’d known it was over, but perhaps her people would go on as before. They were no threat to these French bastards. This war was between Saxon landholders and the Norman encroachers, Frenchmen who would take all that the Saxon lords had built, and steal it for their own.
The people of Ingelwald would go back to their cottages and fields, but Aelia dreaded to think what would happen to her and to Osric. Were they to be sold as slaves to the Scots who raided Ingelwald lands when they had need of cattle and laborers? Mayhap Fitz Autier would send them back to Normandy, to face a future of servitude there.
She shuddered at the thought that they might yet be killed as an example to her vanquished people.
The fighting was now confined to the third level of Wallis’s hall. Mathieu fought hand to hand, with Auvrai at his side, until they reached the last pocket of resistance. Five men defended the uppermost chamber, a circular tower with arrow nooks opening in each direction. Mathieu was certain the man giving the orders was Selwyn, Lady Aelia’s spurned betrothed.
He was no suitable husband for as beautiful a maid as Aelia. Selwyn was middle-aged, with grizzled features and a decided lack of respect for the woman whose family had given him refuge. Mathieu knew that the man’s lands had already been confiscated by King William, and that Selwyn had sought refuge at Ingelwald.
“This is the worm who would not negotiate for his lady’s life,” Mathieu called to Auvrai. He crossed swords with the man, letting his anger dictate every parry, every thrust of his blade. “He would prefer to steal her family’s holding from her than keep her from harm.”
Auvrai did not reply, nor did Mathieu expect an answer as they fought the cohorts of this Saxon lord. The battle was fierce, and when one of the whoresons swung his ax toward Auvrai’s blind side, Mathieu skewered the man.
He used both hands to wield his broadsword, slashing and hacking until one of the men swung his mace and nearly caught him in the throat, where his helm offered little protection. Mathieu ducked the blow and shoved the Saxon out the door, causing the man to pitch down the stairs. Selwyn bellowed at him in his Saxon tongue, clearly castigating him, but Mathieu had had enough. Too many of his men had been killed or wounded. Fires burned in the castle courtyard, and there was panic among the women and children. ’Twas ungodly hot in his armor, and Mathieu was out of patience.
“Yield!” he shouted.
Selwyn responded, but clearly did not yield.
“Your last warning, Saxon! Give in now, and I will consider sparing your life!”
Selwyn lunged, but Mathieu speared him with one last fatal thrust. Only a breath away from death, the Saxon tried to wield his sword again, muttering incoherently. He took one step toward Mathieu, but collapsed before he could raise his arm.
There were still two Saxons standing. When they saw Selwyn’s fate, they gave up their weapons.
“Pick him up,” Mathieu ordered, gesturing toward Selwyn with the tip of his broadsword.
The men did not understand his words, but Auvrai showed them what was required. The largest of the men hoisted Selwyn’s body to his shoulder and carried him to the stairs, then down to the main hall, where Norman knights continued to fight furiously for domination over their Saxon opponents.
One by one, the battles ceased as Ingelwald men caught sight of Selwyn’s bloody carcass. They pointed and exclaimed, and soon all were subdued by Mathieu’s men, who seized their weapons and herded them outside. The elation of victory was upon the Norman soldiers, and Mathieu knew there would be hell to pay if he did not take steps to protect that which had not yet been destroyed.
“Auvrai, Gilbert! Restrain them!” he shouted. “Osbern, find the ale…get some food. Divert these men from their bloodlust. I want the village and all who dwell within left intact!” Mathieu ordered. He would not begin his tenure here as a hated overlord.
’Twas several hours before Ingelwald was fully secured and his own warriors well occupied. Women and children were spared, as were any Saxon men who willingly laid down their weapons. Mathieu made his rounds, surveying the damage done, taking note of all that could be salvaged. He walked through Wallis’s hall—Aelia’s home—and gave instructions regarding the former lord’s possessions.
He entered a bedchamber that overlooked a courtyard, and realized he was in Lady Aelia’s private quarters. There could be no other occupant whose size fit the suit of cuir-bouilli, the hardened leather armor that lay on the narrow feather bed. When he picked up one of the gauntlets, his own hand dwarfed it, and he was appalled to think he might have met her in battle had she not ventured into his camp the previous night and become his prisoner. He would have assumed he was fighting an adolescent lad, not a woman.
’Twas not to say he had decided what to do with her. Should he hang her and the red-haired brat to demonstrate his power to the villagers? Or take her to William, where she would suffer a public humiliation before her execution?
Both options were difficult to swallow, though he knew not why he should care. Lady Aelia and her brother were no more than two obstacles to that which Mathieu desired with all his heart—this land, and the prestige of being one of William’s conquering champions…and the pride of bringing a beautiful, wellborn bride here, to his own rich holding.
A stringed instrument stood propped against one of the chamber walls, and a beautifully carved fruitwood recorder lay upon a trunk at the end of the bed. As one who had spent many a leisurely hour making his own carvings, Mathieu appreciated the fine craftsmanship of the piece, even as he imagined Aelia’s lips upon the instrument, and the music she would make. He opened the trunk and removed several articles of clothing—delicate chainsil and sturdy woolens. Placing the recorder across the center of the pile of clothes, he rolled it all into a neat package and carried it from the chamber.
“Find something