CHAPTER FOUR
‡
A Man of Darkness
“He is dead, you know.”
The words hung in the air, sharp with their pain, deadly with their accuracy. As three of de Wolfe’s knights stood in a clearing on a rise a mile or two north of the battlefield, those words were like a nightmare none of them wanted to acknowledge.
But they were more than likely true.
Aramis de Russe, Lance de Reyne, and Denis de Winter were resting their horses after a grueling day and night and then day again of working the animals into a froth with very little rest. But the animals were growing increasingly sluggish so the knights knew they had to rest them or risk losing them. Even though the knights had brought other horses with them, these were their premier horses, expensive and highly-trained beasts they had taken into battle with them, and no one wanted to risk them.
Therefore, they paused in this hour before dawn when the sky was starting to lighten enough so they could douse their torches. But the mood between them was heavy with sorrow.
“It was so dark last night we could have easily passed him if he was injured and unable to call out to us,” Denis replied to Aramis’ grim statement. “Just because we have not found him does not mean his is dead.”
“If Kristoph was alive, he would have found a way to return already,” Lance said what the other two were already thinking. He knew his comrades well enough to know what was on their mind, what they were trying not to say. He looked at the two men, their faces pale in the cold and gray dawn. “You know I am right. If he had any strength left in him, he would have returned to us.”
Denis shook his head; he wasn’t willing to give up as easily as the others were. “Not if he was too injured to move or speak,” he said, increasingly passionate in his stance. “Think what you want, but I will not give up looking for him. He would not give up so easily on us.”
“No one is giving up, Denis,” Lance said. He was an even-tempered man, rational. “But there will come a point when we must face the facts.”
Denis, a bit more emotional than the others, cast his friend a long look. “Until we find a body, he is still alive,” he said. “You know Gaetan feels the same way. That is why he has sent us out to look for him. Would you give up on me? Or Téo? Or any of us? Then we rest the horses and we keep looking until we find something.”
It was the way the others felt as well, only reality and exhaustion were starting to set in, leading them to depressing conclusions. They were brothers-in-arms, all of them, and the loss of one was a heavy blow to their morale no matter how hard they tried to be logical or philosophical about it. Aramis, the most grimly pragmatic of the three, looked out over the landscape, turning shades of green and gray as the clouds above began to fill with light.
“Wellesbourne is to the east,” he muttered. “St. Hèver and de Moray to the west. Téo and Luc are back in camp keeping Gaetan sane, which is no easy feat.” He turned to look at his friends and colleagues. “We should split up now that light is upon us. We will cover more ground and be able to see better if we do. I suggest we comb back the way we have come and cover the battlefield from the north. It is even possible that Kristoph is mixed in with the Anglo-Saxon wounded.”
The grim man was grasping at strands of hope but no one questioned that. They agreed with him. “I will head into the Anglo-Saxon camp,” Denis said. “I will inspect their wounded to see if he is there.”
The other two nodded. “Beware you do not end up as part of their wounded,” Lance said. “Even wounded men can still kill. We do not want to have to go looking for you, too.”
Denis nodded as he inspected his horse to make sure the horse had been given enough rest, at least in the short time they’d had. “I will be cautious,” he said. “But if Kristoph is not there and we still cannot find him, then we must be willing to consider other possibilities.”
Aramis paused in the process of mounting his own weary horse. “What?”
Denis tossed the reins over his horse’s head as he prepared to climb into the saddle. “That he has been taken away,” he said. “I would be happier to know that some Saxon lord has taken him away and is preparing to ransom him. Men held for ransom are valuable commodities and not usually injured or abused.”
It was a happier thought than the one they were currently facing. As the men mounted their horses, Denis reined in his horse and turned to the others before leaving.
“Et pro Gloria dei,” he said quietly. For God and Glory.
“Et pro Gloria dei,” the other two repeated quietly.
It was their battle call, something they always said to one another before heading into battle or into a risky situation. It was a blessing to each other, a giver of strength, something that belonged only to them. Never did they bid one another farewell, for that was a finality in a sense. Et pro Gloria dei was all they ever said when parting from each other, a parting well-made and encouragement. They were words of hope.
Right now, they needed all the hope they could get.
Ghislaine wasn’t entirely sure this was a good idea any longer.
Having made it back to the battlefield before dawn, it was swarming with Normans and she had approached a soldier demanding to speak with a knight named Gaetan de Wolfe. Luckily, she spoke their language but her heavy accent gave her away and the soldier grabbed her by the arm and began to drag her over to some of his cohorts, shouting that he had a Saxon captive.
It wasn’t what Ghislaine had expected. She had expected the de Wolfe name to open doors for her, in peace and respect. Therefore, her shock in the Norman soldier’s reaction turned into full-blown fear when several Norman warriors headed in her direction, all of them drawn in by the shouts of the man who had her by the arm. He was hurting her. But she knew she would be hurt much worse if she let these Norman hounds paw at her. Therefore, she started shouting louder than the man holding her.
“Kristoph de Lohr!” she screamed. “I have come on behalf of Kristoph de Lohr! I must speak to de Wolfe!”
She had to say it two or three times before it registered to one of the older soldiers what, exactly, she was saying. Her accent was so heavy that they hadn’t understood her, but an older man with missing teeth and a nose that had been broken repeatedly understood her. He pulled her from the man who had a death-grip on her.
“What do you know of de Lohr?” he snarled at her, his face in hers and his foul breath filling her nostrils. “Where is he?”
Ghislaine had to admit that she was fairly terrified at this point. The Normans smelled terrible and looked like animals to her; grizzled, dirty, wild-eyed. But she’d come this far and there was no turning back.
Ghislaine had waited until the Anglo-Saxon army was asleep before slipping from the encampment in the woods. Trying to avoid being followed, it had taken her more than an hour to reach the battlefield where the Normans were celebrating their victory. By the time she reached the area, which was already starting to stink of dead men, the sun was barely hinting over the eastern horizon and the heavy clouds above were turning shades of gray. Now, she found herself face to face with men she had been trying to kill the day before.
She was more afraid than she thought she would be.
“I will only speak with de Wolfe,” she said. “Take me to de Wolfe and I will tell him.”
The old soldier’s eyes narrowed at her and, after a few moments, it was clear that he didn’t believe her. He shook his head. “A Saxon trick,” he hissed.
“It is not a trick!”
He would not be swayed. He tossed her towards the soldiers who were gathering. “A gift, lads. Enjoy yourselves!”
The men grabbed at her and Ghislaine screamed, trying to bolt away from them. One man managed to grab the long tunic she wore and he yanked, causing her to fall. As she crumpled to the ground, men were swarming on top of her and she screamed and kicked, fighting them off.
But the men ignored her terror, laughing and grabbing at her, trying to settle her down and tell her not to fear so that they could earn her trust and then destroy it. They seemed to think it was all quite humorous while she screamed and kicked. One of the soldiers had just made a grab for her neck when a booming voice overhead stopped them.
“What goes on here?” It was Lance de Reyne, riding up on his frothing war horse in the company of two more knights. “What are you doing? Who is this woman?”
All of the grabbing and laughter came to a halt as the Normans suddenly had better manners in front of one of their commanders. The older soldier who had tossed Ghislaine towards his men stepped forward.
“A Saxon prisoner, my lord,” he said, clearing his throat nervously. “We were….”
“I must see Gaetan de Wolfe,” Ghislaine said breathlessly, struggling to her feet and crashing into de Reyne’s leg when she lost her balance. “I come with information on Kristoph de Lohr! Please do not let these men have me!”
De Reyne’s dark eyes widened. Reaching down, he grabbed her by the front of her tunic and lifted her off her feet.
“What do you know of him?” he demanded. “Tell me now!”
Ghislaine was so frightened that she was feeling faint. “I will only tell de Wolfe,” she gasped, holding on to the man’s wrist as he held her off of the ground. “I must speak with him immediately!”
“Tell me what you know this instant or I will cut your throat.”
“If you cut my throat, de Lohr will die. This I swear.”
De Reyne didn’t hesitate after that. He yanked her onto his saddle, throwing her over his thighs as easily as one would toss around a sack of flour. Digging his spurs into the side of his horse, they tore off towards the heart of the encampment.
She was face-down over the knight’s armored legs. It was a terribly uncomfortable position to be in and Ghislaine struggled to keep her balance, to breathe, and to not panic. She could see the ground passing swiftly beneath the horse’s hooves and then they came to an abrupt halt. She grunted as the knight lifted her off of the saddle and lowered her, probably to set her on her feet but she ended up falling. He dismounted behind her, hauling her to her feet as he began to head towards a cluster of white and crimson tents.
Terrified, Ghislaine allowed herself to be dragged along because she could only assume the knight was taking her to the commander de Lohr had mentioned. De Wolfe. At least, she hoped so. She hoped that shouting the name of de Wolfe and de Lohr would get her to the man she needed to see because she was coming to very much regret her attempts at heroics to save the Norman knight’s life. Her sense of vengeance against Alary had forced her into making a stupid decision. All of these thoughts were whirling in her head as the big knight took her into one of the larger tents.
Thrust into the cool, dark innards of the structure, she was immediately hit by the smell of death. There was something dead in the tent but she couldn’t really see much because there was only the faint glow from the brazier to light the area. She blinked, struggling to become accustomed to the dimness of the tent when the Norman knight released her. As she stood there, frightened and dazed, he headed over to a corner of the tent where there was a cot and a supine body upon it.
The person on the cot was evidently dead asleep because it took the big knight a couple of tries to wake him. Ghislaine’s heart was pounding in her ears, full of apprehension and fear, as the body on the cot stirred. The big knight muttered something to the man on the cot and, suddenly, he was sitting bolt-upright and rubbing his eyes. When he stood up, unsteadily, all she could see was this impossibly tall figure in the darkness, bigger than any man she had ever seen. Then he came towards her, his features coming into the weak light.
Her heart stopped.
He was dark, swarthy-skinned, with black hair and eyes the color of bronze. His features were surprisingly even, his jaw square and his nose straight. In fact, he was quite handsome; male beauty like nothing she had ever seen before. But her inspection of him was interrupted when he barked at her, savagely.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you know of Kristoph?”
His voice… that voice that came rolling out at her like molten rock, flowing hot and fast and deep. Had she heard it before? She couldn’t be sure. Ghislaine swallowed hard, never so intimidated by anyone than she was at this very moment by him. It was a struggle to find her tongue.
“I… I am Ghislaine of Mercia,” she said, trembling. “I have come on behalf of Kristoph de Lohr. He told me that Gaetan de Wolfe is his commander. Are you de Wolfe?”
His jaw was ticking furiously. “I am,” he said. “Where is Kristoph?”
He asked the question through his teeth. Ghislaine struggled against her fear, but in the same breath she was offended by his reaction. Considering she came with news of his knight, she thought he might have been happier to see her. No such luck.
God, what had ever possessed her to come?
Still, she was here and, unless she wanted the Normans to walk all over her, she had better start showing some of the courage she was born with. If Ghislaine had one great quality, it was her boldness in the face of most any given situation. She was a strong woman from strong stock. It was time to show the Normans that.
She was finished playing the fearful little lamb.
“As I said, my name is Ghislaine of Mercia,” she said, her voice a little stronger now as de Wolfe and the other knight, the one who had brought her, glared at her quite seriously. “My brother is Edwin of Mercia. I have another brother, Morcar of Northumbria. Do you recognize these names, my lord?”
She had a very heavy accent but she seemed fluent in their language. De Wolfe nodded. “I do,” he said, displeased. “I recognize the names very well and I can only assume de Lohr has been abducted by your brothers.” Knowing these powerful men were her brothers, he had a suspicion as to her true identity. He would think on that later. For now, he had to know about Kristoph. Have you come to deliver terms of his ransom? Whatever it is, I will pay it.”
Ghislaine could see the man thought that his knight had been abducted only to be ransomed. That was a fairly normal practice in warfare, where men were taken and then returned, unharmed, for a price. She shook her head.
“It is far more complex than that, my lord,” she said. “I am not here to deliver a ransom demand. I am here to tell you that your man is in terrible danger.”
De Wolfe’s brow furrowed. “Danger?” he repeated. “What do you mean?”
Ghislaine sought to explain. “Another brother, known as Alary of Mercia, has taken your knight as a prisoner,” she said. “It is his intention to interrogate your man for information about the Norman army. At least, that is his intention at the moment. I do not know what his intention will be tomorrow or the next day. Already, he has beaten your knight. He is wounded and, if you do not rescue him quickly, I fear he will not survive.”
De Wolfe simply stared at her at moment. But at least his expression wasn’t as hostile as it had been. In fact, he seemed to ponder what he’d been told quite seriously and, in truth, with some disbelief. In warfare, where men were captured and ransomed, to mistreat a prisoner was almost unheard of. Knights, and especially men of wealth, were almost treated as guests in some cases until the ransom was paid. Therefore, de Wolfe was naturally perplexed.
“No ransom?” he clarified.
“No ransom.”
“But he is alive?”
“Alive but wounded. Did you not understand? He is in danger.”
De Wolfe nodded. “I understand,” he said. “So your brother will not demand ransom. What does he want, then?”
“I am not sure if there is anything he wants.”
De Wolfe was growing increasingly confused. “Then why have you come?”
That was a question with a complicated answer, something she didn’t want to divulge at the moment. She thought it might make her appear weak. But the truth was that she had a difficult time coming up with a reasonable explanation.
“It does not matter why I have come, only that I have,” she said. “Do you want your man back or not?”
De Wolfe nodded, slowly, eyeing her most critically, as if he couldn’t quite figure all of this out. “I want him back and I shall have him,” he said. “But if you are the sister of the man who has captured him, as you claim to be, then you will tell me why you are here on behalf of your brother? Why have you even come if he does not wish to ransom my knight?”
Ghislaine averted her gaze, realizing she was going to have to tell the man something of the truth. She suspected he wouldn’t rest until he received some kind of reasonable answer from her, something to satisfy his curiosity. Therefore, she tried not to sound too embarrassed as she spoke.
“I am here because… because I hate my brother,” she muttered. “He is a vile and terrible man. He is so despicable that Edwin exiled him from Mercia for reasons I shall not go in to. But Alary joined with King Harold’s army to fight for the king against the Duke of Normandy and find royal favor, but when that did not happen… now I believe that he views your man as everything he hates.”
De Wolfe wasn’t moved by her speech, but a good deal was becoming clear to him. “Then you come to betray him.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, and a true one. Frustrated that he was pushing her into a more personal confession, her eyes snapped up to him. “I do,” she said angrily. “Your knight was originally my prisoner. I fought with the Saxon army yesterday and I was there when your knight was knocked off his horse. The fall rendered him unconscious so my men and I dragged him away from the field of battle, tied him to a horse, and sent the horse running. But when the horse finally stopped running and many men from Harold’s army were trying to beat your knight to death, I stopped them. I stopped them because… because a knight captured me during the battle. But instead of harming me, he let me go and told me to remember Norman mercy. And I did – I spared his Norman compatriot because of it. Mercy was shown to me, so I showed mercy to the Norman knight. But Alary took your knight away from me for his own devious purposes. Now he has him and I can no longer protect him.”
De Wolfe was simply staring at her but it was apparent that something was going on in his mind. After a moment, he bent over as if to look at her more closely.
“Then I understand why you have come,” he said simply. “But in listening to you speak, something else has occurred to me. I recognize your voice. I believe it threatened me once.”
Ghislaine wasn’t sure what he meant. “We have not met before.”
De Wolfe continued to stare at her until, suddenly, his eyebrows lifted. “The little mouse,” he said as if an idea had occurred to him. “When we broke through the eastern shield wall, I captured you. You called me rubbish.”
Ghislaine’s eyes widened. She well remembered the knight she called poubelle and her mouth popped open. She hadn’t seen his face but now she recognized that voice. Of course she’d heard it before – when he demanded to know where her king was.
It was her merciful knight, in the flesh.
“You!” she gasped. “The Norman knight!”
De Wolfe simply looked at her. “Aye, it is me, the Knight of Rubbish,” he said with some disdain in his voice. “And look at the little mouse; you are punier than I had imagined. Take off that cap and show yourself. You look like a man dressed as you are. Let me see what you really look like.”
Ghislaine looked down at herself. She was, indeed, dressed in a tunic and leather, a belt around her slender waist and hose on her legs. Her hair was still caught up in a heavy leather cap. But that was intentional. It was easier to fight with men if they thought she was one. It was also easier to move among them. As she hesitated to remove her cap, de Wolfe reached out and pulled it from her head.
And that’s when things changed.
Gaetan was quite surprised, really. Off came the cap and out flowed the most beautiful hair he had ever seen. It was mussed and a little dirty. But he could still see the shine even in the dim light as nearly-black hair tumbled over her shoulders, glinting with red. Moreover, once he got a good look at her face, he could see that she was quite beautiful – she had a round little face with rosebud lips and wide blue eyes. When she blinked, her lashes fanned against her pale cheeks. Aye, she was quite beautiful if one could look beyond the muss and dirt. Exquisite, even.
A seed of interest sprouted.
“Why do you fight?” he asked after a moment. “Are the Saxons so desperate for men that they permit their women to fight?”
Ghislaine eyed him, a faint blush of embarrassment coming to her cheeks. “I fight because I have been trained to fight,” she said, lifting her chin at him. “I fight because I am good at it. My mother was a warrior, as was my grandmother. I do what I want to do.”
“And no one says otherwise?”
“No one dares.”
Gaetan scratched his head. “I would believe that,” he said. Then, he looked to Lance, who was still standing next to him. “Gather the men and bring them to my tent. We have word of Kristoph that they will want to hear.”
With a lingering glance at the disheveled Saxon woman, Lance quit the tent, heading out to find the rest of the Anges de Guerre. When he was gone, Gaetan turned to Ghislaine.
He was far calmer than he had been when she’d entered the tent, with less rage and more curiosity. He wasn’t panicking at all, no matter how much she tried to stress that Kristoph was in danger. Perhaps, he didn’t really grasp what she was saying. Perhaps, she wasn’t communicating it properly in his native tongue. Whatever the case, Ghislaine eyed him with some trepidation now that they were alone.
“Now,” he said steadily. “Let us return to the subject of my knight and away from a woman warrior who has no business being on a battlefield. You said that you showed mercy to Kristoph so I suppose I should thank you. You also said he was knocked from his horse – did you do it?”
Ghislaine shook her head even though she wasn’t quite over his comment about warrior women having no place in battle. She hadn’t had a man speak to her in such a way since she had been very young. No one dared dispute Ghislaine and her right to battle.
“It was not me,” she said, miffed. “I saw him after he was on the ground.”
“But it was you who tied him to a horse and took him away?”
“My men did it.” She watched him for a moment before confessing the rest. “I knew he would be a valuable prisoner and I thought as you thought, that mayhap we could ransom him. But Alary had different ideas on that.”
Gaetan’s gaze drifted over her as she spoke. He could see that he’d offended her. Her answers were very clipped. He didn’t much care, however, and he rather liked her husky little voice with the heavy accent. There was something about the woman that was inherently intriguing, unlike the fine and pampered women he knew. She was strong and she had spirit. Those were admirable qualities.
She was also clever; he could sense that. He didn’t want her to think that she was more clever, or smarter, than he was. Therefore, he switched to her language simply to prove to her that he wasn’t an idiot who did not know the language of the Saxons. Perhaps, she would understand that he was more than a warrior, capable of only fighting.
His mind was as sharp as a razor.
“I have not heard of Alary of Mercia,” he said, watching her eyes widen because he spoke in her tongue. “Why was he exiled by Edwin?”
Ghislaine heard the question but she had one of her own. “How do you know my language?”
“How do you know mine?”
“Because my mother insisted we learn the language of our servants so we would know if they were to rise up against us.”
Gaetan lifted an eyebrow. “It is always wise to know the language of an enemy. That is why I know your language.”
Enemies. They were most definitely enemies. Therefore, Ghislaine couldn’t disagree with his statement. But the fact that he could speak her language gave her pause. There was something cunning behind those intense eyes. She eyed him for a moment.
“You want to know why Alary was exiled?” she asked. “He was exiled because he was foolish enough to get one of Edwin’s men killed, among other things. He has no conscience, nor does he have any understanding of things outside of his wants and needs. If you do not serve a purpose for him, then he will just as easily kill you.”
“And you fear that is what he will do to Kristoph?”
“I know he will.” She could see the concern ripple across Gaetan’s face so she sought to impress upon him how serious she was. She had to get through to him. “He will not want your money, I do not believe. He will demand to know everything about the Norman army and their plans to advance into England from your knight. If he does not get what he needs, then he will have no use for him.”
Gaetan pondered her statement. It was clear that she had some concern for Kristoph, which Gaetan thought was rather odd. There was no reason why she should have any concern for the enemy. It was true that she showed the man some mercy, evidently, by protecting him from those who sought to kill him, but beyond that… something about this didn’t sound right. There was something else that she wasn’t telling him.
As he considered that suspicion, the tent flap flew back and men began entering; de Russe, de Winter, de Lara, and de Moray followed by de Reyne, St. Hèver, du Reims, and Wellesbourne. Half-dressed, or sleepy-eyed from having been roused from their precious moments of sleep, big men were filling up the entry. They didn’t look pleased, either, glancing between Gaetan and the Saxon woman with a mixture of anxiety, frustration, and hostility.
The hostility was definitely palpable and Ghislaine instinctively stepped back, away from the seasoned warriors that were spilling into the tent. She also saw a squire or two, and maybe even a priest. Too many men were suddenly piling into the shelter and she backed away without looking where she was going, abruptly tripping over a bundle in the middle of the tent.
As she tried to pull her feet out of it, the fabric came away and she found herself looking at Harold’s corpse. He was tinged purple and green, his skin waxy like tallow. A scream left Ghislaine’s lips when she realized what she was looking at, struggling to pull the shroud away from her ankles. The more it wouldn’t come free, the more she panicked. Gasping, she finally freed herself, crawling over to the edge of the tent.
In spite of the fact that the tent was filled with fighting men, Ghislaine only had eyes for the pasty face of the dead king. Her sister’s husband. But she wouldn’t tell the Norman’s that, fearful that it might somehow seal the suggestion of taking her a hostage if they knew she was related to the man. That fear alone kept her silent.
In fact, she’d tried to push Harold’s death out of her mind because there was so much more of the situation demanding her attention. But the sight of his lifeless body brought tears to her eyes. Her sister had been rather fond of the man and she had accompanied him on his battle march from London. She was certain that her sister had already been informed that she was a widow and Ghislaine wished she could be of some comfort to the woman. But she had her own problems at the moment.
Poor Edith….
As Ghislaine stared at Harold’s remains, hand over her mouth in distress, Gaetan went to the body and tossed the fabric back over the face. He could see how startled and unbalanced she was but it was of no matter to him; war was war and if she was going to fight like a soldier, then she would know that death went along with such a vocation. He never imagined that her shock and grief was for another reason entirely. His gaze hovered on her for a moment before turning to the men standing behind him.
“This is Ghislaine of Mercia,” he told his knights in their language. “She is the sister of Edwin of Mercia, Morcar of Northumbria, and Alary of Mercia. She has come to tell us that Kristoph is now the prisoner of her brother, Alary, and that he is in a good deal of danger.”
Various expressions of surprise and concern spread across the faces of his exhausted knights. “Where is he?” Denis de Winter asked, to either Gaetan or Ghislaine. “Has ransom been demanded?”
Gaetan shook his head. “That is the strange part,” he said. “According to Lady Ghislaine, her brother seeks no ransom. He is using Kristoph for information and she fears that when Kristoph is no longer useful, Alary will kill him.”
“Where is he?” Luc de Lara asked, far more unpleasantly than Denis had. “We searched far and wide and did not find him. Where is he being held?”
Gaetan looked at Ghislaine, who was struggling to pull herself together. When she saw that their attention was on her, she labored to speak coherently.
“Part of the retreating army gathered to the east in a forest,” she said in their language, mostly looking at Gaetan because those angry, huffing knights intimidated her. “Your knight was there when last I saw him but Alary said he would be moving him north to Tenebris, which is where he lives out his life these days. Tenebris used to be a hunting lodge for the kings of Mercia but now… now it is a terrible, dark place with a dark reputation. Alary rules over it like his own little kingdom and Edwin simply looks the other way. Men go in to Tenebris but they do not come out again. You cannot permit your man to go there because, if he does, you will never see him again.”
The knights were trying to decipher her heavily-accented speech. “Tenebris?” Aramis repeated, looking at Gaetan. “I’ve not heard of it. Where is it?”
Gaetan shook his head. “I do not know.” He turned to Ghislaine. “Where is this place?”
Ghislaine found her feet, rising unsteadily on shaky legs. “To the north, somewhere west of Coventry,” she said. “There is a good deal of wild land between here and Tenebris. It is a perilous journey that will take many days.”
“I know where it is.”
Bartholomew Wellesbourne spoke and all eyes turned to him. He was a man of few words, big and blonde with eyes so dark that they were nearly black. He was the only one of the group that hadn’t been born in France. As a mercenary, he’d been hired by Gaetan years ago and had simply never left the man even though his loyalty to the man far outweighed any monetary compensation these days. His focus was on Ghislaine, however.
“A ydych yn deal Cymraeg?” he asked her. Do you speak Welsh?
Ghislaine nodded her head hesitantly. “Ychydig yn.” A little.
Bartholomew eyed her, somewhat suspiciously, before turning to Gaetan. “I was born in the village of Wellesbourne, as you know,” he said. “It is very close to Wales and I spent my youth there. I traveled with my father, who was also a mercenary, and I have seen much of the land she speaks of. There is a forest there called Far Forest that is rumored to be haunted. Mercia borders several Welsh kingdoms and she is correct; it is very wild. If he takes Kristoph there, we will quite possibly lose him forever.”
Gaetan didn’t like the sound of that. Now, all of the warnings of Kristoph being in danger were starting to sink in as he was coming to realize what, exactly, she had meant.
“Then we must go and get him now,” he said, turning to Ghislaine. “You say that he is being kept to the east of here?”
Ghislaine nodded. “Aye,” she replied. “But there are several hundred men camped there. If you intend to rescue him, then you must take many men with you. My men will not so easily give up their Norman prize.”
As the knights considered that option, Marc de Moray pushed through the group and went straight to the body of Harold in the center of the tent. Big, gruff, black-haired de Moray was a no-nonsense kind of man. He tossed back the fabric across the king’s face, exposing the slightly green features to the weak light.
“Will they give it up for this?” he asked, looking at Gaetan. “Normandy told you to toss the body in the sea but you did not. You have held on to it, mayhap for just such an event? Because if you have, I will ride in to that encampment this very moment with the body and demand Kristoph’s release in exchange for their king. If they do not accept the terms, then we will exchange the lady for Kristoph. Surely this Alary of Mercia will want his sister back.”
Ghislaine’s eyes widened. Now, she was to be a hostage? “He does not know I have come,” she said. “Alary has no love for me, as I have no love for him. You would be offering him nothing that was of value. It would be useless.”
Gaetan eyed de Moray for a moment, perhaps considering his offer to deliver Harold’s body, before looking to Ghislaine. “What were your plans after you told us of Kristoph, then?” he asked. “Did you think we would simply let you return to your Saxon brethren? You do realize that you have left yourself open to the enemy, do you not?”
Truth be told, Ghislaine hadn’t considered any of that. She looked at the big men in the tent, all of them blood-thirsty warriors who had come to her lands seeking glory. They were her enemy and they did not trust her. It took her a moment to realize how very foolish she had been. Her thoughts of mercy, of vengeance against Alary, had her singularly focused. She hadn’t considered what she would do after telling the Norman’s of her brother’s plans for their comrade. Now, she was feeling cornered, frightened in more ways than she could comprehend.
“I came with peaceful intentions,” she said, having visions of all of these men swarming on her at once and being pulled limb from limb. Her gaze was fixed on Gaetan. “You showed me mercy once before. Do I wrongly assume you would show it to me again?”
Gaetan merely shrugged. “It is possible,” he said ambivalently. Then, he turned to de Moray and his men. “I had the same idea as Marc suggested – using Harold’s body to exchange for Kristoph’s freedom. Téo and I discussed it earlier with just that possibility in mind. We will send the lady back with a message – Kristoph for their king.”
Ghislaine was quickly growing agitated. “Alary cares not for Harold’s body,” she insisted. “He served the king only to gain his favor because he has two brothers who hold great lands while he himself has none. Now that the king is dead, believe me when I tell you that he has no use for the man. And sending me back to him with a message from you will only sign my death warrant. My brother will want to know how I became a messenger for Norman knights.”
Gaetan turned to her but, before he could speak, the big knight, de Moray, spoke again. “Then I will ride into the encampment and exchange myself for Kristoph,” he said. “I have no wife to mourn me. If the man wants a prisoner, then he will take me. Kristoph has a child and a wife who need him.”
Gaetan put a hand on de Moray’s shoulder. “Although I admire your sacrifice, I will not lose you, too,” he said. “We will regain Kristoph without anyone sacrificing himself. I need my anges intact. I will lose no man and I will leave no man behind. You know this.”
It was true that they did. That had been their mantra from years back; no man left behind, no man lost. It was part of the bond that kept them so strong. It was that faith in their unit as a whole that gave them the illusion of their own immortality. As the men pondered the next step in regaining Kristoph, a round, dirty figure pushed himself forward from behind the row of knights.
It was the priest. Jathan had heard de Reyne summoning the men to Gaetan’s tent and, even half-asleep as he had been, he scrambled up from his pallet and followed the tide of exhausted men into Gaetan’s quarters. Now, he’d heard the reason they’d been summoned and he sought to lend his aid. He, more than anyone, understood the loyalty that bonded these men together and he knew that de Moray would sacrifice himself without question.
“My lord,” he said to Gaetan. “Surely they would not harm a man of the church. I will go into the Saxon encampment and see to Kristoph myself. Mayhap, I can negotiate for his release.”
Gaetan turned to his priest, as did the rest of them. Jathan had been a knight before he’d been a priest and was therefore an excellent fighter, but he still had the look of a killer about him. He’d preach the good word in one breath and snap a neck in the next. Gaetan shook his head, sadly.
“You still look like a warrior no matter how much you pretend to be a priest,” he said. “Although I appreciate your offer, I fear they would not believe you were a man of the church.”
Jathan wouldn’t be deterred. “Then I shall go to the nearest abbey and solicit assistance from the priests,” he said. “They can go to the Saxon encampment and negotiate for Kristoph. If one of us cannot go, then the church must intervene.”
Again, Gaetan shook his head. “That would take time,” he said. “The Saxon army is not going to remain to the east forever, as the lady has mentioned. They will be moving out soon and I suspect the only thing we can do is go now ourselves and bring Kristoph back. Not with a great army as the lady suggested, but just the nine of us – this is either a job for a great many men or just a few. We can slip in and take him without raising an alarm.”
“Then let me at least offer myself as a prisoner,” Jathan insisted. “Surely they would not harm me. Mayhap they would even take me to where Kristoph is and, from that position, I can help him when you come to free him. You will need a man on the inside if he is as injured as the lady has said.”
De Wolfe didn’t look entirely convinced. “There may be truth in that,” he admitted. “But we would have to coordinate that carefully so as not to create a great alarm. We must be stealth, whatever we do.”
Still over by the edge of the tent, Ghislaine nodded eagerly. “They are in the forest where there is a good deal of cover for your movements,” she said, relieved that they were finally understanding the seriousness of the situation. “I will take you there and I will show you were I last saw your knight. Mayhap, they have not even missed me these few hours and will not have even known I have left, so I will be able to move about the encampment freely.”
As Gaetan considered her offer, de Moray spoke up again. “How do we know you weren’t sent here to take us all to our deaths using Kristoph as bait?” he asked, somewhat savagely. “I do not like that you are so eager to help us regain him.”
Ghislaine could see their point, in a sense. Therefore, she tried not to be too offended by it. “I swear by my mother that I have not been sent here to lure you to your deaths,” she said steadily. “I have given my reasons to your lord for coming; among them is the fact that my brother is a wicked man who holds your friend captive. When you rescue your friend, if my brother falls victim to your sword, I will not mourn him. I will thank you for doing me and the rest of Mercia a great service.”
Now, the situation had a bit of a twist on it that was unexpected – a Saxon woman seeking the assassination of her terrible brother, who just happened to hold a Norman knight captive. It was difficult not to believe her sincerity and even de Moray’s hostility had banked somewhat. He looked at Gaetan.
“Is this true?” he asked. “She has come seeking her brother’s murder?”
Gaetan’s gaze was on Ghislaine as she stood on the other side of the tent, looking at all of them with a mixture of fear and hope. He was a good judge of character because his life depended upon such things and he was coming to think that the lady was sincere. A bit foolish, perhaps, but sincere. She seemed a little too naïve about the ways of men to be anything else. Strangely, he was starting to feel the least bit of compassion towards her.
“There is something you should know,” he told his men. “Towards the end of yesterday’s battle, I captured what I thought was a Saxon archer. It turned out to be Lady Ghislaine. I spared her life and, in turn, when Kristoph was captured, she spared his. Of course, there is no way of knowing if she is being truthful until we regain Kristoph and speak with him, but given that we have no other alternative, I am willing to trust that she is a lady of her word. I am willing to trust that Kristoph’s situation is as she says it is and that we can depend on her for her assistance in regaining him. But at the first sign she is lying, I will not hesitate to slit her throat. Make no mistake.”
Deadly words from de Wolfe and Ghislaine had no doubt that he meant them. But she didn’t show her fear. She simply looked him in the eye, steadily, to emphasize the fact that she wasn’t lying about anything. They needed their knight returned. She needed vengeance against her brother.
There was an old saying… my enemy’s enemy is my friend.
Perhaps this would work out, after all.
“That will not be necessary,” she said. “I have been completely truthful.”
Gaetan’s eyes glittered at her in the weak light of the tent. “That remains to be seen,” he said. Then, he turned to the knights standing behind him. “Prepare yourselves. I intend to go to the Saxon encampment as quickly as possible, so dress accordingly. Travel lightly. We will need to slip in and slip out, and we cannot do that if you are heavily armored or burdened with many weapons. Take only what you will need.”
De Reyne, standing closest to him, frowned. “Why not wait until darkness?” he asked. “It will make it much easier to move about.”
Gaetan shook his head. “We cannot take the chance that they will move out this morning and take Kristoph with them,” he said. “Unfortunately, operating in the day will leave us exposed, but we will simply have to double our efforts of caution.”
The knights understood. The plan was set and they were more than ready to see it through, feeling anticipation in regaining their lost man. Surely it would be a simple thing against the beaten Anglo-Saxons who had taken Kristoph prisoner. They quit the tent, heading back to their own shelters to prepare for the coming incursion into the enemy encampment, but Téo lingered behind.
He waited until the men were gone before speaking to Gaetan. “Will you tell Normandy what you intend to do?” Téo asked. “And what of Harold’s body?”
Gaetan turned to look at the corpse, the face still exposed. He sighed heavily. “Normandy does not want it,” he said. “If Kristoph’s captor will not take it in exchange, then I suppose it is of no use to use. Seek out William Malet and see if he will assume the burden. Although he is close to Normandy, I do not believe he wishes to see the body thrown into the sea, either. He did not seem to approve of those orders when Normandy gave them to me. See if he will give the body back over to the king’s widow or even to his mother. I heard she had offered gold for it.”
“I heard that also. Do you think Normandy will turn it over to them?”
“That is difficult to know. But I no longer have any use for it.”
Téo understood; William Malet was a trustworthy man, one of the duke’s many Companions. He was as reasonable as any of them to handle the disposal of the body. As Téo headed out to find Malet, Gaetan was left with Ghislaine, once again, alone in the large cluttered tent, but that didn’t last long. Soon, there were squires entering the tent again to assist Gaetan in dressing for his coming mission and Ghislaine was all but forgotten.
Still standing over near the edge of the tent, Ghislaine watched the activity and she was, in truth, grateful to have been forgotten. This entire incident had been a nightmare, one of frustration and fear. She didn’t even feel much relief that the Normans would soon be doing as she had hoped by rescuing their comrade and, hopefully, killing Alary in the process. Whatever hope she did feel in that action had taken a blow when she’d heard de Wolfe mention that the Duke of Normandy had wanted Harold’s body thrown into the sea. She was even more surprised to hear that her sister, Edith, had evidently already been to view her husband’s body but had left without it.
So much had happened to a family so devastated.
But, perhaps, the worst was yet to come. At this point, nothing was certain. Exhausted, shaken, Ghislaine sank down to her buttocks on the cold ground as de Wolfe went about dressing. But she wasn’t watching the big knight. She was looking at Harold’s exposed face, seeing the damage by the arrow, heartsick over the loss of her sister’s husband. He had been a good man for the most part and very kind to her. Not only was her family devastated, but the country as well. There was a new king, a duke from across the sea. And already, Ghislaine was in league with his men to have her brother killed.
Was it survival?
Was it treason?
Either way, she’d made a deal with the devil. She hoped the price wasn’t too high, whatever that was to be.