Chapter Five
Four days after the Norman’s landing, Harold received news at York. The messenger arrived during the feast celebrating the defeat of the Norse. After gathering the house carls, along with the fryd who had fought at Stamford Bridge, the king marched for London.
Messages were sent to Duke William, telling him he had no right to England’s throne. In reply, the duke held firm to his belief that Edward had promised it to him. Left with no other choice, Harold sent a last message to William. He would march at once, and he would be marching to battle.
Harold led the army out of London and marched toward Hastings. Other men were expected to join the army there, coming from Kent and Sussex, meeting with the king at an ancient apple tree. It grew at a junction of tracks outside Hastings. There, he set up his battle headquarters.
Ariel once more found herself standing in a line, facing a battlefield with ever-faithful Osbern at her side. She was nervous, but not as badly as she had been when she had faced the Norse. This time she knew what to expect. The only difference from the last battle would be she now had to face the countrymen of the knight. The blood that ran through their veins also ran through her son’s. For all Ariel knew, the knight could be among the men on the other side of the field.
The English would be fight on foot. Unlike the Normans, they never fought on horseback or used archers, but the numbers looked to be on their side. Where William had around eight thousand men, Harold had slightly more.
The knights on the Norman side dismounted and then donned their chainmail. After remounting, they prepared for battle. Ariel stiffened as a lone rider left the Norman lines. She could not believe what she saw next. The man sang as he threw his sword into the air. He caught it as it came down and continued to canter his horse across the valley to the English lines. Once he reached them, he killed three men before being brought down.
After that spectacle, the real business of waging war began. The Norman archers stepped forward. In response, the English doubled their front ranks to form a wall of overlapping shields. The archers loosed their missiles at fifty paces.
Ariel felt the impact of the arrows without having to be in the front rank. Not all the missiles hit the shields. Some found their marks. Men around her dropped to the ground, screaming. She blocked out the sound and withdrew her sword from its sheath.
After the archers, the Norman infantry advanced. The English made their first move by throwing spears at the new wave of men. Behind the infantry came the mounted knights. The house carls came forward with their battle axes. With the sword as her choice of weapon, Ariel was not among them when they first engaged the enemy. They had never fought men on horses before, and she would be more of a hindrance than a help.
It soon became obvious the knights had never met men in battle swinging axes. At the last minute, they broke away. In their retreat, they ended up riding down the infantry and archers. Those who did not end up under the horses’ hooves they put to flight. At a marshy section at the bottom of the valley some of the horsemen fell in, causing the right wing of the English to break ranks and rush down their hill to attack.
The Normans broke ranks. Some were heard to shout that the duke was among the knights who had gone down and was now dead. That in turn caused most to retreat. William stopped them by yanking off his helmet and riding to the front of his men. He shouted and threatened them with his sword. That seemed to work as their mad flight came to an abrupt halt. He rode out and cut off the isolated English who had broken rank. The Normans used the opportunity to slaughter them on and around a little hillock in the lower part of the valley.
A few of the men near Ariel muttered that the Normans’ confusion should have been used against them, but the order to attack never came. All stood firm and never advanced. Even near the end they did not retreat as a whole.
The shield wall shrank in length as men fell and were not replaced. As the mounted knights came in at the sides, Ariel finally faced the enemy. She let the rhythm of slashing and hacking take over and saw nothing, except for each target as it presented itself. Even when a hail of arrows fell, it did not register.
That soon ended. The knights kept coming. With each swing, Ariel’s arm grew increasingly tired. A pain ripped through her, bringing her out of her trance-like state. She had to look. She could not stop herself. Blood welled from the sword cut that ran across the whole width of her left shoulder. It soaked the sleeve of her tunic and dripped down her hand.
As she looked down, Ariel found something else—something she never thought she would see. It was Osbern. An arrow stuck out of his chest. Without looking too closely, she knew she would find his eyes staring, lifeless. Her legs gave out, and once more oblivious to what went on around her, she kneeled beside him. Her hand shook as she reached out and gently closed his eyes. A wail of despair welled up in her throat.
*
Broc pulled his mount up short at a sound. Looking around him, he found the source of the noise. A Saxon warrior, no, taking a closer look, he realized a young boy, was bent over a dead man.
The boy’s size made Broc wonder who had allowed him to fight. The way he was bent over kept his face hidden. The very pale blond hair sticking out from under the boy’s helmet drew him. He walked his horse closer. Just before he reached him, the young man looked directly at Broc. If he had not been holding onto his horse’s reins, he would have fallen to the ground. The strikingly familiar face took his breath away. It the girl’s, the one who had haunted his dreams for the last year. The one he had not been able to forget.
As Broc loomed above, the boy screamed with rage and attacked him. That he was mounted seemed to be no deterrent. Broc quickly lowered his shield and blocked the sword before it could do any damage to his horse. That must have been all the strength the boy had left in him. Thwarted, he lowered his head as if he expected Broc to deliver a death blow.
He did no such thing, and the boy looked up at him. His gaze landed on his shield. The boy stiffened, then jerked his head up to stare at Broc’s face. A look of recognition flashed across the boy’s before he quickly hid it.
Waiting to see what the boy would do next, Broc watched him. He seemed about to run, so Broc dismounted and grabbed him by his left arm. At his cry of pain, Broc noticed the wound for the first time. From the amount of blood on his sleeve and the boy’s hand, he realized it was deep.
He had a decision to make. He could either let the boy go or take him as his prisoner. If he released him, and the wound was not taken care of soon, the boy could die from loss of blood. Looking at the face that so reminded him of the girl, Broc knew he wouldn’t be able to leave him behind.
Broc spoke, not knowing if he would be understood. “You will come with me. I am sure you will be worth something to someone.”
“I will go nowhere with you, Norman. I would rather be dead.”
“You understand me?” Broc almost released the boy’s arm at the sound of his voice.
“Of course. My father is a thane. He provided me with the education I need for my station.”
“Is that your father?”
The boy looked at the body of the large man who lay near him. At the reminder of the dead man, he seemed to have to compose himself before he could reply. “Nay, my father is at home. This was Osbern. He came with me to fight.”
“He must have meant much to you.” Broc loosened his grip as the boy’s eyes went glassy with unshed tears.
“Osbern taught me everything I know about arms. He has been with my family for years. Why should you care?”
“What is your name, boy? If I am to ransom you, I need to know who to contact.”
The boy hesitated. In the end, he took a deep breath, and said, “I am Wulf of Elmstead.”
All the air emptied out of Broc’s lungs, as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Could the girl be this boy’s sister? The resemblance was too close to be a coincidence.
“Do you have a sister, Wulf?”
“Nay. I am an only child.”
The sounds of battle had slowly died as they’d spoken, which could only mean one thing—one side had become the victor. Too many Norman knights were on the Saxon side of the field. It looked as if William had won himself a throne.
Gripping the boy’s arm tighter, Broc started to pull him away from Osbern’s body.
“Wait. I cannot leave my friend like this. He deserves to be properly buried.” Broc did not slow his pace. Wulf dug in his heels. “I will not leave him. Stop whatever your name is.”
“My name is Broc St. Ceneri. Do not worry. Your friend will be taken care of. From now on, you will do as I say. Until I receive your ransom, you are my prisoner.” Feeling the fight go out of the boy, Broc continued. “The first thing we need to do is take care of your shoulder. It would be a pity to have you die before the gold arrives.”
* * * *
After he had dragged her from the battlefield, Broc had left Ariel with one of the Norman monks, who turned out to be a healer. He silently lifted the sleeve of her tunic and cleaned her wound. She winced slightly as the water seeped into the cut as she looked around for Broc. He was nowhere to be seen.
With her arm taken care of, one of the Norman foot soldiers led her to the small shelter that had been set up for prisoners. Ariel appeared not to be the only one who had been captured, escaping death on the field. Three other men shared the tent-like structure. From them, she learned how the battle had been won.
Harold had been shot in the eye with an arrow. Probably around the same time poor Osbern had met his end. Some Norman knights took advantage of his blindness. They rode in on Harold and hacked him to pieces. One stabbed him in the chest, another cut off his head, and another disemboweled him. As if that was not bad enough, one knight cut off one of his legs at the thigh and carried it away.
Ariel doubted she would sleep or find a good night of rest after hearing how that good man had died. He had not deserved that type of death. What kind of god would allow something so inglorious to take place?
She blocked out the bloody scene from her mind and pulled her blanket closer around her, the only item given her to take the chill out of the air. Outside a huge fire burned, and sounds of festivity could be heard.
She was so cold, even though her wound felt on fire. Shivers racked her body. Ariel turned onto her side and pulled her legs to her chest. A single tear slid down her cheek. For the first time since leaving her home, she was alone. Alone and scared. Her wound was bad enough for her body to be taken with wound fever.
If she did not get help, she could die. With Osbern gone, she had no one. No one, except Broc St. Ceneri, but the chances of him coming for her, she could not count on. He had not returned to see her since leaving her with the healer.
Ariel closed her eyes and let sleep slowly claim her. Too weak to fight the darkness that rose to take her over, she sank into it, and her pain went away.
* * * *
Broc waited patiently while William finished talking to two commanders of his army. He was not happy. What had been done to Harold’s body had not been ordered by William. The man, who had cut off his leg and carried it away, had been dismissed from the army.
Two men stood before William as he gave his last order. “I want you to find someone who will be able to identify Harold’s body. He should have a proper burial. That will be all for now.” Bowing, they left Broc alone with the new King of England.
“What can I do for you, my friend?”
“What makes you think I want something? Maybe I thought you would like to join me in having a goblet of wine.”
“You want something. Since the battled ended everyone who feels they are entitled to the share of the wealth has come to remind me of their service during the fighting. Why should not I hear what my friend wants from the spoils? Pour us each some wine and tell me what you would like.”
Broc went to the small table in the corner of the tent and then filled two goblets from the pitcher. He handed one to William before he settled his big frame onto one of the camp chairs in front of the table that took up most of the space in the room.
“It is true. I want something. Do you remember before we came to England you said I could have land? If you are still inclined to grant me some, I would like to make a request.”
“If it is land you want, you may have it.”
“I would like Elmstead for my own.”
William pulled open one of his maps of England and looked at it. “Are you sure this is the land you want? It is not very large. I hold you in higher regard than the others. I will give you a bigger grant.”
Broc shook his head. “Nay, I want Elmstead. I have seen it, and it is all I want.”
William smiled. “That is where you met the girl, is it not?”
“Aye, and as luck would have it, the prisoner I took for ransom is the thane’s son.”
“I wondered why you took a prisoner. You usually do not take many, if at all, during battle.” William closely studied Broc. “There is something more you have not told me.”
Broc smiled. William never missed anything. “You know me so well. All right, I saved the boy’s life because he looks a lot like the girl. I think they must be brother and sister. Although the boy is a thane’s son and the sister a peasant.”
“She is probably a bastard. That does not bother you, her having peasant blood as well as being illegitimate?”
“Nay, it does not.”
Some of the barons had trouble dealing with William because of the peasant blood in his veins. Even though his father had been a duke, men could not forget that his mother’s father was a tanner. The added stigma of being a bastard on top it did not help, either.
The new king sat back and formed a steeple with his fingers before him. He appeared to be thinking something over before he spoke once again. “If I give you this land, when would you leave to take possession?”
“With the dawn.” At William’s shocked expression, Broc quickly pushed on. “I have served you faithfully. All you have do is summon me and I will come in your time of need. This is something I must do. The girl haunts my dreams. She is never far from my mind. She is an obsession I cannot shake. Besides, you know your friendship with me has not been highly looked upon.”
“I am not blind. I see how the others shun you. Fine, the lands are yours on one condition. You spend Christ mass at court. I will not break my friendship with you just because the others feel they will lose out on some profit.”
Standing, Broc bowed before his king. “I thank you, sire. I will take the boy with me. I am still your man and always will be.”
With a nod, William acknowledged his words. After giving him another bow, Broc turned and left King William.
* * * *
The dawn broke crisp and clear, a perfect day for traveling. Broc pulled his heavy cloak more closely around him. He had not slept well that night. The boy had dominated his dreams, ones he found disturbing.
He would be making love to the girl and then the scene would change. The girl would turn into Wulf. What bothered Broc the most, even though he knew it was the boy, he could not stop himself from making love to him. He had never had any of those feelings toward a man before. Ever. So why did I dream of the boy?
Broc crossed the camp. Most of the Saxon dead had been cleared away. William had chosen to camp where Harold had held his position on the ridge during the battle. Last night, room had to be made by dragging the dead aside. Once the small tent came into view, Broc steeled himself to face Wulf.
After he entered the tent, Broc noted the three other Saxons who sat at the opposite side of the tent from Wulf. They barely glanced at Broc as he passed them to awaken the boy.
“Wulf, wake up.”
Getting no response, Broc grabbed his shoulder and gave him a shake. The boy moaned. He gently rolled Wulf onto his back, and sucked in his breath. Heat came off the boy’s body. He placed his hand on Wulf’s forehead and then flushed cheeks. They burned with the fire inside him.
Broc pulled the left sleeve of Wulf’s tunic up and then gently unwound the bandage that covered his shoulder. The wound was bright red. With a curse, he inspected the discarded dressing. Just as he had thought, the healer had neglected to apply a poultice to keep the infection away.
The boy must have started to suffer sometime during the night. Gently probing the wound brought puss to the surface. Wulf moaned in pain. Broc’s temper rose—anger at the healer for not doing his duty properly. Even though the boy was Saxon, he did not deserve to die that way. Most of his rage was directed at the three others who had listened to the boy moan in pain and did nothing.
Broc rose and walked to the older men. With hands formed into fists, he stood before them. “Why did you let the boy suffer? If you could not help him, why did you not call for someone?”
One of the men stood. “He deserves to die.”
“Why?”
“He failed in his duty. The least he could do is die from the wound.”
Broc thrust the urge away to punch the man in the face. “What exactly did he fail at?”
“To protect the king. That boy is one of the king’s house carls. He should have died with the king instead of being taken for ransom. Most of the others died proudly beside their liege.”
Unable to contain his anger any longer, Broc went back to Wulf’s side. Wrapped in a blanket, the boy still shivered. He knew what had to be done to save him. He had to get him home.
With that decision, Broc picked up Wulf and carried him out of the tent. A few of the soldiers stared at him as he passed through the camp.
Broc turned at the sound of another’s footsteps behind him. Seeing it was William, he gently placed the boy on his cot and looked up at his visitor once they arrived at his tent.
“I could use your help. If you do not mind.”
William stepped to the cot and looked down at the boy. “He looks in rough shape. Is this the prisoner you took?”
“Aye. It seems I should have kept a closer eye on him. The healer did nothing to the wound but bandage it. I will not let him die.”
William raised a brow at Broc’s stricken tone. “He reminds you of the girl that much?”
“Aye.” Broc softly pushed the pale blond hair from Wulf’s brow. “Aye, he does, but right now, I must start the fight to save him. Can you take off his tunic while I go to the healer for the medicines I will need?”
“Go, I will help. He looks so young. He deserves to live a little longer.”
* * * *
Broc ran out of the tent to get what he needed. William took a closer look at the boy. He was very young. Not even a hint of a beard was on his cheeks. He had to admit the boy was handsome. Some would even call him beautiful. If Broc’s girl looked similar, then she would indeed be something a man would not forget.
William turned back to the task at hand, grabbed the hem of the tunic, and lifted. Underneath he encountered white strips of material that completely swathed the boy’s chest. He stopped and stared. All was obviously not what it seemed to be. He reached down to the space between Wulf’s legs.
As the girl stiffened in protest, he looked up to find two beautiful blue eyes staring back at him. “What is your real name?”
She answered barely above a whisper. “Ariel.”
“You are her. The girl Broc met in Elmstead?”
“Aye. Please do not tell him.”
“Why? He has not been able to get you off his mind.”
“There is more at stake than me telling him who I am.”
It did not take much deducing on William’s part to figure out why the girl wanted her secret kept. “A child. He left you with child.”
Ariel tried to prop herself up. “He must never know. He gave up that right when he walked away. He did not even bother to find out my name.” Ariel slumped back down. Her face had gone white from having to hold herself up. “Who are you?”
“William, your new king.” At Ariel’s shocked expression, he chuckled. “Broc is my friend, but I will not tell your secret. You will have to decide what to do about the child. You see, I just gave Elmstead to Broc. He will be living with you, closer than you would like, I suppose.”
“How could you? My father never fought against you.”
William shook his head. “I can because I am now king. Broc asked for Elmstead, so I gave it to him. You are lucky. He is a good man. He will not evict you from the land. In fact, I would strongly urge you to tell him who you are, then marry him. That way you will not lose your home.”
Ariel shook her head. As the last of her strength ran out, her eyes fluttered shut, and she slipped into unconsciousness.