toiled in her father’s great hall, tending the wounded, bolstering the men of Ingelwald’s fyrd, and the thanes who had come to Wallis when their own lands had been usurped by the French invaders. “Victory is yours!” she called out amid the groans and misery. “Your wounds were well earned, and Ingelwald takes pride in your valor, your sacrifice!”
Those whose injuries were not mortal rallied at Aelia’s words. They stood or pushed themselves up to hear their lady, taking heart in her praise. She stayed among them until all their wounds were bound, and food was distributed, then left the hall to make her rounds in the enclosure, visiting the families who had come from the village for shelter and protection.
Food stores were low, but there was fresh water from the well behind the great hall. If tomorrow’s battle went as Aelia planned, the Normans would be routed, and life at Ingelwald would return to normal.
Aelia made her way to the well, where she drew water and washed the grime of battle from her hands and face.
She had not seen Selwyn among the thanes in the hall, nor was he on the battlements. Though Aelia had no desire to wed the man, she wanted to pay him her compliments, for he had fought well for Ingelwald, leading the battle outside the stone walls of her father’s holding.
She took a long draught of clean, clear water and heard her name called by one of Osric’s young chums. A moment later, the lad reached her side. “Osric is gone!”
She wiped the water from her face. “What were his orders?”
“Modig told us to climb to the top of the storehouse and call the alarm if we saw any Normans trying to breach the wall.”
“And Osric left his post?”
“Aye, but—”
“When you find him, tell him he’ll answer to me,” Aelia said, though she knew that Osric had no fear of her. He was a headstrong lad, overindulged by their father in his grief these last two years, since the death of their elder brother, Godwin. Still, Osric was aware that these were unusual times, and that his actions would be severely scrutinized.
“No! He’s gone, my lady! Outside the wall!”
Aelia’s heart dropped to her toes. “Outside? What do you mean, Grendel? Where?”
“He went through the tunnel under the east wall…said he would kill the bastard, Fitz Autier, himself!”
Aelia steadied herself against the trunk of the sapling oak in whose branches Osric and his friends had spent so many carefree hours. There had been so much death of late. She’d lost Godwin, and less than two months ago, her father. She could not lose Osric, too.
“What did he tell you?” She tamped down her panic and moved away from the well and the peaceful, familiar surroundings. “What plan did he have?”
“None beyond wanting to kill Fitz Autier as he slept. Osric said Selwyn treated him like a helpless bairn, but he would show that old man.”
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
