Kim Iverson Headlee Page 22

  How, indeed. I have no answers for those questions, Lady Kendra.

  I will stop him, my lord. I must stop him if you are to recover. He shall harm you no longer.

  Your cousin’s ambitions run dangerously high. How can you hope to combat that?

  I don’t know, but I shall try. Please sleep now, Your Majesty—feign it, if you must—and leave Ulfric to me.

  As she sensed his consciousness relax, she pondered his startling revelations. With her pouring her energy into him, only to have Ulfric suck it out, small wonder she kept feeling like a piece of damp, wrung linen. Nevertheless, before severing contact she willed as much energy as she could spare to bolster him.

  For she feared that if King Harold died, Ulfric would cease to find her useful, especially if he suspected her of understanding his scheme.

  Her pulse racing, she released his hand and opened her eyes. Ulfric reached for him, but she tangled her hand in Ulfric’s and stood. “I believe I’ve pulled him back from the brink, cousin, but he needs to sleep.” She tugged Ulfric away from the bed and disengaged her hand.

  “But—”

  Brother Eric courteously but firmly grasped Ulfric’s arm and escorted him toward the cottage’s door. “Remember, my lord. Brother Oswald and I serve him, first and foremost. Not you.”

  Ulfric glared at the monk, but he wrenched his arm free, snatched his cloak from a peg by the door, flung it about his shoulders, and stormed out of the cottage without comment.

  After the door had swung to, she noticed that Ethel had resumed her bedside vigil. Kendra stepped to within whispering distance of Brother Eric.

  “If you value your lord’s life, don’t let her lord back in here ever again.”

  Eric’s wide-eyed expression demanded her to elaborate, but she pointed a glance toward Ethel. “Trust me,” she mouthed.

  Nodding, he ushered her outside. Ulfric, thank heaven, was nowhere in sight, though Kendra couldn’t help but associate the roiling rain clouds with the political storm he was fostering. After pulling up her cloak’s hood to fend off the downpour, she dashed for the manor and the tenuous safety of her chambers, wondering how long she could remain safe while protecting King Harold’s life.

  Chapter 19

  WHAT HAD BEGUN late Wednesday afternoon as a drizzle had by Thursday morning transformed into a deluge of biblical proportions that persisted, to varying degrees, through Friday. Rations, clothing, bedrolls, skin: nothing escaped the wetness. Even when Lofwin led the rest of the troop to make camp in an old Roman temple, the structure’s ruined roof offered little respite.

  As the waters rose, so did tempers. Horses snapped at each other and their riders. Men snapped at each other and their mounts. Noir snapped at everyone.

  Two things kept the group from each other’s throats: food, sodden as it was, and their mutual desire to see Kendra safe.

  Alain suspected he wasn’t the only one chafing at the fact that the rain and mud had almost doubled their journey’s time. He’d hoped to confront Ulfric yesterday. Now, Friday morning found them with a long day’s ride before reaching Thornhill.

  After the men had broken fast and buried the meal’s remains, he ordered them to don their pilgrims’ robes. If Ulfric could use the trick to hide troops, then, by God, so would Alain. Riding would present a challenge, but traveling all day in the mucky spray thrown up by the horses’ hooves would soil the robes and lend more credibility to the disguises.

  Having another layer of cloth to cut the wind was welcome too.

  At sext, when the sun deigned to show itself at its zenith and the company paused for the midday meal, Alain selected Garth and Lofwin to ride ahead and scout Glastonbury and Thornhill.

  “Sir Alain, let me go with Lofwin instead.” Grizzled Cæwlin, his injured shoulder still bandaged, gazed at Alain steadily, fierce determination masking whatever pain he must be feeling. “I may not be much good in a fight, but I can help keep you out of one until the right time.”

  Alain had to smile, as much for Cæwlin’s pluckiness as for the fact that he’d called him “Sir Alain,” a habit that had been adopted by most of the fyrd as a sign of acceptance.

  While Chou tossed her head and splashed a hoof in a puddle, her rider pondered Cæwlin’s request. The pilgrim garb would help shield their identities, coupled with Lofwin’s gift for exercising stealth. Besides, Alain could well imagine Cæwlin’s yearning to expunge his guilt for having allowed Kendra to be abducted by contributing to her return.

  He nodded at Cæwlin and Lofwin in turn. “God speed and protect you both. Report back as soon as you can.”

  Their report, when they returned after nones, he didn’t like in the least. The pilgrims’ encampment, which had lain south of Glastonbury, now sprawled east of it, between Alain’s troop and Thornhill. A washed-out bridge along the road leading south from town had necessitated the camp’s move, but the river’s course bent around to flow beside the east-west road for a while, and it had flooded that road as well.

  “You think they were moving out when the bridge washed away?” Ruaud asked. “Where do you suppose they were headed?”

  “Planning to move, yes. But as to where…” Alain stroked Chou’s neck, trying to recall the deerhide map he’d seen in Regent Odo’s workroom. “I wager they want a good road that heads east to Sarum, where they can pick up the road that will take them to London and William’s doorstep.”

  “If he’s in residence,” Ruaud reminded him.

  “Perhaps he has returned and they know it. Or they might be planning to make trouble for Regent Odo, hoping to lure William back across the Channel.” Alain made a fist and pounded his thigh; never before had duty yanked him so hard in different directions. “We must stop them.”

  Ruaud rolled his eyes; it was Lofwin who voiced the objection. “With all due respect, Sir Alain, what chance do you believe a hundred will stand against more than a thousand?”

  “Using armed force?” Alain pinched thumb and forefinger together to indicate his answer and regarded Lofwin levelly. “Besides, your lady—and mine—comes first.”

  That won a grunt of approval from Cæwlin, who, busy massaging his shoulder, had been content to let Lofwin deliver their scouting report. “We could skirt the camp.” He squinted up at the soggy skies, swiped rain from his face, and shrugged. “’Twould take the rest of the day, mayhap past nightfall, but it could be done. Any patrols they might have out won’t be ranging far in this weather.”

  “Did you find a ford?” Ruaud asked.

  “The river has flooded the road for quite some way, Sir Ruaud,” Lofwin replied, “but doesn’t cross it. An army would have a lot of trouble, what with wagons and such, but a troop our size could pick our way around the flooded areas.”

  Alain heard the hesitation in Lofwin’s suggestion. Staring toward the as yet unseen army and river that blocked his path, he pondered his options. “Either way, we lose too much time. We will be unable to assist Kendra until the morrow.” Lofwin and Cæwlin nodded resignedly. Alain continued, “Therefore, we shall gather as much information as we can—”

  “And hope we survive to report it to the king, eh?” Ruaud gave Alain an incredulous look. “You, who live by stealth and subterfuge, shall ride straight into the enemy’s encampment? Is that what you propose?”

  Alain grinned. “My mother had a cardinal rule for mingling within the various circles at King Edward’s court:

  “Always act like you belong.”

  “Ah, oui, mes amis,” Ruaud said to their gaping Saxon companions, chuckling. “Alain, he always does this. He loves to makes life—what is your word? Interesting.”

  EOSA THORGUDSON hunkered on the cot in his rawhide tent, tracing patterns in the muck with his dagger’s point while waiting for the end of the deluge or the end of the world, whichever came first.

  At the rate this damned rain was falling, with no letup in sight, he felt the end of the world to be the safer wager.

  The hides kept the rain off his
head, and his men had done a credible job of trenching around the tents, but water blew in every time someone poked his head through the flap.

  He should be thankful for this weather, he reminded himself, for it kept all but the most intrepid folks indoors and away from the temptation of asking too many questions about the “pilgrims.”

  Oh, his men had frequented the abbey church, and no mistake. With the help of his scribe, Eosa had developed a rotation so that a contingent attended all services during daylight hours: prime, at dawn, followed at three-hour intervals by tierce, sext, nones, and vespers. Men of a more religious bent—and he had several, along with a huge number of lazy sods seeking to escape camp chores—could attend as many services as they wished.

  A farthing apiece seemed a reasonable fee to assure the monks’ silence. Thinking about what his “brethren” were doing under the nose of the fat Norman abbot gave him a smile.

  But the delay was straining the men’s tempers and the “pilgrims’” credibility.

  The plan had called for a mustering period of three days. Now, here they sat with more than a week gone, halted by shite-laden water, of all things! And no sensible choice but to wait for the Brue to recede. It was as if the finger of God Himself had pinned them to this place.

  The finger of God, in the form of two formidable Norman knights, had squashed most of the members of Eosa’s earlier assignment like so many ants.

  His thick braid whispered across his leather-armored back as he shook off an involuntary chill.

  That fonging rabble had served their purpose, and Eosa considered himself well rid of them. He still wasn’t sure why he’d consented to allow their sole survivor to join his group, but Snake had proven adept with a sword and had not caused any trouble so far. Nor would the bastard, if he planned to see more sunrises.

  “My lord Dragon?”

  Eosa looked toward the tent flap to regard the hooded face of Bertred, his scribe, whose camp name was Nib. Rain had molded the woolen fabric to his skull and made him stink like a wet sheep. Nib looked as miserable as Eosa felt, and he waved him into the tent.

  “Report,” ordered the man known inside the camp and beyond as Dragon.

  “Sir, another troop has arrived.”

  “What?” Eosa felt his eyebrows lower. “How?”

  “’Tis a cavalry unit, sir. They must have found a small ford downriver.”

  Damn. He would have liked to have learned of a ford that could be traversed by wagons.

  Another thought occurred, and he gave Nib a sharp stare. “They could have missed us. Why the bloody hell were they so late?”

  “Their commander, Lofwin Octhason, claims the weather delayed them.”

  That, Eosa could believe, but…“Lofwin? I know a man by that name. Where does this unit hail from?”

  “Edgarburh, my lord.”

  “Indeed.” It took all of his self-control not to gape at the scribe. What in hell could have persuaded Thane Waldron, a Norman shite-eater, to change his diet?

  Or had he?

  “Send Lofwin Octhason to me at once.”

  ALAIN STOOD, cloaked and hooded, between two of Lofwin’s subordinates inside the camp commander’s tent while Lofwin stepped forward to converse with the man everyone called Dragon.

  Here, no one bothered with the pretense of being a pilgrim. Two armed men flanked Dragon’s camp table, which consisted of planks balanced atop two pairs of tripods. Maps and parchment lay scattered across the work surface, illuminated by several oil lamps, though Alain stood too far away to discern any useful information. Two more men guarded either side of the tent’s flap, with hundreds more a shout away.

  The tendrils of smoke from the lamps did little to dispel the tent hides’ mustiness.

  Dragon stood behind the table, clad in an unpilgrimlike leather jerkin and breeches, a seax strapped to his right thigh and a longsword riding his left hip. A hauberk hung from a rod suspended between two short posts nearby. An unpainted, iron-rimmed oval shield stood beside one post, and a pointed iron helmet surmounted the other.

  Arms folded, Dragon scowled like his namesake, his cleft lip making the expression appear even more sinister.

  A vague recollection stirred within Alain’s mind.

  “Prove to me that Thane Waldron has changed his opinion of the Bastard of Normandy,” Dragon demanded of Lofwin.

  “Our presence, in support of this cause, should be proof enough, Eosa,” Lofwin replied.

  Dragon bounded from behind the table to within inches of Lofwin’s face. “That name has no meaning here. If you or any of your men”—he glared at Alain and the others—“utter it again, you shall need a map and a torch to find your ballocks. Understood?”

  The tattoo of raindrops on the tent’s roof intensified as if to underscore the threat.

  Lofwin nodded calmly. As Dragon’s stance relaxed and he backed up a pace, Alain chastised himself for failing to anticipate that Ulfric could have appointed a commander who might recognize Waldron’s men.

  “Why should I believe that you are here to help our cause,” Dragon continued, “not acting as William’s spies?”

  To Alain’s surprise, Lofwin laughed. “How long have you known me, Dragon? Do you believe I would have marched my men into the heart of your lair if I’d been ordered to spy upon it?” He crossed his arms, smirking.

  Dragon grunted. “Perhaps you’ve been spying on us already, and you’ve shown yourself only to cover your tracks.”

  “My friend, if I had tracks to cover, you would never find them. Even with a map and a torch.” Lofwin’s expression turned somber. “As to why Waldron has sent us, I’ll wager you know about the commanded marriage between Lady Kendra and one of William’s knights?”

  Dragon’s lips twitched. Alain could have sworn the man was trying not to leer at the mention of Kendra’s name.

  A fact clicked into place. He hadn’t met the man, but Kendra had…and Dragon had damaged her ability to enjoy the pleasures Alain had offered her.

  He fought the impulse to run this tas de merde through. Lord willing, the opportunity would arise later.

  “I know Waldron didn’t attend William’s coronation to protest the marriage decree,” Dragon replied to Lofwin’s question.

  “Nay,” Lofwin allowed, “but he’s had half a year to watch her become more miserable because of it.”

  That much was true. Recalling her reaction when he’d tried to present the de Bellencombre brooch, Alain swallowed a sigh.

  Dragon appeared about to speak, but Lofwin cut him off with his upraised right fist. Dragon’s guards tightened their grips on their weapons, and Alain wished he had not surrendered his sword to the guards outside the tent.

  “I would give this arm to see Lady Kendra happy. So would every member of Thane Waldron’s fyrd.” Lofwin lowered his hand, and the guards relaxed visibly, if not completely. “We hope our participation here can prevent her from being forced to marry the wrong man.”

  Alain almost smiled.

  The camp’s commander scrutinized them for several long moments apiece, fingering his sword’s pommel. Alain’s pulse kicked up a notch when it seemed as if Dragon were paying particular attention to him.

  When assent came, he wasn’t certain he’d heard aright.

  “You are most fortunate, Lofwin Octhason,” Dragon added. “If there was any way for me to keep watch over you and your troop myself, I would.” His snarl grew more pronounced. “Make camp where you can, but if you or your men so much as piss where you shouldn’t, it will be the last transgression you ever make.”

  As Alain exited the tent behind Lofwin and the other fyrd members, he scowled. Dragon would not make any more transgressions after Alain finished carving him into raven bait.

  ALAIN WOKE, stiff and sore from having spent a fitful night in his dreams on the Hastings battlefield. He sat up, massaging his left shoulder, the one that had been injured in battle and now ached with the weather’s every turn.

  Fervently, he
hoped that saving Kendra would help him to atone for his failures—if he could devise a way to get the fyrd away from this encampment without raising suspicions.

  He rose, already clad in tunic and breeches, and donned his boots. Stepping over Ruaud and his eight other tentmates, he made his careful way toward the flap and peered out. A glance at the graying skies confirmed his guess that dawn was nigh. Fog had rolled in off the swollen river, bathing everything in mist.

  Alain was surprised to notice that this section of the encampment was already bustling with activity. Men emerged from other tents, clad in pilgrims’ robes, and departed in the same direction.

  He left his tent in time to stop one. Roughening his voice to mask his accent, he asked, “Where’s everyone going?”

  The man gave him a curious look. “You don’t know?” Before Alain could respond, he said, “Ah, you must be one of the new ones. Didn’t Dragon put your unit on the rotation?”

  “For what?”

  “For going to mass at the abbey is what, though you’re allowed to go even if it’s not your unit’s turn.”

  Alain felt his mouth stretch into the widest grin he’d made in days. “Many thanks…Brother.”

  Chuckling, the man moved off to join another group.

  Alain ducked inside and rousted everyone else.

  “Cæwlin, wake the rest of the fyrd. Have them arm themselves, don their pilgrims’ robes, and meet outside this tent.”

  The fyrd veteran nodded, dressed, and departed to fulfill Alain’s command.

  “You have a plan to get us out of camp, Sir Alain?” Lofwin asked.

  “I hope so. We shall join this morning’s procession to the abbey but peel off, a few at a time, outside the camp and circle back to the picket lines for our horses. Lofwin, I want you in the first rank to break away. If the picket sentries challenge you, tell them that Dragon has ordered our unit to ride to Thornhill.”

  “Brilliant, Alain. That will put him on our trail faster than you can blink,” Ruaud protested.