Elaine Barbieri (2 page)

His fluctuating lucidity returned to the moment when William confided that he had heard rumors of unrest in the fief awarded to Baron Guilbert de Silva. William had received reports that the baron employed every opportunity to indulge his mastery over the people of Hendsmille and the surrounding environs awarded to him after victory; that the villages, fields, and woods had become places of doubt, fear, and secrecy; and that even the children were made to know that de Silva was their master.

Dagan remembered William’s distress at that last statement. He insisted that as regents, his barons should enforce the adoption of a Norman lifestyle in England, but his goal was for loyalty to the throne and for harmony in victory. If he were to believe rumor, he could only conclude that neither had been accomplished in Hendsmille.

Dagan jolted forward unexpectedly when his war-horse stumbled underneath him; yet when he glanced down at the animal, Dagan saw that Conqueror’s gait was steady and true. The copse had begun wavering strangely, and the terrain had become uncertain to his eye. He winced at the pain in his leg when it throbbed more boldly, and silently cursed as he realized that his unhealed war wound was causing his fever and delirium.

The rapidly darkening glade was silent when Dagan studied his options with growing uncertainty. Another pain stabbed his leg, and Dagan made the decision to allow Conqueror his head. He knew the animal would find the nearest source of water—which Dagan would use to treat his wound. After a good night’s sleep, he would arrive in better condition.

Dagan was hardly conscious when Conqueror halted at last. He slipped awkwardly from the saddle, hearing the trickling sound of a stream. As he stumbled toward it darkness overwhelmed him.

When he regained consciousness at the sound of Conqueror’s soft whinny, Dagan heard rustling in the surrounding bushes. He forced himself to sit up and strove to clear his mind.

Conqueror whinnied again, and Dagan stilled.

Danger threatened.

Dagan struggled to his feet and sought to withdraw his sword from the scabbard on his saddle. A painful blow from behind staggered him, and he cried out in rage. He turned to strike back but was unable to focus on the wavering shadows in front of him. Another shattering blow struck his chin, and Dagan sank to his knees, only to be bludgeoned again and again. He fell to the ground as the savage battering continued.

When a sharp command brought it to an abrupt halt, he peered out through a bloodied gaze as the three men standing over him began stripping him of his clothing. Turning him roughly this way and that, they did not stop until he was left in naught but a breechcloth.

A harsh voice barked another command the moment before a blade slammed into his chest.

It was dark when Rosamund and Hadley returned from their first day at the site of the new cathedral. She ushered Hadley through the entrance of their hut and pulled the door closed behind her. Rosamund moved quickly toward the fireplace as Hadley sat weakly on a nearby chair. The fire was low, but she raised it again with the expertise of long practice. She stirred the pottage in the cauldron before turning back to scrutinize her father.

Exhaustion marked his face, and she said softly, “This will never do, Father. The long walk has wearied you. You must accept the offer to occupy the former master mason’s hut for the duration of your work on the baron’s cathedral.”

“The hut is too isolated from those of the foreign artisans.”

“It is close to the site where the cathedral will stand and will forestall the walk you would need to make each day.”

“The baron watched you throughout the day. I saw him. He followed your every move, even though he believes you to be a boy. I fear the proximity will tempt him further, Rosamund.”

“I am but a lad who works beside you, Father. I will be forgotten by the baron when a young wench diverts his fancy.”

“Would that were true.”

“Do not fear for me, Father,” Rosamund said defiantly.
“There is more to this Saxon maid than meets the eye.”

Hadley did not reply, and Rosamund’s shoulders stiffened. She knew her place, and it was not in the simple wood-and-wattle hut where she presently resided. Nor was it in the bed of a rapacious Norman.

Hadley was correct. She was destined for more.

W
et lips nuzzled his cheek. Low snorts of encouragement accompanied the nuzzling as Dagan groaned and realized he was lying on the hard forest ground with Conqueror standing over him and dawn brightening the sky.

He attempted to rise, but halted at the sharp pain in his chest. The acrid taste of blood was strong in his mouth and his eyes were almost swollen shut. Dagan shivered with fever and cold as he realized that in addition to being wounded, he was totally naked except for his breechcloth.

Conqueror snorted again. Blood marked the horse’s hide—blood that he was somehow certain bespoke the animal’s resistance—and he gradually remembered.

His war wound had incapacitated him. An assault had surprised him. He had been unable to thwart it.

He had been robbed…beaten…stabbed…left for dead.

Dagan looked around him. He saw discarded clothing lying nearby and realized his own garments had been exchanged for the dirty rags that his assailants had left behind.

Dagan reached for them with a bloodied hand and pulled them toward him. Conqueror snorted at his
movement and stepped back. Judging from the animal’s wounds, the thieves had attempted to take Conqueror along with his other possessions. Yet it seemed that the loyal animal had somehow managed to escape, and had returned to his side.

Dagan managed to don the discarded rags, and with a momentous effort, raised himself to his feet and boosted himself up onto Conqueror’s bare back.

Leaning heavily over the brave animal’s neck, Dagan gripped his silky mane tightly. He whispered into his ear, “The rest is up to you.”

Rosamund glanced around the dirty master mason’s hut that Hadley had decided to accept. She had spent the morning making their new abode habitable by setting out fresh straw for their mattresses, cleaning the refuse out of the hut, and brushing the fireplace free of the spiders and other creatures that had established their homes there.

The previous master mason had obviously had as little concern for cleanliness as he’d had for his work. Actually, if the empty containers smelling of ale were any indication, the former master mason had had only one pursuit in mind. In light of the depressed situation in the country under William’s reign, she wondered if she could blame him.

It galled Rosamund to admit that a foreign master was now in charge of the destiny of free-minded Saxons. She still remembered the day nine years earlier when a party of knights and soldiers led by the Baron de Silva came charging into the fief. At his orders, the baron’s soldiers slaughtered the livestock, confiscated
their stores of food, and set fire to anything they could not carry away. The baron had watched as his pillagers ravished the women and killed anyone who had attempted to stop them. If Hadley had not spirited her away and hidden her, she probably would not have survived the day.

The entire countryside that the baron had so secured for William had been awarded to him, including faraway wilds of forested land. The Saxons who had been living there for generations had become the baron’s virtual slaves.

Rosamund frowned. She would not have Hadley suffer the same fate as the poor man who had once occupied this hut. For that reason she had pressed him to accept lodging closer to the construction site so he might exert his best effort. However dangerous the situation might be for her there, it would be far more dangerous for both of them if he did not satisfy the baron.

Rosamund glanced at the dispersing crowd outside the hut. She was thankful that Hadley was presently capable of supervising the artisans gathered to await his direction. He was having a good day, perhaps because the morning light was bright and clear; perhaps because this temporary home had momentarily relieved some of his concerns; but most probably because the baron’s absence from the scene had alleviated his agitation.

A familiar desperation assaulted Rosamund. She approved of Hadley’s decision to endure his infirmity in silence and believed that Saxon herbs and cures proved more worthwhile than a Norman physician’s care for the most part. On days like this, when Hadley’s vision
appeared so improved, she could not help but think that much of his problem was caused by the stress that the rapidly aging fellow had suffered over the years because of her.

Rosamund had believed since early childhood that she had survived the Norman invasion for a reason. That reason had become clearer as she had grown, until she became convinced that she had been spared to become a pivotal figure who would help the Saxons regain their pride. She had attained womanhood with that silent conviction in mind. Toward that end, she had taken note of the insurrections to the north, where expatriate Saxons united with Irish and Scottish forces to continue revolt against William’s rule. She had learned all she could about invasions from other foreign sources, hoping their aspirations for England’s throne might be turned to the advantage of her people. She had scrutinized news of the seemingly ceaseless battles marking William’s reign. In doing so, she had decided that time and circumstance had finally come together to provide the perfect climate for her to make her move.

Yet she still hesitated…because Hadley’s life now depended on her.

“Ross…”

Responding belatedly to the unfamiliar name her father used, Rosamund called out, “I’m coming…
Hadley
.”

He turned toward her and whispered, “I have sent the workmen back to their jobs, and I need to make certain before work progresses that the former master mason’s efforts were sound and the foundation will support
a structure as heavy as the one the baron proposes. I cannot trust my vision in calculating so important an issue. You must confirm what I see.”

“Of course, Father.”

Rosamund attempted to take Hadley’s arm, but he shrugged off her hand as he said more softly, “It will not do to make me appear less than able in the event the baron is watching. I will act as if I’m instructing you.” He sighed. “It is a necessary deception, I’m afraid.”

Hadley squinted into the rising sun as he walked across the busy construction site with Rosamund at his side. With her fair hair chopped boyishly short and her feminine curves concealed by the shapeless garb of a youth, not an eye turned to scrutinize her. He nodded, grateful that her disguise appeared to suffice.

That concern thrust aside, he stared at the confusion around him. Horse-drawn wagons delivered huge stones to various sites as stonecutters and apprentices worked to shape the heavy rock. Others dumped supplies into great mounds that awaited his distribution. He saw that other apprentices carried sand in buckets to be mixed into mortar, and yet others transported the mixed mortar to the places where the masons worked with hammer and chisel. Hadley glanced at the guidelines that had been strung to mark the positions of walls and walkways yet to be constructed, knowing that he dared not allow progress on the massive project until he had had time to examine all the work that had been done. The knowledge that the former master mason had been haphazard in so many respects nagged at him—as did the necessity of the additional labor
needed to excavate a foundation that might be found unsound.

His vision clouded, Hadley squinted more intensely into the distance as a horse man approached the site. The rider’s stance was awkward and his mount’s step was uncertain. Hadley noted that laborers halted their efforts to stare in the man’s direction, and that beside him, Rosamund gradually stiffened.

“What is it, Ross? Who is that rider and why is everyone stopping to stare at his approach?”

Rosamund responded breathlessly. “I do not know, Father, except that the man is bleeding. Wait here. I’ll see to it.”

Hadley watched with limited vision as Rosamund rushed to the rider’s side.

Rosamund gulped at the sight that met her eyes when she reached the motionless horse man. Lying limply astride a great war horse, the fellow wore ragged clothing soaked with blood that had begun to dry. His face was battered and swollen into a grotesque mask.

Judging from his clothing, he was a common man, yet he was riding a Norman destrier. She could only surmise that he had stolen the horse from one of the baron’s knights and had had the misfortune to meet up with soldiers before managing to escape on it. The thought pleased Rosamund. She admired the man’s pluck for winning out over those who had taken so much from them, and for his success in escaping with his treasure despite an obviously vicious attack.

Aware that the thief might be followed, Rosamund made a quick decision and ordered, “Lift this man from
his mount and carry him to the master mason’s hut— quickly. Then hide the horse in the stable so I may tend to him later.”

The apprentices did not move.

Anger flashing, Rosamund was about to repeat her orders when Hadley spoke from behind her. “Do as Ross says. You will obey his orders as if I have spoken them.” He instructed the gathered workmen more softly, “And you will maintain any secrecy that Ross demands—do you understand?”

Rosamund saw immediate acquiescence register in the gruff workmen’s eyes as they hastened to pull the rider from his horse. In that moment of stark revelation, she saw that with his words, Hadley had satisfied a lingering resentment against their enforced labor, and that both artisans and common laborers alike shared a loathing for the baron who had driven them into servitude with his demands. The silent courage visible in their expressions also indicated that they would keep any secret Hadley asked of them, and that if any among them desired to challenge those sentiments, they would do so under threat of their lives.

Rosamund glanced around her as the bloodied fellow and the great war horse were swiftly taken in different directions. She turned boldly toward the approaching soldiers the baron had left on watch at the site. She stepped back as one of them addressed Hadley, asking, “Who was that man and why are those workers carrying him toward your hut?”

Hadley shrugged as he responded. “I don’t know who he is, except that the poor fellow was obviously set upon by thieves. I directed those men to take him to my hut,
where my assistant will determine the extent of his wounds.” Hadley smiled. “The fellow looks to be well built. I have no doubt he will be grateful for our help and will become a valuable asset when he is well.”

The soldiers nodded. Their approval of Hadley’s seemingly high-handed expectations turned Rosamund’s stomach. When they were far enough away, she turned back to Hadley and whispered, “Thank you, Father.”

“Go to the fellow, Rosamund,” Hadley whispered in return. “I will make my way to the foundation and follow the procedures there until you are available. Do not worry about me.”

Nodding, Rosamund turned toward their hut as workmen carried the wounded man inside. The poor man had chanced upon the right place for help. She would not abandon any loyal Saxon who needed her help. She would protect him with her life.

Dagan awakened upon a mattress of simple straw in a primitive hut. He attempted to move, but groaned softly when pain throbbed to life at the effort. A slender youth kneeling at the fireplace turned toward him at the sound, and then approached him carrying a wooden bowl. He blinked, attempting to see more clearly, but it was to no avail as the young man drew closer and offered him a drink from a cup at his side.

“Where am I?”

The boy responded in a voice that had yet to mature. “Your horse carried you into the construction site of Baron de Silva’s cathedral, but we are all friends in this place. I have asked others to hide the great war horse that brought you here. It will be confined among the
draft animals in the barn while I tend to you. We are not concerned with where you obtained so valuable an animal.”

“The horse…is mine.”

“Its ownership does not matter to me. I am the head apprentice to the master mason at this site. He asked me to care for you.”

“No doctor!” Dagan’s gaze wavered, but his sentiment remained strong. “Bloodletting…weakens.”

“You need not fear. We have no Norman doctors or leeches here.” A semblance of a smile touched the young man’s lips. “I will use only Saxon herbs and remedies that have proved their worth in curing, but I must first wash away the debris covering you.”

Dagan struggled to clear his uncertain vision. The young man’s features were delicate and perfect. He had seen similar young men like him before, and was aware that those of their like often worked harder than others to prove their usefulness on the field of battle.

Another painful spasm convulsed him, and Dagan bit back a groan as he closed his eyes. He could only hope the young man was as skilled as he appeared to be.

“You will have to help me.”

The voice drifted into Dagan’s semiconscious state and he opened his eyes.

The youth clarified, “I need to remove your clothing so I may tend to your injuries fully. You are too big…too heavy for me to lift without your cooperation, and I dare not ask for help.”

Dagan raised himself with an extreme effort and allowed the fellow to remove his shirt. Darkness edged
his vision as he heard the young man say, “I need to remove your breeches, too.”

The loosened breeches slipped down his legs, leaving only his breechcloth in place as he mumbled, “My chest burns.”

“I see the wound. Do not worry. I will take care of it. Just close your eyes and rest.”

The young man’s voice was strangely melodic and reassuring. Closing his eyes as he was bidden, Dagan felt himself slipping off into unconsciousness with the thought that the boy’s clear blue eyes had been honest and sympathetic as they had looked down into his. He had seen something else there, too—something he could not quite define, except to say…he trusted him.

Rosamund stared down at the wounded man as he slipped into unconsciousness. She had no doubt his bruises were severe, but she did not believe they were life-threatening. The deep wound in his chest was another matter. He had obviously been viciously stabbed—a wound that might have killed a lesser man.

Rosamund took a shaky breath. The man lying in front of her in naught but a breechcloth was more powerfully built than any she had ever seen. Even covered with bruises and dried blood, it was plain to see he had the body of a warrior. His well-developed arms and legs, as well as his broad chest, indicated he was no stranger to battle. Her heart pounded at the thought that the power he exuded even in his weakened state had probably earned him the trust of many Saxons bent on revolt, and that he would again be a formidable foe against the Normans when he recovered.