Elaine Barbieri (5 page)

Champlain responded with unexpected vehemence, “You seem to forget William’s vengeance in the north when rebel insurrection occurred there. William allowed no house or human being to remain standing between York and Durham when Earl Edwin and Earl Morcar revolted. He left his subjects with no doubt of his intentions should others attempt to thwart him.”

“You doubtless speak of the Saxon populace who still consider us intruders. I tell you they are an inept, cowardly scum.”

“That
inept scum
fought bravely, as the amount of blood that was shed can attest.”

“You speak of the bloodshed as if you feel a sense of regret in that which was predestined. Shedding blood proves my superiority over those who fall under my sword!”

Champlain responded with continued vehemence. “You know well that I have shed the blood of many in William’s service, and that I have no regrets.”

“Well, then…”

“But I do not shed blood wantonly! I have matured past that part of my life, and I will not participate in mass destruction when it is unnecessary.”

Smiling at the spark of determination that had entered his friend’s eyes, de Silva responded, “When it is unnecessary…yet you know that William’s reign will be tested again and again because he is unworthy. He exhibits fealty for his wife but does not acknowledge
the efforts of those who have served him as loyally and well.”

“He has exhibited loyalty for those—”

“I will not argue with you! Yet I tell you now that the time has come. Cnut, son of King Swein of Denmark, is ready to make his move. I have been in communication with him, and he is readying two hundred ships that he intends to sail against William. I am of royal blood, and I intend to profit from that endeavor.”

“Cnut is doomed to failure.”

“Not with our help!”

Taking a backward step, Champlain stated firmly, “I am your servant, but I challenge your decision.”

“Cnut’s attitude is encouraging.” De Silva paused, and then asked abruptly, “I would know now if you would join with me and the army I command when that occurs.”

His gaze narrowing, Champlain considered his response. Finally speaking, he said, “I have talked freely with you and have voiced my concerns, but I would have you know that my loyalty…is primarily yours.”

Turning abruptly toward the door when he realized that Martin Venoir had entered and stood listening to their discussion, Champlain added, “I speak for Martin as well—do I not, Martin?”

De Silva studied the younger man who had entered his quarters unexpectedly. Martin had dark hair that bore no streaks of gray, a face that was unmarked by age, and a well-muscled form. Yet the soberness in Martin’s dark eyes bespoke a cynicism beyond his years as the younger man replied, “You speak for me, Champlain. What ever the question, my thoughts are yours.”

Satisfied, Champlain turned back to the baron with a frown. “I need ask only one question: If you are unhappy with William’s reign, why do you seek his approval by raising a cathedral on this land?”

“I am not a fool.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning…” The baron swept the knights with a cunning gaze. “Meaning that should Cnut’s invasion fail, I will not go down with him because my devotion to William is obvious by my raising a cathedral to honor his god.”

“William’s god?”

“Yea, William’s god, for I honor no god except when it is expedient!”

Noting approval in Champlain’s eyes, de Silva said abruptly, “I will speak to you again of my plans when they are more defined. For the time being, you are dismissed.”

Waiting only until the two men left to attend the unceasing warfare training of their trade, de Silva turned toward the mirror. He scrutinized his appearance, smoothing his hair and picking a thread from his impeccable garments before whispering to his reflection, “All goes well, my friend. By what ever artifice necessary, you will soon attain what is rightfully yours.”

Smiling at that thought, Guilbert turned toward the door with a definite destination in mind.

“Where is he?”

“My lord…to whom do you refer?”

His gaze fixed on the baron’s irate figure as he dismounted from his great black steed, Hadley awaited a
response to his question. The midmorning sun shone brightly on a site that was only partially visible to Hadley’s eyes, but the baron’s angry, threatening step was unmistakable as he advanced toward him and said, “You know who I mean! I am inquiring about your apprentice…the young fellow who is so necessary to your work that you
cannot spare him
, yet who is now absent from your side.”

“Monseignor, I told you yesterday of the worker who was delivered here wounded and bleeding. I also told you that my apprentice is knowledgeable in the art of healing, and that he is the only person capable of treating the man’s serious wounds at this time.”

De Silva barely retained patience as he growled, “Yea…you told me that.”

“Ross is tending to him. The man is improved, but his wounds are grave and his condition is still unstable. Ross fears to leave him.”

“Ross sacrifices the work you both may achieve here for this unnamed man?”

“His name is Dagan, my lord.”

“I did not ask his name! I asked where Ross is. Now that you have replied, I want to know when he will return to his duty here.”

“Ross will return immediately upon completing the treatment he deems necessary for the wounded man.”

De Silva responded through clenched teeth, “You have not answered me.”

“I have given you the only response I am able to give. But I assure you that Ross will be here before the noon hour, when his help will be essential.”

“His help is not essential now?”

Hadley stuttered, “Yes, b..but I am presently involved in details that Ross may review later.”

“So Ross is presently free?”

“No, he tends to his patient.”

“His patient be damned!” Turning, de Silva mounted his horse. He did not turn back when Hadley called out after him, “Where are you going, my lord?”

Digging his spurs into his mount’s sides, de Silva goaded him into a leap forward without responding. Hadley choked on the cloud of dust the animal raised in departing and then turned to call out blindly, “Horace, please come to me.”

Hadley whispered when Horace responded to his call, “The baron goes to find Rosamund. I fear she will reveal herself in her anger.”

“Do not fear, Hadley. The girl is not a fool. She will maintain her disguise.”

“I fear that at the least Rosamund will respond to the baron by saying something that will push his anger beyond retrievable bounds. I must go to her and forestall such an encounter.”

“I will do anything you ask, so deep is my belief in you, but I warn you, Hadley, that your appearance at the hut has the potential of doing more harm than good. The baron will only turn on you if Rosamund is successful in thwarting him.”

“I fear for her.”

“Instead, have faith in her. Rosamund will prevail.”

Dagan watched through slitted eyes as the lad carried the water he had heated at the fire. His brows knit, he
glanced at the midmorning sun outside the hut when the young man placed the water beside him.

Dagan closed his swollen eyes, but he could feel the silver-blue orbs study his bruised features and the darkening marks of abuse on his body. He opened his eyes again as the assessing gaze rested on the deep wound in his chest, covered by a poultice. Blood had coagulated on the cloth. It was time to change the poultice, yet the youth hesitated.

“What is wrong?”

The young man’s gaze snapped up to meet Dagan’s uncertain stare. “Nothing is wrong. Blood marks the poultice. I was contemplating the best way to cleanse your wound.”

“My chest…”

“Yea, that wound is the most severe.”

Dagan’s squinting, amber-colored gaze scrutinized the blurred figure silently before he said absurdly, “I was stabbed.”

“I know, by merciless Normans from whom you stole the horse.”

“By thieves who hoped to steal my horse from me.”

“Normans are all thieves.”

Dagan did not reply.

“Do not upset yourself…but I would ask you a question.” The lad spoke as he ran a warm cloth across Dagan’s swollen face, then dipped it into the clean water and ran it across his lips. His touch was gentle as he pulled the poultice from Dagan’s chest and stared at the wound more closely.

“The wound appears clean. There is no weeping
that indicates infection—a good sign.” The lad pressed a soft hand to Dagan’s forehead and said, “You are cooler now.”

Struggling against uncertain feelings raised by that touch, Dagan fought to clear his gaze as he mumbled, “Your question…”

The lad replied, “The great animal who obeys you is a destrier…a war horse often used by Normans.”

Dagan managed a nod.

The lad paused. “You wore the clothes of a common man, yet you rode a war horse.”

Dagan did not immediately respond. His mind was still unclear. Hoping to omit the part of his response that would offend, he chose a half-truth. “I found the animal…wounded…wandering. I nursed him back to health. He is intelligent and grateful. He has served me well.”

“His name…”

“His name was engraved on his saddle when I found him—the saddle that was stolen when I was ill with a fever from a previous wound.”

“Stolen when Norman soldiers intended to take a valuable animal away from a common man.”

Accepting Dagan’s lack of response as affirmation, the lad’s lips tightened with unspoken anger. He said simply, “Speak no more now. It weakens you. I would not have another good Saxon fall under a Norman blow.”

Dagan closed his eyes. He was weak. His words had been misleading because it suited his purpose. He opened his eyes. “Conqueror…he is well?”

“The great horse is well. I allowed him to remain loose in the confines of the barn.”

Dagan nodded.

The young fellow leaned closer. Dagan breathed in his sweet breath, intensely aware of the clear blue of his eyes when he whispered, “I am sorry. Both Hadley and I briefly doubted you when the horse responded so well to your command. Forgive me.”

A resurgence of pain caused Dagan to again close his eyes as the young man whispered, “Have no fear. I will not betray you, and I will care for the destrier for whom you risked your life.”

Dagan drifted into a restless sleep to the sound of that ardent promise.

The sound of a horse’s hooves pounded to a halt on the turf beyond the hut. The stranger called Dagan had closed his eyes after she had tended to the deep wound in his chest, and now Rosamund leaned protectively closer to him as the baron’s shadow darkened the doorway.

Rosamund noted the baron’s impatient expression, but she did not attempt to rise from her patient’s side as he advanced toward her. Instead, she said coldly, “Did you come to ask after the stranger’s health?”

“Do not ask foolish questions!” Halting, the baron glanced around the small hut. “I can offer you quarters much better than these.”

“I regret that I cannot accept your generosity. I am needed here.”

“Yea, so I am told…needed by the master mason and by this nameless fellow as well.”

The heat of anger surged as Rosamund replied, “The stranger is not nameless. He is called Dagan.”

“He has a name but not much else,” the baron scoffed.

“Perhaps that is because all else was stolen from him,” Rosamund responded hotly. “Just as many other Saxons lost that which they held most dear.”

“How unfortunate for them.” Moving closer, the baron leaned down to whisper, “But that is the price of war.”

“A war no Saxon sought!”

Jerking upright, the baron replied, “A war that came to them because of the duplicity of Harold, whom they chose as their king! They were justly overrun by a righteous, superior force.”

“There was nothing righteous about William’s invasion! He stole the country from Harold.”

“He took what was rightfully his—which all true men will do in the end.”

“Rightfully his? Harold was the rightful heir to the crown.”

“A crown that was promised to William at an early age, a promise that was reneged upon after the true king died.”

“There was no promise!”

“Deny it if you wish, but that is a truth borne by witnesses.”

“William is a foreigner—a Norman! Neither he nor many of those whom he has seated above us even speak our tongue.”

“I speak your tongue.”

“Only through necessity.”

The baron’s voice softened unexpectedly as he said, “I have wooed many with the words of your language.”

“Yea, I have no doubt that those words slip easily from your tongue.”

“But I have never wooed one such as you.”

Rosamund tensed. “One such as I?”

The baron extended his hand in an attempt to brush back the fair hair that hung so heavily on her brow. He sneered when Rosamund recoiled from his touch and said, “You do not favor my attentions, but I tell you now that the time will come when you will. You will cry for my touch and you will—”

“I thirst.”

Her attention snapping back to the wounded man, Rosamund rose and pushed back the baron’s stalwart figure as she strode to the ale bucket. Kneeling at the wounded man’s side with cup in hand, she whispered, “Drink. The ale will refresh you, and I will presently make you a fortifying gruel.”

“Gruel?” Rosamund did not look up as the baron inquired haughtily. “Where did you obtain the ingredients to make gruel for this man?”

“Would you deprive one of your subjects of that which he needs most, my lord? Is that the action of a benevolent noble?” Contempt in her delicate features, Rosamund responded, “I will answer your question by saying that the ingredients were gathered from many at this site who have seen other Saxons suffer and who wish to see this man survive.”

“Are you telling me that I am not considered a benevolent lord?”

“I did not say that.”

“What did you say, then?”

Aware that the baron was beginning to lose his
patience, and that the wounded man would suffer if he did, she replied, “I am telling you that resentment against Norman reign runs high among many Saxons…and that mercy goes far to diffuse that animosity.”