Margo Maguire (2 page)

The border lands north of Braxton Fell

“W
hy are you so angry?” Bryce asked his elder brother as they rode north toward their Scottish enemy. “You’ve never before objected to making war on Léod Ferguson.”

“I don’t like taking orders from the Norman bastard,” replied Edric, the Saxon lord of Braxton Fell.

“King William, you mean?”

Since the answer was obvious, Edric saw no reason to reply to his brother. In the past year,
he’d received an increasing number of directives from their Norman conqueror, most of them unreasonable. The duties Edric was required to pay as the price for keeping his estates increased with every year that passed. More men, more goods, bushels of wool…and little in return. ’Twas Edric’s responsibility to protect England’s northern borders and he was certain there would be repercussions if he shirked his duty. Edric had directed his steward to send letters of protest, for Braxton Fell suffered a dire lack of resources of late.

Even so, there had been no change in the Norman king’s demands.

Word of a Scottish raiding party riding across Edric’s lands required that he take action. He hoped it was the Fergusons who trespassed, for it was past time they paid for their last damaging raid upon Braxton lands. As Edric and his men pursued the Scottish raiders, he had no doubt they would be carrying their spoils with them, and herding some pathetic Norman’s cattle as they traveled.

’Twould be an additional boon to confiscate those valuable goods for himself, although he would have to conceal that fact from his Norman wife, Cecily. She need not know he was sending
Norman
goods in place of the tributes demanded by her king. In truth, Edric had no choice. When Ferguson and his men had harried Braxton Fell
two years before, they’d burned the fields and killed whatever livestock they could not scatter or carry away. These days, there were no extra goods at Braxton Fell.

Upon Edric’s marriage to Cecily, her dowry had provided some relief, so no one at Braxton Fell had starved in the past year.

Yet this autumn, Cecily’s father, Baron Gui de Crispin, had refused all requests for assistance.

“I thought you might be angry because you do not wish to travel so far from Cecily.” Sarcasm oozed like mud from Bryce’s mouth.

Edric kept his silence, refusing to allow his brother’s taunt to affect him. Everyone at Braxton Fell knew Cecily had no love for Saxons, especially her Saxon husband. Yet he’d had no choice but to wed her for her dowry, and to assure his alliance with the Norman kingdom.

The past year had been a daily challenge, trying to keep the peace in his household. Cecily might have the beauty of a Norse goddess, but she despised him and took every opportunity to berate him. She’d made no attempt to learn the language and customs of her husband and his people, and had treated her servants—all but her old Norman nursemaid, Berta—with disdain.

Fortunately, she’d become pregnant within weeks of their nuptials. He’d had no reason to
visit her bedchamber once she was with child, but she managed to make his life hell with her tantrums and petty jealousies. At the slightest hint of an infidelity, the woman went off on a tirade, demanding that he abide by his marital vows. Edric had agreed, but his patience was wearing thin.

“Do you suppose Cecily’s mood will improve after she is delivered of your child?” Bryce asked.

“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” Edric muttered.

“What’s that?”

“We can only hope,” he said, loud enough to be heard. But Edric had gone past the point of reconciliation with Cecily. She had the temperament of a shrew. No, that was too kind. He had never known a woman so harsh and unbending. She had not allowed him to touch her after the first month of their marriage, nor had Edric wanted to.

But worst of all, and unforgivably, she did not want the child.

Cecily had tried to rid herself of the pregnancy early on. Fortunately, she had not been successful. Lora, the midwife, had explained that breeding women often had dark moods and this was likely the cause of Cecily’s woe.

But Edric knew better. Cecily did not want
his
child.

In spite of her pregnancy, she’d had his steward, Oswin, make a monthly request of her fa
ther asking to leave Braxton Fell and return home. She wanted an end to the marriage as badly as Edric did, but her father had refused every request.

The child was due in only a few weeks’ time, and as soon after the birth as Cecily could travel, Edric was going to send her to the nunnery at Evesham Bridge. He was done with the marriage.

“Lord Edric.” Drogan, a strong and sturdy warrior ten years Edric’s senior, rode up beside the two brothers. As their father’s most trusted retainer, Drogan was more an uncle to Edric and Bryce than a mere huscarl. Drogan was as close as family, as was Oswin, Braxton’s steward.

“They rode this way,” Drogan said, pointing ahead at the fresh tracks that were now visible in the midday light. “There was at least one wagon, but I doubt more than twenty-five or thirty riders.”

“They cannot be far,” said Bryce.

Edric looked ahead. “They’ll stay to the path with their wagons. We can ride through the woods and get ahead of them.”

Drogan grinned. “My only hope is that it’s Léod Ferguson.”

They took to the trees with all their warriors behind them. If Drogan’s estimate of the Scots’ numbers was correct, the Saxons would have the
advantage. But their movement would be slow through the woods.

Still, they managed to make good time.

Edric and Bryce rode ahead, leaving Drogan in command of Braxton’s fyrd a short distance behind. They moved stealthily, and when Edric heard the sound of voices ahead, he dismounted and signaled the men behind him to halt.

He stayed under cover of the trees and soon came to a narrow clearing just off the path. There, he sighted the Scottish raiding party. As suspected, ’twas the vile Fergusons, Léod and his son, Robert.

In all, there were only a few more than twenty Scots in the clearing.

Bryce joined Edric and spoke quietly. “There must have been another party. Looks like they split up from here.”

“Aye. Ferguson never goes raiding with so few men,” Edric replied in a hushed voice. “He must think he’s safe now that he’s so close to his lands.”

Two male captives sat upon the ground together, their wrists bound behind them. There were two wagons in the center of the clearing, and Edric could not see if there were men posted beyond them, nor could he see what lay within them. Spoils of a profitable raid, he supposed, as his men gathered ’round, moving into position for their attack.

Shards of light cut to the back of Kathryn’s eyes and she winced with pain. Her head hurt abominably, and nausea cramped her belly. Gingerly, she looked ’round, and saw that she lay inside a rough wooden cart.

What had happened to Geoffroi?

Kathryn feared the worst. He’d been without a sword when she’d pulled him away from the dancers in Kettwyck’s courtyard. And ’twas
her
fault he’d been caught unarmed and unable to defend himself. Kathryn blinked away her tears, but a few still managed to slide down the sides of her face.

If only she and Geoffroi had stayed close to the festivities at her father’s hall, he might have had a chance to take up a weapon. Instead, she’d followed a half-witted whim, and Geoffroi had been caught unarmed and away from the relative safety of the keep.

She stifled her tears and lay still, hoping not to draw the attention of the men whose low voices were audible nearby. Her hands and feet were still tied, but in the light of day, she was able to see the knot that bound her hands together. Using her teeth, she loosened it, then wriggled her wrists to and fro. Soon she managed to free them.

In silence, Kathryn shifted to her side and raised her knees to her chest. She reached down
and pried the rope from her ankles, then considered what to do next.

She did not know how much time had elapsed since she was taken, nor how far from Kettwyck she had traveled. If she could escape unnoticed from the wagon, she might be able to run some distance from her captors. There was no doubt the Scots would come after her, but Kettwyck knights had surely been sent in pursuit of them. With luck, her father’s knights would already be on the Scots’ trail and would save her from a horrible fate.

A sudden burst of laughter startled Kathryn and she froze in place. An instant later, a grizzled Scot with wild russet hair and a thick beard jumped into the wagon’s bed at her feet. He shouted something unintelligible to the other men, then bent over and grabbed Kathryn, roughly pulling her up by the arms.

She screamed, but her cries only resulted in more coarse laughter. The Scot was impervious to her struggles as he pulled her from the wagon, and Kathryn could only whimper when he threw her over his shoulder. Though she kicked and pummeled him as he carried her to a circle where his accursed men had gathered, he was impervious to her blows.

The lass in the circle was possessed of a soft kind of beauty that made Edric wish he’d not tied himself to such a harsh and brittle wife. He could easily lose himself in this woman’s deep doe’s eyes, could almost feel her lush, full lips upon his. Her clothes were in tatters, revealing more of her exquisitely rounded form than any gentle maid would willingly display.

He muttered a curse, aware that there was naught to be done for her. Hell’s bells, she was a Norman wench anyway, and Edric had no love for her kind. She would suffer her fate here as his people had suffered at the hands of their Norman conquerors.

His men were still donning hauberks and helms, and getting into position. ’Twould be several long minutes before they were ready. Minutes the lass did not have.

Edric spat his disgust when Léod Ferguson pounced upon the poor woman in the circle, intent upon raping her. When she screamed, his stomach turned and prudence lost out. He raised his sword and shouted his battle cry, rallying Bryce and the rest of his men ’round him, unready as they were.

In a mass of confusion, they roared into the clearing, hewing every Scot who stood in their path, quickly reaching the circle where Léod Ferguson’s
bare arse rose obscenely above the captive maiden. Edric yanked the Scottish lord off the lass, and as he gained his feet, Léod grabbed a sword from the Scot nearest him.

“Ha, Ferguson,” Edric taunted as he engaged Braxton’s longtime enemy. ’Twas a rare and unexpected pleasure to have the upper hand with the wily worm. “Caught you with your trews about your ankles, eh?”

The Scot growled and used one hand to yank up his leggings.

“You’ll note I didn’t just slice you down, maggot.” Edric dodged the first awkward thrust of the man’s blade. “I just can’t bring myself to kill a man with his arse flapping in the wind.”

“As if ye could, lad,” said the chieftain. He poised himself, sword at the ready, half crouched for battle. Balancing his weight upon the balls of his feet, Léod started to circle ’round Edric.

Edric moved likewise as the other Scottish raiders in the circle quickly took up arms and mounted their defense. Edric’s warriors fought alongside him, preventing anyone from assisting Léod, making it a contest of one to one, man to man. Yet in the midst of it all, Edric was fully attuned to the clang of swords and the smell of blood and sweat around him.

“You’ve got a grizzled bum, even for a Scot, old
man.” Edric glanced toward his brother as Bryce fought, then took quick note of the maiden whose soft brown eyes seemed huge now, providing the only color in her ghostly, pale face. What a fool he’d been to rush to her rescue.

“Edric!” Bryce shouted as he parried with Robert, the big, red-haired son of the Ferguson chieftain. “Get her away from here!”

“She can move herself,” Edric shot back. Damn his brother for paying more heed to a comely face than to his own skin. A captive Norman, stolen from a nearby estate, was not his concern. Especially not now, not while he had Léod Ferguson within killing distance.

Edric barely needed to exert himself as he met every thrust, every strike of the older man’s sword. ’Twas almost cruel, but no less than the bastard deserved. Edric grinned. “Won’t any of your own women have you, Ferguson?”

“Ye’re one to talk, lad! Word is that your own wife canna abide ye.”

Edric felt his blood pulse in his forehead, but he did not allow his temper to distract him. No misstep would cause him to lose this battle against Léod Ferguson, the man who had caused no end of trouble at Braxton Fell. The whoreson would not escape this time.

Léod wielded his sword with two hands, raising
it high, then swinging down in one brutal blow in an attempt to split Edric’s skull.

Edric sidestepped the blow and made a slash of his own, but the Scot managed to dodge it. “Very impressive, Ferguson!” he shouted. No doubt he could finish off the Scot right now, but that would be too easy a death for the bastard who’d caused the destruction of Edric’s lands. At the very least, he wanted retribution for all Léod had done two years before, when Edric’s attentions were elsewhere.

“Behind you, Edric!”

He whirled and slashed at once, killing a Scot who’d slipped through the barrier of Saxon fighters to assist his chieftain. Two more Scottish warriors came, brandishing sword and mace, but Edric evaded their attack and jumped to a nearby rock. He heaved a solid kick to one man’s chest, knocking him to the ground, and parried with the other while Léod came ’round to attack from behind.

Edric gave a mocking laugh, quickly dispatching the Scot in front of him, then turning back to go head to head with Léod again. “’Tis customary to face a man as you
try
to kill him, Ferguson!”

“Ye might try facing yer brother as Robert slays him, then,” Ferguson shouted with a smirk upon his grimy face.

The Norman woman screamed as two Scots
tried to carry her off, distracting Bryce. The one second of inattention gave Robert the opportunity to strike, viciously hacking Bryce in his side. Edric roared and, without thinking, used the full force of his strength to spear Léod, just below his heart. He did not wait to see the result of his jab, but moved quickly to prevent Robert from finishing Bryce.