Snow in July (36 page)

“Wolf-king isn’t here, you puling Norman infant.” Ulfric drew himself up to his full height, exulting in Harold’s stolen majesty. “The true Saxon king of England is.”

ALAIN SPAT on the floor. “All I see is a pathetic Saxon pretending to be another pathetic Saxon pretender.”

Ulfric’s head snapped up, and his eyes—Harold Godwinson’s glittering gray eyes—narrowed to slits. “You’re improving. That insult deserves death. I thank you for affording me the first opportunity to exercise my royal authority.” Ulfric-Harold dipped his head in a parody of respect. “I shall even grant you leave to defend yourself, if you permit me to become armed.”

Wisdom decreed that Alain should run Ulfric through; honor forbade it. He jerked a nod.

Ulfric’s grin broadened. He dropped to all fours, rummaged beneath the bed for a few moments, and stood, cradling a long, slim, linen-swathed object as if it were a babe. Reverently, he loosened the top folds to reveal a ruby-encrusted hilt. The blade, as the wrappings slid free, gleamed no less magnificently.

It was a foot longer than Alain’s weapon, two fingers wider, and double-edged.

His heart kicked into a canter.

Ulfric swung the blade to the vertical as easily as if he were twirling a twig. “A sword worthy of a king, wouldn’t you agree, Norman?”

“Most assuredly.” Alain tightened his grip and shifted his weight into a more solid stance. “Too bad you, Thane Ulfric, are not worthy of it.”

Roaring, Ulfric charged. The first jolt of the massive sword against Alain’s blade sent him reeling backward. More staggering blows followed, and it was all Alain could do to prevent them from connecting with his flesh. For if Eosa’s sword had been able to cut mail, Harold’s weapon surely could slice steel and bone like butter.

To defeat this demon, he needed a better plan.

They lurched about the cottage as if playing a children’s game of touch-and-run, with Alain toppling the table, chairs, crockery, foodstuffs, and anything else he could find to keep Ulfric off balance, and Ulfric chopping at whatever Alain hurtled in his path.

Whenever Ulfric managed to get close enough to land a blow, Alain’s arms felt as if they were going to wrench out of their sockets. Weakened by the old wound, his left shoulder ached fiercely, and his right wasn’t in much better condition.

Then he spied his chance.

He feigned a stumble and hit the sideboard. The candlestick rocked. Pretending to grab it, Alain deliberately missed, knocking it onto the floor. Molten wax spattered the dry rushes. The flame snuffed out, releasing a pungent odor.

Laughing, Ulfric closed in. “I just recalled something that may interest you. Today is the Feast of First Martyrs. How very appropriate.” He raised Harold’s sword high overhead.

Such a blow would cleave Alain from crown to breastbone. Grimacing through the pain—real and anticipated—as he lifted his sword and braced for the block, he prayed for a miracle.

“You, Norman, can count yourself privileged to become the first martyr for your soon-to-be deposed king.”

The blow fell.

Amid a shower of sparks, Alain deflected it.

With a soft
whoosh
, the rushes burst into flame. The hem of Ulfric’s robe ignited, and the fire raced upward.

Shrieking, Ulfric dropped Harold’s sword to beat out the flames. Alain righted his stance, cocked his sword arm, and drove his blade into Ulfric’s unprotected side, burying it to the hilt and giving it a savage twist before yanking it free.

Ulfric’s eyes rolled back and his features blurred. The demon in Harold’s likeness fled, leaving behind the Ulfric Alain recognized. The thane fell, smothering some of the flames but not enough to halt the inevitable. Alain glanced around the room. Through the cottage’s lone window he saw monks and nuns scurrying over, their faces contorted with alarm. Harold’s body, Alain was more than willing to consign to the oblivion it deserved, but he needed to get Kendra out soon.

However, he needed answers first.

He knelt, grabbed a fistful of bloodstained wool around Ulfric’s neck, and shook him. Ulfric woke with a sharp cough. The thane’s malevolent glare made everything click into place.

“You killed my brother in battle. And you used his shield and face as a disguise to ambush Kendra’s brother. You led the attack upon Ruaud and me at the inn and escaped as a hound, but not before tearing out our guide’s throat so he couldn’t betray you to us. You even tried to kill me twice more—first by meadow-saffron poison, then as a hound.”

Between the smoke, fatigue, pain, blood loss, and the dizzying implications, Alain’s head was starting to reel. He ducked lower to suck in the clearer air and forged on, “The outlaws, Kendra’s abduction to extort money from a man you knew would never support your cause, the plunder hidden beneath Glastonbury Tor, the army—all of it was part of your grand design, wasn’t it?”

“Why should I tell you a damned thing?”

“Because you will be damned if you die unshriven.”

“I am damned already.” Frowning, Ulfric turned his head away, though whether to watch his blood soaking the rushes or the advancing fire, Alain couldn’t tell.

Tensely, Alain watched both.

A spate of coughing near the bed caught Alain’s attention. He released Ulfric and faced the sound, hoping Kendra had awakened, which would make rescuing her easier.

No such luck. The bruised head of an old woman popped up from beside the bed, looking fearful and confused.

“Hurry and get out,” Alain warned her.

“But Thane Ulfric, Lady Kendra—”

“I will see to them. Go, woman!”

She didn’t need a second command. Through the open cottage door, as she scurried to safety, he saw the other people forming a bucket brigade and heard sizzles as water met fire. But once the thatch caught, the entire cottage, along with everyone trapped inside, would be doomed.

Alain crouched over Ulfric’s face. “You know I am right, Thane Ulfric. Confess! You haven’t much time.”

“No Norman swinhund will act as my father-confessor.”

“This Norman swinhund is all you have. Would you rather take your chances with the Lord God Almighty?”

Ulfric closed his eyes with a sigh. Alain thought he’d lost him and his confession. But when he rose to get Kendra, a hand wrapped around his ankle and yanked. He lost his balance and fell with a startled yelp. His sword jarred from his grasp. While groping for it among the rushes, he almost missed Ulfric’s frayed whisper:

“You are right, Sir Robert. About everything. May God forgive me.” He gripped Alain’s forearm with surprising strength. “But never forget, Norman, that I made my choices for the good of England—Saxon England.”

“And for yourself.”

Ulfric smiled wanly. “That aspect lies between me and God.”

True enough.

Kneeling and holding up the hilt of his sword to form a cross, he hastily murmured the Latin words he’d heard far too often on the battlefield, words of pardon and assurance of divine forgiveness. Ulfric’s eyes glazed before Alain could finish.

As the first thatch bundles ignited, spewing sparks onto the bed, he sheathed his sword and hurried to Kendra’s side. He had to brush embers from her gown before gathering her into his arms. Her head lolled, but he had no time to discern whether she was alive or dead.

The doorway was already wreathed in flames. He lowered his head, led with his right shoulder, and charged through.

Sweet air filled his starved lungs, triggering a coughing fit so intense that he nearly dropped her. A monk and several nuns broke rank from the bucket line to help him, along with the servant he’d chased from the inferno and a few folk whom he guessed to be residents of the other cottages.

He refused to let anyone take Kendra.

Noir ambled over, sniffed her hair, and licked her neck. When that elicited no response, he sat, whining.

Alain could well imagine how the hound felt.

As the servant felt Kendra’s neck for a pulse, she asked about Ulfric, forcing him to relive their fight as he decided how much to tell her. Something in the tone of her question suggested that the thane had meant a lot to her.

“Thane Ulfric died of his wounds, good woman, not in the fire.” Noting the tremor in her chin, he added, “But he died shriven.” King William and England might fare better without being troubled by this rebel, but she didn’t need to hear that. “I am sorry for your loss.”

After releasing a heavy sigh and swiping her eyes, she gave Alain an appraising stare. “Thank you, my lord.”

“And…Kendra?”

“Your lady lives.”

He couldn’t think of any other words that could have brought him more relief and he sent his gratitude heavenward. “Will she wake soon?”

The woman shrugged. “She will rest easier in her chambers at the manor house.”

He executed a staggering turn in that direction, but the persistent fog—which, mercifully, had helped to keep the blaze from spreading to the other cottages—and the billowing smoke blocked his view, hindering his decision.

“I agree, good woman.” The croaking of his voice startled him. He drew a breath and cleared his throat. “But first I must know whether it’s in the hands of Thane Waldron’s men or Ulfric’s.”

The monk who’d left the bucket line to assist Alain gave him an understanding nod, hitched up his robes, and sprinted off. The aged servant woman followed him at her own doddering pace. Supported by the remaining onlookers, Alain sank to the ground, still cradling his precious burden.

He drew a thumb across her soot-smudged cheek. No matter how he tried to justify his original actions, her plight was his fault, even the abduction, for his forwardness as a love-smitten “squire” had driven her outside Edgarburh’s protective walls.

And even if other circumstances had led to her capture, she might never have chosen to stay with Ulfric if Alain had not deceived her.

His heart constricted, and tears welled. Grief and guilt branded his soul.

AS RUAUD directed the efforts to secure the prisoners, tend the wounded, remove the corpses, and restore order to the hall, he itched to know what had befallen Alain. He wrenched his gaze from the servants’ door where he’d last seen his friend and tried to concentrate on the task of binding the wrists of a man with a serpentine scar running the length of his face. Although no more than an hour had passed since Alain’s departure, it had seemed like eons.

“Go, Sir Ruaud.” Lofwin’s voice wafted to him as if in a dream. It took Ruaud a few moments to register why Lofwin was attempting to remove the rope from Ruaud’s grasp. “Go and see to Lady Kendra and Sir Alain while we finish here.”

Ruaud released the rope, communicated his thanks with a nod, and started for the rear door.

He didn’t get far.

The door banged open and Alain staggered in. His surcoat was charred and sooty, and his hair looked—and smelled—singed. Fatigue and pain had gouged deep lines across his face. The unmoving bundle he carried, also soot-blackened in several places, seemed more the size of a child than a woman. Ruaud could have sworn that the vapors swirling about them were smoke, as if they’d escaped through the gates of hell. That hellhound of Alain’s flanked its master, its eyes glowering as if to challenge all comers.

A hush blanketed the hall as everyone paused to watch Alain’s halting progress.

As Alain neared, Ruaud felt loath to break the silence, but he had to know: “Lady Kendra, is she—”

“She lives,” Alain rasped.

The prisoner in Lofwin’s charge reached his bound hands toward Alain’s lady, seemed to think better of it, and lowered his hands. His bowed head couldn’t hide the tears that slid free, or the trembling of his chin.

Ruaud cocked an eyebrow, vowing to find out later how this man, who appeared to be more ruffian than soldier, knew her and what she meant to him.

First and foremost, however, Alain needed help. But the fool refused it.

“At least let me accompany you, in case you stumble.”

“As you wish.” Alain’s voice sounded hollow; his gaze remained fixed on the doors leading to the outside staircase and, presumably, Lady Kendra’s quarters.

“What of Ulfric?” Ruaud whispered, hoping to keep Alain’s mind engaged to stave off the shock that had already taken hold.