The Rose of Blacksword (58 page)

The same sea winds beat against Luc’s face and spit sand into his eyes. As he brushed the sand from his lashes, he heard the cry again, mocking this time, and louder. His head tilted back so that his gaze scoured the very top of the steep stone walls.

There with feet braced apart and sword lifted high in a gesture of defiance, a youth had stepped out onto the jagged parapet. Sunlight glinted from his steel and buckler in blinding splinters that danced across Luc’s face. Drago pranced sideways, snorting and tossing his head so that the whip of his jet mane caught Luc across the face again. He swore and held tightly to horse and control as the unmistakable sound of laughter drifted down from the walls.

“Norman dog,” the boy challenged in the Saxon tongue, “did you come to fight or flee?”

Silent, Luc stared up at the bold youth. Scant armor covered the boy’s chest and shoulders, and a short tunic ended at midthigh, in the style of ancient Roman attire. Laced boots rose almost to his knees, but the rest of his legs were unprotected. Luc smiled grimly. If all the warriors were clad thus, victory would be certain once he gained entry.

Nudging Drago forward, Luc ignored the youth. Wind and surf drowned out any further challenges, but the encounter had reinforced his determination to seize Wulfridge. Perhaps Sir Simon had lost, but he would not. Nor did he intend to be defeated as the Norman forces at York had been a month before.

Another such Norman defeat could weaken William’s hold on England. And besides, it was not only lands and a title Luc sought to gain by beating back these rebellious Saxons: it was vindication.

He urged Drago forward. The land sloped sharply upward there, around a curve of sand and grassy hummock. The destrier clambered up the bank, froth dripping from his mouth and foaming his muscled neck despite the sharp bite of the sea wind. His huge hooves sank deep into the sand before finally gaining purchase on more solid rock, muscled flanks bunching beneath the weight of armed knight and trappings.

When they reached the top of the hill, Luc rewarded the sweating stallion with a murmured word and pat on the neck. As he bent forward, a humming that sounded like the path of a large honeybee sped close by his neck, and he heard the solid crack of an arrowhead glancing off rock. Drago skittered to one side, and Luc had to rein him in hard as he glanced up at the castle again. Archers had appeared on the high walls where the youth had stood, and the sky was suddenly dark with flying arrows.

Luc spurred Drago down from the rock in a scramble of hooves against limestone. With arrows hissing around him, he ducked feathered barbs to move just out of range again. Frustrated, he studied the fortress. There had to be a chink in Wulfridge’s defenses. Long stretches of ancient wall formed fortified ramparts with no sign of door or window in the uneven stones. Scattered weeds, bushes, and clumps of grass laced the rock-cluttered footings. But there was no sign of weakness.

He halted Drago at the sharp edge of chalk cliff out of arrow range, cursing softly. The sun beat down, bright for early November. The volley of arrows had ceased. He squinted against the glare, thought about removing his helmet and decided not to. His mail chinked softly as he threw an arm across his forehead to shade his face. A glitter caught his eye when he did and he paused, one arm still across his face. Somewhere in the expanse of stone, sunlight glinted from metal. Perhaps it was not unusual, in a wall studded with twisted shapes and carved in ancient Celtic knots, but a memory teased him. Years ago, playing among the ruins of a similar fortress, he had seen just this kind of ornamentation in the primitive stonework. And in the whorls and grooves of rock he had accidentally discovered a very old lock—made of metal that winked in the sun from its hiding place. It had taken him a month to master the secret of unlocking it. But he
had
mastered the secret.

Now his narrowed eyes picked out the same kind of ornamentation in these rock walls. And tucked cleverly into the rocks, almost imperceptible unless you knew where to look, was a door. A small postern door built into a crevice and half-hidden by a waving clump of sea grass.

Luc grinned. He lowered his arms and looked out to sea. Now, there was a chance for success.

F
IRST LIGHT WAS
still only a faint glow on the horizon, limning the seam of sky and sea with a misty gleam as Luc took a small troop of seasoned soldiers to the door he had found the day before.

They moved quietly, with only the barest armor to cover them, so no chink of mail or weapon would betray their presence. It took longer than it should have for Luc to get his bearings in the slippery murk and finally he dismounted and made his way by running a hand along the sheer stone wall until he collided with a small obstruction: the lock that secured the small postern door.

With bare fingers, he slid a thin metal pick into the mechanism, feeling his way until he heard the familiar click of the tumblers. The iron was cool and slippery and every sound seemed to echo in the early morning stillness. Suddenly the lock separated with a grating sound, falling free of the hasp. He heaved open the door.

Inside, he and a dozen of his men swarmed over an open bailey. The small force of Saxon sentries was quickly outnumbered. Luc took in the rambling walls covered in ivy and the colonnades rising in delicate arches. For a moment he felt as if he’d stumbled into an ancient Roman villa, but then the alarm was given and that impression was quickly eclipsed by the very real Saxon resistance overrunning the walls with raised weapons and unbridled screams.

The fighting was fierce, for the Saxons defended their home against the invaders with desperate determination, but soon the well-armed and armored Normans beat them back. When the front gates were opened, victory was assured as the rest of Luc’s men poured inside. The cacophony drowned out every thought but the driving need to vanquish the foe as Luc found himself locked in ferocious hand-to-hand combat.

The battle raged into a central courtyard marked by crumbling evidence of neglect. A ruined fountain lay dry save for the blood of those who fell into it, and tumbled stones made hazardous footing for the unwary. The pitched fighting was over quickly. Those Saxons that were not killed and were still able to flee abandoned the stone and tile halls with a rapidity Luc found as amusing as he did cowardly. It had been the same at Senlac Hill, when trained Norman knights fell upon the Saxon rabble and sent them scattering into the dusk like frightened geese. Yet now was not the time to worry about those who had fled into the forests of the mainland. There were other, more important matters.

He beckoned Remy to him, and his captain arrived red-faced and breathing hard. Luc gestured to the wounded of both sides. “Tend our men first. Do your best by the others, for Saxons will be needed to till these lands. I will spare those that swear fealty to me and to William. But now I would find the old lord of Wulfridge.”

Remy swept the cluttered courtyard with a dark gaze. “One of the prisoners says their leader has taken refuge in a stone chamber on the east. Shall we rout him?”

“I will see to that, while you tend the captives and wounded.” Luc summoned several men, and together they moved toward the stone chamber Remy indicated. It was set in a thick grove of midsize trees, an ordinary storehouse from the appearance of it, with only one door. No doubt, the lord of Wulfridge took refuge there rather than relinquish his fief to the conqueror. Luc’s mouth curled into a smile of contempt. Victory tasted sweet. Wulfridge was his.

“Balfour de Wulfridge,” he shouted into the sudden quiet left by the end of the battle, “come out and yield your arms. The day is lost to you, but not your life. If you will lay down your weapons, you may accompany me to the king to present your defense.”

The English words faded into silence, but there was no answer from the storehouse. A leaf fell, twisting in an unsettled current of air, drifting to the hard-packed dirt beside a gnarled tree root. Luc waited, then repeated his demand. Silence.

Losing patience, Luc moved toward the door. Suddenly a Saxon warrior appeared in the darkened opening, brandishing a Roman short sword in one hand and a round shield in the other. Luc stopped in midstride. It was the tall youth from the walls who had taunted him the day before.

The boy’s Roman sword whistled through the air, as menacing and tempting as his cold Saxon taunt: “Come, Norman, test my skill if you dare.”

“I do not fight children,” Luc growled back in English. “Not even boasting boys with swords bigger than they. Move aside, and call out Lord Balfour.”

“Ah, but I am here in Balfour’s place, Norman.” The sword swung through the air, and the boy leaped agilely atop a fallen tree to balance on the broad trunk. “He is my father—will I not do?”

Luc eyed the youth. Garbed in ancient armor of brass chest plates, an apron of brass-studded leather, and leather boots laced to the knee, he managed to look like a Roman gladiator instead of a Saxon warrior.

Luc’s patience waned. “Do not play the fool. Take me to your father. The battle is done, as you must know, and you are lost.”

“Nay, Norman, it is not lost until I yield.” Moving more swiftly than Luc anticipated, the youth leaped forward. The tip of the Roman sword caught Luc across the bicep in a swinging slash that could have cost him his sword arm if he had not reacted with his warrior’s instinct.

Luc parried the blow and thrust at his foe, grunting in surprise at the ferocity of the answering attack. He should have expected it, should have sensed the desperation behind the bravado. But he did not. To Luc’s astonished chagrin, the youth slid deftly beneath his guard and thrust the Roman sword’s tip against his throat. Luc stilled instantly.

The ice-blue eyes piercing him across the blade’s length held no mercy, only grim determination mixed with exultation.

“Yield, Norman.”

“And if I do not?”

“You will die.”

The blade pressed more firmly, obstructing Luc’s air passage. Little fool—surely this witless Saxon must know how swiftly he would die should he be reckless enough to slay Luc.

“Call off your dogs, Norman,” the youth said coolly when two knights started toward them with drawn weapons. “Or suffer the consequences.”

Luc put up a warning hand, and the knights stopped a short distance away.

“Zut alors!”

“Quel con, ce mec!”

The curses of Luc’s Norman knights were harsh, but none dared move for fear of earning their leader his death. While they may not have understood the language Luc and the Saxon youth spoke, they clearly grasped the danger. Not even the strongest mail could deflect the tip of a hefty sword driven forcefully into his throat. For the moment, Luc’s mail coif cushioned the prodding intent. Yet if he so much as lifted his sword, no doubt the Saxon would skewer him like a capon. Luc felt a fool and worse for not giving this boy the same wary regard he would have given a seasoned soldier. His inattention might yet cost him his life. His gaze dropped to the short length of Roman sword.

Soft, mocking laughter curled the air between them, and the sword blade vibrated ever so slightly as the Saxon gripped the hilt with both hands to steady it. Luc’s muscles tensed.

“Would you earn your death so swiftly, young Saxon? For that is what ’twill be if you kill me.”

“My life is well worth the loss of a Norman knight, I think.”

“I doubt your father would agree.” For a moment he thought his verbal dart had found its mark as the Saxon’s light eyes clouded, then with a soft oath, the blade dug more deeply into Luc’s mail. A warm trickle of blood bathed his throat beneath the chain.

“My father and I have not always agreed, Norman. And so it has come to this—I have you at the point of my sword. Would I purchase my own life with a cowardly surrender?”

The voice lowered, painfully hoarse, and now Luc saw the fatigue in the face beneath the helmet, the faint bluish circles under the eyes, and the grim twist of a curiously vulnerable mouth. Ah, this lad was too young to go to war, though no doubt not much younger than Luc had been when he had first gone into battle.

And it was that knowledge that gave Luc the edge, his experience and years of training that had kept him still now allowed him to gauge his opponent. His opening came swiftly, more swiftly than he hoped, as the Saxon continued to stare at him. The sword shifted slightly as bare, slender hands tightened on the hefty hilt. Holding up even the short sword would be wearying to an untried youth.

Luc gave a sudden backward twist of his body, evading a surprised thrust as he swept his own blade upward in a lightning-quick move, catching the boy’s sword hilt with the tip of his blade. Driving forward, he turned his wrist, snagging the Saxon’s weapon and sending it sailing through the air. The youth’s sword clattered to the ground several feet away, resting against a knobby oak root curled among the fallen leaves.

Now came the moment of truth, and Luc intended to send this young pup running for his father. Pressing his sword tip against the boy’s armored chest, he snapped an order to his men to search the stone chamber. To his captive he said, “Yield or die, Saxon.”

“May you suffer the pox, Norman swine.”

The Saxon words came out between gasps for air, and beneath the smooth metal helmet, hot blue eyes narrowed with purpose. A gray light glinted in the boy’s hand and gave Luc an instant’s warning. Swiftly he twisted to one side, and the dagger the youth had thrown dug deep into the trunk of the oak behind him, vibrating with the force of its flight.

Furious now, Luc moved with swift resolution that caught the boy off guard. Striking him across the chest, Luc pressed him to the ground with his greater weight, tempted to slit the whelp’s throat for the trouble he had caused. Only his obvious youth saved him. Did these rebels never admit defeat? Foolish, to resist when the outcome was obvious, yet they always did.

Straddling the boy, Luc pinned him to the ground with his knees, and using the tip of his dagger, slit the leather strap that held the boy’s helmet fast. He pulled it away roughly—but scowled when a cloud of wheat-gold hair tumbled free. A plague upon these Saxons who wore their hair long as a woman’s, refusing to cut it even at William’s order.