Siege Of the Heart (2 page)

Isabel’s mouth twisted at his words and the earnest look on his fond face. Snowflakes clung to his beard and hair. She itched to brush the snow off him. “It may not be so simple,” she only said. Once, she would not have hesitated to tell Kendrick anything, but the time when he did not tower over her was long past.

Edgar and Cuthbert hastened across the field. Red-faced and out-of-breath, they slid to a stop in front of Isabel and Kendrick.

“What happened?” Kendrick asked.

“Tracks, heading toward Ashdown from the northwest,” Edgar said.

“Perhaps five or six riders passed this way,” Cuthbert added.

Kendrick had the men mounting their horses with just a look. “Mayhap this has not been a fool’s journey after all.” He nodded at Edgar. “Lead on.”

The tracks skirted the northernmost boundary of her father’s lands before heading south, deeper into the holding. Unease gathered in a tight knot in her stomach. The Welsh did not usually travel so far east. At least not since the Confessor bestowed these lands upon her father so he could train a force in Norman horsemanship to repel the Welsh. They must be feeling more daring since the Norman invasion left so many areas unprotected. That did not bode well.

After an hour of riding, Isabel and her men broke from the forest and onto a large field with a small rise to the north. The snow had lessened, but flakes still fell, partially covering the ground. The last man had just cleared the tree line, when an arrow glanced off the shoulder of Edgar’s horse. The animal reared in fright.
 

Isabel’s breath left her in a rush. Coming around the hillock toward them, five heavily armed Welshmen rode into view. Ambush.

Before she could react, the Welsh loosed more arrows. This time they aimed for Cuthbert. He hauled his circular shield in front of his body just in time to deflect them. Startled, she and her men wheeled their mounts away to avoid careening into the oncoming Welsh raiders. Their ability to fight from horseback would not help if their mounts were cut down before they formulated a strategy.

Returning to the tree line, Isabel reined her horse to a stop and slid to the ground. Their attackers must have heard them coming as they crashed through the forest. It was too late to wish they had been more prudent in their pursuit.

Men on both sides readied their blades. She swiftly nocked an arrow and let it fly at the Welshmen as Kendrick and the others prepared to charge.

Edgar regained his seat. He raised his shield and urged his horse forward, brandishing his sword to scatter their attackers. He caught a Welshman with his blade, and the wounded man fell to the ground.

Breathe, she told herself. She took aim again, careful to avoid her men. Steady now…

The Welshman’s shoulder jerked back as her arrow dug into his chest. She bit her lip. The exultation she normally felt after hitting targets set against haystacks or tree trunks was absent. They did not scream in pain.

Edgar’s mount reared again. Moments later a Welshman pulled him out of the saddle.
 

“No!”
 

At her cry, Cuthbert and Martin dismounted and sprinted into the fray, swords flashing in the dim light.

Her hand trembled as she reached for another arrow. Kendrick and Godric brought their mounts to a halt next to her. “I want you to get back on your horse and fly from here,” Kendrick said. “It is too dangerous.”

She barely spared him a glance. “You know I will not leave.” Her father may have kept her away from past battles, but she was just as skilled in arms as the men. Her place was here. Now, more than ever.

Shooting again, she struck a Welshmen in the back before he landed a blow on Cuthbert. She wrenched her gaze from the man writhing on the ground. She could not hesitate to do what was necessary to defend her home.

Two Welshmen lay dead. In the next instant, an enemy’s sword brought Edgar down. An angry cut ran the length of his torso, his blood melting the snow around him.

Kendrick cursed. “Promise me you will get away from here.” His gaze found her before he spurred his horse forward. He and Godric urged their mounts toward their attackers, hacking at the three remaining Welshmen on the field.

Isabel stayed in position, firing arrows when she had a clear shot. She struggled to control her breathing as she banished Kendrick’s censure from her mind.

Her horse whickered and paced fitfully, drawing her attention away from the battlefield. One of the ruffians had managed to get to the trees and sneak behind her. The bowstring smacked against her wrist, but the momentary sting was the least of her worries. The Welshman was almost upon her. His leer and the sword in his hand told her she needed to do something. Quickly.

Her bow crashed to the ground. She slapped her horse on his rump to get him out of the way. The last thing she needed was the animal used as a ploy in the ensuing fight. She pulled her sword out of its sheath just in time to raise it against the Welshman’s steel as he bore down on her. He swung at her again.

She scrambled to block him. He was too strong.

The impact of the next clash of their swords rattled up her forearms painfully. Pivoting before he could land another blow, she slashed at her assailant and managed to cut through the crude armor protecting his chest.

Staying on the balls of her feet, she backed away from the man. Her chest heaved with each indrawn breath. Her arms shook from the effort of holding her sword in front of her as she waited for the man’s next move.

Over the roaring in her ears, she heard Kendrick shouting. She hazarded a glance behind her and caught a glimpse of the arrow an instant before it lodged itself into the upper part of her right arm. Crying out, she clawed at her shoulder. Her blade tumbled away and hit the ground with a dull clank.

Kendrick rushed toward her and made quick work of her opponent. The dark look on his face momentarily distracted her from the pain as he retrieved her mount. “Get on,” Kendrick demanded in a tone that brooked no argument. “Head back. We will follow.”

Isabel gathered her weapons. Kendrick gave her a hand up so she would not place pressure on her injured arm as she mounted. “Tell Captain Thomas to make ready for Edgar.” She followed Kendrick’s gaze to the fallen man and nodded.
 

She kicked her heels into her horse’s flanks. Hardwin responded with a burst of speed as she directed him south toward her father’s castle. Her wounded arm throbbed too much to do anything but let it fall to her side.

Clinging to her horse with her other arm, she wrapped the reins around her wrist. Before she reached the trees, she braved one last look over her shoulder. Kendrick and the others lifted Edgar onto his horse like a sack of flour.

It was not supposed to be like this. Isabel swallowed the ache at the back of her throat. Captain Thomas would know what to do.

She and her horse dashed through the forest. She didn’t realize she was crying until the frigid air lashed against her wet cheeks. At least no one would see her tears. Now, she could cry for Edgar, her father, her country, without fear of discovery.
 

Her gut churned as Hardwin lurched over a fallen log. Her stomach trembled with each stride, but soon enough she spied the palisade walls as her mount broke through the trees. Wiping her streaming eyes and nose on the sleeve of her mantle, she urged her horse on. She rushed into the bailey without bothering to check her speed and jumped out of the saddle. Her legs nearly gave out as her feet touched the frost-hardened ground.

Clutching her horse’s neck, she bellowed for the servants to fetch Captain Thomas. “Hurry! Edgar is hurt.”

She brought her hand to her shoulder and winced. Flames licked up her wounded arm. She looked down at her fingers and nearly fainted at the blood clinging to her like tree sap.

It was all too much.

She called again for Captain Thomas. Through a haze of pain, she sensed someone approaching. Instead of Captain Thomas, with his gray hair and strict bearing, an unfamiliar man stared down at her with ice in his eyes.

2

Earlier that day

Alexandre d’Évreux commanded his men to a stop at the crest of a small hill. The rolling countryside stretched below them like a quilt, gray with age. Old snow dotted patches of tenant farms, and still more snow fell, hushing sound. A cluster of buildings along a quicksilver river marked the village of Ashdown. In the distance, on another hill, was the Dumont castle.

At last.

Hugh de Roche, his shield bearer, followed his gaze. “Good vantage in all directions, leagues of farmland…” He turned back to Alex. “You’re a lucky man.”

Alex grimaced. “
Non
. Nothing is for certain yet. And it will not be until we return to London with Lord Dumont and his family.”

“I do not understand William’s interest in them. Scores of English nobles have already traveled to Berkhamsted to bend their knee to him, strengthening his rule over this land. What is so important about this thane?” Hugh asked.

“William expected his support. Perhaps not at Hastings, but certainly once the battle was decided. He could be a powerful ally and make things easier with the English. At least that is what our king hopes,” Alex said.

Hugh’s brows drew together into a single sooty line. “What if they have gone into hiding?”

“Then we will wait in Ashdown until they can be found.” Alex grinned at the disappointment filling his shield bearer’s face. Only a few years separated them, but Hugh still had the patience of a child. “Come,” Alex said. “We should change into our mail before we make our approach.”

“There’s a likely spot.” Jerome de Combrey, another of his men, pointed to a clearing skirting the road ahead. Large enough for them to dismount and don the armor that had kept them safe at Hastings.

At Alex’s nod, the men urged their mounts toward the break in the trees. As they traveled the eerily quiet roads west from London to northern Gloucestershire, they had taken to wearing their lighter padded leather tunics in lieu of the heavier mail. Alex would be a fool to draw near an English castle without taking precautions—even if Lord Dumont was once a countryman.

Jerome’s frank gaze found Alex as Hugh brought them their mail. “Do you think William knew how extensive the Dumont holding would be?”

Alex looked back through the bare trees and glimpsed the castle once more. “I believe he did. He would reward me for my service, but since he is still unsure of the extent and nature of his holdings, he is unable to grant me the property outright.” Alex did not envy his lord the task of sorting through decades of English legal documents to account for his hard-won kingdom.

The familiar weight of his knee-length hauberk settled over his shoulders, iron links shining dully in the fading afternoon light. Hugh fastened the plate greaves to Alex’s legs before he pulled on his own waist-length hauberk.

Alex looked over Hugh, Jerome and the six other soldiers his father had granted him when he first pledged his sword to Duke William. They were dressed for battle, eyes gleaming with possibility. A show of force in case Lord Dumont proved difficult.
 

“Approaching the gates in plain view is rather direct,” Jerome said as he smoothed his surcoat over his mail.

Hugh looked up from fastening his belt. “And unexpected.”

Alex shook his head. “We have every right to be here. No need to lurk in the shadows.”

Jerome lifted a shoulder. “Would you answer if a party of strange knights showed up on your doorstep?”

Hugh chuckled. “One look at us and they will beg for mercy.” He patted his scabbard. “If not, there’s an answer for that.”

Alex raised his hand for silence. “
Non
. We have our orders. We must give the Dumonts every courtesy until we learn more.” He made eye contact with each of his men. “Do not risk their goodwill because you did not get your fill of killing at Hastings.”

Satisfied with what he saw on his men’s faces, he put on his helmet. “
Bon
. We ride.” Without another word, Alex mounted his horse and led his men down the hill.

He kept his eyes trained on the Dumont castle. Wooden palisade walls encircled a large number of outbuildings. A huge mound of earth rested in the center, on top of which stood a timber watchtower. The motte and bailey structure seemed out of place in England, where so many lords and men of might made their homes in hillside forts, living little better than animals. The Dumont castle was more reminiscent of those of the homeland Alex had left behind when he crossed the channel. The thought eased his mind only slightly.