Captives: Kingdoms Rule Hearts

  But enough. Fitz began to saddle his horse, pushing any thoughts of the blonde haired woman out of his mind.

  As much as he could.

  “Fitz!”

  He turned around, and saw Marmion walking towards him, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

  “You are up early,” Marmion remarked. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, my lord… you look terrible.”

  Fitz laughed, in spite of himself. “Always one for compliments, you were.”

  “No, I mean no disrespect,” Marmion said hastily. “But I am worried about you. You have not been the same since your sickness.”

  Fitz shook his head. “Nothing has been the same since my sickness, but I thank you for your concern. Am I to look forward to your company today?”

  Marmion smiled, awkwardly. “Well, actually, Fitz… King William has given me some men of my own. He has been impressed with me, ever since the coronation of Queen Matilda. You do not mind, do you?” he rushed, looking fearfully at his old master.

  “Not a bit,” Fitz said, “I smile on your good fortune. It was high time that someone noticed what a fine man you are, and now the finest among us finally has.”

  Marmion’s smile turned to one of relief. “Then truly, you are not angry?”

  Fitz shrugged. “What am I to be angry about? The only problem that I can see for me is that I will have to grow accustomed to seeing your face infrequently. I know that we shall remain friends.”

  The two men embraced, and Fitz was reminded strongly of Roger. Here was another young man who sought his approval.

  “Now be off with you,” Fitz said kindly. “I imagine your men will need pushing out of their beds.”

  “Much like I did,” Marmion winked. “Now I know how it feels to be the one pulling off the rug!”

  Fitz chuckled as he watched the impetuous young man stride away from him. Rays of light had begun to fall from the sky since their conversation began. Morning had come.

  A scuffle caught his attention, and Fitz turned to see another young man walk into the stable, hesitate, and then bow deeply.

  “My lord.”

  Fitz knew the boy, but it was a while before he could put a name to that face. In fact, he had finished preparing his steed before the name came to him.

  “Orvin.”

  The young man turned, a frightened look on his face. “My lord? I apologise, I was not aware that you wanted to be alone – I can return…”

  “Peace,” Fitz said kindly, and the features of the young man relaxed. “Orvin, son of Ulfwulf, of the South, it is good to meet with you again.”

  Orvin smiled, and pushed some of his blonde hair back from his eyes. “And you are well met, William FitzOsbern, son of Osbern, of Normandy.”

  “I did not know that you were to accompany us.”

  “I follow King William.” Orvin’s Norman was good, but his Anglo-Saxon accent was strong despite himself. “Where he goes, I go.”

  “And where he kills, you kill?”

  Fitz cursed his tongue as soon as the words were spoken, but they could not be taken back.

  “Forgive me,” he said quickly, noting the wide eyes of the Anglo-Saxon man. “I spoke hastily, I spoke without thought. Please forget it.”

  “It is of no matter,” Orvin said smoothly, but a heightened colour filled his cheeks. “You are not the only man who despairs at this action, and yet follows his King with loyalty in his heart.”

  Orvin was finished with his horse, and began to lead it out of the stable. Fitz watched him go, and then a thought struck him.

  “Orvin?”

  The man paused, and looked back at Fitz.

  “I know that you seek patronage; a lord,” Fitz said quickly, “and I seek a young man to ride beside me. Will you join me?”

  A smile broke out on Orvin’s face, and Fitz was amazed to see just how dramatically it changed him. He seemed older, and more certain of himself, of who he was.

  “It would be my honour, my lord.”

  Orvin walked up to Fitz, dropped to his knees, and with his head lowered offered up his clasped hands. Fitz brought them between his own palms, and began the ritual.

  “Will you, Orvin, son of Ulfwulf, of the South, swear yourself to me?”

  “I will.”

  “In times of battle and times of peace?”

  “I will.”

  “When times are hard and when joy reigns?”

  “I will.”

  “Then rise, Orvin, son of Ulfwulf, of the South, for you are sworn to me.”

  He rose with a smile on his face.

  “I am honoured to be a part of your company, my lord.”

  Fitz smiled but there was no happiness within it. “Do not be too hasty, my friend. The day is just beginning, and if I am any judge, it will contain much sadness.”

  The two men, with their horses saddled and ready for the day ahead, walked out into the dawn.

  “To horses, to horses!”

  The cry came from one man wearing a costume of deep red, but it was soon taken up by the men surrounding the camp.

  “To horses!”

  “This is it,” muttered Fitz, sure that no one would be able to hear him under the din of the rattling of swords and the neighing of awakening horses. “This is the moment where I truly lose my soul.”

  Orvin did not seem to have heard him. Fitz could not help but see parts of Catheryn in him: the blonde hair seemed to be an Anglo-Saxon trait that many had, but there was also a softness in him, an acceptance that this was his life now – another feature that Anglo-Saxons up and down the land had acquired, as it became clear that King William and the Normans were not leaving.

  “Orvin,” he said quietly, and the young man was immediately at his side. “I have a few last things that I have not packed in my tent. Could you fetch them for me?”

  Orvin did not even reply – he was already running towards Fitz’s tent. Fitz smiled. He already knew which tent was Fitz’s out of the hundreds that had been put up around the castle as more and more men amassed here, ready to destroy the North.

  It did not take Orvin long to bring the last of Fitz’s belongings to him, and the two of them began to stow them safely within the various leather bags that were attached to their horses. As they worked, someone behind Fitz coughed. He coughed again.

  Fitz rolled his eyes – reminding himself painfully of Catheryn – and turned around.

  “Can I help you?”

  The man before him was small, and slight, and holding out a letter. The parchment was slightly soggy, as if it had been accidentally dropped in a puddle, and picked up again hastily. It had not dried out well.

  “Letter for you, my lord FitzOsbern,” the man panted slightly, but managed to keep his breath. “From Normandy.”

  “From Normandy?” Fitz took the letter, but did not recognise the hand. “Thank you.” A small coin was passed to the man, who then vanished into the crowd of men milling about, shouting orders and laughing at a man who had slipped in the mud.

  Orvin looked at the letter curiously. “Will you not open it, my lord?”

  Fitz shook his head. “Whatever news it contains can wait.”

  “But what if it is urgent?”

  “It will not be.”

  Orvin looked at him, confused. “How will you know, if you do not read it, my lord? There are plenty of men here who are just staggering from their beds; their horses are not ready. We have some time yet before we must leave.”

  Fitz looked around. He was right, of course: but in truth, he did not want to read the letter. Although it did not look like it, it could only be from Adeliza’s hand, and any word that he read from her would only remind him more painfully that the affection that he felt for her… just wasn’t enough.

  But he sighed. He could not ignore it forever, and Orvin was right. There was time.

  “All hail the King!”

  Once again, the cry that was begun by one was raised by many. Fitz saw King William stride amongst hi
s men, commenting every now and again to raucous laughter. Fitz’s heart was sore, tired of battle, and yet this man, this King that he followed, seemed ready once more to slaughter innocents.

  Faced with two evils – the letter, or talking to King William once more about the terrible acts that they were about to commit – he chose the former. Breaking open the seal, the parchment unfolded to reveal only a few lines.

  Fitz put out a hand for his horse, and put most of his weight on the bridle. Adeliza was sick; she had the same illness that had tormented him, that had dragged away their Isabella from life. And in the lines that Catheryn wrote, it seemed that Adeliza was about to be dragged away too. Suddenly all of the emotions that had seemed lacking in his marriage, all of the times that he had smiled with his wife, laughed with her, cried over their children’s hurts, planned for their future – they filled his head so quickly that he almost clutched it as if in pain. Perhaps the love that he had been looking for… what he thought he could have with Catheryn… maybe that was not the only love there was. Perhaps what he and Adeliza had was love, after all. And now he could lose her.

  “Fitz?”

  And to think that the news should come in the words of the woman that he had loved; that he did love; that he could not love. That Catheryn should be the one to write to him.

  “Fitz, can you hear me?”

  Where was Roger? He had left his son in charge. Why had he not contacted him before now?

  “Fitz, if you don’t answer me, I shall call a doctor!”

  Fitz blinked. King William was standing before him, and a look of – was that concern?

  “I am sorry, my lord King William.” Fitz spoke briefly and quietly, and then turned away to mount his horse. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Orvin had done the same.

  “Fitz, what is going on?”

  “Which way south?” Fitz’s question was to the entire crowd that had gathered to stare at him. Several men pointed in the same direction.

  Fitz spurred his horse on, and Orvin followed him.

  “Damn it, Fitz!”

  But the cry of King William was falling fast behind them, and the wind caught at most of it. All Fitz could think of was going south, getting to the water, crossing the water – and getting to Adeliza.

  “My lord?” Orvin was riding beside him, and although he raced along with him at the same speed, there was a look of shock on his face. “Where are we going?”

  “Normandy.”

  “Fitz!”

  His name was called out by a voice that he knew well. Fitz slowed down, and allowed King William to catch up with him.

  “What the devil is going on, Fitz?” King William panted slightly at the effort. He was not a young man anymore.

  Fitz thrust the letter into his hands, without stopping. Nothing would stop him.

  King William leaned back in his saddle while he read the short letter, and the colour drained from his face.

  “Have I your leave to go?” Fitz had not meant his words to sound so sarcastic, but King William nodded, his face grim.

  “If I had received such news, of my Matilda, I would not have slowed for the King.”

  Fitz smiled briefly at his liege and friend, and then spurred on his horse. He must return, before it was too late.

  Chapter Thirty

  Fitz was not quite aware of the days passing. The only reason he knew that days had passed at all was because Orvin insisted that he ate something three times a day. The food tasted like ashes in his mouth.

  The first day brought them to London, and instead of allowing themselves rest, Fitz demanded that they continue. The streets of the capital city were a maze, especially to Orvin, who had never been there. It had taken the entire night to get through it, and when dawn rose again, it rose on two men riding hard towards the coast.

  When they arrived, Fitz was bitterly angry. They had missed a boat, and another would not leave until that evening. The captain claimed that a smooth wind was coming in, and he would delay the departure until then.

  No amount of anger, shouting, or bribery could bring the man to change his mind, and so Fitz and Orvin had no choice but to wait. It was torturous, waiting there on the beach. When the clouds moved, Fitz could even see Normandy; see the coast. And yet it was so far.

  The night brought movement, and Fitz and Orvin boarded the ship. The crossing was fair, and yet although they arrived just as night had settled, Fitz refused to stay in an inn. No: they must continue. His home was deep within the bosom of Normandy, and it would take much riding to get there.

  And so they rode.

  It was three days, and Fitz and Orvin galloped across the Norman countryside. Orvin had been violently sick that morning; not sleeping for three days would do that to a person. It was a test of loyalty, this march into a land where Orvin knew only hatred and fear – but he had followed. He had sworn loyalty to Fitz, and he had followed.

  The trees and the villages that they were now passing seemed familiar to Fitz. Curves of mountains started to remind him that he was almost there. Almost home.

  “Not long now,” he called out to Orvin, who was sitting uncomfortably in his saddle. “You can rest soon.”

  “I can continue for as long as you need, my lord,” Orvin said, his usually strong voice slightly wobbling.

  Fitz smiled, despite the desperation coursing through his veins. Orvin was a good man, and he was lucky to have him. The ride alone would probably have killed Fitz, his mind unable to prevent him from despairing.

  Within moments, he realised where he was. It would take only a little longer before he would be able to see his home.

  The moment came, and no view had felt so sweet. Never before had Fitz felt so wonderful that his home was visible – but then, never before had he been so ready to return. It is strange, he thought, how death makes us realise what we truly value. Ever since they had been married, there had been nothing but graciousness and politeness between him and his wife. Now Adeliza was near death, he suddenly realised how vibrant she made his life. He did not love her in the way that a man should love his wife; but there was tenderness there.

  “Who is that?”

  Orvin’s voice forced him to concentrate. Fitz squinted: it did certainly look like there was someone standing by the door of the castle. As they continued, horses increasing their pace at the sight of rest, Fitz smiled. It was a woman. His heart leapt. Adeliza had survived.

  But it was not to be.

  As he and Orvin grew closer, everything within him cried out in pain.

  It was Catheryn.

  By the time that they reached her, Fitz’s body was shaking with exhaustion, and pain, and confusion. His horse pulled up by the castle walls, and Fitz fell off his horse into Catheryn’s arms.

  “Adeliza?” he croaked.

  Catheryn looked down at him.

  “She is gone.”

  Chapter Thirty One

  Catheryn had never felt more awkward in her entire life. It was intolerable, this feeling of sinking underneath the weight of her sadness.

  It had been but one day since Adeliza had passed on, and the entire household was still reeling. Roger had immediately ridden out, desperate to give the news to his brother William in person. Emma was not answering any knocks on her chamber door, but it was possible nonetheless to hear her sobs through the wood.

  Catheryn had even spotted Ursule wiping away a tear, although she had stared back at Catheryn defiantly, daring her to mention it.

  Catheryn did not. She had been too busy trying to organise what was to be done for Adeliza’s body. The priest had been called; he had come; and he had openly wept before her. Catheryn realised with a jolt of surprise that Adeliza, despite her strange animosity towards her since she had arrived, was a beloved woman. There would be many mourning at her graveside.

  But Fitz – she had not expected him to arrive so soon, and yet so late. Mere hours would have given him the chance to speak one last time to his wife. It tore at Cat
heryn, that lost moment. She had been at Adeliza’s side, but once again it was not she who was wanted.

  The Great Hall was full of people, and of silence. Few were able to eat, staring at their plates, appetites destroyed by the sorrow that had descended on the castle.

  Neither Emma nor Roger had come for the evening meal, and so Catheryn and Fitz were alone at the top family table.

  Catheryn had never felt more alone, and more intrusive. The bread and chicken that sat on her plate were untouched.

  She should not be here. Once again she was intruding on a family’s grief, a grief that surely no person should be a part of. She was not wanted.

  Catheryn cast a quick glance to her left, where Fitz sat. His eyes were empty, and no food had been placed before him. Not even his wine had been touched. His hair hung as his head was slightly lowered, and he said not a word.

  Catheryn sighed. The loss of a spouse, even one that you did not completely love, was not something that you recovered from easily. There were still times that she woke in the night, sweating, screaming, fingertips stretched out in the hope of catching one last touch from the man she loved.

  And yet… a small part of her that she despised, but could not ignore, was smiling. Fitz was free. He was a free man, and he could marry again.

  Of course, it would be many months before he would ever be able to consider himself free. She knew better than most that he would need the time and space to grieve – but after that… When Adeliza’s touch had been forgotten from his skin, and he had to remind himself to be sad, perhaps they…

  “My lord,” she said softly to him, reaching out a hand to touch his arm gently. “Can I get you nothing to eat?”

  Fitz shook his head. He did not even turn to look at her, but a flinch of his arm told her that her touch was not wanted.

  She removed her hand. “I want you to know… that it was peaceful.”

  There was no response.

  Catheryn knew that he would want to know these things, that they must be said; and the sooner the better.

  “I was there,” she continued, “and she spoke of you, with much love.”

  At this, she caught Fitz’s attention. He inclined his head slightly, and blinked, very slowly. There was no moisture in his eyes, but as Catheryn could see them more clearly, she saw that they were red and raw.