Her hand went to the pendant that hung around her neck, a legacy from her mother, with glowing amber stone and intricately wrought silver. Her only ornament. The only thing of value she had left since the Normans had come, save pride and self-reliance. Yea, the lady of Wulfridge had left her daughter a legacy of spirit that would not wane in the face of hardship or danger, and it was that, she thought, that pricked her father most.
When Lady Aelfreda died, she’d taken the light from her husbands eyes. Ceara had watched helplessly, raging against the fates that had taken her mother and left her father a changed man. But it had changed her as well.
Once, she had been close to her father, his beloved princess, always at his heels or his side, adoring and adored. Now she felt so alone, isolated from everyone save Sheba. The wolf-bitch was all that remained to her of unconditional love and loyalty.
Behind her, Sheba’s huge paws padded over stone with faint clicking sounds from her claws. The thralls stayed a healthy distance from the wolf-bitch, a respect well earned when an unwise individual once dared lay a hand on the shaggy head. The bite had been deep, the lesson swift.
Ceara smiled. Aye, ’twas true that she was like the wolf-bitch that most named her, but she wore the epithet proudly. It was a glorious compliment to be called after the lithe, fierce beast. And they were like, in that neither tolerated fools nor cowards gladly. The mere scent of fear was enough to raise her hackles, and Ceara was filled with anger that her father cared more for his hide than his honor.
A chill swept over her, and Ceara spun on her heel in the open doorway of her chamber. Her escorts jerked to a halt and eyed her warily. She lifted a brow. “As even you oafish clods can see, I am safely arrived. Go back to my father’s hall, and to the buxom wenches who may want your pathetic company.”
One of the thralls shot her a glance of resentment. “You’ve an evil tongue, my lady, for all that you are so fair. ’Tis said you are consort to the Dark One, and I am most like to believe it myself.”
Ceara’s brow lowered at the man’s harsh tone. Sheba came to stand protectively at her side, the thick white fur ruffling beneath the fingers of her mistress’s left hand. The animal sensed her tension, and she saw the thrall’s eyes flick downward nervously. Now she smiled. “Believe it, Hardred. I whisper with the old ones of the trees of a night. I dance with the demons beneath the sacred oaks, and I can rid myself of paltry men like you with a mere snap of my fingers.”
Lifting one hand, she snapped her thumb and finger together and Sheba crouched, a low growl emanating from her throat. Hardred took a hasty backward step, then another, keeping one hand on his sword hilt, and both eyes on the wolf.
“You are evil,” he choked out, “both of you!”
Hardred stumbled into the other thrall as they both quit the dimly lit corridor. Ceara listened to the sound of their swift retreat with satisfaction. Fools. She had nothing but contempt for them. Yet fools were all that were left since King Harold lost to the bastard duke and so many good men died with him. Only a few served Balfour now, when once there had been many brave warriors filling the halls. She turned restlessly, unable to bear thinking of those days.
A small lamp of precious oil burned fitfully on the low table near the rope bed she had slept in since she was a small child. No fish oil was used for fuel in her lamp, for it stank and filled the room with foul smoke. She opened the shutters that covered her windows and breathed in air spiced with the beckoning promise of the sea. The draft stirred the wahrift, the bright-colored medley of woven stuff decorating the wall. Soon it would be spring, and the land would put forth new life, tiny green shoots rising from the sleeping fields. Where would she be then?
Sheba nudged her hand, whining low in her throat, a question and reminder. Ceara closed the shutters and turned away from the window. A small slab of meat, round of cheese, and half loaf of flat bread lay on a wooden platter, and beside it was a carved pewter flagon of mead. She poured the rich liquid into a small cup. Then she tossed Sheba a chunk of the mutton, which the wolf downed in a single gulp. Ceara smiled slightly.
“Greedy gut.”
Sheba’s tongue lolled from one side of her mouth, carelessly, happily, and her eyes were bright and watchful, darting to the remaining meat, then back to Ceara with a hopeful blink.
Ceara knelt, and stroked the soft fur gently, her mouth close to the wolf’s ear. “We’ve only the two of us, cony, to fight against William. What shall we do without Wulfric? By all that’s holy, whatever shall we do without him?” She buried her face in the thick white coat as Sheba aimed an anxious swipe at her cheek.
The future stretched before her with dark promise. There was little hope of survival for the vanquished. But she had made a vow that she would never yield willingly to the enemy, and she meant to keep it, though it cost her all.
Part I
Chapter One
Yorkshire, England
October, 1069
CURSE THE OLD man for his treachery.” William, duke of Normandy and king of England, leveled a fierce glare at the quivering messenger. Rage blazed in his dark eyes, and the thick shelf of his brows lowered into a thunderous scowl, but he was too well schooled to relinquish control in front of a servant. “How many men with Sir Simon were killed?”
The messenger swallowed hard. “Near four score, sire. And the horses taken, those that were still fit.”
“Great plunder for the Saxon rebel, I warrant.” William drew in a harsh breath and glanced past the messenger. Tall and commanding, the king was imposing even when pleased. William’s mouth worked, and deep lines carved grooves on each side of his thin lips. “What think you of this new rebellion, Louvat?”
Luc Louvat shrugged. “I think the foolish Saxon needs to be taught a lesson, as it is certain Sir Simon has just learned one.”
William’s laugh was curt. “Yes, it is true that Sir Simon must indeed be rung the severity of the lesson taught him by Saxon rebels. Lord Balfour de Wulfridge swore an oath of fealty to me, and until now, has abided by it. For him to rise up against me when I have all of York brewing like boiling eels is either careful planning or cursed fortune.”
Luc smiled slightly. “All know you make your own fortune, sire. It has been said that you could turn water to wine if any mortal man can.”
“Blasphemy, Louvat. Bide your tongue.”
But a faint smile lurked in William’s eyes and at the corners of his mouth, and Luc knew he was not wholly displeased by the remark.
William dismissed the nervous messenger and moved to a table bearing flagons of wine and bowls of fruit. He chose a ripe pear. A chill breeze insinuated itself between chinks in the newly erected wooden walls of the castle, but the king seemed not to feel it as he regarded Luc thoughtfully. “I am beset on all sides. An entire garrison and two castles have been destroyed by these cursed Yorkshiremen. Now the rebellion in the north gnaws at my patience. I dare not allow the Saxons even a moment’s control when they are so close to the northern barbarians. It would breed more trouble were they to have time to reinforce their numbers.” He bit into the pear, and juice dripped over his fingers unnoticed as he frowned into empty space. After a moment he turned back to Luc with the suggestion of a smile on his face. “Wulfridge is said to be a fertile land close to the sea, though peopled with churls that comprehend little. This Lord Balfour is old, and his numbers few. I am amazed they were able to best Sir Simon, but perhaps he grew careless. I need a reliable knight to bring Wulfridge to heel.”
Luc did not reply. He waited, knowing that when the king was ready to continue, he would. But he shifted uneasily, not at all certain he liked the direction of William’s thought. It was bad enough riding with William to retake castles that had been conquered before; he had no desire to join Sir Simon in the northern reaches of this barbaric land. There was little of England he liked, and indeed, he would not be here at all if not for the fact that he could no longer remain in Normandy.
William took another bite of p
ear before saying, “It is fitting that you be the knight to crush the rebellious Saxon of Wulfridge, as even your translated names are like.”
Louvat—young wolf—a name given him by William when the king was still only a duke; a jest at the time, for Luc’s father had referred to him as a wolf cub still wet behind the ears. The epithet had been humiliating at first, but he’d grown used to it over time. Now it was his only name, for he had no other left to him.
“Yes, sire.” He nodded stiffly.
“You speak their language, and that alone is a great advantage. The Northumbrian earls have fled York for the moment and the Danes have gone to their ships in the Humber River, but there is a new revolt near Stafford. By the Holy Rood! I will see this country burned to ashes before I allow the Saxons to rise and take it back.” He frowned down at the crushed pear core in his hand. “Cospatric and Edgar have fled to the Scots king for succor, but if Lord Balfour unites with these earls, their forces could give me much trouble. I want the old Saxon rebel alive and brought to me in chains. I need to make of him an example.”
William’s smile did not diminish the threat of his final comment, and Luc bowed. “I will leave at first light, beau sire.”
“Your success will be well rewarded. Bring me Lord Balfour, and I will deed you his lands and title.”
Luc stared at William. “Sire? Am I to understand you mean me to have the lands of Wulfridge?”
“Only if you can take them,” the king said dryly.
“But Sir Simon—”
“Failed me.” William’s voice was inflexible. “And not for the first time. I do not countenance the inadequacy of my commanders for long. It would be a twofold lesson to deed these lands to you, I think. A reminder to Norman as well as Saxon that a worthy man makes his own fortune. Do you accept?”
There was no question of refusal. Never had Luc thought to gain so much in William’s service, not after the debacle of his past.
Drawing in a deep breath that tasted of hope for the first time in four years, Luc met the king’s gaze directly. “I will bring you the lord of Wulfridge in chains, sire, and put down the rebellion in your name.”
“I expect it, Louvat.”
But it was not until later, when Luc had readied his men and gathered supplies for the march north, that he acknowledged the opportunity beyond the king’s promise. It was Robert de Brionne, his friend of many years, who broached the subject, coming to him in the gloom of the stables with grinning satisfaction.
“So you are soon to be lord. Will I needs bend the knee to you?” He gave a deep bow.
Luc cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. “Only if you are willing, my friend.”
Robert’s grin faded as he straightened and nodded solemnly. “I am most willing. You deserve this, Luc.”
“I have not yet taken Wulfridge, Robert.”
“You will. You have given the king loyal service in Normandy and now England, and it is time that he reward you for it.”
Luc shrugged. “It is only of late that I am free of the past. To have been given lands before would give rise to too much speculation, and I did not want that taint upon me as well as—”
When he didn’t finish, Robert nodded gently and said, “This will crush all rumors about you, Luc. It will give you back all that was taken from you. No longer will you be a landless knight, but an earl in your own right.”
It was true. “When I return with the rebel baron in chains, we will celebrate my success, Robert.”
“Ah, would that I were going with you.”
Luc grinned. “The king would not spare you, and you know it well. Besides, too many lovely ladies would have empty beds were you to go with me.”
“Ah, so true.” Robert kissed the tips of his fingers in a sweeping flourish. “I could not bear to disappoint them, so I will stay here to hold the castle for the king, with deep regrets for not being able to witness your conquest of the foolish Saxon who has dared defy William.”
“This lord of Wulfridge will rue the day he attempted to take one of William’s holdings. It is his undoing.”
Robert looked up at Luc’s banner, a black wolf on a red field. “I pity him.”
“SIR SIMON IS dead.”
Luc stared at his captain. Sweat smeared Remy’s face, seeping from beneath the nose guard of his conical helmet to drip from his chin. “We have lost,” Remy added miserably, and gestured toward Wulfridge’s stone walls with the tip of his sword. “We are undone.”
“No, we are not” Luc’s denial was so fierce, his burly captain took a stumbling backward step. “No clumsy Saxon warrior can vanquish trained Norman soldiers, Remy. We will withdraw our men from the fight but not the battle. Give the order to retreat to the wood and regroup. And, Captain Remy—do not speak to me of defeat again.”
At Luc’s crisp orders, Remy’s face creased with relief. “At once, Sir Luc.”
“I will join you shortly”
When Remy silently nodded and retreated, Luc reined his mount, Drago, around to study the forbidding stone walls that rose from the limestone cliff. Since the Norman retreat, the Saxons had melted away, no doubt to savor their triumph. Luc swore softly. Curse them, he would not yield, would not allow this old lord to make a fool of him. Sir Simon’s failure was not his.
Wulfridge was a surprise, however. He had expected to find the familiar wooden fortress with stockade walls and clustered buildings, not this impenetrable stone edifice with gates tightly shut, iron overlaying wood making it resistant to fire arrows. Not once had these gates opened, yet men had appeared outside the walls to engage Sir Simon’s troops and just as easily seemed to disappear into a thick mist that clung stubbornly to the ground.
Luc shook his head. There seemed to be no style to the structure, yet he could see carved niches among the irregular crown of jagged rocks that provided the defenders with arrow notches. Moss and lichen greened the stones, and ancient ornamentation pocked the walls with intricately carved Celtic knots. For a great distance around the castle, trees had been leveled to afford an easy view of an enemy’s approach. This was a well-planned stronghold that reminded him of ancient Roman forts. On the way north they had passed long stretches of earth and stone wall, built centuries before and undulating across the land like the gray bones of a giant serpent: further evidence of the Roman occupation.
And here, near the boundary of the land of the Scots, Wulfridge perched like a predatory beast atop a promontory that dropped steeply into the churning froth of the North Sea. High, chalky cliffs afforded no hope of invasion from the sea side. Already, a half dozen of his men had bogged down in the marshy ground, with horses sunk hock-deep. They were fortunate that more were not hindered.
The Saxon lord had the element of entrenched forces on his side: a fortress that was nigh impregnable. Even if a stout enough tree could be felled and brought to use as a battering ram against the wooden doors, the ascent was too steep to wield it effectively. Luc set his jaw grimly. These cursed defenders must think themselves invincible, shut up in their stone fortress to rain down arrows on the foe at their leisure. Infuriatingly, it seemed true enough.
He rode the castle perimeter slowly, just out of arrow range. Grass studded the sandy ground in places, and small patches of thicket sprung up in waving barriers that unnerved Drago. When an undulating branch came too close to his line of vision, the stallion shook his head in a metallic jangle of bridle bits and trappings. The thick mane whipped across Luc’s face as Drago’s hooves sank into the sand with a rasping sound. Cursing, Luc urged the sweating destrier to more solid ground.
He reined in the horse on a scrabble of rock, and leaned to pat the animal’s damp neck. “For shame, Drago, to let a few leaves frighten you. Or is it because they are Saxon leaves?”
The horse snorted. A seabird wheeled overhead with a keening cry, a dark sweep against the brittle blue of the sky. Luc straightened in his saddle, suddenly feeling as if he were being watched. Nothing moved along the castle walls above or
below, save the beat of tall grasses against stone. A shadow flickered over the ground, but a glance upward revealed only the circling seabird. Faint now, its eerie cry spiraled toward the water, almost lost in the thunder of surf and whine of sea winds.
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.