Joanna Fulford - The Laird's Captive Wife

‘De Comyn was a fool.’

‘True, but he was also William’s chosen man and Northumbria will pay the blood price.’

He had found out early in life about the abuses of power, first at his father’s hands and later from other men. They were lessons well learned. Only when you were strong and feared could you protect yourself and others. His reputation might have come too late to help Eloise, but it now served well to protect all those for whom he was responsible.

Dougal eyed him quizzically.

‘What now, my lord?’

‘Tell the men to mount up. We ride for Durham.’

The other lowered his voice. ‘Is that wise?’

‘Wise? Aye, if I am to find Fitzurse.’

‘Have a care, my lord. The man has the king’s favour.’

‘That will not save him,’ replied the laird. ‘I have waited eight years for the chance to get him within my sword’s length.’

‘Aye, and you have just cause to seek him out. I know that if any man does.’

‘And your point is?’

Undaunted by that hawk-like stare his companion met and held it. ‘I’m only asking if Durham is the right place to meet him. The area is like to be swarming with William’s men. Fitzurse will be well protected.’

‘Not well enough to save him from me.’

‘Cut the bastard’s throat with my blessing, but what of your mission and your oath to Malcolm?’

‘Both will be honoured. He’ll get the intelligence he seeks at the appointed place and time.’ Retrieving the reins of a dapple grey stallion, the laird swung easily into the high saddle. ‘But come what may I shall have my revenge.’

‘Keep your guard high, Ashlynn. Like this.’Ban held his own sword aloft in demonstration. ‘That’s it. Now let’s try those moves again.’

Nothing loath Ashlynn closed in to attack, trying to remember everything her brother had taught her over these last weeks, her whole attention focused on the two blades. The clash of metal rang in the frosty air. Ban parried dextrously and for a moment or two she had the satisfaction of seeing him forced back several paces.

‘Ha! Take that!’

He returned the grin. ‘You grow cocky, little sister.’

Ashlynn redoubled her efforts, laying on with a will, and saw him give ground again. Exultant she laughed. Laughter turned to a yelp as a blow beneath the hilt sent the blade flying out of her grasp and he tripped her neatly, sending her sprawling on her back, his sword point coming to rest against her throat.

‘Do you yield?’

She sighed. ‘I yield… again .’

‘Don’t be disheartened.’ He put up his blade and extended a hand, pulling her to her feet. ‘That was much better.’

‘Not good enough.’

‘It takes time, Ash, and you’ve made real progress.’

His praise heightened the flush of colour in her cheeks. At nineteen Ban was a year her senior and had already established his fighting credentials, his career having been founded at Stamford Bridge and Hastings three years earlier.

‘Progress of a kind,’ she replied. ‘Yet I think my skills would not long withstand those of a seasoned mercenary.’

‘God send you never need to put them to the test.’

‘God send none of us does.’ She shot him a shrewd glance. ‘And yet you think it may come to that, don’t you?’

‘William will not suffer resistance lightly.’

She knew the words for truth. In recent days the manor at Heslingfield had seen a steady stream of people fleeing north from Durham ahead of the approaching army. None would willingly stay to face the Conqueror’s wrath, knowing it would be terrible indeed, for the slaying of the Earl of Northumbria would be avenged with interest.

‘De Comyn should have listened to Bishop Aegelwine. If he had he might be living still. Commandeering men’s homes and womenfolk was never going to win him friends.’

It was an understatement and they both knew it. What had followed the arrival of the new Earl of Northumbria was an orgy of violence and cruelty. Provoked beyond endurance, the people of Durham had risen up in the night and slain the hated invaders, almost to a man. The streets of the city had run with blood. De Comyn had been burned alive when the mob set fire to the house where he and some of his men tried to make their last stand. Of the original force of seven hundred Norman soldiers only two had lived to tell the tale.

Ban shook his head in disgust. ‘The Normans are arrogant brutes and heed none when their minds are set on blood and conquest.’

‘William will find the city empty when he comes.’

‘Then his wrath will fall elsewhere.’

It was the reason he had begun to teach his sister the rudiments of swordsmanship. Women were vulnerable in these unsettled times, even those possessed of courage and spirit.

‘Surely he would not punish the innocent, Ban?’

‘A man like William won’t bother with such distinctions. Why, he even burned his own men at York.’

‘He could not have intended it. No commander in his right mind would destroy his own troops. ’Twas only that the fire burned out of control.’

‘He seemed to find it an acceptable level of loss all the same. The man holds life cheap.’

She shivered, feeling the cold for the first time. By tacit consent they sheathed the swords and retrieved their cloaks from the foot of a tall oak. Then they began to retrace their steps towards the manor. Beneath their feet the snow, already ankle deep, scrunched with each step. It had come early this year and above them a lowering sky gave promise of more.

As they left the shelter of the trees they paused, seeing movement on the road in the distance. Roused from her thoughts, Ashlynn saw a small group of people heading that way.

‘More fugitives from Durham, would you say?’

Her brother nodded. ‘Aye, most likely.’

The bitter weather must surely have rendered any journey unthinkable that was not undertaken from strictest necessity. It was a measure of their desperation that the people came anyway. As they drew closer she could see they numbered a dozen in all, men, women and children, their frightened faces pinched with cold. A few pitiful bundles contained all that they had been able to carry when they fled the city. Ashlynn’s compassion woke and, exchanging a swift glance with her brother, she saw the same thought reflected in his expression.

‘I’ll take them to the kitchen house,’ she said. ‘They’ll need hot food before continuing their journey.’

‘No, I’ll go. You’d best change your clothes before Father sees you.’

Ashlynn nodded, knowing very well that he was right. She watched for a moment as he went to meet the refugees and then hurried off towards the women’s bower. She had only just reached her chamber when a servant arrived with a message.

‘Your father desires your presence, my lady.’

Ashlynn grimaced, more than ever aware of her unorthodox appearance. Having dismissed the servant, she swiftly divested herself of leggings and tunic, and dressed again in her blue wool gown. Pausing only to tidy her hair and throw a mantle over her shoulders against the chill she made her way to the hall.

Lord Cyneric had been sitting in his accustomed chair by the fire but hearing her step he looked up, his shrewd blue gaze appraising, surveying her in silence. Then he inclined his head.

‘Sit down, Ashlynn.’

Obediently she took the offered chair opposite and waited, wondering what this meant. For a moment or two he said nothing, his weathered face thoughtful. Almost it was as though he were seeking the right words. His expression was more sombre than usual and for the first time she felt the vague stirrings of unease. Had he found out about the sword practices with Ban? Was she about to be rebuked again for unladylike behaviour? Would her brother get into trouble too? It wouldn’t be the first time, of course. As long as she could remember, their escapades had landed them deep in the mire. Her mind, following that track, was quite unprepared for what came next.