Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

“I don’t know, but they’re not in that copse of trees yon.”

“They wanted retribution for Durwald’s death—that is what you told me.”

“Aye, one of our own men-at-arms told me that, said a bandit had told him to tell me that. That this was their first onslaught, that soon, not long from now, perhaps in the dead of winter, they would return and they would drive us from Oldham and torch the keep.”

“What was an Oldham man-at-arms doing at a demesne farm? Wasn’t that where the Scots were?”

“Aye. He fancies the daughter. He was there wooing her when the Scots attacked.”

“Why didn’t they steal any cattle?”

“If it was revenge they wanted this time, as my own man told me, why would they bother with cattle? Herding cattle would slow them down, give us a better chance to catch up with them. No, they just wanted to strike us hard, quickly, then retreat. Vengeance, that’s what it is.”

Jerval said slowly, “I wonder why they had this man-at-arms tell you of their plans.”

“To boast of their prowess, I suppose. After they stabbed my man in the shoulder, they must have realized it would make an excellent jest to send him to me and tell me what had happened and what they planned for the future.”

Jerval was shaking his head as he said, “It doesn’t make sense, Mark. Why would they give you warning of their intent? No, it simply doesn’t ring true to me. Wasn’t there another demesne farmer who managed to get to Oldham to tell you what was happening?”

Mark nodded. “Both my man-at-arms and the farmer managed to make it to the keep, my man first.”

“Where is your man-at-arms? I would speak to him.”

“As I said, he—Alaric—was covered in blood, unable to fight. He just told us we must hurry, that the Scots hadn’t gotten too far, that they’d believed him very badly wounded, and thus he couldn’t get to me quickly. He was too ill to come and so he remained behind.”

And there was the answer, staring him in the face. He was an idiot. He’d moved too quickly, hadn’t really thought about the attack, about the man-at-arms’ words, hadn’t weighed the possibilities, hadn’t really assessed the Scots’ intent, and he’d been brought low.

Dear God, Chandra was at Oldham. He’d left her there himself to guard Mary, to sit with her and give her milk and pat her hand. Aye, he’d thought she would be safe, and there would be no danger for her. By the saints, he should be hanged for his stupidity.

She was there with naught but six men.

Jerval jerked back on Pith’s reins, the destrier rearing on his hind legs. “We’re fools, Mark. Alaric, the man who stayed behind with his wound—he stayed in the keep?”

“Aye, he did. Why wouldn’t he?”

“I think he’s a traitor.”

“Oh, God, you don’t really think that it was all a ruse, do you?”

“He’s a traitor,” Jerval said again. “It was a plan to get you away from Oldham, and me as well since you sent a messenger to me. We are bloody fools.” Jerval turned in his saddle and yelled to the men, “We’ve been betrayed! Back to Oldham!” And all he could think about was his wife, so brave it frightened him, unyielding in the face of overwhelming odds, ready to face down the devil himself, willing to die for Mary. She was there with a traitor, and the Scots.

CHAPTER 22

Chandra quickly pulled on her woolen cap, stuffing her hair beneath. She stood slowly, her knife in one hand, her sword in the other, looking around. There was no one in the Great Hall save her and Mary. The servants were up in the solar, the six guards in the bailey or on the ramparts. She walked quietly toward the front doors, out of habit looking right and left, ready, her muscles bunched, her heart pounding, but her mind was cold and sharp. There was only silence now, and the first soft gray light of dawn pearling in the quiet air through the open front doors to the Great Hall. Chill morning air also seeped through the open front doors, shifting the silent air within. Oh, God, she thought, the front doors were open.

The doors should be closed, the heavy wooden and steel bars firmly in place, but they weren’t.

Someone had opened them and she hadn’t heard a thing. Mary was seated in a chair at the back of the hall near the huge fireplace, her cheek pillowed on her palms, finally asleep. No, Chandra didn’t want to awaken her yet. Maybe there was nothing wrong, maybe—

The six men-at-arms were all outside in the bailey—they had to be, aye, on the walls, watching, searching all around the keep for any sign of the enemy. Surely they weren’t asleep. There was too much at stake here. Their lives for one thing. There’d been no attack. If there had been, there would have been shouts, cries of warning, sounds of battle, but there’d been only that one death sound deep in the man’s throat. Where wa

s he? As for the servants, she didn’t know where they were, but none were here in the Great Hall. She’d believed the hall stingy in its size, but now, in the utter stillness, with that death sound still echoing in her ears, she believed it huge, filled with echoes and evil and danger, and she was alone, no one to help her.

When she couldn’t bear it any longer, she walked to where the front doors to the Great Hall were cracked open and gently shoved them outward. The man whose death sound she’d heard was lying there in his own blood, his eyes wide and staring. He’d been stabbed, then somehow managed to crawl this far. He’d wanted to warn them, but he hadn’t made it. He’d just died, and that meant the enemy was here, waiting, probably watching her, wondering how many men were within the keep.

No, she wasn’t alone, not any longer. The Scots had managed to get into the keep. Were all the six guards dead? She had to assume they were. What to do?

She held perfectly still, listening. She heard the sound of boots, not many, perhaps three men, coming toward the keep, over the uneven cobbles in the inner bailey. Soon they would see the dead man on the steps; they would see the front doors open.