Saxon Lady. Margo Maguire

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СКАЧАТЬ father’s hall, praying for deliverance. It was not Aelia’s intention to join them.

      “Wallis never meant for you to dress yourself as some fabled shield-maiden in breeches and tunic,” said Selwyn, “yet you stand here among the men with your quiver on your back, your bow at the ready. What think you, woman? That you are some fatal match for the bastard Fitz Autier?”

      Naught would please Aelia more than to be the one whose arrow took the life of that Norman warrior. Yet she would be satisfied if any one of her father’s men accomplished the feat.

      “Aelia!”

      She and Selwyn turned to see the young red-haired boy who ran toward them. Her brother was merely ten years old, but had the reckless daring and unyielding fortitude of a man twice his age. ’Twas all Aelia could do to keep the lad out of trouble even as she was careful not to crush his formidable spirit.

      “’Tis dangerous up here, Osric,” she said.

      “Get away with you, boy!” Selwyn demanded.

      Wary of unsettling the warriors who manned the battlements, Aelia drew Osric to a quiet corner and spoke softly to him. “Did I not give you a task—an important one?”

      “Aye,” he said.

      “But you are here with the archers. Were you not instructed to assist the swordsmen with their armor?”

      “Aelia, I cannot,” the boy protested, his exuberance nearly palpable. “I am master of Ingelwald and I must—”

      “Bah!” Selwyn’s guttural retort sounded behind her, but she ignored him.

      “You must return to the horsemen of Father’s fyrd, Osric. They will need every hand to prepare for battle.”

      “They are mounted and ready for the dawn,” her brother said. “My place is here with you. I have my bow.”

      And he could easily be shot. Aelia searched her mind for a new task to set him upon, something that would not seem trifling to him.

      “Christ’s bones, woman!” Selwyn growled. He pushed Aelia aside, grabbed Osric by the scruff of his tunic and shoved him toward the ladder. “Get you gone, boy! This is no place for a brat.”

      “Selwyn, cease! He is not your—”

      Sunlight broke over the distant horizon and the first onslaught of enemy arrows came with it. Ingelwald’s archers met the attack, arrow for arrow, as the armored horsemen in the courtyard prepared to exit the gates.

      Aelia forgot about Osric for the moment as she took her place among the archers and looked down at the Normans who would seize her father’s hall, his lands, her home. Taking aim, she found a target once, twice, then a third time before she noted a tall knight on a massive destrier rallying his men, keeping them in position.

      Aelia could not see his face, for he was clad in armor from helm to spur. Even his horse was protected from stray blows by a coat of steel. When she realized that this knight must be Fitz Autier, Aelia raised her bow and took aim.

      But he had no vulnerable spot. She closed one eye and targeted him, ever ready should he raise an arm or bend his body in such a way that a vital part was left exposed.

      ’Twas to no avail. He was a seasoned warrior who knew better than to leave himself open to attack. His movements were powerful and controlled, his horsemanship without flaw. Still, Aelia kept watch on him as he battled the mighty Northumberland thanes.

      When his helmet became momentarily dislodged, she saw that the Norman bastard was a comely demon. Even from a distance, Aelia could appreciate the masculine angles of his countenance, the strong lines of his jaw. His dark hair was long for a Norman—it lay in wet strands upon his brow, which was furrowed in anger—or frustration. So handsome was he that Aelia had no doubt many a Norman maid would mourn his passing.

      She raised her bow, but her aim was disturbed by a sudden tremor that racked her narrow shoulders, and a strange light-headedness. She had all but forgotten her mother’s portentous words years ago, but when the sight of the Norman warrior caused a burning heat to singe her from blood to bone, she remembered her saying: “The earth will move and your body will quiver with awareness when you first see your one true mate.”

      Aelia had always believed her prediction. It had happened to her mother and grandmother, and all the other women in her line, yet… It could not be a Norman—a bastard Norman.

      Fitz Autier could not possibly be the man.

      Aelia let the arrow fly and an eternity passed as she waited for it to meet its mark. Her breath caught in her throat and her hands clenched tight with anticipation when a sudden rush of blood burst upon the Norman’s face. Aelia’s heart jumped with jubilation, for she had accomplished what every thane in Britain had striven for: death and destruction of the Norman leaders who had come to take their lands.

      But no…Fitz Autier was not slain, merely nicked. Blood gushed from the wound in his cheek, though Aelia’s arrow did not protrude from the spot. With disappointment, she realized she must have only grazed him.

      While she watched, he turned his gaze up to the battlement where she stood. Their eyes met and held, and in that moment, Aelia realized that Fitz Autier knew it was she who had wounded him.

      And she wondered if he felt the same racking tremor that she experienced once again when he looked at her.

      The battle raged all morning and far into the afternoon, and Aelia managed to shrug aside the uneasy notion that what she’d felt when she looked upon Fitz Autier was exactly what her mother had predicted.

      Her mother, dead after Osric’s difficult birth, could never have known that Aelia would one day find herself face-to-face with this fierce Norman enemy. And that was the only explanation for the odd sensation she felt when she looked at him.

      Aelia had no further opportunity to dispatch the Norman bastard. Though Ingelwald warriors managed to hold the gate, too many archers had fallen. Her Northumberland swordsmen outside the walls managed to carry the day. As dusk set in, the Normans retreated to their camp beyond the southern wood to prepare, no doubt, for battle upon the morrow.

      Within the stone walls of Ingelwald, torches illuminated the courtyards and the interiors of every building. Half the village was here, within the safety of the walls, but Ingelwald had expanded over the past few generations, and much of it lay outside. Those villagers whose homes were outside the walls had abandoned their cottages and now sheltered inside.

      Aelia toiled in her father’s great hall, tending the wounded, bolstering the men of Ingelwald’s fyrd, and the thanes who had come to Wallis when their own lands had been usurped by the French invaders. “Victory is yours!” she called out amid the groans and misery. “Your wounds were well earned, and Ingelwald takes pride in your valor, your sacrifice!”

      Those whose injuries were not mortal rallied at Aelia’s words. They stood or pushed themselves up to hear their lady, taking heart in her praise. She stayed among them until all their wounds were bound, and food was distributed, then left the hall to make her rounds in the enclosure, visiting the families who had come from the village for shelter and protection.

      Food stores were low, but there was fresh water from the well behind the great hall. If tomorrow’s battle went as Aelia planned, the Normans would СКАЧАТЬ