West Country, AD 1068
God's blood! Eadita's violet eyes widened in shock. From
her precarious position astride a forked branch of a bare
oak tree, she watched the group of soldiers approaching on
horseback, the sound of the hooves deadened by the sticky
mud of the cart track. Sweat sprung to her palms as she
gripped the dry, nubbled bark to twist round to her
brother, Thurstan, lounging indolently on the next branch.
"How can you sit there like that?" she squeaked, his calm
manner unnerving her.
"Have a care, sister," he warned in a low voice, "you'll
lose your seat swinging round like that."
"Thurstan, we must move, they'll see us easily. Thurstan,
please!" The urgency in her voice betrayed her inner
panic. 'They're Normans, they will certainly kill us!
They're too small a number to be with Uncle Gronwig's
party! There's not a Saxon among them."
"We're in no more danger than we've ever been in before.
They won't even look up." Thurstan's placid response
belied a much deeper hatred of the men who were now
advancing on them slowly, a hatred that burned and
festered in his breast like a wound. Eadita failed to
notice his inner frustration as she studied the outwardly
calm lines of his face when he turned toward her, his
smooth sable locks ruffled by the harsh winter wind, the
lean planes of his face ruddy with cold. My brother!
Eadita thought proudly, feeling the familiar rush of
sibling love.
"If only we had more men with us. I'd fight every single
one of them and kill them slowly for what they did to our
father, for what they've done to our country." Thurstan
jammed a fist against the bark.
"Now is not the time, Thurstan. Hush now," Eadita
reassured him with gentle tones, trying to hold him back
when she feared his headstrong nature would lead him into
danger. Not that she could talk! Her father would have had
her flayed alive if he could have known what she was up to
now!
The plodding hoofbeats were gaining clarity, the
deadly 'chinking' sound of the Norman chain-mail hauberks
and creaking of leather in the saddle flew to her delicate
ears on the strengthening wind. Thurstan had taught her to
rely on her hearing, sight often not quick enough in the
shady dimness of the woods. Behind the skeletal criss-
crossing of bare oak and beech branches, the winter sun
started to descend from its high point; even at noon, ice-
crystals in the wind settled on her skin like miniature
pinpoints of freezing fire. Eadita shivered. She did not
want to be here. She wanted to be home, in the Great Hall,
or her favourite spot in the kitchens by a roaring fire,
surrounded by light and sound and laughter. Instead she
sat, some three miles from the manor at Thunorslege,
dangling her legs from a tree, passing information to her
outlaw brother. And if they weren't extremely careful,
they were in imminent danger of being attacked by a group
of Norman warriors.
"Thurstan, a plan, now!" she whispered hastily. 'There's
not a great number and they're obviously carrying coin and
jewels...just look at the size of that cart!'His eyes
sparkled, but surely he spoke in jest?
"I truly think you've gone mad, or moonstruck, or both; we
are only two this afternoon, we had no plans to —"
"You and your plans, sister. I've always told you,
surprise is the best form of attack, but maybe you're
right, I don't..." The rising wind drowned his last words.
But as she continued to look at him, he smiled and waved.
Upon the stars! He wanted to strike the Normans! In truth,
she had prayed against it, gulping nervously at the size
of the men riding out of the trees at the opposite edge of
the clearing. She inhaled sharply at the sight of the
sweaty warhorses, the bright ribbons flapping on the long
spears, the striking reds, blues and golds decorating the
oval shields, the dull shine of the hauberks and helmets.
Her insides wobbled. Surely Thurstan joked with her, there
were at least ten men; yet as she turned to him again, she
found he had disappeared. He must be on the ground
already, moving into position.
Honed by her brother's steady training over the years,
Eadita flexed her muscles and wriggled her legs and toes
to get the blood moving after sitting in the tree for over
an hour. She set her sights as usual on the leader; a huge
man, face shielded by the steel nose piece of the helmet,
great arms and legs encased in leather, creased and ridged
from use. Her mind flew into panic, then settled. She knew
what she had to do.
Baron Varin de Montaigu wrestled to suppress his rising
irritation. He'd had no desire to leave his King after the
siege at Exeter, but William had insisted, bluntly
indicating that this mission was of the utmost importance.
His orders had been clear: Lord Varin was to keep a
watchful eye on their new Saxon ally, Earl Gronwig, while
using his country estate of Thunorslege as a base for the
weary battalion of Norman soldiers.
A mission, indeed. Varin threw a cursory glance at the
covered ox-cart that lumbered in their wake. It had taken
an age to hoist Earl Gronwig in and now he lounged inside,
his corpulent body bundled in furs and woollen blankets
against the cold. Restless by nature, used to the headlong
pace of route marches and intense battle training, Varin
balked at their slow, plodding pace. But King William was
convinced that Gronwig, despite being a personal adviser
to Leofric, the Bishop of Exeter, was not as loyal to the
new Norman regime as he pretended. Alongside the Bishop,
Earl Gronwig was one of the most high-ranking and powerful
Saxons in the West Country; he had access to the hearts
and minds of all the lords, earls and thegns in the area.
Both Leofric and Gronwig had been instrumental in breaking
the eighteen-day siege on the city of Exeter. As part of
the agreement negotiated, the Earl had promised to help
William gain a foothold in this part of Devonshire, and in
return, William had promised him protection.
William had asked Varin, his close friend and finest
knight, to stick close to the Earl's side. Gronwig's
reluctance to house the Norman battalion at Thunorslege
had been palpable; the air thick with tension when William
had made the suggestion. Varin would have preferred his
battalion to reside near the King, at Bishop Leofric's
palace in Exeter, but there had been no room. Thunorslege
had been the only option. Reluctantly, Varin had agreed to
the timely march to the country; a tense and edgy journey
through unfriendly forests and treacherous stinking
marshes that threatened to pull their exhausted war-horses
down into their miry depths.
Pulling the leather reins sharply to halt his high-
spirited steed in the middle of the clearing, his hard
thighs clad in fine mesh chain-mail gripping the animal's
flanks to steady its gait, Varin addressed his portly
charge in French.
"Whither now, my lord?" Most of the Anglo-Saxon nobility
spoke his language and Gronwig answered him easily from
his comfortable seat.
"Take the right fork, my lord. "Tis not far now." A white
hand fluttered feebly from within the curtained interior
to bid his escort forward. Mud caked the large wooden
cartwheels, a sad reflection on the state of the roads in
this part of the country. Why couldn't he ride a horse,
like the rest of us! Varin thought. The ox-cart had
severely slowed their progress from the city. He could
barely see the track at all, the dense growth of the wood
making it difficult to pinpoint the direction with
accuracy. Hauling abruptly on the reins, he wheeled the
horse around to the right, then threw an arm high to
beckon his entourage to follow.
Eeeeeeyarrrgh! A bloodcurdling scream rent the air, then
another and another. An entire body weight dropped on
Varin's back, clamping knees like a limpet tight around
his shoulders and pinning his arms to his sides. Icicles
of fear slid through his veins as cold steel pressed
against the throbbing pulse at his throat, through the
neck hole of the chain-mail. Sacré bleu! Under attack from
rabid outlaws, having survived the whole siege fighting
alongside his King at Exeter. He would not die at the
hands of these villainous churls! Raising a gloved hand,
he grabbed the arm that held the knife to his throat, but
the grip on his shoulders did not lessen and the knife
pressed slightly deeper.
"I will spill thy blood, Norman pig," the voice hissed in
his ear. "We will have your gold...and your life as well
if you don't keep still!" So the outlaw spoke French — an
interesting quirk of fate. And the weight on his back was
not quite so heavy after all.
"I've no time for this, peasant!" Varin spat out, rearing
his whole body up and around, sheer muscled force
wrestling the attacker from his back, disarming him in the
process and slamming him to the muddy ground from the
considerable height of his horse. The churl landed with an
almighty thump, howling in despair and pain. Swiftly,
Varin dismounted, pulling the short sword from his belt as
he prepared to finish off the lowly serf. Granted, he'd
had enough of the killing and the fighting, but this was
just one more annoyance that stood between him, a hot meal
and a warm bed, luxuries that he'd not taken the pleasure
of for many months.
His attacker was only a lad; sprawled in the burnished
mass of fallen leaves he seemed very small, a woollen hat
pulled low over his face, a short cloak swirling on the
ground behind him. His tunic and braies were a dull green
colour — no doubt a deliberate choice to blend in with the
surrounding vegetation. The boy seemed dazed, an unfocused
look in his huge violet eyes, eyes that sparkled out from
his mud-spattered impish face. Violet eyes! Varin shook
himself. He had never been that way inclined and the women
that followed the Norman camp were always obliging if the
need arose. Varin lifted his sword.
"Stay your hand, mon ami." A warning hand rested on his
arm, preventing Varin from making the fatal downward
thrust. By his side stood Geraint de Taillebois, his
friend and fighting comrade. A lord in his own right, he'd
elected to become Varin's steward during the Conquest and
had remained a calm and steady companion throughout their
days in this heathen country.
"Remember our important Anglo-Saxon charge, Varin,'
Geraint continued. "These are his woods; he may want to
decide the fate of this outlaw himself."
"Granted." Sheathing his sword reluctantly, Varin turned
to the ox-cart where the Earl, as if on cue, pulled back
the richly embroidered curtains to view the spectacle. The
cart lurched sideways as Gronwig leaned out.
"Good work, Baron," he praised, a sinister smile playing
across his florid features. "I'm glad you didn't kill him.
I shall have fun torturing him for information about the
many attacks in these forests. We must hunt down those
responsible. Take the lad prisoner."