Warwolfe (de Wolfe Pack Book 0)(19)

Such noble words from a man who had shown nothing but quiet resolve and bravery throughout his capture. He’d never wept, or begged, or shown weakness in any fashion. Even when he’d asked her to let him go, he hadn’t pleaded with her. He’d simply asked. Norman courage. She admired it, far more than she admired Anglo-Saxon mercy at the moment. Surely such a courageous man didn’t deserve the fate that awaited him.

Something inside of her was screaming to help him.

More than that, something inside her was screaming for vengeance against Alary. Cruel and wicked bastard that he was, he could be erased from the world tomorrow and no one would miss him. With his taunts and actions, he had pushed her beyond reason and there was a large part of her that wanted vengeance against him. Tonight, he took her prisoner; tomorrow, who knew what he would take? Moreover, he’d accused her of siding with the Normans. That was unforgiveable slander because Alary wouldn’t keep it to himself. He would tell others about this day and it was quite possible that men would start to doubt her loyalties. It would destroy all she’d worked hard for.

Something had to be done.

Gaetan de Wolfe. De Lohr had mentioned the man as his commander. He had asked her to send a message to him. Perhaps she could do more than that; she could tell de Wolfe just where her brother and de Lohr were. De Wolfe could save his man and Alary would be collateral damage. Odd how that thought brought a smile to her lips. Her greedy, wicked brother would be dead and so would his suspicious mind and uncontrollable tongue. She would be doing her people a favor, in fact, and Edwin might even thank de Wolfe for such a service.

There might be some kind of bond struck between the Normans and the Earl of Mercia because of it.

A bond over Alary’s death.

By the time Ghislaine reached the men who were pounding on de Lohr, she had a firm plan in mind. De Lohr was being beaten badly and she, once again, had to throw herself between him and the men who wanted to kill him. Alary’s men wouldn’t go out of their way to hit her but they kept trying to strike out at the knight behind her, going around her to grab de Lohr by the hair or club him in his already-damaged ribs. That went on for a while as Alary simply stood back and watched, laughing every time his sister received a blow meant for de Lohr. It was entertainment for him. But for Ghislaine, it only sealed Alary’s fate.

She was going to send the Normans right to him.

As the night went on, the beating stopped and men, exhausted from a day of battle, wandered off to sleep in the forest. Left alone with the wounded knight, Ghislaine did what she could for de Lohr, who was a swollen, bleeding mess at this point. She could only hope the men had gotten their bloodlust out and would leave him alone from this point on but she didn’t really believe that. Still, she couldn’t remain with him because she had something very important to do. It was a task that only she could undertake and, if discovered, could mean her death. If she was caught going to the Norman encampment, then everything Alary had insinuated about her would be believed. She was taking a terrible risk.

But it had to be done.

In the hour before dawn, as the eastern sky began to lighten, Ghislaine moved from her post guarding the Norman knight and knelt down next to him as he lay upon the cold ground, battered and swollen. Leaning over his head, she whispered in his ear.

“I am going for help.”

She wondered if he even heard her.





CHAPTER THREE




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Mortal Angels


The morning that dawned over the field of battle revealed a scene that was straight out of the pages of every story ever told of hell and suffering.

Clouds the color of pewter hung in the sky as a storm rolled in from the south and a brisk wind whistled over the land. Smoke from the fires of both the Anglo-Saxon encampment as well as the Duke of Normandy’s encampment trickled up towards the clouds, only to be dashed away by the breezes.

Still, the clouds and smoke couldn’t mask the smell of death that was beginning to fill the air. Even the sea breezes couldn’t blow it away. As Gaetan stood in front of his tent and watched the landscape lighten with the rising sun, he knew that, soon enough, men would have to walk about with kerchiefs over their faces to blot out the smell of rotting bodies. Dead animals mixed with dead men, their blood saturating the earth. The gulls had swarmed inland, already picking through the flesh on the ground and squawking at each other angrily.

Death was everywhere.

In the tent behind Gaetan, Harold had been on display for the night as men wandered in to see the corpse of the king. It confirmed to them that the throne of England now belonged to William. In fact, brethren from Rotherfield Abbey and South Malling Abbey had come to view the body, along with Harold’s wife, who had evidently been traveling with her husband’s army.

As a courtesy, William had allowed Harold’s wife to visit her husband’s body. It had been a difficult moment when Edith the Fair had identified her husband’s battered corpse. Gaetan could still hear the woman’s cries although she had tried very hard to be brave. The priests who had come with her had tried to be of some comfort to her but they had quickly dissolved into confusion when the woman threw herself upon the corpse of her husband.

That was when Gaetan had stepped in along with Téo, the most diplomatic of his men, and pulled the woman from the swollen body. At the head of the corpse, Jathan had been praying steadily in spite of the fact that the duke had voiced his displeasure at prayers for his enemy. Between the litany of sung prayers and the cries of a grief-stricken wife, it had all made for an uncomfortable and strained situation.