Ninochka's revenge 1

 ok, I ran out of steam on this one but I thought I'd post it as far as it went.  It's a sequel to The Cossack centred around one of the girls they rescued from the Tatars, who was so convinced her boyfriend would come for her and is certain his family and village ataman stopped him. 

She's got a lot to learn. 

Ninochka’s revenge

 

Chapter 1

 

“Kamila, I want revenge,” said Ninochka, to the younger girl whom she had thought of as her sister-in-law before disaster struck.

“I don’t think the Ataman will like it,” said Kamila. “I don’t think I do.”

“Perhaps not, but I ... it isn’t fair,” said Ninochka, tossing her cloud of dark hair.

“Oh, Ninochka, please do not hurt Bohdan; he is not good at disobeying, and nor are Ma and Pa.  It will be the orders of Ilya Shevchenko[1], who is so newly head of the family. He ... he would not go against custom.”

“Then he must learn that those abandoned through custom...” she spat out the word, “...will go against him. I ... I could understand that Bohdan and his parents might be afraid I was ... used ... when the Tatars kidnapped us, but that they do not welcome you back is insupportable.  Especially as Lady Hracja wrote and explained that she and the Ataman had rescued us all in time.”

“I ... I still think it is wrong, Ninochka,” said Kamila. “I grieved for my family as if they were dead, as Aleksandra grieved for her family who were killed by bandits. And we are now the Orzelówny, adopted by Lord Jermak and Lady Hracja, and ... and I am happier than I ever was before.”

Ninochka sighed.

“I am also happy, and I am pleased to learn to be a warrior as well; and I will study until I am good enough, and then I will go to the Sich, attach myself to Shevchenko, and when I have the opportunity I will humiliate him with swordplay and declare who I am and why I have done so. And I will spurn your parents.”

Kamila sighed.

Ninochka could be stubborn at times.

 

 

“You’re very single minded in your training, Ninochka,” remarked Jermak.

“Yes, my lord. I’ve revenge to contemplate,” said Ninochka.

“If you think I’m going to let you go off and raid Tatars, you can think again; even Jurko Bohun isn’t that crazy.  Well, probably not,” said Jermak, referring to his distant kinsman who was a legend through the Ukraine and Poland.

“I want revenge on my betrothed’s family,” said Ninochka.

“Little girl, is that right or fair? You are a warrior and it is plain that your Bohdan was ... not,” said Jermak.

“Oh, not on him, though I shall spurn him and his parents,” said Ninochka. “It will be the family head, Ilya Shevchenko.”

“I know something of him,” said Jermak. “He’s reckoned a man of honour, and a warrior of steel. If you fight him, you will lose.”

“If I humiliate him for fighting a girl, I win even if he kills me.”

“Now, that is foolishness,” snapped Jermak. “I can’t stop you going; but by the Mother of God, I will try to dissuade you. Or at the very least, tell you to be circumspect and go and see what the situation is, not do anything rash.”

“I will leave in the autumn, and learn all I might in the meantime,” said Ninochka, her usually warm brown eyes somehow holding a touch of frost.

Jermak sighed.

He could not hold her, save by making her a prisoner. And that was against his principles.

 

oOoOo

 

By autumn, Poland was at war with the Cossacks under Chmielnicki; and if Jermak hoped that this would deter Ninochka, he was mistaken.

With a heavy heart, and many tears from his wife, Grace, he outfitted the girl as a young Cossack man and sent her on her way with a commander’s kiss on the forehead.

A brave figure she made, having picked one of the best of the horses owned by the brigands, before the excess were sold.  A jaunty young Cossack, riding off to war, her beautiful hair shaved but for a scalp lock, hidden under her fur cap.

 

“It’ll be a miracle if she survives,” said Grace, as the girl rode out of earshot.

“Miracles do happen,” said Jermak. “We will pray for her.  The best we can hope for is that she has a fright or two, loses her nerve, and comes home.”

“I do not think revenge solves things,” sighed Grace.

“No; but there was no telling her that,” said Jermak.

 

oOoOo

 

 

Ninochka felt very alone, but reminded herself that she had her vengeance to keep her company. The Tatar incursions into the Ukraine and even deep into Poland were frequent, violent, and considered inevitable.  It was horrible, thought Ninochka, that it was something so routine that those stolen away were written off as dead to their families as they were assumed to be ‘spoiled’ from the moment of their kidnap. Nobody generally rescued those taken, and her own experiences, though horrible, and costing the life of her little brother, had been relatively benign.  Jermak did not hold any prejudice against those taken by Tatars, and had welcomed those spurned by their Cossack kindred, and praised the Polish village which had been raided for accepting their lost children back.

 There were several days of riding ahead of her, racing the onset of rasputitsa, the season of mud, crossing eastern Poland, and then on into the wild fields to find Shevchenko. She would have to negotiate crossing lines of hostility, and then hope to find him, and then be accepted into his service ... even the preliminaries were enough to make her quail.

She would not give up and go home, admitting defeat from her own treacherous cowardice. She would find him, and get close enough to him to learn all about him, and then ... well, if she got close enough to him, she would know the best way to defeat him, whether it was better to kill him or just humiliate him; or maybe take him prisoner and give him to Prince Jeremi.

 

The brooding youth who moved like a cat was given a wide berth in the inns where Ninochka stayed. Whether she was a loyal Pole going to join up, or a Cossack seeking to regain the Sich, nobody cared much, and old women crossed themselves as she passed, and old men spat, and were glad when she moved on at her restless pace.

Kijów was essentially closed; she must cross the mighty Dniepr by another route. It was a good time of year, before the rains came in earnest, to cross upstream of the rapids, and this she did, her sturdy steed swimming the wide river. Nobody challenged her; anyone who might have done so was so caught up in the rebellion of Chmielnicki, she could travel without meeting a soul, unless she came close to the bloody slaughter of the uprising.

She rode across the steppe on a fine, bright autumnal day, the grass seed smelling of baking bread beneath the still hot rays of the sun, and came at last to her erstwhile village. The raid had been swift and vicious, seizing children from outlying houses, whilst the adults were meeting to discuss something. She could not even bring to mind what it was, but the two burned out shells of houses were a reminder. One had been her own house; the other had been that of the parents of Lidija, Bozena and Nazar, now adopted by Jermak’s second in command and his English wife. Bohdan’s parents’ house had been repaired; there were some signs of burning, but they had robbed out the other two houses to make their own hut secure for the rest of the winter.

She could not resist going into what was left of what had once been her home.

There was nothing of any real value there, of course. Her grandmother had been killed outright, the moment the Tatars broke in, seizing her and her little brother, and Ninochka went over to where once the hearth had been, falling to her knees in the thick layer of charcoal to pray for her grandmother’s soul, and ask for her blessing. Putting her hand down to rise as she finished her prayers, she felt something cold and hard under her hand.

She dug, quickly; it was her grandmother’s crucifix! They would have taken what they could of the body to bury, but presumably it was so badly burned, the crucifix had fallen off.  She picked it up, and sobbed, as she cradled it to her. She could almost hear her grandmother’s voice, telling the story she had heard many times.

“Your grandpapa, Trofim, for whom your brother is named, was not well off, but he wanted to catch my attention to court me. He did not know I had noticed him, but I never spoke of it of course; a girl has to make a man show his interest before she will admit that she is interested too. Well, he had picked up a trophy from the Kosiński uprising; the nasal from a hussar helmet. It was delicately chased with gold set into the steel.  He knew no smithing, but he set out to learn enough, and from that nasal, he cut a cross, and offered it to me, on one knee. Oh! He was a dashing young man.”

Ninochka crossed herself, and kissed the beautiful cross, miraculously clear of rust, despite being buried for many months. She was unaware she had crossed herself in the Polish manner, having grown used to it, and put her grandmother’s cross on under her shirt. Somehow her pledge to seek vengeance was bound up with her prayers for her grandmother now, in a rather muddled fashion; and given the opportunity to ride against the Tatars, she would gladly have done so at this point. But Ilya Shevchenko was an attainable goal.

 

Ninochka exited the ruins of her family’s cottage, blissfully unaware of whether she might be observed, and rode on into the village.

 

oOoOo

 

Ilya Shevchenko was a young man, who had made his name fighting Tatars and Turks, and he had returned to his home village as village ataman and to see to the lands and tenants when his father died. It also made him head of an extended family.  It also enabled him to defer his decision to join the uprising of Chmielnicki.

Shevchenko had every belief in the rightness of Chmielnicki’s cause. However, he strongly suspected that going to war over the grievances of Cossacks would only end badly. He would follow Chmielnicki, of course, when it came down to it, but with a heavy heart.

In the meantime, his village was depleted by a Tatar raid at the end of the last winter, a raid effected whilst most of the adults of the village were celebrating his arrival to take the reins of duty. He was sore about that, and felt it was almost his fault that five youngsters from the edge of the village had been seized so easily, and several older people killed. He sighed.  Lands lay fallow with fewer people to till them, and the village still smarted under the loss. He returned to the village centre after having ridden out, and was confronted by a slender youth on a good horse, the boy’s upper lip shy of any growth as yet.

“My lord Ilya Shevchenko?” said the youth.

A ghost of a smile touched the landowner’s face.

“That’s a very Polish way of putting things,” he said.

“I have spent time in Poland,” said the youth.  “My father owed a debt of honour to yours, and he told me I should seek you out to repay it by being your page.”

“Page? I am not effete. I need no page,” said Shevchenko.

The boy, Ninochka, frowned.

“I could be useful,” she said. “I am literate.”

“Well that adds to your usefulness,” said Shevchenko. “Are you any good with figures?”

“I ... I can keep accounts,” said Ninochka. “I can calculate charges for cannon, too.”

“Well educated,” said Shevchenko. “Very well; my father left his papers in something of a muddle and I am still trying to sort them out. You can move into my household and aid me in that. And I’ll train you in the Cossack way in return, suit you?”

“Yes, my lord, eminently,” said Ninochka.

“I wish you will not call me that,” said Shevchenko.

“I can hardly call you ‘my lady,’” retorted Ninochka, tartly.

Shevchenko laughed.

“You can call me ‘Ataman’ if you like,” he said. 

“Yes, Ataman,” said Ninochka.

“And what is your name?” asked Shevchenko. “I can scarcely call you ‘boy’ all the time.”

“Antin,” said Ninochka, who had been christened ‘Antonina’ for her father.  “Antin Orel.” The Ataman had, after all, offered his name as well as his home to the refugees.

 

“Good,” said Shevchenko. “You have a good horse.”

“Yes, ataman,” said Ninochka.                                                                           

“Well, let us go to my home, and stable him, and you can become acquainted with the place.”

 

 

Shevchenko’s home was surrounded by a stockade like a dwór, and built in an L-shape, one leg being the stables, and the other the house. It was a house of log construction, but Ninochka knew that outward appearances could be deceiving.

It was not westernised within, as was the dwór Jermak occupied, but there was planking over the inside walls to ceil it from draughts, as well as the gaps between the logs looking from the outside to have been well plugged. No plaster adorned the ceilings, which were honest beams; she had seen a few windows in the roof.  Shevchenko showed her around; a kitchen with a pump, and a trapdoor to a cellar, a reception room for village business, a room with more books in than Ninochka had seen in her life, which had an air of being lived in, and the other side of the vestibule, two bedrooms. The kitchen was at the back of the house with small, high windows for light, but not easy to access by anyone climbing the stockade at the back. It was behind the vestibule which was also a reception room.

“My servants sleep upstairs and find it more comfortable to do so,” said Shevchenko. “I will not invade their territory to show it to you. You are not a servant; so you will use the guest bedroom, and if I have guests, you will have to move in with me.”

“Yes, ataman,” said Ninochka, hoping they would never have guests.

Well, she had arrived, and she was going to be close to him. Perhaps uncomfortably close.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

[1] Ylja Szewczenko? I’m using the transliteration into English from cyrillics.

Wolf for a Lioness 8

 

Chapter 8

 

Four figures slipped into the stables, and were soon riding out, keeping to the sides of the light woodland that skirted the village to hide their silhouette. There was little noise of their hoofbeats over the soft turf over sand, and they came presently on a spinney near the leap. Sewin gave the horses nosebags with a wet mash in, so they would not dehydrate even with a long wait, having something to browse likely to keep them quiet. Wulfric showed Sewin and Father Hubert the remains of the tarred twine, and the cut to the other hawthorn tree’s trunk which Isabeau had first found. Then he spread his cloak for Isabeau to sit on, and settled down to wait. Sunset was before half past seven; that had passed by the time they arrived, the sky arrayed with skeins of purple cloud against a golden glow, fading into blue above, which deepened towards the east. There would be some light for a good two hours as yet, though only of much use for another three quarters of an hour. Wulfric hoped that his quarry would come before dark.

The muffled thudding of hoofs as the sky’s bright colours faded suggested that they were to be in luck.  A horse thundered up, foaming slightly from having been ridden too fast, and a cloaked figure almost fell off it, going to the base of the hawthorn tree where the twine remained. There was enough light in the sky to see the flash of a blade, cutting it, and actions which clearly showed mud being smeared onto the scar.

“Well, Piers, it seems that I was right to think you would want to remove the evidence as soon as possible,” said Wulfric, standing up and moving forward.

“You! You interfering Saxon bastard!” snarled Piers.

Wulfric laughed.

“But I’m not the bastard, Piers; you are,” said Wulfric. “And not just by birth, but in depriving the lovely Isabeau of her father.”

“It’s all your fault,” said Piers. “I spoke to Sir Ferrand about securing her hand, and the stupid old fool said that he intended to bestow her on you, and that he planned to tell her, and celebrate a wedding at Michaelmas when all the harvest was in. I ... I had to kill him ere he might tell her, that I might persuade her that he intended her for me!”

“Why, Piers! I had no idea that you felt so warmly for Isabeau; you have never displayed any passion for her,” said Wulfric.

“Passion? How could one feel any passion for that ice-cold hellcat?” sneered Piers. “But I would have schooled her to be the perfect, obedient wife in order to have the lands. So often the old fool spoke of me being as a son in his household, but a son of the household would have been his heir! She would pay for despising me, for being scornful of me!”

Wulfric laughed.

“Don’t you think that scorn is the right emotion for such a fool as you, who permits himself to be tricked into giving himself away?” he said.

“It is your word against mine! I will say that I followed you, and saw that you removed evidence, that you pretended you were going to look for in the morning, when others would have accompanied you. Your word is unsupported!”

“You’re wrong there, Piers,” said Isabeau. “Those of us sat in the shadows, listening, have heard every word, and if you thought I despised you before, why, ‘tis nothing on my feelings now, when you have revealed yourself to be so little, such a half-man, that you must ‘school’ a wife who will not defer to you, as I am happy to defer to my lord, Wulfric.”

Piers gave a whinny of terror, as Isabeau moved out of the caliginous gloom of the shadow, and stood by Wulfric.

Then, in a sudden move, he was on her, and seized her by one plait, pulling her head, his knife still in his hand and held at her white throat.

“I’m going to my horse,” he said. “You will not stop me. If she behaves, you may get Isabeau back alive; and perhaps intact. But my seed will rule these lands if I do not.”

“My son, do not be so foolish!” cried Father Hubert, running forward. Isabeau could not suppress a cry of pain as Piers’ knife nicked her.

“Don’t, priest,” said Piers. He backed towards his horse, a tight hold on Isabeau. He pulled off her girdle. “Loop it round your hands, bitch, or I will cut you,” he said. Isabeau swallowed hard; it pressed her throat closer on the knife, and she began to make a loop with her girdle, making a slip-knot which she might rapidly pull undone from one of the ends, as Wulfric had once taught her. She slid it over her wrists, and made sure Piers had the other end to pull tight.

And then there was a sickening, hollow, damp Poc! And Piers sagged. Isabeau stood on the end to loose herself, and her hands were free, and she pulled away from him, pushing the suddenly limp arm from her.

“Lady! My lady!” cried Arnebeort’s shrill voice. “I slinged my sling at the bad man! I followeded you, in case you needed me!”

“Arnebeort! My angel, why art thou not abed?” asked Isabeau, opening her arms to the child as Wulfric sprang on the unconscious Piers to tie him securely.

“I sneaked out,” said Arnebeort. “I knew you were going to catch him, and I was frit he might hurt you! So I brung my sling, like David and that Gol-fellow.”

“So you did!  Well done, Arnebeort,” said Isabeau. “Wulfric, be not over-tender of him. We heard his testimony. If Father Hubert will set it in writing, you and I might sign it as a true account to send into Bungay. And if he dies of his wound ... I will not be displeased. I do not want even Piers drawn and quartered.”

“Art tender-hearted, my little bird, my wren,” said Wulfric. “Let Piers be taken back to the house, where he might lie overnight under guard.”

“Let him be taken in the morning by litter to Rumburgh Priory[1],” said Isabeau. “He may recover or perish there, under the rule of the Benedict monks. They revere St. Bee, and will not take lightly his threats to violate a shamefast maid whom he had seized.”

“It shall be so,” said Wulfric. “My lady, dost feel able to ride back?”

“My lord, I am not, I think, as feeble as Piers has ever been,” said Isabeau.

“Then Arnebeort shall ride in front of me,” said Wulfric. “Today, child, hast avenged thy father, and saved thy lady.”

“Can I be a knight, one day?” asked Arnebeort.

“I see no reason why not,” said Wulfric.

 

oOoOo

 

Overnight, Piers slipped into a coma, and did not wake from it, dying three days later, shortly after the arrival of the curly-haired Roger Dispencer.

“I came to take your prisoner, but it seems he is like to die,” said that cleric. It was almost an accusation.

“Aye, and God guided ... well, if not your hand, another part of your anatomy when you left the foolish Fressenda with child,” said Wulfric. “For your natural son, in defence of his lady, used his sling to stop this man abducting the fair Isabeau, with intent to despoil her in his spite for having been caught killing his uncle and patron, Sir Ferrand.”

“I ...” for a moment, Dispencer considered denying knowledge of Arnebeort. “I am proud of the tyke, then,” he said. “You plan to rear him as one of noble birth?”

“My bride wants to adopt him,” said Wulfric. “I wait only until we have legitimate issue of our own.”

“Understood,” said Dispencer. “Thank you for not making an issue of it.”

“A man can be tempted. I was not in your shoon at the time,” said Wulfric. “And if it were a sin, it were a sin which has been cleansed by his actions. I make no issue.”

Piers breathed his last, and was taken to the chapel. He would be buried very quietly.

 

oOoOo

 

As the golden leaves of September blew desultorily from the trees, Wulfric knelt beside Isabeau to exchange their wedding vows. All the local notables were in attendance to witness it, and if Fleury and Danforth looked sour, there was nothing that they might do, and must accept a fait accompli.  And Arnebeort was a delightful and cherubic page boy, whose other weapon, an elder-stem pea shooter, Wulfric had firmly confiscated before bored eyes turned on irritating the choir.

Isabeau was also a thing of beauty, in a golden and brown damasked silk bliaut, the sleeves lined with a jewel-bright blue silk. Wulfric dressed in brown, but his own bliaut was richly dyed, a russet with embroidery at neck and sleeves in black, three browns, and gold thread.  The sun shone on his coppery locks and he looked every inch a lord. The peasantry appreciated it too; but they appreciated the wedding feast in the tithe barn more. The guests and the household servants would feast at the hall.

Isabeau and Wulfric endured the feast until Wulfric stood.

“Wife,” he said. “I am full of food, full of wine, and full of impatience. I am hungry for thee, and only thou wilt satisfy me.”

“My lord is masterful,” said Isabeau.

“You have not seen anything yet,” said Wulfric, picking her effortlessly up to carry to the solar.

He was given several drunken cheers.

Isabeau was giggling as he dropped her on the bed.

“Art ready to strip thy bride as the wind strips the leaves relentlessly from the helpless trees?” she asked.

“Art as helpless as a sack full of ferrets, my lady; I saw you tie that slip-knot, if our little Arnie had not brained Piers, I wager thou wouldst have gutted him, for he had not taken thy knife.”

“Aye, my husband, I should have done so. But before my husband, I am helpless and trembling, your wren in the jaws of a wolf.”

“I’ll remind you of that when my lioness gives bite for bite and bruise for bruise,” said Wulfric.

Laughing, they helped each other to undress, and Wulfric kissed his wife with all the pent-up passion he had been controlling, and showed her how masterful he could be in bed.

He collected a few bites, scratches and bruises along the way as his bride showed she was quite as capable as he was of initiating loving.

Pale dawn touched the windows ere they lay, satiated, dozing in each other’s arms.

“We will call a son Leofric and a daughter Wulfrun,” suggested Wulfric.

“We will call a son ‘Ferrand’ for Papa, and a daughter ‘Edith’ for the queen,” said Isabeau.

“What, not Mahaud for the Queen?” said Wulfric, startled.

“Oh, I do not need to fight about it anymore,” said Isabeau. “I concede the point to my husband. On one condition.” Her fingers suggested what the condition was.

“You’re going to kill me with exertion,” said Wulfric.

He did not sound unhappy about this.

 

---

[1] Neither Bungay Priory nor Flixton Priory had been founded at this period.

Wolf for a Lioness 7

 apologies for being lateish. I slept long after a really rough day yesterday which fortunately I scarcely remember. 

Chapter 7

 

It was pleasant to have another young woman around, thought Isabeau.  Saegifu, or Segiva, filia Ulfwinus as the parish record described her, was a merry girl, between Isabeau and Wulfric in age, and firm in her decisions. She had marked out Robert, a squire to Sir Ferrant, when she was twelve summers old and had waited until she was fifteen before she dragged him into a barn and made it clear what she expected from him. The bemused Robert had duly married his gift of the sea, as her name meant, and had provided her so far with a son and a daughter.  Saegifu employed a nursemaid, though she loved her children dearly, and did more for them than many noblewomen.

“Are you sure you do not mind staying here?” said Isabeau, doubtfully.

Saegifu laughed.

“Why, I have told you, my Robert minds not, and our house is but on the other side of the village, so he might collect me if he needs help with the disputes of Robin and Emme, for they are such ferocious petties, he might have such need.”

“Men are rarely good with children; it was a pretty thing to see Wulfric with Arnebeort, and the moreso that it saved his life. Had he not bent down ...”

“Aye, and this makes me more determined to cleave to my sister-to-be,” said Saegifu. “And Robert surely ready and willing to be your aid in tracking any villain, he without your household, and I within. I wonder if he should take the children to his mother until this matter be settled.”

“Perhaps wise; Wulfric would go at once into a trap if his niece or nephew were seized and threatened, and if I know him so well, so too might others.”

Saegifu paled.

“I must send word to Robert,” she said.

“Write and I shall have a page take it,” said Isabeau.

“I can take a message!” said Arnebeort, coming into the room.

“My child, it is clear across the village ...”

“I can!” said Arnebeort. “Father Hubert is learning me Latin, my lady. But why should I want to say ‘O table?’

“Because ‘mensa’ is an easy word to say and spell, and learn the endings for, where you might stumble over ‘ancilla,’ to whom you might say ‘O, handmaiden,’” said Isabeau.

“Oh, I see, my lady,” said Arnebeort.

“He is a hardy youth,” said Saegifu. “And he would attract less attention than if you send a known page. Here you are, Arnebeort,” she handed the child the note she had written. “Knowest thou my house?”

“Oh, yes, Lady Saegifu,” said Arnebeort. “Robin is a goodly wrestler but Emme bites.”

“I might have guessed,” said Saegifu. “Well, I will be glad if Robert takes them to safety, and I think he will accept my recommendation.”

Isabeau suspected that the happily hen-pecked husband would do as he was told without question.

“I worry about the child,” said Isabeau, uncertainly.

“Did you worry about him on his daily round before you took him under your roof?”asked Saegifu.

“Well, no, but ...”

“Isabeau, do not stifle him. He has been reared a peasant, not gently. He will resent you if you keep him too close, even if he enjoys getting more fondles than blows. Let him have the sturdiness of a peasant to help him when he learns knightly skills.”

Isabeau was much struck.

“You speak wisely,” she agreed. “I am glad you are here.”

“It is nice to have a change,” said Saegifu. “And we need to find out who has murderous designs on anyone between them and marriage to you. Which is essentially what it is about.  I wager whoever it is had approached your father, and asked for your hand in marriage. Now if your father told this suitor that he had already chosen a husband for you, killing your father and hoping to carry you off to wed was the man’s only chance to get his hands on your lands.”

“Yes, I can see that,” said Isabeau. “But how would any such man know that I purposed to marry Wulfric?”

“Who knew?”

“Fleury and Danforth; and such of my household as were in the great hall at that time, father Hubert and my cousin Piers later, for as I said to you, I told him he need not sacrifice himself in marriage to me.”

“Are you sure he would think of it as a sacrifice?” asked Saegifu.

 “Certes; for he has ever hated being bested in everything we did by a girl,” said Isabeau.  “I do not think he even likes me very much.”

“As your lawful wedded lord he could beat you into submission, you know.”

“He could try.”

“And he could threaten to have you burned at the stake for petty treason an you struck him,” said Saegifu.

Isabeau stared in shock.

“He would not!” she cried. “He is a man who dislikes violence.”

“No he is not; not if he is dealing with women, anyway,” said Saegifu. “He tried to force himself on me, once you know; and my Robert beat him and told him that if he touched me, or any of the peasant women again, he would be known not as Piers the Bastard but Piers the Eunuch.”

Isabeau was shocked.

“I ... I had no idea!  Saegifu, I am shocked, I did not know. I always thought him a bit of a nothing ...”

Saegifu gave a mirthless laugh.

“It is the nothings who must needs make themselves feel bigger by rape and by sly violence.”

Isabeau stared.

“Think you then that ‘tis he who killed my father, and who tried to kill Wulfric?”

“I do, but I hesitated to say so,” said Saegifu.

“Then we must set some trap for him, and show him up,” said Isabeau. “Though how to do so without risking Wulfric I do not know.”

“It must be a way which does not endanger anyone,” said Saegifu.

“Perhaps ... perhaps letting it be known that Wulfric means to examine the place where my sire met his death to look for signs that he was murdered, and we go much earlier and lie in wait for anyone removing the signs of his perfidy,” mused Isabeau. “I will speak of it to Wulfric, and see if he can devise some clever plan. I cannot accuse Piers without some proof, or he will say I but make up tales to exclude him from holding in my stead if I remain, for any reason, unwed.” 

 

oOoOo

 

With a knock, Wulfric entered, and Saegifu flung herself on her brother with a squeal of delight.

“You managed to speak to Isabeau of how you feel! I am so glad!” she cried.

“Now then!” said Wulfric.

“Poor Wulfric, managed by two managing women,” laughed Isabeau.

“Oh, but my wife will be obedient,” said Wulfric.

“So very obedient that I will work to persuade you that it was in sooth your own idea when I want to disobey some stricture,” said Isabeau.

“Aye, I can believe that,” said Wulfric.  “What have the pair of you been plotting? If ‘tis to make me wear white hose, cross-gartered with pale blue like that puppy, Warrener, wears beneath his bliaut, you will both be disappointed.”

“No, does he really?” giggled Isabeau. “He was wearing boots when last I saw him.”

“Aye, well, I have seen him do so when he wishes to catch the eye of those he wants put in their place, for wearing white declares that he needs not work, only supervise. But he dared not wear a light coloured bliaut in the face of your father.  See what he wears next time he comes calling.”

“We must encourage him to do so,” said Isabeau.

“What?” Wulfric was startled into the ejaculation of surprise.”I beg your pardon, but why would we want him around?”

“Saegifu thinks it was he who killed my father and shot at you.”

“Piers? That little fool?” Wulfric was not convinced.

“But consider, brother,” said Saegifu. “He expected to marry Isabeau, thinking she would turn to him as family. He was fool enough to discount you entirely.”

“Aye, he was very much surprised,” said Wulfric. “Not to say, horrified. And such a shot as was fired might be from his bow, for he is not strong, though he is accurate enough at the butts.  And to harm a horse? Well, to Master Piers, animals are there for his convenience. I ... but to kill his uncle were black ingratitude, for he was treated as a son of the house, albeit a younger son to Isabeau.”

“Piers has never been fond of gratitude,” said Isabeau. “How often have you helped him, and yet his thanks was often a scathing word.”

“I thought that because he hated to be beholden to a Saxon, one he saw as an underling,” said Wulfric. “Why, it is akin to parricide, to kill the only father he remembered, and heaven cries out in shame for such a crime.”

“Indeed, and we must trap him if we hope to have him punished for his crimes – and ensure your safety, Wulfric, my love,” said Isabeau.

“Aye, that I see,” said Wulfric. “Had you anything in mind?”

“My only thought was to say that we intended to go look for signs that my father was killed, and then lurk in wait, earlier than we said, and catch him undoing the twine.”

“That has merit,” said Wulfric. “Now, to my mind, word travels faster than an arrow; if wilt permit me to make an announcement at the evening meal, certes will I dismay the heart of Piers Warrener when he hears what I will say, and he must then act upon it. And one at least will carry news to him, I take no doubt.”

“Wulfric, I do not wish you to be in danger.”

“Isabeau, though I will claim to be ready to go alone, yet will I take the priest and another man; Sewin the ostler, who has also seen the cut on Beaujambes’ hock.”

“And me,” said Isabeau.

“I ... yes, perhaps if he is bold enough to brazen matters out, the sight of you will be enough of a shock, perhaps, to realise that the game is up,” said Wulfric. “If he thinks I am there alone, he might claim that it was he who caught me removing the twine, and I know who would be believed in a court of law.”

“It is wrong that it should be so!” said Isabeau. “But if he does not know who is there waiting, he cannot claim to have followed you; not if all the witnesses are there well ahead of time.”

“Yes; and I will go now to Father Hubert and to Sewin to ask them to hold themselves in readiness, and not to contradict me when I speak from the high table.”

“You will move to Father’s place with me at your right hand,” said Isabeau.

“I ... well, I suppose I would do so when we were married.”

“You would,” said Isabeau. “And we are together in this, even before we are wed, for it is the life and happiness of ourselves, and also of our peasants which ride upon bringing my father’s killer to justice.”

“When you put it like that, I find myself more willing to act as Lord of the Manor,” said Wulfric. “For it is my duty to draw the danger towards myself.”

 

oOoOo

 

The household was assembled to eat, Isabeau, Wulfric, Saegifu, Dame Alice and Father Hubert at the high table, and all the servants, indoor and out, below the salt at the several low tables, put together on trestles for each meal, benches dragged forward for seating. Arnebeort was technically a page, but as he was not tall enough to serve readily and so was perched on a stool, with a cushion, eating with the family. His eyes were wide, taking in the table manners of his elders. And Isabeau laid a hand on his as he was about to reach for food.

“We do not eat until Father Hubert has blessed the food by saying grace,” she said.

“Ain’t that what they do to the bread and wine in church?” asked Arnebeort, anxiously. “We will have more than bread and wine, won’t we?”

“It’s different,” said Isabeau, hastily. “The mystery of the sacrament is more important than the food we eat for temporal sustenance ... to stop us being hungry. It is to feed our spirits. You will learn more about it from Father Hubert when you are older,” she added hastily.

Father Hubert was about to say grace when Wulfric signalled to him to hold, and he stood.

“Before Father Hubert says grace, I wish to tell all the loyal servants of the late Sir Ferrand de Curtney that I have every reason to suppose that our late lord was murdered; and that his fall from his horse was engineered. Tomorrow, at first light, I purpose to go to the place where he fell and look for signs of a trip-wire, for his noble steed, Beaujambes, had a cut such as may be caused by a fine, strong twine. I will not rest, nor will I wed my lovely bride, until the killer of her father is brought to justice. This, I have sworn.”

The hall buzzed with conversation, wonder from some, sage nodding from others, and all looking speculatively at Wulfric, wondering if he knew anything to be able to make so rash an oath.

Wulfric sat down and nodded to Father Hubert.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, bless our bread as we come together to eat,” said Father Hubert. “Lay, we beseech Thee, Thy blessings upon this house of mourning, and let not this murder go un-avenged. If it were a stranger to this household, then let him fear the wrath of righteous men; and if it was one under our roof, let the filth of this petty treason be cleansed. Amen.”

“Why, Father, a master-stroke,” murmured Wulfric, his goblet held to hide his face. “Right cleverly done to remind folks that if anyone under Sir Ferrand killed him that it is petty treason.  Our miscreant almost has to kill me now, as well as getting rid of the evidence, to avoid being hanged, drawn, and quartered. A singularly horrible way to die.”

“I hoped it might help,” said Father Hubert.  “So sad when a young man is so very unsatisfactory.  When do I get up?”

“I’m sorry, Father, but I will require you to say the prayers of Matins and Lauds in situ, for we cannot know how swiftly the tale will be told, and in Piers’ shoes, I would want to be along to the scene of the crime as fast as possible; and maybe taking advantage of the long summer evenings, for their is light in the sky until easily nine of the clock. In which case, you will be back in time for Matins, and doubtless we shall join you.”

“I hope it will be a speedily-concluded outcome,” said Father Hubert. “It gives me a sour taste in the mouth which these excellent viands do not dispel.”

“Indeed,” said Wulfric.

It was hard to eat with every appearance of enjoyment, and without giving away that he would be away from the hall with his witnesses as soon as the meal was over. Of course, any informant must also wait for the meal to be over, for to slip away was a discourtesy to the lady of the hall which was not to be considered. Though if Piers’ informant was Hankin of the kitchen warren, a small affair where some half dozen coneys were kept to hand, he might slip out when he wished.

But he must get to the warrener’s house and convince Piers that he had important news to impart. And it must also depend on how much Hankin knew, or suspected, as to how important it was, and what orders he had over what to report.

Time ticked by with the drops of an imaginary clepsydra in Wulfric’s head, three hundred drops for Hankin to reach Piers’ house, three hundred back and another six hundred to the leap, if he avoided coming to the house, which he would. But Piers would not hurry himself unduly, he was too fond of his own gravitas.

He could see Hankin, getting a dressing-down from the cook. The cook had prevented the man from leaving; but when the tables were voided after the meal, he would have a chance. Wulfric caught Sewin’s eye; and the ostler nodded. He knew he must be in the stable right after the meal, saddling horses for Wulfric, Isabeau, Father Hubert, and himself.

And he would have prepared everything beforehand.