The Saxon Outlaw's Revenge

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#u27bc089d-3a90-5a8e-9de3-d461d29f3a75)

Cheshire—1068

They hanged the rebels in the market square. Rain hung in the air. Heavy drizzle that characterised this part of England: thicker than mist and turning the world grey and damp.

A cheerless day for a brutal act.

Constance Arnaud wished she could leave this cold, unwelcoming country and return to Normandy where the sun was visible some days even in October. She wiggled her twisted foot to rid herself of the dull ache that ran from her toes to knee and pulled her fur-trimmed cloak tighter. She tipped the hood forward. The folds of heavy wool would not block out the sounds, but she would not have to watch the men die.

The old thegn stood between two guards, his fine tunic torn and filthy with blood and grime. He wore fetters but was bowed down by more than the weight of the chains that held him.

‘Brunwulf, formerly Thegn of Hamestan, for conspiring to incite revolt, your remaining land and title is forfeit. As tenant-in-chief for my liege and King, it is my duty and right to pass this sentence on you.’

From the dais Baron Robert de Coudray’s voice rang clear across the square. A muttering of anger rippled around the crowd, dying away quickly as the soldiers raised their weapons.

Constance wondered how many of the serfs and villeins that huddled behind makeshift railings understood what her brother-in-law had said. She had lived in England for eighteen months, but a year after moving from Winchester to Cheshire the accent still seemed thick and impenetrable to her ears.

‘Your life and the lives of those who raised swords against your King are also forfeit,’ Robert continued.

Brunwulf raised his head at this and stared at Robert. His eyes were bruised and almost forced shut with the swelling, but the hatred in them was clear. He spat a reply, the name and sentiment familiar to Constance.

‘The Bastard of Normandy is no King of mine.’

Another murmur, this time of approval, sped round the gathered people and a few cries of agreement rose up. Constance shifted nervously. People must have come from half of Cheshire to witness today’s executions and, though these were farmers and craftsmen, serfs and women, there were a lot more of them than there were soldiers in the baron’s retinue.

Robert’s cheeks reddened as he bellowed his reply. ‘The crown has been William’s for two years. We rule England now. If you had submitted you could have retained control of your lands as our vassals, but you refused to see sense. Now you will pay the penalty.’

A cruel light shone in the baron’s eyes. ‘You will be the last to die. You will watch the deaths of your countrymen and sons first though, so you understand how utterly you have failed. Let this be a warning to any who think to oppose us.’

Robert jerked a thumb and a dozen bound men were brought forward from the heavily guarded cart and pushed to their knees alongside the thegn. They bore the same signs of rough treatment as Brunwulf and like him wore clothes that once spoke of quality. These were not serfs or slaves, but thegns and housecarls themselves.

Three at a time the condemned men were dragged up the steps to the scaffold in the centre of the square and nooses tightened around their necks. As the first three executions were carried out wails of sorrow broke out among the crowd. The voices of wives and mothers, sisters or lovers. The soldiers standing in front of the huddled, grieving women crossed their pikes to hold them back in case the women rushed forward in attack. Constance could not help the sigh that escaped her.

Sitting between Constance and the baron, Robert’s wife turned pale.

‘Don’t pity them,’ Jeanne de Coudray whispered harshly. ‘What compassion would they have spared us? Would they have cared if we had starved?’

Constance reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed tightly. The answering flutter was so slight it tore at Constance’s heart. Jeanne was six years older than Constance, but would have passed for double that. Fifteen months of marriage to Lord de Coudray had destroyed any softness Jeanne had once possessed and beaten the bloom from her cheeks. Seeing her sister change into this wraith reminded Constance how fortunate it was that though she was prettier than Jeanne, her twisted foot had prevented Robert choosing her as his bride when the sisters were offered.

Constance stared back at the faces that blurred into a mass of pale eyes and shades of blond hair, so different to her own dark eyes and hair. She knew they hated her and all her countrymen. The women would have doubtless rejoiced at their grief and spat on her pity, but Constance remembered the sorrow that had numbed her following the death of her father at the Battle of Senlac. Her heart still broke for them. She wiped a hand across her eyes and looked at the ground, pulling the hood further forward so she did not have to think about the bodies twisting in the biting wind.

‘Open your eyes and watch how those who would threaten your King die, girl,’ Robert commanded in an undertone. ‘Don’t shame me before these Saxon savages or I’ll whip the skin from your back.’

Constance raised her head obediently and forced herself to watch as man after man was lifted high alive and cut down a corpse. Some resisted as the knots were pulled tight, one or two looked on the verge of weeping; others walked with dignity to their deaths. Without exception all spat towards the dais where Robert’s household sat, fixing any Norman who met their eye with a loathing that made Constance shiver with fear.

Their deaths were not quick or easy, but if the uprising had not been prevented and they had joined with those in other counties, how slow and degrading would her death at their hands have been? She’d heard the tales of what had happened elsewhere, of children speared in their beds and women shared between the rebels until they begged for death. Even a twist-footed cripple like Constance would not be spared the degradation. Jeanne was right, it was relief she should feel, not pity.

Finally only three men remained alive. Their ages spanned a decade at least, but the reddish tint in their straw-blond hair and beards marked them as Brunwulf’s sons. The youngest, a man in his middle twenties, could barely walk. His leg was bound to a splint and he clenched his teeth with pain as he was half-carried up the steps. As they were pushed forward to the waiting nooses Brunwulf finally groaned aloud with despair and to Constance it seemed he shrank in stature before her eyes. The eldest called something to his father, his words rapid and in a dialect so thick Constance could not make out a single word. Brunwulf’s lips twisted into a grimace. He nodded and his sons raised their heads to stare at the baron defiantly. As one man they leapt off the ladders, causing their necks to break with the violence of their swing.

Without warning a roar of rage erupted from the back of the crowd. Robert leapt to his feet. People began muttering and jostling as a figure pushed through them. Someone screamed in alarm. Brunwulf swore.

Robert barked orders rapidly and soldiers plunged in among the gathered watchers to find the source, roughly knocking people aside. Cries of indignation and alarm filled the air until eventually two soldiers returned dragging a struggling figure dressed in a dark blue cloak. The soldiers marched to the dais and threw their captive to the ground in front of Robert. One dropped a short sword alongside him. The other ripped the cloak from him and threw it aside, revealing a scrawny figure dressed in a worn tunic and hose with leg bindings where a sheathed dagger was stuffed. He pulled the dagger loose and threw it alongside the sword.

As the prisoner raised his face to glare at his captors Constance got her first clear look at his face. The sight caused her stomach to knot and vomit to rise in her throat. She gave an involuntary start forward in her seat.

Jeanne touched her arm gently and looked at her questioningly.

‘Are you in pain?’

Constance shook her head and gave a half-smile, hoping her sister could not read the shock in her expression. She sat back, her mind whirling and filled with memories of occasions she had put behind her. Unconsciously she raised a hand to her lips, then realised what she had done, lowered it quickly and looked at the boy on the ground.

Aelric. Brunwulf’s youngest son.

To call him a boy was unjust. He was young and couldn’t yet be described as a full-grown man, but he was older than Constance by a year or two. He did not resemble his father at all. His tangled hair was reddish-blond and flopped across angular cheeks that were barely graced with a downy beard. Whereas Brunwulf was burly, Aelric had long limbs that he had not grown to fit completely.

As long as she had lived in Hamestan he had been there as Lord De Coudray’s ward, though everyone knew ward was another word for prisoner, lodged within the manor grounds as a guarantee of his father’s obedience. And now his father had broken that peace in the worst way possible and the boy would suffer. He had vanished from Hamestan after the uprising had been quashed and Constance had hoped he would have been long gone.

One of the soldiers twisted an arm up behind the boy’s back to what looked like breaking point. He seized hold of him by the hair and wrenched his head back, causing the boy to let out a string of expletives, only some of which Constance knew.

‘Why are you here?’ Robert demanded. ‘I thought you had fled to save your neck.’

‘I came to save my father,’ the boy shouted. He winced and gave a gasp of pain through gritted teeth as the soldier twisted his arm higher.

‘You’re too late for that,’ Robert said coldly.

‘Then I will avenge his death and those of my brothers,’ Aelric snarled.

Constance glanced at the men swinging from the ropes and their father waiting in chains. Brunwulf stood, shoulders tense and expression stricken. Robert left the dais and walked to where the boy knelt in the mud. When he reached Aelric he leaned over, putting his face close to the boy’s.