Hers To Command

His repast complete, Henry contemplated what he should do. He had no duties here, beyond waiting for that lout Roald. A glance toward the window showed that the storm had blown itself out overnight. The sky was clear, and the sun shone as if it were still summer, so he decided to take a stroll about the castle.

As he passed through the hall, he noted that neither lady was there. Lady Mathilde was probably running around issuing orders somewhere. As for Lady Giselle, maybe she was trying on gowns or brushing her hair or whatever it was beautiful ladies did while their sisters ran the household.

He halted on the steps leading down to the courtyard and surveyed the fortress of Ecclesford. A keep—square, squat, ugly and old—stood at the southern end of the yard, while various other buildings had been built against the inside of the protective wall. The stables were to his right, with barracks above, judging by the men’s garments hanging out of the open windows to dry. At least one was a gambeson, the quilted padded jacket soldiers wore beneath their mail.

The small building in the corner opposite the stables with the carved door was probably the chapel. Good Father Thomas could have spent his days leisurely there, saying mass once a day and otherwise doing whatever he wanted. Truly, he seemed a kind and honest churchman, and Henry hoped he saw more of him.

The kitchen had to be the building attached to the hall by a covered corridor, so that should fire break out, it wouldn’t spread to the hall. He sniffed the air and recognized the wonderful smell of baking bread and gravy.

When he had been released from his imprisonment, the first thing he had asked for was wine, but what he had enjoyed most was his first bite of a loaf of freshly baked bread. It still seemed to him the very taste of freedom.

Turning his thoughts from those days, he noted the well near the kitchen, which meant that if the castle were ever besieged, water wouldn’t be a problem, unless some bloated carcass of a beast was thrown over the wall and landed in it by a stroke of luck for the attacking force. As was usually the case, several women were clustered around it, drawing water and gossiping, no doubt. He wondered what they made of his presence here.

He looked up at the wall walk, trying to determine how many men patrolled the battlements. Not enough, that seemed certain, and several of them stood together, clearly much more interested in what was going on in the courtyard than keeping watch over the village and the approach to the castle.

Sir Leonard de Brissy would have had them all in the stocks and so would he…but this was not his castle or his garrison to command. He was a guest, so he would keep his opinions to himself. Besides, he could easily imagine how Lady Mathilde would take any suggestion he attempted to make.

When Henry started across the yard, the bustle came to a momentary halt while those at their work stopped to look at the Norman in their midst. The women gathered at the well eyed him with approval, while laborers repairing the base of the wall near the gate were considerably less impressed.

As before, Henry ignored their scrutiny, paying more attention to the guards, if they could be called that, at the gate. They leaned on their spears, chatting as if they were passing the time in a tavern. As Henry strolled out the open gates, they barely glanced his way.

God’s blood, if he were in charge here, they’d be having bread and water for a week. No wonder Roald had not yet come to make his claim. He probably assumed he could simply saunter through the gates whenever it pleased him, demand the castle, and no one would be able to stop him.

How Lady Mathilde thought such a garrison could defeat Roald…

He came to an abrupt halt. In the open area between the dry moat and the village, Cerdic and another man, stripped to the waist, were fighting with clubs. Other men had formed a half circle around them, apparently offering advice or encouragement. Both combatants were intent on each other and clearly determined to win, yet he didn’t detect animosity—just determination.

Not a fight between enemies or a settling of accounts, then. A practice? God save him, could it be? Was it possible there was some kind of attempt to train these men after all? But why clubs?

One of the men in the semicircle spotted Henry and made a comment to the man next to him. Soon others were staring at him, and in the next moment, Cerdic and his opponent had turned to look at him, too.

Having nothing better to do, Henry sauntered toward them.

“What dost thou seek, Norman?” Cerdic demanded.

“I was wondering what you’re doing with those clubs.”

Cerdic and his companion exchanged amused and smug smiles. “We use clubs instead of axes when we practice lest we slice off fingers,” Cerdic replied. “We leave the swords for more dainty men.”

So, that was the way it was going to be. “Then perhaps you’ll let me watch and learn a trick or two.”

Cerdic sniffed. “Why? Thou and thy countrymen do not use axes.”

“I was taught to use any weapon that might be on a battlefield. Sir Leonard used to say a lance could be broken, a sword knocked away and a mace ripped from your grip, so the wise knight learns to fight with anything that might come to hand.”

A challenging gleam appeared in Cerdic’s storm-gray eyes. “I would see how a Norman fights with an ax.”

The blood quickened in Henry’s veins, as it always did when he was challenged. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we test each other here and now?”

The men muttered excitedly and Cerdic darted them a satisfied grin before addressing Henry again. “With these toys, or real axes?”

“Since I would rather not lose a limb, I’d prefer a club.” Henry was determined to beat Cerdic, but he wasn’t a fool. Accidents happened in practices, too, and it was obvious Cerdic didn’t like him.

Cerdic’s grin grew. “Very well, Norman. The toys.”

Cerdic nodded to the man he’d been about to fight. With a sneer and a few words Henry was sure were not compliments, the fellow handed his club to Henry.

Cerdic could call them toys if he liked, Henry thought as he tested the feel and weight of the club, but this thing could break bones.

As he swung his weapon back and forth, then up and around his head, he studied Cerdic out of the corner of his eye. He wouldn’t be easy to defeat. He was full of the confidence that came from skill, and he was one of the more well-muscled men Henry had ever seen. Although Henry didn’t believe Cerdic would kill or seriously wound a guest of the ladies of Ecclesford, he didn’t want to have to hobble about on a broken leg, or nurse a broken arm, either.

“Until the first man cries mercy?” Henry proposed.

His opponent nodded.

“Care to make a wager on who it will be?”

That brought another grin to Cerdic’s face. “Ten silver pennies ’twill be thee.”

“Done,” Henry said. He glanced at the other men. “Wonder who they’ll bet on?”

“Me to win, thee to lose,” Cerdic said in a low voice.

And then, with a blood-curdling cry, the man ran at Henry, swinging his club back and up and around, to bring it crashing down on Henry’s head—had Henry still been standing there. With lightning-fast reflexes honed by hours of practice, Henry deftly sidestepped the blow and shoved his shoulder against Cerdic, knocking him sideways.

Growling an oath, Cerdic righted himself and turned to see Henry holding his weapon with both hands, his body half-turned. Henry swung low, aiming for his calves.

Hissing like a snake, Cerdic leaped back, his arms wide with surprise. “Dog! Thou wouldst break my ankles?”

“You could have broken my head if your blow had landed. If this were an ax and I’d hit, you could have lost your feet.”

Scowling, Cerdic raised his weapon again and shuffled, by wary inches, closer to his opponent. Henry hesitated, not sure if he should try to strike low again, or knock the weapon from Cerdic’s hand.

That hesitation cost him, for Cerdic suddenly jumped forward, bringing his weapon straight down. Henry lunged to the left, nearly sprawling on the ground. He righted almost at once and managed to hit Cerdic’s club.

Cerdic struck back instantly, his club coming down on Henry’s. Shoving it off, Henry backed up a step or two, but the men watching had surrounded them, ringing them in, and he had less room to maneuver than he thought.

Whatever happened, he wasn’t going to give up. He was going to win and show these soldiers that he really did know how to fight with something other than a sword or mace or lance.

He would prove his skill and do Sir Leonard proud.

As fierce resolve coursed through his veins, he watched Cerdic like a hawk would a field mouse it wanted for its dinner and shouted at the men to give him room. They did, backing up a little, although they muttered in complaint as they did.

“I need no more room to defeat thee,” Cerdic said through clenched teeth, also keeping his gaze on Henry, no doubt seeking an opening, too. “Canst thou not fight in close quarters, Norman?”

“Aye, indeed, I can,” Henry replied, circling him in a crouch. “Very close.”

With that, and although he was right-handed, he swung his club from the left. As he’d expected, that caught Cerdic off guard and he was unprepared to defend a blow from that side. The club flew from his hand, striking an unfortunate fellow in the front row.