“He is our enemy, Ghislaine,” he said in a calm, even tone. “You cannot prevent what must come about. The men must know some satisfaction on this night.”
Ghislaine pulchra ancilla Merciae, or Ghislaine, The Beautiful Maid of Mercia, and sister to Edwin, Earl of Mercia, didn’t move from her position over the wounded knight. She knew the men wouldn’t strike as long as she was there but, in all honestly, she couldn’t understand why she wasn’t joining them in their rage. She’d been at the battle from the beginning and she, too, held hatred in her heart for the Normans. But there was something about this situation that spoke to her of something beyond a captured Norman knight.
There was an opportunity here.
“His death would be momentary satisfaction only,” she said. “None of you realize that this man is of value to us. Do you not understand? You captured him to kill him but you must not do that – he knows the Norman ways. They are upon our shores and our king has been killed this night. Are you too foolish to realize that he may be of use for our very survival?”
It was very dark in the trees, the shadows from the moon barely piercing the canopy as dozens, if not hundreds, of men lingered below, beaten and bloodied from a day of battle against the Norman invaders. They were also confused and dazed. Even as Ghislaine spoke, the men surrounding her and the injured knight didn’t seem to grasp what she was suggesting.
“I would rather feel the satisfaction of his head upon my sword!” one of the men snarled as the others around him agreed.
But Ghislaine shook her head. “Nay,” she stressed. “He is of more value to us alive.”
“The only valuable Norman is a dead one!”
Men shouted in agreement but Ghislaine put up a hand to plead for understanding. “Killing him would accomplish nothing! We would only be harming ourselves in the end! Can you not see how valuable he could be?”
“He is our enemy, Ghislaine.”
The voice came from the darkness. Then, a slender man with a massive scar across his face running from his left temple, across his nose, and ending by the right side of his jaw pushed through the men standing about. When he made an appearance, everyone seemed to fall quiet; where anger and revenge had reflected in men’s expressions, now there was uncertainty. Fear. Even Ghislaine’s features changed at the sight; there was fear there but she was trying not to show it.
At that moment, the mood in the agitated circle of men seemed to plummet.
“Alary,” she said calmly. “Greetings, Brother. God has been merciful that you have survived the battle.”
Alary of Mercia, a brother to both Ghislaine and Earl Edwin, surveyed the group of men standing around before finally coming to rest on his sister, still spread out over the injured knight. His dark eyes narrowed.
“Aye, I survived,” he said. He began to pace a slow circle around his sister and the crumpled knight. “I survived when our good king did not. Why I should be spared and Harold should die, I will never know. God is, mayhap, not favoring the faithful on this night. And you, my sister? I thought you hated the Normans as we all did. Why do you protect this knight?”
Ghislaine eyed her brother until he wandered out of her sight; she didn’t like the fact that he was behind her now. Alary was unpredictable at best, an edgy sadist with a brutal streak, so much so that their brother, Edwin, had exiled him from the royal stronghold of Tamworth last year. Too much disobedience on Alary’s part and an incident that saw one of Edwin’s favorite knights killed had warranted such a reaction. If evil had a name and a face, both belonged to Alary of Mercia. Alary Obscurum, he was known.
Alary the Dark.
“I am not protecting him,” she said, feeling fearful of her brother even as she said it. “But we should think twice before using him as an object of vengeance. He looks to be a very fine knight. Mayhap, we could ransom him to Normandy or even back to his own family. Mayhap, he even knows of Normandy’s plans. Certainly, we should consider such things before the men run him through and we lose any chance we have of understanding Normandy’s intentions. He could be valuable.”
Alary had wandered into her line of sight again. He stood there, looking down at her, and it made Ghislaine very nervous. Undoubtedly, her brother was considering what she’d said but, knowing him, there was some grisly twist to it all. She’d seen what the man could do to his enemies. Therefore, she braced herself.
“That is a very astute observation,” Alary finally said. “Can the knight speak for himself? Remove yourself, Ghislaine. No one will hurt the knight. I wish to speak with him.”
Ghislaine didn’t trust her brother. He’d been known to break bonds before and had a history of telling mistruths to those around him. Still, she couldn’t lay on the knight forever so she shifted her body, cautiously climbing off the man. He was crumpled on his side, his dark blonde hair matted with dirt and blood. She remained beside him, bending down to get a look at his face in the darkness.
Truthfully, she couldn’t even tell if he was conscious. She peered closer to his face, catching a glimmer of his eyeballs in the darkness.
He was awake.
“What is your name?” she asked him in his language, something she had learned at her parents’ insistence because it was the common language of many people in England. “Do not be afraid. Tell me your name.”
In the darkness, the knight blinked. “You speak my language.”
“I do. Answer me. What is your name?”
“De Lohr.”
His voice sounded tight, as he was in pain. Ghislaine rocked back on her heels, turning to her brother. “His name is de Lohr,” she said. “What would you ask him?”
Alary moved closer, bending over to get a look at the knight. “I want to know a great many things,” he said. “Move away. I would speak with him alone.”
Ghislaine shook her head. “I will not,” she said. “I do not trust you not to kill him.”
Alary’s expression tightened and he reached down, grabbing her roughly by the shoulder. “I told you to go.”
Ghislaine balled a fist and hit his hand away, hard. “He is my prisoner,” she declared. “I brought him here. I saved him from death. If you want to speak with him, then do it, but I will not leave.”
Alary was exasperated. “Why are you so protective of him? What is he to you?”
His question brought her building rage to a halt because it was something she didn’t have a ready answer for. She had a myriad of theories, but no hard truths. Her gaze moved from her brother to the knight, who was looking at her steadily – with resignation. He knew his fate was in her hands. She was his only protection against the mob and he knew it. Why was she so protective of him?
Remember Norman mercy the next time you intend to do one of us harm.