Something that big, nasty Norman knight had said to her when he had captured her and demanded to know of her king’s fate. He could have killed her but he hadn’t and he’d reminded her of that fragile mercy. Therefore, his statement remained with her, whether or not she wanted it to.
Now, it was a matter of honor… in the same situation, would she show mercy also?
Perhaps, that was the real truth behind her protection of the injured knight.
“This man is nothing to me,” she said for all to hear, torn between defiance and embarrassment. “But one of this knight’s brethren captured me during the battle and could have easily killed me. Yet, he spared my life and he told me to remember Norman mercy. Because of him, I will protect this knight because I always pay my debts. It is a matter of honor now – my life was spared and so shall this man’s be. He is to be untouched as long as I have breath in my body.”
The men around her understood such a debt. They were warriors, all of them, and mercy was that rare and precious quality that often times was the true test of honor in battle. Ghislaine of Mercia was a warrior woman, raised with her brothers to fight and to protect their lands and people.
When Harold brought his army south, Ghislaine’s brother, Earl Edwin, had been far to the north so Ghislaine and the outcast Alary had joined Harold’s army to meet the Norman invasion. They were warriors from generations of warriors, born and bred, and that was why she was here – a strong woman who commanded respect from the men around her. And because she was a warrior, she had the capacity to understand what honor and sacrifice meant.
I always pay my debts. She was paying it upon the cause of a wounded Norman knight.
But Alary was different. He didn’t understand much beyond his own selfish wants; glory for himself, wealth for himself, and an undying jealousy of his elder brothers’ status – he had two elder brothers who were both earls: Edwin of Mercia and Morcar of Northumbria. But Alary the Dark was nothing; perhaps he had hoped that supporting Harold against the Norman invasion would somehow prove to the king that he was worthy of such titles as his brothers held. But after this day, that was not to be and the sting of disappointment was a powerful thing in Alary’s heart.
Therefore, he wasn’t pleased with his sister’s refusal to turn the Norman knight over to him. Without another word, he stomped off into the darkness, taking some of the men with him. Only a few lingered now but with the declaration of Ghislaine’s merciful intentions, there wasn’t much reason for them to hang around the Norman knight. He was too injured to escape and even if he tried, they could easily catch him. Therefore, they started to move away in a disgruntled weary group.
Ghislaine suspected what the men were thinking and she further suspected that her brother’s departure was not permanent. He knew they had a valuable asset in the Norman knight and, greedy as he was, she knew he would be back. But at least for the moment, she could breathe without his ominous presence. She leaned over the knight once more.
“How badly injured are you?” she asked. “Can you move your limbs?”
Kristoph couldn’t see much of the woman who was hovering over him, but her voice had a silky quality that was deceptively comforting. Could he move his limbs? He really had no idea. He hadn’t tried. He’d rolled himself into a ball once they’d untied him from the horse that had dragged him over miles of rocks and bramble, and that was where he remained. Fortunately, he was wearing mail and protection so he was fairly certain the damage to his skin was minimal. But he’d lost his helm somewhere along the way and his head was painful and swimming. So was the leg they’d tied the rope to. Gingerly, he extended both legs to feel for breaks or damage.
“I seem to be able to,” he said, now moving his arms slowly. He ended up flat on his back, gazing up at the dark canopy above and a glimmer of stars beyond that. “But it is difficult to breathe. I may have broken something when I fell off my horse.”
Ghislaine looked at the man. He was very big and she could see the size of his arms and thighs even through the heavy padding and clothing he wore. It wasn’t much different from what her army wore, but it was better made. The Normans had the latest in armor and protection, but that kind of thing was expensive. The man had money or he came from money, because the protection he wore was very fine.
“Then I will have a healer tend to you,” she said, “but I cannot promise it will be any time soon. We have a great deal of wounded.”
The knight didn’t say anything for a moment, staring blankly up at the sky above. “Where is my horse?”
“I do not know.”
“My sword. It was sheathed on my saddle.”
“I do not know where your horse or your sword are, but I am sure they are both the spoils of war for one of our soldiers. I would not worry over either if I were you. I would worry about myself.”
That was not unreasonable advice. Kristoph knew as much but, still, he had to ask. His head lolled in her direction.
“A pity,” he said. “I was rather fond of that horse and the sword… my father gave it to me when I was knighted many years ago. I shall miss them both.”
Ghislaine’s gaze lingered on him a moment. “Then, mayhap, you should not have come to take our country,” she said. “Had you remained on your own shores, you would not have lost either one.”
He lifted his eyebrows, slowly, as if she had just said something he more or less agreed with. His eyes left her face, moving down her body, seeing that she, too, was wearing heavy protection but on a smaller scale, built for her woman’s body. She was dressed like a warrior.
“Much as you have done, I, too, follow my king,” he said quietly, not commenting on the fact that she was dressed like a man. “If it makes you feel any better, my wife did not wish for me to come, either.”
“You are married?”
“Aye,” he said, his expression softening, even in the dim light. “A woman with skin like cream and hair the color of coal. The angel of my heart. She gives the commands and I obey. But on this occasion, I could not. I was duty-bound to follow my king. She will not be pleased that I have managed to throw myself into the arms of the enemy.”
Ghislaine thought on a Norman woman with pale skin and black hair who was now missing her husband, only she didn’t know it yet. It made Ghislaine think on her own husband, lost in a shipwreck two years ago. He had been traveling with the king to Ponthieu when the ship had run aground. Her sweet Hakon had drown in the ensuing chaos, only three months into their marriage which had been a very pleasant one.
Ghislaine well remembered the grief from that loss, now fighting off the guilt that some woman she did not know would soon be facing the same thing. She should have turned away from the conversation at this point, unwilling to come to know the Norman knight beyond his hated loyalties. But some deep-seated pity in her now had her seeing the knight not as an enemy but as a man. He had a wife, the angel of his heart.