A seed of interest sprouted.
“Why do you fight?” he asked after a moment. “Are the Saxons so desperate for men that they permit their women to fight?”
Ghislaine eyed him, a faint blush of embarrassment coming to her cheeks. “I fight because I have been trained to fight,” she said, lifting her chin at him. “I fight because I am good at it. My mother was a warrior, as was my grandmother. I do what I want to do.”
“And no one says otherwise?”
“No one dares.”
Gaetan scratched his head. “I would believe that,” he said. Then, he looked to Lance, who was still standing next to him. “Gather the men and bring them to my tent. We have word of Kristoph that they will want to hear.”
With a lingering glance at the disheveled Saxon woman, Lance quit the tent, heading out to find the rest of the Anges de Guerre. When he was gone, Gaetan turned to Ghislaine.
He was far calmer than he had been when she’d entered the tent, with less rage and more curiosity. He wasn’t panicking at all, no matter how much she tried to stress that Kristoph was in danger. Perhaps, he didn’t really grasp what she was saying. Perhaps, she wasn’t communicating it properly in his native tongue. Whatever the case, Ghislaine eyed him with some trepidation now that they were alone.
“Now,” he said steadily. “Let us return to the subject of my knight and away from a woman warrior who has no business being on a battlefield. You said that you showed mercy to Kristoph so I suppose I should thank you. You also said he was knocked from his horse – did you do it?”
Ghislaine shook her head even though she wasn’t quite over his comment about warrior women having no place in battle. She hadn’t had a man speak to her in such a way since she had been very young. No one dared dispute Ghislaine and her right to battle.
“It was not me,” she said, miffed. “I saw him after he was on the ground.”
“But it was you who tied him to a horse and took him away?”
“My men did it.” She watched him for a moment before confessing the rest. “I knew he would be a valuable prisoner and I thought as you thought, that mayhap we could ransom him. But Alary had different ideas on that.”
Gaetan’s gaze drifted over her as she spoke. He could see that he’d offended her. Her answers were very clipped. He didn’t much care, however, and he rather liked her husky little voice with the heavy accent. There was something about the woman that was inherently intriguing, unlike the fine and pampered women he knew. She was strong and she had spirit. Those were admirable qualities.
She was also clever; he could sense that. He didn’t want her to think that she was more clever, or smarter, than he was. Therefore, he switched to her language simply to prove to her that he wasn’t an idiot who did not know the language of the Saxons. Perhaps, she would understand that he was more than a warrior, capable of only fighting.
His mind was as sharp as a razor.
“I have not heard of Alary of Mercia,” he said, watching her eyes widen because he spoke in her tongue. “Why was he exiled by Edwin?”
Ghislaine heard the question but she had one of her own. “How do you know my language?”
“How do you know mine?”
“Because my mother insisted we learn the language of our servants so we would know if they were to rise up against us.”
Gaetan lifted an eyebrow. “It is always wise to know the language of an enemy. That is why I know your language.”
Enemies. They were most definitely enemies. Therefore, Ghislaine couldn’t disagree with his statement. But the fact that he could speak her language gave her pause. There was something cunning behind those intense eyes. She eyed him for a moment.
“You want to know why Alary was exiled?” she asked. “He was exiled because he was foolish enough to get one of Edwin’s men killed, among other things. He has no conscience, nor does he have any understanding of things outside of his wants and needs. If you do not serve a purpose for him, then he will just as easily kill you.”
“And you fear that is what he will do to Kristoph?”
“I know he will.” She could see the concern ripple across Gaetan’s face so she sought to impress upon him how serious she was. She had to get through to him. “He will not want your money, I do not believe. He will demand to know everything about the Norman army and their plans to advance into England from your knight. If he does not get what he needs, then he will have no use for him.”
Gaetan pondered her statement. It was clear that she had some concern for Kristoph, which Gaetan thought was rather odd. There was no reason why she should have any concern for the enemy. It was true that she showed the man some mercy, evidently, by protecting him from those who sought to kill him, but beyond that… something about this didn’t sound right. There was something else that she wasn’t telling him.
As he considered that suspicion, the tent flap flew back and men began entering; de Russe, de Winter, de Lara, and de Moray followed by de Reyne, St. Hèver, du Reims, and Wellesbourne. Half-dressed, or sleepy-eyed from having been roused from their precious moments of sleep, big men were filling up the entry. They didn’t look pleased, either, glancing between Gaetan and the Saxon woman with a mixture of anxiety, frustration, and hostility.
The hostility was definitely palpable and Ghislaine instinctively stepped back, away from the seasoned warriors that were spilling into the tent. She also saw a squire or two, and maybe even a priest. Too many men were suddenly piling into the shelter and she backed away without looking where she was going, abruptly tripping over a bundle in the middle of the tent.
As she tried to pull her feet out of it, the fabric came away and she found herself looking at Harold’s corpse. He was tinged purple and green, his skin waxy like tallow. A scream left Ghislaine’s lips when she realized what she was looking at, struggling to pull the shroud away from her ankles. The more it wouldn’t come free, the more she panicked. Gasping, she finally freed herself, crawling over to the edge of the tent.
In spite of the fact that the tent was filled with fighting men, Ghislaine only had eyes for the pasty face of the dead king. Her sister’s husband. But she wouldn’t tell the Norman’s that, fearful that it might somehow seal the suggestion of taking her a hostage if they knew she was related to the man. That fear alone kept her silent.
In fact, she’d tried to push Harold’s death out of her mind because there was so much more of the situation demanding her attention. But the sight of his lifeless body brought tears to her eyes. Her sister had been rather fond of the man and she had accompanied him on his battle march from London. She was certain that her sister had already been informed that she was a widow and Ghislaine wished she could be of some comfort to the woman. But she had her own problems at the moment.