Barbara Leigh

  For Love of Rory

  Barbara Leigh

  To my husband, Richard

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  They came from the sea. A small band of wild Celts. Rough men, clad in fur and armor, with leggings made of hide and tied with wide thongs of leather. Up the rocky cliffs they climbed, merging with the falling shadows in their relentless advance toward the little village nestled against the English countryside.

  They carried iron weapons along with the thick rope slung over their shoulders. And their faces held the determination of desperate men who must succeed in their quest, or face annihilation.

  So stealthy was their approach that they went unnoticed until they were ready to fall upon the old men and frightened women who might challenge them. They would strike with the coming of night. Strike and be gone, taking with them the only treasure the village had to offer.

  They moved like the shadows of twilight. Creeping along the edge of darkness that covered the land, intent on taking from it the most tender, most valuable crop.

  So still were they that even the village dogs did not sense their presence until time had run out and the animals could do nothing but whine and die.

  The last songbird joined with the denizens of darkness in a duet of evensong. A mother settled herself beside the hearth and put her child to her breast, vaguely aware that the creatures of the night had suddenly fallen silent in the prelude to darkness.

  Her musings were interrupted as the dog bristled. Before the animal could move, the door burst open. One man tore the child from her arms as another covered her mouth to stifle her screams. But the babe raised an angry protest at being separated from his meal.

  “Bring the woman,” a voice said. “We need no mewling babe dying from hunger before we reach our destination.” The mother fought to free herself. With one deft movement a man slung her over his shoulder and carried her through the village while the leader and his men surged toward the doors of the keep. The Celts ferreted out the children and herded them, serf and lord alike, into the kitchens where the rest of the household were eating their evening meal.

  Bowls of meat and gruel spilled across the rough-hewn boards and clattered onto the floor as adults added their shouts of outrage to those of their young.

  The sounds reached into the solar where the Lady Serine worked on her accounts. With her lord husband on crusade there was much for her to do to keep the estate intact for her little son, Hendrick. The work taxed her in both mind and body but she paid her discomfort little heed, for her whole being was centered on the welfare of her child and the security of her husband’s estate.

  Thinking the servants had become somewhat bawdy, Serine rose wearily from the table where she worked. Her footsteps picked up speed as she recognized the sounds of true distress in the voices below. Distress, and the deep rumbling of men’s voices. A rumbling that had not been heard at Sheffield since her husband had stripped the estate of men and followed the king to the Holy Land. Had the men returned without warning? Or had her household been overtaken by uninvited guests? One glance at the scene below gave her the answer.

  So intent were the invaders that they did not see the young woman slip from the solar and hurry down the worn stairs. She moved like the wind, her whole being focused on the raven-haired man as he snatched up her son. The Celt’s hair had broken loose from its bonds and fell to his shoulders, framing his bearded face. His eyes blazed like coals of hell, so full of fierce determination they could strike terror into the heart of the most courageous beholder.

  Swallowing her fear, Serine seized a lance from the rack at the foot of the stairs and moved toward the Celt.

  “Rory! ‘Ware!” a deep voice shouted as Serine delivered a blow that glanced off the leader’s broad shoulders. But even the strength of her desperation did not faze the man. With his free hand he grasped her weapon and twisted it from her hands. Their eyes locked and held as challenge met defiance. Serine’s eyes shifted to her child, and the Celt’s resolve hardened as he delivered a swiping blow that sent her pitching backward until she fell, limp, against the stairs.

  At the sight of his mother’s apparent demise, the boy redoubled his efforts to escape, fighting with prowess that belied his age and size. The man gave him a little shake.

  “She is not dead,” he grunted as the boy’s foot connected with his stomach. “Most like, she hurts less than I. Now stop your caterwauling.”

  But Hendrick did not stop, and the chieftain wrapped the lad in his cloak and carried him from the keep, a smile of grim satisfaction on his face.

  This boy had spirit. He was a lad of whom a man could be proud. The sort of child they risked all to acquire, and to Rory and his comrades the boy was worth more than gold. He was their only hope of survival. A last chance for immortality.

  Serine staggered to her feet, determination mixed with hatred in her dark eyes.

  The women took up torches, clubs and knives and followed the Celts. The invaders seemed immune to their blows as they ran from the village with the children tucked beneath their arms like sacks of grain. In the confusion, several women were able to pluck their young from the invaders’ arms.

  “To the woods! To the woods!” Serine shouted above the melee. “Take your children to the woods.”

  Even the most courageous women could not hide their fear at the thought of entering the woods after nightfall, for the woods were filled with spirits that walked in darkness. They looked to one another for courage as the frightened children dug in their heels, torn between the terror of the unknown dangers of the forest and the men who threatened to steal them away.

  In the end, the women made for the woods, but the moment of hesitation had cost them, and even the most fleet of foot were no match for the marauding men.

  The women screamed for their children and shouted curses at the men who had taken them. Serine’s voice rang out above the rest. “Steal back your children before it’s too late,” she urged as she rushed through the throng of fierce men and desperate women.

  “Find the screaming harpy and silence her,” the raven-haired leader ordered. But even as he spoke, the cooking fire in one of the huts spilled across the rushes, and the embers burst into flames that lit the darkness.

  The shadows evaporated, and with them the men, who disappeared into the night. In the silence that ensued, the only sound was the cry of a bird calling mournfully, “Too late...too late...too late....”

  * * *

  The thatched huts were but wet embers and the Celts were gone with most of the village children as the exhausted villagers congregated outside the keep, where they dropped to the ground like fallen sparrows. Young women sobbed openly while old men wept silent tears. As Lady of Sheffield it was Serine’s duty to see to the health and welfare of her serfs. It was well within her ability to treat their wounds and illnesses, but there was nothing she could do to heal their aching hearts—hearts that could not be eased until that which had been lost was recovered.

  “I will not allow those heathen savages to get away with this,” Serine told Dame Margot. “They’ll not steal my son without feeling my wrath.”

  Dame Margot, Dowager Lady
of Sheffield, and Serine’s stepmother, wrung her hands in despair. “We are but a few weak women. If only the men were here instead of off on Crusade.”

  “But the men aren’t here.” Serine’s chin set in determination.

  “Then there is nothing we can do. We cannot hope to overcome men who are trained to fight, even if there are no more than a score of them. They overpowered us so easily it looked like child’s play.” Margot shifted nervously. The Lady of Sheffield was far younger than her husband, and quite set in her ways. Dame Margot knew how it felt to be the young bride of an older lord, and indulged Serine in many ways, but she could not stand by and allow the mistress of Sheffield to endanger her life and the lives of her serfs in a hopeless cause. As dowager she must do her best to make Serine see the futility of her proposal.

  Sensing that Dame Margot was making ready to try to stop her, Serine went to the top step and stood silhouetted before the door. Her russet hair caught in the wind in wild disarray and her dark eyes flashed as she called out for the attention of her serfs.

  “Good people, hear me!”

  Weary heads lifted and tears dried as a spark of hope crept through the crowd.

  “Our children have been stolen. If we want them back we must go after them.”

  Hope was replaced by disbelief. Surely the young mistress had gone daft with grief.

  “We cannot fight those pagans, m’lady,” a voice cried out. “They’ll kill us dare we challenge them again.”

  “I do not intend to fight,” Serine told them, “but I intend to steal our children back and bring them home.”

  “But how can you hope to do that, Lady?” the alewife asked. “We have neither the strength nor the weapons.”

  “We do not need strength. We have skill and stealth. And what we have lost is far more precious to us than to them,” Serine returned in a voice that held firm despite the quivering in her stomach. “We will steal back our children one by one if need be.”

  “Lady.” Hildegard, the alewife, lumbered to her feet. “We were lucky in this raid. There was no killing or looting. Nor did they rape or pillage. If we follow them and put ourselves in their paths we will suffer all that we have been spared.” She scrubbed a tear from her face and continued, “I want my childer back as much as anyone here, but I know when I am beaten, and I be no match for an army of thieving Celts.”

  Serine looked out over the women’s faces. They were resigned, without hope or purpose. Their children had been stolen away while their men were off fighting a holy war. It was up to Serine to make them believe in themselves again. She must find a way to make them willing to go after their children. Their children, and Hendrick, her son.

  For without Hendrick all was lost and the sacrifice of her youth to the whims of an old but powerful husband would come to naught. If there was no heir to the estate it would revert to the Crown, and Serine had sworn a blood vow that it should not be so. This was her land. The land for which her ancestors had fought and died. And although, as a woman, Serine could not inherit in her own right, she had given all to secure it for her son.

  Drawing her courage about her like a shield of valor, she tried once more to call the villagers to her cause. “‘Twas no army, but a thieving band of Celts,” Serine shouted. “I doubt there were more than twenty men for all their shouting and bluster.”

  In truth she thought it to be nearer twice that number, but few of the women were able to count.

  “And we have weapons,” Serine assured them. “Nearly every woman here can shoot an arrow or set a trap.”

  “Oh, no! My lady,” Hildegard protested, “we know nothing of such things.” It boded no good that their lady suspected they were capable of catching and killing the wildlife that lived in the forest. A serf’s life was forfeit if caught poaching on the master’s land.

  Serine put her hands on her hips. Her dark eyes narrowed and she scrutinized each face. She knew the doubt and fear that plagued the minds of her people and realized she must end those fears if her plan was to succeed.

  “I have seen you hit your mark with an arrow, or return with game from your traps. I have seen you. Many times. The keep has windows and I am not blind. But my land is rich and fertile. Wildlife abounds, enough for all to share. Now I ask you to bring the skills you have been using to stock your larders and use your knowledge to bring about the return of our children.”

  The women stared, openmouthed with surprise. What sort of lady was this who knew they took the master’s meat and did nothing? They looked at one another in astonishment.

  “Who is with me?” Serine held out her arms, calling for support. “Who is with me? Or do I go alone?”

  No one moved. They stood like statues, hardly daring to breathe. Then there was a shuffling in the crowd.

  An old woman emerged, an English longbow over her shoulder, a quiver of arrows on her back and a patch over one eye. “I stand with you, m’lady. I can shoot as well as any man, and will follow wherever you go. As long as you don’t go too fast.”

  “But how can you hope to hit your mark?” Serine asked. “You have but one eye.”

  “Had two when I was born,” the old woman told her. “But I lost the one to an errant arrow. Decided then and there I would never be satisfied until I learned to conquer the thing that had maimed me. You’ll find me as good a shot as any man. Only one eye is needed to send an arrow to its mark.”

  Serine gave a sigh of relief. She saw the old woman’s determination and knew her admission to her prowess with the bow gave Serine the solution she needed.

  “Thank you, Old Ethyl.” Serine held out her hand and the one-eyed woman came to stand beside her. “And who else?”

  The fact that Old Ethyl openly carried her bow and just as openly declared that she knew how to use it gave courage to the others. Several women stepped forward, including Hildegard, the alewife, who drew a strong leather cord from her pocket.

  “I cannot shoot an arrow, and that’s no lie. But I can set a trap big enough to catch a small animal or a man’s foot, and once my quarry is down I’ll sit on him until help arrives.”

  Everyone laughed, for the alewife’s girth was legendary.

  “Go and get what you need,” Serine ordered. “Bring bread and meat and a plaid to keep you warm. We know not how long we will be gone. Those who cannot keep up will stay behind. Now, be off with you. We must make all haste. We must steal back our children.”

  The women nodded and hurried off as Ursa, Hendrick’s nurse, entered the hall.

  Serine saw the misery in the woman’s eyes and held out her arms.

  Ursa ran to her. Tears streamed down her face. “They took my whole brood,” she said, “and your Hendrick, as well. I could not stop them, but I know where they camp.”

  “Then they are still on English soil?” Serine exulted.

  “I followed them to the place where the boats wait. Apparently ours is not the only village they raided. It looked as though they were expecting more children to be brought in before they sail.” Ursa held Serine at arm’s length. They had been friends since before Serine had married. To Serine, Ursa dared speak her mind. “You must go to Lord Baneford, your overlord, and ask his help. He is pledged to defend you while your husband is away.”

  “There is no time,” Serine said. “The invaders will be gone before help could arrive.”

  “But surely the Celts won’t sail off into the night,” Ursa protested, crossing herself against the dangers of darkness.

  Old Ethyl shifted the bow on her shoulders and spoke with authority. “Dark or light, they will sail with the first tide after they have achieved their purpose. When they go, your childer will go with them.”

  “How do you know this?” Ursa asked. “Even the elders cannot recall a raid other than through the dim memory of childhood.”

  “My late husband took me from the Celts and brought me here as his bride,” she said quietly. “I know how they think. They strike and take what they want, then disappear into
the mist. They have done it before and will again.”

  “Then you must have some idea from whence they came and where they will go,” Dame Margot said hopefully.

  “Celts are a marauding breed,” Old Ethyl told them. “They have planted their seed from Cornwall to Scotland and from France to Ireland. Most have seen the advantage of blending into the land in which they chose to live, but some, like those that invaded us today, care little for convention or civilization. Our lady is right. The only hope we have is to follow them and try to ascertain their origins.”

  Serine cast a sharp glance at her. Old Ethyl’s association with the Celts would explain many of the woman’s idiosyncrasies, but before Serine could question her they were interrupted by the clanking of weapons, clumsily carried, as the women came again to the hall, dragging their ordnance behind them.

  “Take nothing that you cannot lift or use,” Old Ethyl told them. “You must be able to carry your own weapon and move rapidly and silently at the same time.”

  The women nodded and placed much of their assorted equipment on the ground as they made ready to leave.

  * * *

  The women crept through the darkness and came to rest on a rocky cliff. Below them a row of small boats sat waiting at the edge of the sea. Some little distance away the children huddled together, guarded by the fierce men.

  “There they are.” Ursa pointed. “Thank the Lord they haven’t yet gone.” She pressed her hands to her heart. “There is my little Dickon.” She turned with a suddenness that made Serine fall back. “What is the plan?”

  “The what?” Serine strained her eyes as she searched the pensive little faces for that of her own Hendrick and paid no mind to Ursa’s words. Surely if Dickon was there, Hendrick must be close by.

  “The plan! The plan to save the children! You promised we would save the children. You must have a plan.” There was an edge of panic in Ursa’s voice, for the Celts were more numerous than the fingers on both hands and they were but a few desperate women.