Page 62 of Hers To Command
THE HORRIBLE NOISESof battle penetrated even the thick stone walls of the kitchen. The shouts of the soldiers. The commotion of men running. The shrieks and cries of pain.
“Keep to your work!” Mathilde ordered the servants who stopped to raise terrified eyes every time such a noise came to their ears.
As horrible as it was, Mathilde told herself she mustn’t show her fear. She must be strong, and brave, so that they would be, too.
All the months of hiding other anguish came to her aid now. All the pain she’d learned to control, and the ability to push aside terrible thoughts, helped her as she briskly cut leeks to go into the great pots of stew bubbling in the hearth. Other pots of water were being warmed for washing wounds.
So many injured. So many wounded.
Mathilde silently prayed that Henry and their men would triumph. She prayed that Henry and her men would not be hurt, or killed.
She prayed most of all for the battle to be over.
EXCITEMENT SURGINGthrough him, Henry fought his way through Roald’s men, seeking the man who had hired them and brought them here. Roald’s archers had drawn back, lest they hit their fellows trying to scale the wall. The ram had been abandoned, left where it was standing, as Henry and his men moved closer to Roald’s camp.
He fairly rejoiced at the chance to encounter Roald himself, determined to kill him. One blow, Henry told himself. One good blow and Roald would be dead, and justice done for Mathilde. She would be avenged, and her estate would be safe.
Please, God, bring me to Roald.
First, he had to dispatch the man coming toward him, a big, stocky fellow wearing well-made mail and a helmet he’d probably taken from one of his victims. He was a good swordsman, though, better than most. Unfortunately for him, Henry was well trained and anxious to fight.
Not taking his eyes from the mercenary, Henry advanced with slow deliberation, gripping his broadsword with both hands, watching and waiting for the man to make a move. Patience had been Sir Leonard’s motto. Patience and skill and cunning.
The man raised his sword to strike, and in that instant, Henry swung his blade sideways with the speed of an adder. His opponent reeled back, his mail slashed open by the sharp point of Henry’s heavy sword.
Henry finished his opponent off with a lunge through the gap in his mail into the man’s belly. He pulled his sword free and moved on to the next man, all the while looking for Roald, and Cerdic and his men, too, who should have joined the battle long ago. Perhaps he was fighting where Henry couldn’t see him. Maybe Roald had more men than they supposed.
A Scot, in that skirted garment they wore and with only a shield and a round helmet to protect his body, blocked Henry’s way. Although he was little more than a youth, Henry quickly discovered that the young Scot was no mere stripling when he struck Henry’s sword with a blow that rattled the Norman’s arm and set the metal ringing.
Jumping back and nearly stumbling, Henry swung for the Scot’s unprotected right shoulder. The Scot twisted deftly to avoid the hit. By the time Henry had raised his sword again, the Scot was jabbing at him from below.
Henry backed up, silently cursing the unarmored Scot and the weight of his own mail. The Scot, not so encumbered, could move faster than Henry, who was used to being the quickest man in the field. His deftness and ability to turn and twist even in armor accounted for most of his victories, and if he had not that advantage now….
A stone thrown from the walls above struck the Scot’s arm. As he gasped and instinctively looked up, Henry moved forward and swung again. But the Scot was well trained, too, for in the next moment he was out of Henry’s reach. Another stone fell, barely missing the Scot’s head.
And then, at the edge of his vision, Henry saw Roald. The battle must be going in his favor, or he would never have come so close to the walls.
He would be sorry for that arrogant assumption.
“I have more important men to kill today,” Henry called to the Scot as he turned away and started toward Roald.
Charles De Mallemaison appeared in front of him, blocking Roald and the rest of the battle from Henry’s view.
“Not so fast, my Norman friend,” De Mallemaison growled as he swung a bloodied mace back and forth in his right hand. His left side was protected by a tall, conical shield over his arm; his sword was still sheathed at his waist.
“So, here is the brother of the lord of Dunkeathe,” De Mallemaison said, his words muffled by the lowered visor of his helmet. “I was hoping I’d meet you in battle today.”
Roald would have to wait.
“Say your prayers to whatever demon you worship,” Henry returned as he gripped the hilt of his bloodied broadsword, and prepared to fight the most notorious mercenary in England.
De Mallemaison laughed, if that mirthless sound he made could be called that. “You think you can beat me? I’ve been killing men since I was twelve years old. I only wish I could see the look on your blackguard brother’s face when I send him your bloody body.”
“While there isn’t a soul who’ll mourn you when you’re dead,” Henry retorted, keeping his eye on his opponent, watching, searching, for any weakness.
Nearby, he heard a cry and glanced at the sound. Had Cerdic finally come?
That moment’s distraction was a mistake. As he turned his head, De Mallemaison let his mace fly. It struck Henry’s visor, jamming the metal into his cheek and forehead. Excruciating pain shot through the right side of his face, so terrible he nearly swooned. Blood clouded his vision and he staggered like a drunken man as he tried to raise his visor and wipe away the blood.
