Page 3 of Unconquered

Eada gave a convulsive start and then heartily cursed her own foolishness.

She could not believe she was so lacking in wits as to fall asleep in the midst of an invading army.

Such idiocy could easily have cost her an opportunity to escape.

As she began to ease her head out of the shrubbery in the hope of getting a closer look at her precarious situation, she suddenly tensed.

She felt the approach of the horsemen before she heard or saw them.

Eada flattened herself against the ground and gently pressed a hand over each dog's muzzle.

When she saw the riders and they drew near enough to overhear their conversation, Eada grimaced with distaste and anger.

Her mother was Norman born and had taught all her children how to speak the language.

Eada suddenly wished her mother had not educated her so well.

She also wished that her mother had spared a little time to tell her what a Norman soldier looked like.

A little knowledge might have made the men look less frightening.

When the soldiers paused before her hiding place, Eada got a very close look and shivered.

All four mounted men wore tunics of mail, two with loose sleeves that reached only to their elbows and two with longer, more closely fitted sleeves.

had mail leggings.

With their mail hoods pulled over their heads and topped by metal helmets with a strip that jutted down over their noses, they made for an unsettling sight.

Eada knew that the padded clothing they wore beneath their armor, the stallions they rode, and even the armor itself added a great deal to the impression of size, but she suspected they were still goodly sized men when stripped of all those trappings.

If William the Bastard had a whole army of such well-armored giants, then Harold had little chance of defeating the Normans.

"Are there no women in this land?" complained Tancred.

"We look for food, Tancred," Drogo said, skillfully stilling the suddenly restless stallion he rode.

"Man does not live by bread alone."

"When you reach my age, a full belly grows more important than a rutting," Serle said.

"A man will not die from the lack of a woman to plow."

"There are times when I think he can, Serle, old man." Tancred sighed dramatically.

"My belly is full, and now my staff aches to be stroked."

"And yet the man sits a horse when in such a condition.

Now there is bravery."

Men, Eada thought with disgust as the Normans laughed.

If they are not waving a sword about, eager to chop off heads, then they can only think of wielding their other weapon.

If they cannot pierce a man's flesh with their steel, they seek to pierce a woman's flesh with their staff.

In that, at least, it is evident that Normans do not differ at all from the men they seek to do battle with.

"Your mount is most uneasy, Drogo," Tancred said, frowning as Drogo had to steady his horse again.

"He is," agreed Drogo.

"Either the journey here has made him unusually restless or a dog lurks near at hand."

Eada tensed, her grip on her dogs' muzzles tightening slightly.

She briefly wondered why hearing the deep voice of the man called Drogo should cause such an odd sensation to ripple through her.

It felt like anticipation, but she told herself it had to be fear.

When the men began to move on, she sighed with relief.

The sigh caught sharply in her throat when she realized the direction the men were riding in.

If the Normans veered neither left nor right, they would arrive at Old Edith's door.

For a moment Eada fought back the stomach-knotting panic that rushed over her.

Old Edith would never try to fight the Normans, so there was no reason for them to harm her.

The woman was also far too old to stir their lusts.

Such assurances only dimmed Eada's fears a little, however, for she loved Old Edith too much to be so practical.

As she forced herself to be calm and hold onto enough of her wits to remain cautious, Eada slipped from her hiding place.

She curtly signaled her dogs to be quiet as they joined her in following the men.

The Normans were not traveling at any great speed, but Eada found that she had to maintain a steady trot to keep up with them.

She also found it difficult to keep them in sight yet remain hidden from their view.

Only once did she fear she had been seen.

She quickly sought out a thicker shelter within the trees only to nearly lose the men for her fear of discovery made her very slow to take leave of that shelter and continue the chase.

"Something wrong?" Drogo asked Tancred when the man looked to their rear and lightly grasped the hilt of his sword.

"Did you see something?"

"No," Tancred replied as he slowly relaxed.

"I but had the feeling that we were being followed.

There is nothing there.

I think I have listened too much to Serle's talk of an enemy lurking all around us."

Serle quickly began to defend the wisdom of his warnings, and he and Tancred fell into an amiable brangle.

Drogo could not cast aside his own uneasiness so quickly, and the lingering fretfulness of his mount only added to it.

He continued to glance behind them for several moments.

When he failed to see anything he forced his attention back to the route they traveled and his companions, sternly telling himself that he must not allow caution to become an unreasonable fear of every shadow.

Minutes later, a small, poor cottage came into view.

Just as the Normans began to rein in their horses, an old woman hurried out of the cottage.

Drogo tried to warn her to stop, but she dashed in front of them, waving her arms and shouting.

He watched in horror as she fell beneath the hooves of the rearing warhorses despite all their efforts to calm the beasts.

When the horses were finally steadied and Drogo began to dismount, his companions cautiously doing the same, the old woman lay still upon the ground.

Her limbs were twisted into grotesque positions, and blood stained her rough gown.

"No," Eada moaned as she stepped free of her hiding place and watched her friend fall.

"No," she repeated but screamed it this time, the small word becoming a long wail of grief.

Drogo and his men immediately drew their weapons only to gape at the slender girl running straight toward them.

An instant later, they had to scramble to control their horses again for the two large hounds loping alongside the girl frightened them.

Drogo cursed for neither the girl nor the hounds paid them any heed, running directly to the old woman's side.

After softly ordering the young Unwin to firmly secure the skittish horses, Drogo carefully approached the girl and sheathed his sword.

He halted, then crouched when the hounds looked his way and bristled slightly.

Once certain that the dogs would not attack if he gave them no reason to, he studied the girl, who wept over the dying old woman.

Despite the smudges of dirt and scratches on her face and the tears in her gown, Drogo found the girl beautiful.

Her hair was the color of sweet honey and flowed in thick waves to her slim hips.

Full, ripe breasts, heaving gently as she wept, made him painfully aware of how long it had been since he had held a woman.

Her voice was low, husky with grief, and it stirred him although she spoke a language he found harsh.

He watched in hungry fascination as a tear rolled down the ivory cheek of her small, heart-shaped face.

Drogo had to grit his teeth to suppress the urge to kiss that tear away.

"Oh, Edith, why did you do something so mad?" Eada hesitated to touch Edith's broken body for, although she ached to do something, she was sure she would cause the woman untold pain if she tried to move her.

"I tried to stop fate," Edith replied, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

"No, that is not the full truth.

I but followed fate's path.

This is what was meant to happen.

I knew today would bring my death.

Come, take hold of my hand, child."

"It will hurt you.”

"I feel nothing.

That is strange, is it not? I believe the chill of death steals away my pain." She smiled when Eada tentatively took her gnarled hand between her young, soft ones.

"Now, heed me well, child.

There is no time for arguments or explanations."

"You should not waste your strength in talking now."

"No? Silly girl.

I cannot speak from the grave, can 1? And that is where I go now.

Your man is here, Eada of Pevensey.

He crouches near at hand and stares at you."

"He murdered you." Eada fought the sudden, almost overwhelming need to look at the man at her side.

"Bah, the poor fool was but God's tool.

I leapt in front of a warhorse." Edith laughed, but it quickly became a rasping cough which brought the warmth of her own blood into her mouth.

"Do not blame the man for this, child.

He is no murderer of old women.

I saw the look of horror on his face as I fell beneath his horse.

Do not fight him, Eada, for he is your destiny.

But, do not surrender too completely.

Ah, but my Eada never would.

You have such spirit, and wit.

More than most men want in a woman."

"Edith, I cannot—"

"You can.

You will fight it a little, but God's will cannot be changed.

Just remember all I have told you on this day.

Now, in my cottage in the large chest there rests a smaller one.

Take it.

Once I had a finer life, a man, and a child."

"Where are they?" Eada asked, wondering if Edith spoke the truth or had become lost in the delirium of approaching death.

"Close.

God blessed me with a child when I was nearly too old to bear one; but with that precious gift He gave me the knowledge of things to come.

Few people can bear that.

I lost all—my man, my child, my home, and nearly my life.

Take the box, child, and read the truth I have hidden within it.

And take my other gift to you now as well, although you may well curse me tenfold for giving it to you."

Before Eada could ask the old woman what she meant, Edith gripped her hands with a strength that astonished her.

She met Edith's steady gaze and was captured by it.

The old woman's eyes seemed to grow larger until Eada felt lost in them.

She began to feel light-headed, nauseated, but still could not free herself.

"Always think, Eada, but always follow your heart." Old Edith's voice pounded in Eada's mind.

"And always remember this old woman who loved you."

"I could never forget you," Eada whispered, her voice choked with tears.

As she bent to kiss Edith's cheek, she heard the breath of life flee the battered woman's body and her hands were abruptly freed.

Her hand shaking, Eada tenderly closed Edith's eyes.

She felt painfully alone.

In the course of but a few hours, her home had been lost to her, her family had fled to a place unknown to her, and Old Edith had died right before her eyes.

Eada started to rise only to feel her legs weaken and her head swim.

When the Norman crouched by her side moved to catch her as she stumbled, she finally looked right at him.

For one brief moment she was held captive by the dark eyes staring at her through the helmet, then rage filled her, pushing aside her pain and unsteadiness.

"Murderer," she cried and leapt at the man she saw as the cause of all her grief and confusion.

Even as Drogo reached out to try and catch hold of her, he thought wildly that her large lavender eyes were beautiful as they sparkled with fury and hate.

When she slammed her body into his, he tumbled backwards and fell to the ground.

He cursed when his helmet fell off and rolled out of his reach, but his full attention was swiftly captured by the furious woman who leapt upon him.

Eada got a firm grip on his sweat-dampened, thick hair beneath his loose mail hood.

Cursing him with every breath, she repeatedly banged his head against the ground.

Just as the pressure he was exerting on her wrists began to loosen her grip upon his hair, she felt strong arms encircle her and she was roughly pulled off of the man.

The Norman who now held her did so in such a way that she could only flail uselessly with her feet.

A low snarl halted her indulgence in that fruitless activity.

Eada saw that her hounds were ready to attack the man despite not being fighting dogs.

A quick glance at the other men—including the one she had just attacked, who stumbled to his feet, rubbing and shaking his head revealed that they all had their swords drawn.

They were ready to cut her pets down at the first hint of an attack.

"Call the dogs off, child," Serle growled in her ear, musing that she was a nice little bundle of female to hold.

"They have fine, sharp teeth, but they will be dead before those teeth can cut through the mail we wear."

Although the man spoke to her in French, a language he could not know she would understand, Eada felt she could still obey his command without revealing her knowledge.

It was clear what had to be done.

"Ligulf.

Ordway." She said the dogs' names in a sharp voice, and her pets grew still.

"Good dogs.

Easy now, lads." She breathed a sigh of relief when the dogs ceased to bristle.

Since she had grown still, the man-holding her slowly released her.

Her anger gone, she moved toward Edith, easily pushing aside the need to study the man Edith had said she was destined for.

Although small, she was strong, and she picked up Edith's broken body with ease.

Eada heaved a sigh of sadness when she realized that her old friend was little more than skin and bones.

She entered the cottage, intending to prepare Edith for burial.

Drogo gaped after the girl then shook his head.

He would never have believed that such a tiny woman could have the strength to carry even the frail old woman.

Neither would he have expected such a tiny woman to attack him with such fury.

One thought that did trouble him was the girl's presence at the cottage.

His horse had acted like it had scented her dogs just outside of town and had continued to act that way all the way to the cottage.

Drogo could not believe that the girl had followed them the whole way from Pevensey.

Unable to answer his own questions, he shook his head again and forced his thoughts elsewhere.

"We must dig a grave for the old woman," Drogo told his men.

"Tancred, you were trained to be a priest so you must know what needs to be said."

"Well enough," Tancred agreed reluctantly as Unwin and Serle moved to search out something to dig a grave with.

"I will need a moment or two to recall it clearly."

"There is time," Drogo murmured as he watched the girl step from the cottage to fetch some water from a barrel.

Tancred smiled when he saw how Drogo watched the young woman's every graceful move until she disappeared back inside of the cottage and then drawled, "Was it not you who reminded me earlier that we search for food? You will leave the girl here, of course."

Drogo picked up his helmet and looked at the hounds.

"Her beasts may remain here."

"Those animals will not desert her unless you cut their throats," Serle said as he strode back from behind the cottage.

"Serle, tell him what we have found," a pale Unwin urged the older man.

"Calm yourself, boy.

There is no need to dig a grave, Drogo, nor to make a marker if I guess the meaning of these scratches correctly." Serle handed Drogo a small plaque of rough wood.

The training he had received during a few long years spent at a monastery gave Drogo the skill to read the scratches even though the words were somewhat strange.

He felt superstition stir to life within him.

"It says Edith of Chichester and this day's date," he whispered, fighting for calm.

"Sorcery," Unwin hissed, and he crossed himself.

Serle snorted in contempt.

"I have known of many men who knew just before they rode off to battle that they were facing their last fight.

Since those men were Christians, I can only assume that God must choose one person now and again to warn them that their time is nigh.

I have never seen one this well prepared though."

"The foresight the old woman possessed may well be why she lived alone, far from the village," Drogo mused aloud.

"Such a thing can breed hate and fear.

I wonder what the girl was to her?"

"Are you worried that she could bring you trouble when you take her with you?"

"And who said that I planned to take the girl, Serle?"

"The way you stare at her tells me.

I began to fear that you would grab the girl ere the old woman had finished dying."

Drogo colored faintly.

Serle's words crudely but accurately described what he felt.

All that held him back was a distaste for taking an unwilling female.

He had seen the tragic results of a man's brutal lust and, despite how badly he ached for the girl, he would wait.

When she suddenly appeared in the doorway of the cottage holding the shroud-wrapped body of the old woman, he ruefully admitted to himself that such patience would be hard to grasp.

Serle walked over to the girl and held out his arms.

"Let me carry the old woman, child.

The ground is rough and you will not wish to drop her.

So, too, can I place her more gently in her final bed." Not sure she understood him, Serle struggled to embue his rough voice with the meaning of his words and the kindness he intended.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Eada nodded and let him take Edith's body.

She followed him as he strode to the readied grave.

When Eada saw the plaque, she sighed.

Edith had not lied.

The woman had indeed known that her time was at an end.

When one of the men began to murmur a prayer, Eada was grateful but wished that her dear friend could have had a sanctified priest and been laid to rest in holy ground.

The woman had lived alone and now had to be buried alone.

It seemed grossly unfair to Eada.

The Normans left her alone after the burial although she knew she was being closely watched.

Eada busied herself piling rocks on the grave to protect the body from scavengers as well as more clearly mark the gravesite.

She was only partly aware of the increasing noises around her.

When she finally turned from Edith's grave and looked toward the Normans, she scowled.

of the men had stripped to their shirts and were chasing Edith's animals.

The man she had attacked, the one the others called Drogo, stood by, still fully armed.

He was watching her, however, and not being much of a guard.

Finally, disgusted with the knights' inept attempts to collect up Edith's farm animals, Eada strode over to them.

Standing by the pen, she put her hands on her hips and wondered where these men had sprung from.

They knew nothing about the very animals who kept their tables weighted with food.

"Did you just pop out of the ground, oafs, that you know so little about the creatures that feed you?" she snapped in English as she strode into the middle of the men and pushed them aside.

"Never have I seen such nonsense.

You may be able to ply your swords with some skill, but I pray you have brought your servants with you.

You will surely starve if it is left to fools such as yourselves to provide food."

"Do you think she means to try and stop us from gathering this food, Drogo?" Tancred asked as he backed away from the angry young woman.

"I think she insults you," Drogo replied.

"That much I knew, but does she do so because we do such a poor job or because she tries to keep us from taking anything?"

After watching the slender woman for a moment, Drogo answered, "Because you do such a poor job of it.

Come, arm yourselves," he ordered the men.

"I have seen no one, but that does not mean it is safe here."

"I will collect that pony and cart I saw," Unwin said as he hurriedly redonned his armor with Serle's help.

Eada leashed and caged the last of Edith's stock and thought sadly that the woman would have done very well at the market this year.

She quickly gathered all the eggs and carefully set them in the cart the youngest of the men had brought to the front of the cottage.

It took a moment to subdue a surge of anger over how quickly Edith's possessions were being taken by the men who had caused her death, but she steadied herself and reentered the cottage.

She had to get the gift Edith had bequeathed to her.

"Drogo?" Serle called tentatively as they put the animals in the cart or tied them up behind it.

"That girl is no peasant."

"And what makes you say so?" Drogo asked.

"She understands what we say, I think, or very nearly so.

That means that she speaks French.

No poor girl would.

And look closely at her gown.

Torn and dirty though it is, no pauper would own such a gown.

Perhaps you should think longer on what you plan to do."

Drogo did, but only for a moment, and then he shrugged.

"She is Saxon, the enemy."

"Her family might ride with William."

"Then why is she out here at this poor cottage? I am taking her with me, Serle.

I fear reason will not stop me."

Although Drogo smiled at Serle's curses, he ignored them and strode into the cottage after the girl.

He had to bend to get through the low doorway, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside the cottage.

The girl knelt by a chest, holding a smaller one in her arms, and the look she sent his way was not a welcoming one.

He thought of the old woman they had just buried and suddenly feared that he might never be able to overcome the girl's anger.