Snow in July (33 page)

A farthing apiece seemed a reasonable fee to assure the monks’ silence. Thinking about what his “brethren” were doing under the nose of the fat Norman abbot gave him a smile.

But the delay was straining the men’s tempers and the “pilgrims’” credibility.

The plan had called for a mustering period of three days. Now, here they sat with more than a week gone, halted by shite-laden water, of all things! And no sensible choice but to wait for the Brue to recede. It was as if the finger of God Himself had pinned them to this place.

The finger of God, in the form of two formidable Norman knights, had squashed most of the members of Eosa’s earlier assignment like so many ants.

His thick braid whispered across his leather-armored back as he shook off an involuntary chill.

That fonging rabble had served their purpose, and Eosa considered himself well rid of them. He still wasn’t sure why he’d consented to allow their sole survivor to join his group, but Snake had proven adept with a sword and had not caused any trouble so far. Nor would the bastard, if he planned to see more sunrises.

“My lord Dragon?”

Eosa looked toward the tent flap to regard the hooded face of Bertred, his scribe, whose camp name was Nib. Rain had molded the woolen fabric to his skull and made him stink like a wet sheep. Nib looked as miserable as Eosa felt, and he waved him into the tent.

“Report,” ordered the man known inside the camp and beyond as Dragon.

“Sir, another troop has arrived.”

“What?” Eosa felt his eyebrows lower. “How?”

“’Tis a cavalry unit, sir. They must have found a small ford downriver.”

Damn.
He would have liked to have learned of a ford that could be traversed by wagons.

Another thought occurred, and he gave Nib a sharp stare. “They could have missed us. Why the bloody hell were they so late?”

“Their commander, Lofwin Octhason, claims the weather delayed them.”

That, Eosa could believe, but…“Lofwin? I know a man by that name. Where does this unit hail from?”

“Edgarburh, my lord.”

“Indeed.” It took all of his self-control not to gape at the scribe. What in hell could have persuaded Thane Waldron, a Norman shite-eater, to change his diet?

Or had he?

“Send Lofwin Octhason to me at once.”

ALAIN STOOD, cloaked and hooded, between two of Lofwin’s subordinates inside the camp commander’s tent while Lofwin stepped forward to converse with the man everyone called Dragon.

Here, no one bothered with the pretense of being a pilgrim. Two armed men flanked Dragon’s camp table, which consisted of planks balanced atop two pairs of tripods. Maps and parchment lay scattered across the work surface, illuminated by several oil lamps, though Alain stood too far away to discern any useful information. Two more men guarded either side of the tent’s flap, with hundreds more a shout away.

The tendrils of smoke from the lamps did little to dispel the tent hides’ mustiness.

Dragon stood behind the table, clad in an unpilgrimlike leather jerkin and breeches, a seax strapped to his right thigh and a longsword riding his left hip. A hauberk hung from a rod suspended between two short posts nearby. An unpainted, iron-rimmed oval shield stood beside one post, and a pointed iron helmet surmounted the other.

Arms folded, Dragon scowled like his namesake, his cleft lip making the expression appear even more sinister.

A vague recollection stirred within Alain’s mind.

“Prove to me that Thane Waldron has changed his opinion of the Bastard of Normandy,” Dragon demanded of Lofwin.

“Our presence, in support of this cause, should be proof enough, Eosa,” Lofwin replied.

Dragon bounded from behind the table to within inches of Lofwin’s face. “That name has no meaning here. If you or any of your men”—he glared at Alain and the others—“utter it again, you shall need a map and a torch to find your ballocks. Understood?”

The tattoo of raindrops on the tent’s roof intensified as if to underscore the threat.

Lofwin nodded calmly. As Dragon’s stance relaxed and he backed up a pace, Alain chastised himself for failing to anticipate that Ulfric could have appointed a commander who might recognize Waldron’s men.

“Why should I believe that you are here to help our cause,” Dragon continued, “not acting as William’s spies?”

To Alain’s surprise, Lofwin laughed. “How long have you known me,
Dragon
? Do you believe I would have marched my men into the heart of your lair if I’d been ordered to spy upon it?” He crossed his arms, smirking.

Dragon grunted. “Perhaps you’ve been spying on us already, and you’ve shown yourself only to cover your tracks.”

“My friend, if I had tracks to cover, you would never find them. Even with a map and a torch.” Lofwin’s expression turned somber. “As to why Waldron has sent us, I’ll wager you know about the commanded marriage between Lady Kendra and one of William’s knights?”

Dragon’s lips twitched. Alain could have sworn the man was trying not to leer at the mention of Kendra’s name.

A fact clicked into place. He hadn’t met the man, but Kendra had…and Dragon had damaged her ability to enjoy the pleasures Alain had offered her.

He fought the impulse to run this
tas de merde
through. Lord willing, the opportunity would arise later.

“I know Waldron didn’t attend William’s coronation to protest the marriage decree,” Dragon replied to Lofwin’s question.

“Nay,” Lofwin allowed, “but he’s had half a year to watch her become more miserable because of it.”

That much was true. Recalling her reaction when he’d tried to present the de Bellencombre brooch, Alain swallowed a sigh.

Dragon appeared about to speak, but Lofwin cut him off with his upraised right fist. Dragon’s guards tightened their grips on their weapons, and Alain wished he had not surrendered his sword to the guards outside the tent.

“I would give this arm to see Lady Kendra happy. So would every member of Thane Waldron’s fyrd.” Lofwin lowered his hand, and the guards relaxed visibly, if not completely. “We hope our participation here can prevent her from being forced to marry the wrong man.”

Alain almost smiled.

The camp’s commander scrutinized them for several long moments apiece, fingering his sword’s pommel. Alain’s pulse kicked up a notch when it seemed as if Dragon were paying particular attention to him.

When assent came, he wasn’t certain he’d heard aright.

“You are most fortunate, Lofwin Octhason,” Dragon added. “If there was any way for me to keep watch over you and your troop myself, I would.” His snarl grew more pronounced. “Make camp where you can, but if you or your men so much as piss where you shouldn’t, it will be the last transgression you ever make.”

As Alain exited the tent behind Lofwin and the other fyrd members, he scowled.
Dragon
would not make any more transgressions after Alain finished carving him into raven bait.

ALAIN WOKE, stiff and sore from having spent a fitful night in his dreams on the Hastings battlefield. He sat up, massaging his left shoulder, the one that had been injured in battle and now ached with the weather’s every turn.

Fervently, he hoped that saving Kendra would help him to atone for his failures—if he could devise a way to get the fyrd away from this encampment without raising suspicions.

He rose, already clad in tunic and breeches, and donned his boots. Stepping over Ruaud and his eight other tentmates, he made his careful way toward the flap and peered out. A glance at the graying skies confirmed his guess that dawn was nigh. Fog had rolled in off the swollen river, bathing everything in mist.

Alain was surprised to notice that this section of the encampment was already bustling with activity. Men emerged from other tents, clad in pilgrims’ robes, and departed in the same direction.

He left his tent in time to stop one. Roughening his voice to mask his accent, he asked, “Where’s everyone going?”

The man gave him a curious look. “You don’t know?” Before Alain could respond, he said, “Ah, you must be one of the new ones. Didn’t Dragon put your unit on the rotation?”

“For what?”

“For going to mass at the abbey is what, though you’re allowed to go even if it’s not your unit’s turn.”

Alain felt his mouth stretch into the widest grin he’d made in days. “Many thanks…Brother.”

Chuckling, the man moved off to join another group.

Alain ducked inside and rousted everyone else.

“Cæwlin, wake the rest of the fyrd. Have them arm themselves, don their pilgrims’ robes, and meet outside this tent.”

The fyrd veteran nodded, dressed, and departed to fulfill Alain’s command.

“You have a plan to get us out of camp, Sir Alain?” Lofwin asked.

“I hope so. We shall join this morning’s procession to the abbey but peel off, a few at a time, outside the camp and circle back to the picket lines for our horses. Lofwin, I want you in the first rank to break away. If the picket sentries challenge you, tell them that Dragon has ordered our unit to ride to Thornhill.”

“Brilliant, Alain. That will put him on our trail faster than you can blink,” Ruaud protested.

“Not if Dragon thinks we have tried to throw him off the scent,” Lofwin said. “But our departure will be noticed.”

“Sooner or later,” Alain agreed. He shrugged into his robe and cinched it about his waist. “We leave our remounts and everything that isn’t armor, weapons, or tack.” By this time, his tentmates had finished dressing. Alain spread his hands like a priest preparing to deliver a benediction. “Brethren, let us pray that our skill, luck, and the fog will see us to our destination before Dragon realizes aught is amiss.”

“YOU LET them leave camp?” Eosa, seated behind his field table, couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “All of the fongers?”

The sentry ducked his head and scrunched one shoulder in a shrug. “Don’t rightly know, sir. Hard to tell, what with everyone hooded and leaving at nigh unto the same time.”

“Find out, and report back to me. Wait,” he said as the sentry saluted and began to leave. The man halted. Eosa rose from behind the table, snatched his cloak from the post, and pinned it in place as he strode past the sentry. “Show me their camp.”

The heavy fog caused both of them to pull up their hoods.

Eosa’s thoughts churned as he squelched with the sentry through the camp. If Waldron’s men had come to spy on them, why in hell would they leave after just one night? Eosa had ensured that nothing incriminating had been present during his meeting with Lofwin. Their mission could be one of confirmation—but why would Waldron have sent a hundred men? Why not just two or three to observe from a distance and depart?

And how the fonging, bloody hell had Waldron learned of the pilgrim ploy?

Not from Ulfric; Eosa would have staked his share of the mercenaries’ payment on that fact.

Unless…Eosa’s thoughts wandered back to a much more pleasurable task he’d enjoyed recently, though it had been cut short. Ulfric would have killed him if he’d dared to take any further liberties with Lady Kendra than he had done. And the temptation had been so strong, with the bitch brazenly baring her legs to show where they had been chafed. In fact, if Ulfric’s summons hadn’t come when it had, Eosa might have swived her anyway, in spite of the strict orders to the contrary.