Margaret shook her head. “Why have you hesitated to ask him about the boy?”
“’Tis a difficult question.”
“I have ne’er known you to suffer such reticence before.”
“Ah, Margaret, mayhap I fear the tale I will be told.”
“Best if you know it, m’lady,” Edna said as she took the water from Gytha.
“Why do you say that? ’tis often said a wife is happiest when kept ignorant.”
“Pox and piles. What if the woman still lives? What if she is some fine lady? You could meet her at some time. What if you are told by others? Aye, and by those who would poison the tale and your heart as well. Nay, ’tis best to know it all, m’lady, not to be surprised later. And—” Edna took a deep, steadying breath before adding, “best to know if ’tis a past love or one you may have to fight.”
Gytha winced, afraid of just that. “All you say is true, Edna. I but need to gain the courage to ask him.”
“Come,” Margaret patted Gytha’s arm in a gesture of sympathetic understanding, “we shall walk to the edge of the camp. I saw flowers scattered in the wood. We shall gather a few to ease the scent of horses and hardworked men. It may keep you from fretting too much on the matter.”
Before Gytha could protest the idea, Edna shooed them out of the tent. The men paid little heed to her and Margaret as they walked across the camp. Idly, they strolled through the surrounding forest, yet kept close enough to the camp to hear the men working. Gytha was quickly soothed by the quiet of the wood. She smiled her gratitude to Margaret as they gathered some flowers.
Just as they prepared to return to camp, Gytha spotted a particularly lovely wildflower. Falling several paces behind Margaret she bent to pick it. When she straightened up, she came face to face with a well-armed man.
For one brief instant she was shocked into stillness. Then she looked around her. Other men began to appear. They crept through the surrounding trees leading their horses. An attack was in the making. She ducked when the man she faced reached for her, neatly eluding him.
“Run, Margaret,” she cried and, eluding the man a second time, raced towards camp.
Margaret hesitated only long enough to glance over her shoulder to see what was happening. Hiking up her skirts, she too bolted towards camp.
“Alarm them, Margaret,” Gytha shouted as she ran a losing race with the man cursing heartily behind her.
“To arms! Attack! To arms!”
Even as Margaret used precious breath to scream, the men in the wood were mounting. She could only pray that she had robbed them of the element of surprise.
Thayer tensed as Margaret’s screams pierced the air. Her words were unclear, but their meaning was not. Although his men were already racing to arm themselves, Thayer bellowed his orders. He glared at a frantic Edna, who rushed to his side.
“They were in the forest alone?”
“Aye.” Edna backed away from his fury. “They went to pick flowers.”
He began loping towards the trees even as Margaret broke free of the concealing depths of the forest. “Where is Gytha?”
“Right behind me,” she replied, then kept running towards the tent, easily understanding his curt gesture.
Standing near the edge of the wood, Thayer fought the panic suring through him. “Gytha!”
“Here, Thayer,” she cried as she broke clear of the trees.
One look at Thayer’s face was enough for Gytha. She made a slight detour around him. When he jerked a finger towards the tent, she obeyed without a word. His fury was a nearly tangible thing. She winced when she heard her pursuer scream. Gytha raced on to the tent where Edna and Margaret awaited her. Together they watched the battle with a mixture of horror and fascination.
Gytha suffered little fear. She could not believe her large, skillful husband was going to be cut down. At least, not this time. She tried to soothe her companions’ fear that all that stood between them and a fate unknown and horrifying was the small knot of young pages standing firm before the tent. It was a concern she could sympathize with. Stalwart though the boys were, they could be easily disposed of if the enemy broke through to them. She simply did not believe this particular enemy would get past Thayer and his men.
A slight draft ruffled Gytha’s skirts from the rear. Glancing over her shoulder in absentminded curiosity, Gytha froze. A man had cut his way into the tent and was stepping towards her. She shoved Margaret and Edna out of the tent, out of immediate danger. The startled young women were momentarily entangled with the boys. Before anyone looked her way again, Gytha found herself firmly in the grasp of the intruder.
Despite her desperate struggles, he kept her held before him as he started out of the tent. Even in the midst of her fear, she was touched by the action of the pages. They quickly encircled the women. Swords held at the ready they made no move for fear of what would happen to her as a result.
It quickly became clear to Gytha that she was not going to be murdered but taken as a hostage. Her fear was swiftly overtaken by fury. She struggled with renewed vigor. It did not free her but did work to make her captor’s retreat awkward. Even as she heard him curse, she felt a blinding pain in her head. Then she slipped into blackness.
Pulling his sword free of yet another body, Thayer paused to look towards the tent. A loud wailing was coming from the women’s refuge. At first he attributed it to panic, but it troubled him. Even as he looked, the man holding Gytha struck her on the head with the flat of his sword. A bellow of rage escaped Thayer when he saw her go limp in the man’s grasp. Without thought to his back, he raced towards Gytha. A small part of his fury-choked mind was cognizent of Roger rushing to protect him even though the battle was nearing an end.
