Isabel pressed her lips together as she cast about for an answer. “You should have known better than to gamble on a feast day.”
She could not muster a smile to soften her words, but Godric just laughed.
“So that is why you turned my coin over to Father Joseph? He’s been praying for my soul ever since.”
“What’s this? Not even a grin?” A touch of concern sharpened Kendrick’s voice. “What news did the messenger bring this morn to make you so foul tempered?”
Isabel’s head snapped up. The men stared at her.
They could not know. Not yet. Not when she could hardly believe it herself.
She breathed deep. Winter air lanced into her lungs. “I am fine, in truth. My father sent word of their victory at Stamford Bridge.” She spoke slowly, as if uttering the words could make it so.
“No new tidings then? We heard rumors of that battle and then Hastings weeks ago,” Kendrick said.
“The messenger’s mount went lame outside of Cirencester, delaying his travel here. At least my father sought to get word to me. He will return to Ashdown in a few days’ time.”
Her swift dismount silenced any more questions. Eagerly, the men followed her example. Isabel could not blame them. It had been a long, unfruitful ride and they would miss the midday meal, thanks to their outing. She straightened the padded tunic she wore over her kirtle, eager to stand after sitting in the saddle so long.
Kendrick ordered the two youngest, Edgar and Cuthbert, to scout ahead on foot while the horses rested. Blinking rapidly, Isabel looked to the cloud-choked sky and prayed they would be quick.
“I bet they did not have an easy time of it in Yorkshire,” she heard Martin say to the others, his hushed voice clear on the crisp air.
“They say one of Harald Hardrada’s Norse barbarians slew fifty housecarls before he fell defending the bridge,” Godric said with wonder. “For the army to march south to meet the Normans pressing from the coast so soon after the battle…”
“You heard the tales of the Normans at Hastings,” Martin said. “A lake of blood surrounded the hill where they made their stand.”
Isabel’s gaze fell to the ground, frozen mud and snow marred by hoof prints and booted feet. Better than blood.
“That is enough,” Kendrick said. “We still have miles of hard riding.”
Isabel looked her horse over, glad to find he had not gotten any scrapes from the trail. Kendrick broke away from the others and reached her side. “I am sure your father will return safely,” he told her quietly. “You need not worry.”
She patted Hardwin’s neck. Just as well he thought her merely worried. “Do not tell me that. You heard the reports of the Normans’ victory as well as I.”
“Yes, but once your father returns, he will set things aright.”
Isabel’s mouth twisted at his words and the earnest look on his fond face. Snowflakes clung to his beard and hair. She itched to brush the snow off him. “It may not be so simple,” she only said. Once, she would not have hesitated to tell Kendrick anything, but the time when he did not tower over her was long past.
Edgar and Cuthbert hastened across the field. Red-faced and out-of-breath, they slid to a stop in front of Isabel and Kendrick.
“What happened?” Kendrick asked.
“Tracks, heading toward Ashdown from the northwest,” Edgar said.
“Perhaps five or six riders passed this way,” Cuthbert added.
Kendrick had the men mounting their horses with just a look. “Mayhap this has not been a fool’s journey after all.” He nodded at Edgar. “Lead on.”
The tracks skirted the northernmost boundary of her father’s lands before heading south, deeper into the holding. Unease gathered in a tight knot in her stomach. The Welsh did not usually travel so far east. At least not since the Confessor bestowed these lands upon her father so he could train a force in Norman horsemanship to repel the Welsh. They must be feeling more daring since the Norman invasion left so many areas unprotected. That did not bode well.
After an hour of riding, Isabel and her men broke from the forest and onto a large field with a small rise to the north. The snow had lessened, but flakes still fell, partially covering the ground. The last man had just cleared the tree line, when an arrow glanced off the shoulder of Edgar’s horse. The animal reared in fright.
Isabel’s breath left her in a rush. Coming around the hillock toward them, five heavily armed Welshmen rode into view. Ambush.
Before she could react, the Welsh loosed more arrows. This time they aimed for Cuthbert. He hauled his circular shield in front of his body just in time to deflect them. Startled, she and her men wheeled their mounts away to avoid careening into the oncoming Welsh raiders. Their ability to fight from horseback would not help if their mounts were cut down before they formulated a strategy.
Returning to the tree line, Isabel reined her horse to a stop and slid to the ground. Their attackers must have heard them coming as they crashed through the forest. It was too late to wish they had been more prudent in their pursuit.
Men on both sides readied their blades. She swiftly nocked an arrow and let it fly at the Welshmen as Kendrick and the others prepared to charge.
Edgar regained his seat. He raised his shield and urged his horse forward, brandishing his sword to scatter their attackers. He caught a Welshman with his blade, and the wounded man fell to the ground.
Breathe, she told herself. She took aim again, careful to avoid her men. Steady now…
The Welshman’s shoulder jerked back as her arrow dug into his chest. She bit her lip. The exultation she normally felt after hitting targets set against haystacks or tree trunks was absent. They did not scream in pain.
Edgar’s mount reared again. Moments later a Welshman pulled him out of the saddle.
“No!”
At her cry, Cuthbert and Martin dismounted and sprinted into the fray, swords flashing in the dim light.
Her hand trembled as she reached for another arrow. Kendrick and Godric brought their mounts to a halt next to her. “I want you to get back on your horse and fly from here,” Kendrick said. “It is too dangerous.”
She barely spared him a glance. “You know I will not leave.” Her father may have kept her away from past battles, but she was just as skilled in arms as the men. Her place was here. Now, more than ever.
Shooting again, she struck a Welshmen in the back before he landed a blow on Cuthbert. She wrenched her gaze from the man writhing on the ground. She could not hesitate to do what was necessary to defend her home.
Two Welshmen lay dead. In the next instant, an enemy’s sword brought Edgar down. An angry cut ran the length of his torso, his blood melting the snow around him.
Kendrick cursed. “Promise me you will get away from here.” His gaze found her before he spurred his horse forward. He and Godric urged their mounts toward their attackers, hacking at the three remaining Welshmen on the field.
Isabel stayed in position, firing arrows when she had a clear shot. She struggled to control her breathing as she banished Kendrick’s censure from her mind.
Her horse whickered and paced fitfully, drawing her attention away from the battlefield. One of the ruffians had managed to get to the trees and sneak behind her. The bowstring smacked against her wrist, but the momentary sting was the least of her worries. The Welshman was almost upon her. His leer and the sword in his hand told her she needed to do something. Quickly.
Her