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eyes.
    “But—”
    “Nay, I will take what punishment the Norman will give. I thank you for my life.” He bowed and took her hands into his and kissed them. “I will regain your honor, milady, if it is the last thing I do.”
    Wulfson laughed. “Beware, little Saxon, there is none that can best la lame noir in battle or wits. Accept your punishment and be done.” With those words, the knight pulled Russell through the hall toward the crippled doors.
    Isabel flew after them to the courtyard. The sight that greeted her eyes was far from what she expected. New horror filled her heart. Russell’s impending punishment forgotten, she stood rooted to the threshold and watched nearly half a score more of battle-ready knights and a score of foot soldiers fill the courtyard. Les morts had arrived en force. They were a terrifyingly awesome sight to behold. More black as night destriers, mounted by equally dark knights, milled around the crowded courtyard. She watched an equally ebony giant roll off his horse, falling to the rough cobblestone. A loud whoosh rushed from his chest as he hit, but other than that, he lay motionless.
    Isabel chewed her bottom lip nervously. She looked from Rohan to the downed giant, then back to Rohan, who now moved with amazing agility for one so encumbered.
    “Manhku!” du Luc called, pushing his way past armored steeds and dismounting knights. As he approached his fallen man, she lost sight of them both as the other men crowded around them. But his deep voice boomed. “What fell him?”
    A deep voice answered. “’Twas a Saxon ax, Rohan. A cowardly ambush just down the way. ’Tis what kept us.”
    “Aye,” another deep voice said, “the head is still embedded.”
    Confusion clouded Isabel’s thoughts. A Saxon ax? How could that be? The villagers did not possess the backbone to attack mounted knights. Indeed, many had flown to the forests at the first sign of trouble when a band of raiders struck a fortnight ago. They flew no standard or coat of arms; they appeared to be just a band of cowardly raiders bent on destroying.
    Rohan knelt by his old friend’s still body. He touched his hand to the thick steel ax head embedded deep in his man’s thigh. Manhku moaned. Blood ran in a steady stream from the gash pooling beneath on the stone courtyard. “He needs a more experienced healing hand than what I possess,” Rohan said, turning to his right hand, Thorin.
    The Viking moved past Rohan. “Aye, I’ll call for the healer, Rohan.”
    “I doubt any Saxon will step up to the chore,” Rohan’s deep voice countered. His men spread out as Rohan moved through them. His gaze searched for the bold and foolish Lady Isabel. He did not have to look far. She stood at the threshold of the great manor. Rohan’s blood warmed at the sight of her. The morning breeze pressed the fabric of her garments against her curves, emphasizing each voluptuous turn of her. Her bare head gleamed golden under the morning sunlight. Big violet-colored eyes like a Far East sapphire stared up at him with no hint of fear. Indeed, the damsel looked as if she would take up a sword against him. Would that William had more men with her spirit; he would have taken Senlac with half the loss he had.
    “Damsel, my man is gravely wounded. I would have you call for your healer.”
    “Maylyn fell two days past under the cowardly sword of a raider.”
    “Who else is skilled in the art of healing?” He watched her face cloud before clearing. For a wench so full of words, she seemed at a loss for them now. “Speak up. My man bleeds to death!”
    Reluctantly, she said, “I am versed in healing skills, but I cannot swear to you I can save him.”
    Rohan grabbed her by the arm and dragged her behind him to the downed man.
    Roughly, he pushed her to her knees. She turned a heated glare his way but then turned back to the task at hand. She moved closer to Manhku and placed a gentle hand to the gaping skin around the embedded ax head.