Fires of Winter by Roberta Gellis Page A

was lit only dimly by the wan grey light that seeped down from the smoke holes in the roof and the low-burning fire. I was not conscious of the passing of time, but it could not have been very long because we saw the army soon after dinner, and when I heard the first stroke of the ram on the gate, the light from the smoke holes had not grown dimmer. The sound of the ram woke no fear in me; it was dulled by distance and by the walls of the hall and the shutters on the windows. To me the hollow thuds were much like those of heavy clods of earth falling on a coffin—all too familiar to my weary ears.
    Then there was a crash. The women on the stools around me set up a wail, and it took me a moment to hush them. Only then did I hear the shouts and a faint clashing of metal on metal and realize that those foolish old men were fighting. I cannot imagine what they thought they could accomplish, but perhaps they only wished to die with honor instead of being driven out to beg for bread. At the time I did not think of that. I jumped to my feet to run out and stop them, but the women clung to me, weeping, ignoring my commands to let me go. And the battle, if it is not laughable to call it that, was over before I could free myself. The clashing died away and what noise there was of more men entering did not penetrate into the hall, but soon the shouts began anew, this time in tones of rage as the invaders saw the bare stables and outbuildings and realized the shell they had cracked was empty of meat.
    Around me the women, who had been murmuring to me, fell silent, although they clung still tighter. I could feel their terror, and tendrils of it crept through the deadness in my soul until my heart could scarcely beat, so encased was it in the ice of fear. I had said the king would not hurt me, but what if he should torture me to discover where the wealth of Ulle was hidden? I could not tell him. I did not know where the manor folk had fled. There were caves and hollows in the hills that I had never seen or heard of. Or what if Stephen should throw me to his army as a scapegoat to be used by the men until I died?
    A mailed fist thudded against the hall door and a single male voice, strong and clear, rose above the noisy confusion. A moment later the ram crashed against our last defense. I suppose it was fortunate that it took no more than a few blows to burst open the door and that I was frozen with terror. Had I not been, I would have disgraced myself by running about and shrieking as mindlessly as any frightened hen.
    The splintering of the door loosed my women’s tongues and they began to wail. One further blow and the door sprang open, letting in the soft light of a grey winter’s day. It did not blind me, but it was bright to my dark-accustomed eyes, and my fear gave a sharp-edged, slow-moving quality to everything that happened.
    First, a man in full mail with a bared sword in one hand and a raised knight’s shield in the other leapt in and stepped sideways to put his back against the door, as if he expected the sealed hall was a trap. The shrieks of my women, augmented by his entry, drew his head to us. The light then fell full on his face—dark and…and hungry. I will never forget that face. I have reasons enough now to remember it, but at that moment terror seared the features and expression into my memory. He had lowered his shield when he saw only women and there was no nasal to the helmet he wore, so I could see clearly the large, black eyes, the high-bridged, aquiline nose, and the mouth—but that I did not see as I saw it later; then it was only a thin, grim line in a black-stubbled face. Simple as I was, I thought he was the king. I learned later that two men could hardly look more different—or be more different.
    The difference in looks I discovered in the next moment when a second man came through the door. I knew at once the mistake I had made when I saw this man’s armor, for his shield