Lord of My Heart (2 page)

Abbaye des Dames, Caen,
Normandy

February 1066

Two were men of war—tall, sinewy, and dressed in armor and clothing that had been used long and hard. One was old with well-grizzled hair and heavy-knuckled, gnarled hands; the other was younger and brown-haired but, age apart, he was the image of the older and clearly his son.

The third person was a girl in the plain white of a novice. Her linen gown lay straight over a still boyish figure. A thick chestnut plait hung down her back, covered by a fine lawn veil. Her scrubbed features still had a childish softness to them, but her lips hinted at determination, and her large brown eyes were keen and intelligent.

The older man, Gilbert de la Haute Vironge, fidgeted uneasily amid this elegance. He would move, and then stop as if afraid to damage some precious item. Marc, his son, leaned his mailed shoulders against a white wall without thought for the scrapes he would leave. Gilbert’s daughter, Madeleine, sat straight and composed, the perfect image of a little nun, appearing to fit her setting like a pearl in gold.

But Madeleine’s composure was a mask for desperation. Two weeks ago, on her fifteenth birthday, when the abbess had raised the question of her final vows, Madeleine had realized she did not want to be a nun. There appeared to be no choice in the matter, for she had been a deathbed offering from her mother, intended to pray for the souls of all the Haute Vironge family. This unexpected visit from her father, however, could be her chance to persuade him to revoke the pledge. If she could only find the courage to ask.

“So things are hot everywhere,” said Lord Gilbert gruffly, armor and mail jangling as he moved restively about. “God alone knows when we’ll next have a chance to visit you, daughter. Now that Edward of England’s dead and the English have crowned this Earl Harold, there’ll be work for our swords unless they come to their senses.”

“Hope they don’t,” said Marc, picking his teeth. “There’ll be spoils if it comes to war. The duke owes us something.”

Gilbert scowled at him. “We do our duty to our liege for our soul’s sake, not for gain.”

“Some earthly rewards wouldn’t come amiss. We’ve been loyal to the duke for decades, and what good has it done us?”

“But why haven’t the English accepted Duke William?” Madeleine interrupted, wondering if they bickered their way over the battlefields of
Europe
. “He has the promise of the crown, hasn’t he?”

Marc snorted. “If I were English I wouldn’t accept a foreign usurper. And all the better for us.”

Gilbert angrily rejected the word “usurper,” and they were at it again. Madeleine sighed. She didn’t like her brother’s taste for war, but she knew there was little option for a family brought to the brink of poverty by the troubled time. And greater prosperity could work to her advantage.

Haute Vironge lay in the Vexin, the territory endlessly contested between
France
and
Normandy
, and it had suffered over the last decade. Gilbert had been a faithful vassal to Duke William during his struggle for his land, and in return the family received benefits from the duke as often as he was able to provide them.

Madeleine’s acceptance at the Abbaye, which had been founded by the duke and duchess themselves, had been one such benefit. It was doubtless true that if spoils of war were to become available in
England
, the duke would pass some of them to the men of Haute Vironge.

The convent bell rang for nones, and Madeleine rose to her feet. The two men broke off their squabble.

“Aye,” said Lord Gilbert, not quite hiding his relief. “It’s time for us to go.” He laid a hand on his daughter’s head. “Pray for us, daughter. You’ll be a full Bride of Christ soon, I daresay.”

As the two men picked up their fur-lined cloaks, Madeleine grasped her courage. “Father!”

He turned. “Aye?”

She could feel her heart racing, and her mouth was suddenly dry. “Father ... is there any way I can
not
take my vows?”

He frowned at her. “What are you saying?”

Madeleine cast a frantic look at her brother, but he was only curious. “I ... I am not sure I am meant to be a Bride of Christ.”

Lord Gilbert’s brows lowered yet more. “What? If you’d been left at home and I brought a man for you, you’d marry him at my word. This is no different. Your mother sent you to take the veil and pray for us all, and here you are.”

Madeleine fought back weak tears. “But . . . but shouldn’t I
feel
something, Father?”

He made a growling noise. “You’re feeling soft clothes against your body and good food in your belly. Be thankful.” But then his expression eased. “You’re pledged here, Maddy. It’d take more money than we have to buy you out, and then what? There’d be poor pickings when it came to husbands. We’re not rich and powerful. Perhaps,” he added without conviction, “if there’s fighting in
England
and spoils . . .”

Madeleine cast an appeal at her brother, who had once been such a hero to her. He shrugged. “I wouldn’t like to be a monk, but it’s different for a woman. The sort of husband we could attract these days you’d be better off without.”

“But I wouldn’t mind just staying home and looking after you both,” Madeleine protested.

“Staying home?” said Gilbert. “Maddy, in the five years since you came here, Haute Vironge has become a ruin. It’s in the middle of a battlefield.”

The ache in Madeleine’s chest threatened to consume her. “I have no home?” she whispered.

“You have a home here,” he countered. “A finer one than you could ever have expected except for the duke’s bounty. The abbess is very pleased with you. You’re a regular scholar, it would appear, all set to be a healer. Who knows? One day you could even become abbess yourself.”

He was trying so hard to paint a good picture, and every word he said was true. Madeleine managed to give her father a smile. In his way he loved her and would not want to think her unhappy.

He rewarded her effort with a smile of his own and patted her head. “That’s my girl. This is the best place for you, Maddy, believe me. The world’s a harsh place. God bless you, daughter.”

Madeleine curtsied. “Godspeed,” she said softly, hopelessly.

But at the door Marc turned back. “It’s a hard life out there, sister. Are you sure you want it?”

Sure
was a strong word, and Madeleine hesitated, but then she nodded.

“Hold off your vows, then, for a while. This English business will soon be in hand, I’m sure of it. If we end up with English riches, I’ll come and buy you out.”

With this careless promise he left. The tears Madeleine had dammed began to fall. Marc’s talk of riches was just a dream; her longing for freedom was a dream, too, and a foolish one, as her father had pointed out.

Madeleine wiped the tears from her cheeks. But a dream could not be wiped away so easily. She stared at the picture on the wall, silk worked on silk showing Christ in the desert being tempted with worldly delights. As she was tempted.

She ached to experience all the wonders of life, not just to read of them. She longed to travel to the frozen lands of the white bear, and to the burning sands of the
Holy Land
. She wanted to dance and gallop a horse. She wanted to see if dragons really flew in the skies above
Scotland
, and what it felt like when a man touched his lips to a woman’s . . .

As she left the room and made her way to the chapel for the singing of nones, Madeleine clung to the sliver of hope offered by her brother’s careless words. She would put off her vows and hope that perhaps he would ride up to the Abbaye one day, rich and come to set her free.

Westminster
,
England

January 1067

“
I’m
staying in
England
.”

Aimery de Gaillard faced his father unflinchingly, but there was tension in every line of his body.

“You will do as I say,” replied Count Guy flatly, but his jaw ached with the effort of keeping his voice steady. They had been sidling around this confrontation for two months, ever since the battle at Hastings, the one everyone now called Senlac—the Lake of Blood.

Harold Godwinson and most of his family were dead. The victorious
Normans
had marched to
London
against little opposition, and there William had received the acceptance he was demanding at sword point; the Witan had named him king, and on Christmas Day the Archbishop of York had crowned him in Edward’s magnificent abbey.

Now it was time for many of the
Normans
to go home.

William had granted lands and power to those who had fought for him—Guy had received a fine manor called Rolleston and territory near the Welsh border— and a few great lords would stay to be the cornerstones of the new kingdom. Most, however, only wanted to be back in their own lands before some opportunistic raider moved in on property or wife. It was mainly the hungry younger sons and mercenaries who would stay permanently to snarl over the spoils—and pay for them with military service, putting William’s mark on every corner of the land.

It was no place for Aimery, already racked by honoring his allegiance to William. In a few short months he had toughened and hardened in a way no father ever wants to see. He’d had a wound, of course, and been close to death . . .

“No.”

The word dropped like lead into the fraught silence of the small room. It was the first time Aimery had ever used it to his father in such a way.

Guy’s fist clenched reflexively. It would be so easy, so comforting, to use it, but there was more at stake here than his absolute authority over his son.

He turned away, ignoring the negative as if it had never been spoken. “Tomorrow we leave for the coast,” he said briskly. “There is work to do in
Normandy
since William will be much absent. I will need you at Castle Gaillard while I am assisting the duchess with affairs of state.”

He glanced back. Aimery was pale and tense. There was nothing to read in that. He’d been pale and tense since the battle, with three notable exceptions. Just after
Senlac
—weak, in pain, and distraught—he’d wept in his father’s arms; as he recovered he’d twice been violently and bitterly drunk. The healing of his wound had not brought a recovery of health and spirits, and Guy wanted only to get him away from
England
, home to
Normandy
and Lucia.

“You have Roger to help with Gaillard,” Aimery said.

“I am leaving Roger to look after Rolleston.”

That set a spark ablaze.
“Roger!
Does he know a sheep from a wolf?”

“Does he need to? He’ll keep order.”

“At sword point. He’ll ruin the place!”

“All
England
is at sword point,” Guy countered. “I need you at home.”

Aimery broke a little and turned away. His hand went to his left shoulder, where he still wore bindings to help the healing of a deep ax blow. He’d been lucky not to lose his arm or his life. He looked out through the narrow window over the thatched roofs of the houses of
London
.

At last he spoke. “This is my home.”

“By God it is not!” Guy roared as fear and rage broke free. He swung Aimery against the wall. “You are
Norman
! Or do you question your paternity?”

Aimery’s eyes blazed. “I also have a mother!” He moved to twist from his father’s grip. Guy unhesitatingly pressed him to the left until Aimery caught his breath and desisted.

“You are
Norman
,” Guy said quietly, inches from his son’s face. “Say it.”

“I am
Norman
,” Aimery spat back. “Though whether I’m proud of it is another matter.” He took a deep breath. “The king is making
England
his home, Father, and he is fully Norman. Though, of course, he
claims
English blood.”