Lord of My Heart (4 page)

The duchess’ eyes watched her carefully as she said, “No. It is the King of England’s wish that you return to the world and marry a man who can hold this land for you.”

Marriage, thought Madeleine dizzily. This was her dream. This was her freedom.

And yet it clearly was not.

If Marc had brought a dispensation for her, he would have treated her with careless kindness and allowed her to choose a husband. But this plan meant she and her land were to be gifted to some man with no thought for her tastes. Powerful men were often old. Most of the Norman nobles she knew were coarse, gap-toothed, foul-mouthed, and dirty.

She looked up. “Do I have to do this, Your Grace?”

The duchess studied her. “It is the will of your duke, the King of England. If, however, you feel you have a true calling to the religious life ...”

Assailed by a decision for which she was completely unprepared, Madeleine rose and paced the small, plain room, fiddling with the wooden cross which hung round her neck, trying to assess the two paths laid before her.

One, the Abbaye, was known and stretched smooth as far as the eye could see—tranquil, ordered, cultured . . . tedious.

The other curved quickly out of sight and into mystery. What lay beyond the moment? Kindness or cruelty? Comfort or hardship? Adventure or tedium?

Madeleine stopped for a moment before the ivory crucifix on the wall and murmured a prayer for guidance. She remembered how often she had prayed to be released from the religious life. Well, there was a saying, “Watch well for what you pray, for you may receive it.”

So be it. Her honesty told her the Abbaye offered her comfort and security but nothing more profound. The prayers and rituals which transported others into spiritual ecstasy were merely routines to her, some pleasant and others not.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think I have a true vocation.”

The duchess nodded. “That is also the feeling of the abbess, though she will be sorry to lose you. I understand you have a gift for learning, particularly in the healing arts.” The duchess rose. “There are many ways to serve, my dear. These are troubled times, and the king has need of you.”

Madeleine was not deceived. The king needed her to toss to some man as a reward, as men toss the still-warm entrails of their kill to a hunting dog.

“Whom am I to wed, Your Grace?”

“That is not settled,” replied the duchess. “There is no urgency. An uncle is caring for the land at the moment.”

Uncle Paul, thought Madeleine, unsurprised.

Neither her mother’s nor her father’s family had proved to be fertile or fortunate. Her only remaining relative was her mother’s sister, Celia, who had married an impoverished lord, Paul de Pouissey. That marriage was childless, but Odo, Paul’s son by a previous marriage, had always been considered Marc and Madeleine’s cousin.

Paul de Pouissey was a consistent failure and quick to latch onto any good fortune of his wife’s family.

“You have been educated here beyond most young women,” the duchess continued, “but will need to learn court manners. You must join my ladies. I expect to be summoned to England in the spring to join my lord. Time enough then to settle your future.”

If no particular man had been chosen, Madeleine thought, then perhaps there was a chance to take control of fate. “I would ask a boon, Your Grace.”

A faint touch of frost entered the duchess’ eyes. “And what might that be?”

Madeleine’s nerve almost failed her, but she spoke her request quickly. “My lady, I would beg to have some say in whom I am to marry.”

A glance showed her the duchess was very cool indeed. “Are you suggesting the king and I would not have care to your welfare, girl?”

Madeleine hastily knelt. “No, Your Grace. Forgive me.”

She watched the duchess’ slippered foot tap three times. Then Matilda said, “Well, yours has been an unusual upbringing, and some allowance must be made. At least you have spirit ...” That foot continued to tap. Madeleine stared at it, wondering if she was merely to be forgiven, or would gain something, even the slightest right of consultation.

“I will ask my lord husband that your wishes be taken into consideration,” the duchess said eventually, startling Madeleine. “And I will do my best to see that your marriage is delayed a little, to give you time to adjust.”

At this extra generosity Madeleine looked up in amazement. The duchess was smiling dryly. “Oh get up, girl. Your groveling has gained what you want.”

Madeleine rose warily.

“You are suspicious?” asked Matilda. “That is wise. Do you know of my courtship?”

“No, Your Grace.”

The duchess’ smile broadened as she looked into the past. “William asked my father for my hand, and I refused. He was, after all, a bastard and none too secure in his hold on his land. I was somewhat rude in my rejection. One day William and one attendant rode into Blois and came upon me in the street with my maid and guard. He seized me and laid his riding whip to me.”

Madeleine gasped, but the duchess’ smile was still fond. “Later he sent to ask again, and I accepted.”

“After he had whipped you?”

“Because he had whipped me. Oh, don’t think I desire that kind of thing. Since that day he has never raised a hand to me, and the heavens would crack with our raging if he did. But a man who dared come into my father’s stronghold and assault me so was a man whose destiny I would share.”

The duchess rearranged the folds of her flowing ruby skirt. “Why am I telling you this? Because I approve of a woman willing to take a grasp on her fate and try to steer it. I will support you as far as I am able. I also point out that the responsibility for choosing a husband is not a light one. Take heed what qualities you seek.”

Madeleine nodded.

“My cloak,” the duchess commanded. Madeleine picked up the soft, white cloth embroidered in gold and red, and draped it around Matilda’s shoulders. She pulled the ends through the heavy brooch of gold and garnet, and arranged it on the lady’s shoulder.

Matilda nodded her approval. “As for now, I am on my way to Saint Lo on the business of the duchy. I will visit here again in two weeks and take you into my company of ladies.”

With this Madeleine was dismissed. She stood in a quiet corner of the cloister and considered her strangely altered future with excitement and trepidation. She would be joining the court and going to England. She would be entering the hitherto forbidden world of men and the marriage bed.

The convent had not left her totally ignorant, for there was much whispered speculation about sins, especially those of immodesty and fornication. And she had, after all, lived in the world until she was ten. She believed she knew well enough what men did to women, though she hardly thought, as Sister Adela had insisted, that some women became as crazed with lust as men. And as for Sister Bridget’s assertion that men sucked magic fluid from a woman’s breasts in order to stiffen their member for the act ...

All such issues were irrelevant anyway. Madeleine had been given a chance to live in the world. That meant more to her than a sweet lover in her bed.

She understood the duchess’ lesson perfectly. She would need a strong man to hold her barony safe in a troubled land—one skillful in war and careful in administration. The color of his eyes, the shape of his limbs, were irrelevant.

She would take care to choose well. Then Duke William would have no pretext for rescinding the privilege she had won and imposing on her a choice of his own.

Madeleine walked along the woodland path, searching the undergrowth for valuable plants. Baddersley had suffered, first under the rule of her sick father and careless brother, and now under the harsh hand of her uncle, Paul de Pouissey.

She would never understand men. What point was there in conquest if everyone starved, or died of disease? Medicinal supplies were scarce at Baddersley, and the herb garden was rank with weeds. She had brought a small box of medicinal and culinary herbs and spices— a farewell gift from the abbess—but more, much more, would be needed.

Most, but not all, of the plants here were the same as those she was familiar with back home—she stopped and picked a handful of cinquefoil, so good for toothache. When she had more skill with the strange English tongue perhaps she would be able to learn from the local people.

It was not very likely, she admitted with a sigh. It wasn’t just language that cut her off from the English, but the sullen resentment they felt for their Norman conquerors. Quite reasonably, she supposed, especially when the representative of Norman rule hereabouts was Paul de Pouissey. Madeleine had never liked her uncle, and now she was coming to hate him.

Things were not turning out at all as she had planned.

After two months of training at Matilda’s court in Rouen, Madeleine had joined the duchess’ train en route to England, the proud owner of chests full of fine clothes, jewels to wear with them, and a tiring woman to care for them. She had new skills in music and dance, and new friends, including the duchess’ thirteen-year-old daughter, Agatha, and her sixteen-year-old niece, Judith. The three young women had a common interest, for they were all to find husbands in England.

Now Agatha and Judith were at Westminster, enjoying the festivities surrounding Matilda’s coronation as Queen of England—and meeting all the eligible men. Madeleine, however, was here in Mercia “learning about her land.” That was how Matilda had described it, adding that such a great heiress would not want to be at court where she would be fought over like a rabbit thrown to the hounds.

Wouldn’t she?

Madeleline suspected the real problem was her right of choice. The king and queen must have come to regret promising her some say in the choice of her husband.

Madeleine stretched and raised her loose brown hair from her neck. It was a warm day, even in the shade. All she wore was her shift and a simple blue linen short-sleeved kirtle. This was girdled with a plain leather belt holding two pouches for leaves and roots, but her main object at the moment was not collecting but taking inventory of nature’s storehouse.

She left the path to study a low-growing bush, and her skirt caught on a twig. Impatiently she hitched it higher into her girdle, upsetting the careful folds achieved by her tiring woman, Dorothy, and achieving a length more suited to a peasant than a lady.

Dorothy would have a fit to see her so, Madeleine thought with a grin, but Dorothy was some way back resting against an oak and sewing, and so in no position to object.

The bush proved to be dwayle, as she had hoped.

Madeleine stored it in her memory. Though the berries were dangerous, the leaves could soothe those who were agitated or in pain.

Back on the path she noted witch hazel, elder, and some mosses growing on an oak. She saw brambles which would bear fruit later. If the management of Baddersley continued as she had witnessed during her week here, wild foods might be all that stood between them and starvation in the winter.

She now knew why all her Uncle Paul’s enterprises came to naught. He blustered and roared and plied his whip, but he could not organize people to purposeful work, nor could he look ahead and guard against disasters.

Aunt Celia was almost as bad. She had more notion of management than her husband, but her ranting abuse of any shortcoming, and her constant belief that everyone was trying to deceive her, did not lead to good service.

Angrily, Madeleine snapped a dead branch from an elm. This was her land, and it was being abused. The first thing she would do when she had chosen a suitable husband was to throw out Paul and Celia. And they knew it.

At least they were happy to have her out of sight, and so made no objection to her exploring the nearby land as long as she took Dorothy and a guard along. Dorothy complained at “being dragged all over the place,” and so Madeleine left her to sit in the shade. Paul’s men were as idle as they could be, and happy to guard the maid rather than the mistress. Madeleine was left to explore in peace.

She never wandered far, however. The people here were cowed but still unfriendly, and she no more wanted to meet any of them alone in the woods than she wanted to encounter an angry boar. She looked back and checked that Dorothy and the soldier were still in sight.

Then she glimpsed water through the trees. She went forward eagerly for there were many beneficial plants which grew in marshy ground at a river’s edge.

A large splash halted her. Just a fish? Or some large animal? She moved forward more cautiously, and peeped out from behind a strand of willow.

A man was swimming.

The smooth line of his back was clear—long, golden, and slick with water. When he turned to swim toward the bank, she could see his face but could make little of it. Young, though. But she’d guessed that from his body . . .

Still in deep water, he stopped swimming, stood, and began to wade toward the bank. Madeleine gave a little sigh as his body was revealed bit by bit.

His shoulders were broad and sinuously strong, sloping down into hard breasts; between the flaring ribs ridges of muscles formed a perfect central cleft which was emphasized by the faint line of water-darkened hair disappearing into the river.

Naked and a part of nature, he was like a perfectly formed wild animal.

He stopped with the water girdling his hips and raised his arms to slick back his long hair. His shoulders stretched, and his upper body seemed to form a heart shape for her delight. She suppressed a breathy, “Oh!” He shook his head like a dog, sending spray to make diamonds in the sun.

He began to wade out of the water again, revealing more of his body, inch, by inch, by inch . . .

Madeleine watched, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath—

He turned suddenly, as if alerted by a sound.

Madeleine looked away, horrified by her rampant curiosity and the disappointment she felt. She knew how a man was made. She’d laid out corpses.

This man was nothing like a corpse. He was nothing like any man she had ever seen. She peeped back.

He stood like a statue, watching the far bank of the river. Madeleine followed his gaze and saw three russet hinds prick their way delicately down to the water. They were alert for danger, but he stood so still they were unalarmed and dipped their heads to drink.

Madeleine looked back to the man.

If anything, his back was more breathtaking than his front. The smooth line from broad shoulders to hard buttocks was surely God’s perfect work. The long valley of his spine could have been drawn by God’s loving finger . . . She imagined running a finger from nape to cleft . . .

Madeleine shut her eyes and said a silent prayer. “. . . deliver us from temptation . . .” But it was no good. She opened her eyes a slit.

He had not moved. He stood as still as a statue and just as God had made him. There was no sign of race or rank, though she knew he was English from the long hair. Though it was darkened by water, it was blond, probably the golden Scandinavian blond much more common here than in Normandy.

But he wasn’t a peasant. He was too tall, too evenly and beautifully developed to be of such low class. It needed good food from birth and long years of training in a range of skills to develop a body like that—fluid, capable of wielding sword or ax throughout a long battle, able to control a warhorse, climb walls, draw a bow . . .

Water from his hair formed a rivulet in the cleft of his spine. It ran all the way down to his buttocks. Madeleine found herself imagining catching those drops of water on her tongue, running her tongue up that sensuous valley to the nape of his neck . . .

She clapped her hand over her mouth and shut her eyes. What a thing to think!

She heard something and opened her eyes. He was gone, leaving only ripples, and so were the deer. Had such a little noise alarmed them?

The spell was broken. Madeleine hurriedly retreated and leaned against a tree—weak, breathless, and ashamed of herself. How extraordinary and dreamlike that had all been, and how wicked her thoughts. She would have to confess them.

She wouldn’t dare!

Who could he have been? There were no noble Englishmen left in this area. She could almost believe him of the faery world—a river prince, a forest king. Hadn’t she seen dark marks on his body which were surely magical?

She didn’t dare investigate the river plants today. She might be enchanted and dragged down into the water to live as captive to a faery prince.

It wasn’t fear she felt.

To be such a man’s captive . . .

She tiptoed away from the river back toward Dorothy and Conrad. And safety. Safety from faeries and her own wanton weakness—

She was seized. A hand clapped over her mouth. She was entangled in a cloak. In a second, Madeleine found herself pinioned by a strong arm with her back against her captor, silenced by a large, calloused hand.

Her fantasy had become terrifying reality, and this was no faery prince. She struggled and tried to scream. He was Saxon. He’d slit her throat!

He said something she could not understand, but the gentle tone calmed her, and she stopped her futile struggle, though her heart still raced and tremors shook her.

He continued to speak in the soft, burred English Madeleine heard all day but hardly understood as yet, despite her lessons with the local priest. Looking as she did, he doubtless thought her one of the castle maids. She must keep up the pretense. He was surely an English outlaw, and if he realized she was Norman he
would
slit her throat.

It was hard to believe he was the enemy, however, for his soothing voice smoothed away her fears. The voice, the cloak, the heat of his body behind her, his arm around her, all made her somnolent, as if he were casting a spell.

Perhaps he was.

Was he still naked? She imagined him naked behind her, his wonderful body separated from hers by only two layers of cloth. Trembles started which had nothing to do with fear.

Held as she was, she could see nothing of him, just the path ahead—ground kept barren by the regular wearing of feet, the arch of trees in leaf, yellow and white flowers blooming among the undergrowth. She heard the singing of birds, the humming of insects, and the murmur of his entrancing voice.

He said something else, and cautiously slid his hand from her lips. She guessed he had told her not to cry out. She licked her lips and tasted him upon them. His hand slid down her neck, then up again to gently press her head back against his chest. Still she could see nothing of him, but beneath her hair she felt cloth. It disappointed her that he was dressed. At that thought heat rose in her cheeks . . .

He laughed softly and murmured again as his hand stroked down her stretched neck like a trail of fire. Then it traveled further, to rest hot over her right breast.

Madeleine gave a breathy moan. Even through her kirtle and the cloak she could feel the heat from that hand as if it lay against her bare skin. Her nipple swelled into a point of unbearable sensitivity, and his hand moved in slow butterfly circles as if he knew. She imagined that deep murmuring voice was speaking of love and sinful delights . . .

She ached with a need to respond, to reach up and hold his hand against her, to turn and kiss him, but she was caught in the cloak. She wanted to speak but dared not, for then he would know she was Norman.

His right hand moved again, leaving her breast bereft. Now, following the path of her desire, it slid down to the juncture of her thighs, cupped and pressed her there. She made a wordless protest and moved back, but there was nowhere to go, and her wicked body did not really want to escape . . .

She stifled a betraying plea even as her body moved against his hand.

He laughed and blew softly over her heated cheek.

Then he picked up his spells again as his hand slid up her body, over her left breast to her neck. His fingers trailed to her nape, and he lifted her damp, heavy hair. The murmur of his voice stopped. The brush of his lips at her hairline trickled a shiver of delight down her spine as the river water had run down his.