Margo Maguire (5 page)

The guard tried to lead her back toward the great hall, but Aelia shrugged him off, pushing Osric ahead of her. “A weapon,” she said to her brother. “We must find something to use against these foreigners.”

“On the bodies,” Osric replied. “One of them must have a knife or… Look, Aelia,” he said. “’Tis Selwyn.”

True enough, the man who’d been chosen to be her husband lay among the dead. Aelia mourned him, not because of any particular fondness for the man, but because he was Saxon. He did not deserve this ignominious fate. Aelia vowed that he and all the other Saxon warriors would be decently buried.

Aelia reined in her temper and walked down the line of bodies, hesitating at each one to say a short prayer, while she searched for an overlooked weapon. When she came to the body of a woman laid out among the warriors, she gasped. ’Twas Erlina One-Ear, the pitiful crone who lived in a tiny cottage at the farthest end of the village. In recent years, Erlina had started muttering incoherently to herself as she walked through the village, and though her behavior seemed to become more bizarre with every passing month, she was harmless.

“’Twas murder,” Aelia said to Osric.

“There is no wound upon her.”

Aelia whirled ’round to face Fitz Autier, who stood
watching her with his hands casually perched upon his narrow hips. He closed the distance between them. “Don’t try to convince me that you weren’t thinking the worst of me and my men. We didn’t kill the old woman.”

“Then how did she die?”

“Mayhap you should examine the body and tell me.”

“I am no leech, Norman. But neither was she a soldier.”

He wore a long, split hauberk, but his head remained uncovered. His hair was not barbered in the usual manner of Normans, but neglected and left to grow as it would. With one day’s growth of beard and the terrible slash across his cheek, he looked imposing and dangerous. Still Aelia found herself alarmingly drawn to him.

He slid her knife from his belt and sliced through the rope that bound her to Osric. “Take him to the prisoners’ quarters.”

“No!” Aelia cried, reaching for him. “He’s just a child!”

“I’m no child, Aelia!” Osric countered angrily. “I will stay with our men until it is time.”

“Time for what?” Fitz Autier asked, his voice an ominous growl of pique and displeasure. “Time for what, boy?”

Osric stared defiantly at the Norman leader, then spoke through his teeth. “For my execution, bastard.”

“Osric, no!” Aelia’s breath caught in her throat and she resisted closing her eyes against the surety of what was about to happen.

But rather than gutting the boy with the knife in his hand, Fitz Autier motioned to the guard to take him away.

“What will you do with him?”

Fitz Autier took hold of the rope that bound Aelia’s
hands and pulled her beside him. “Better for you to consider what I will do with you,
demoiselle.
”

Aelia swallowed hard and stumbled alongside the Norman as he strode into the great hall of her father’s house. A fire burned in the massive hearth, providing the only light in the cavernous hall. A number of Frenchmen with bloody wounds lay upon pallets here, sleeping or moaning in pain.

Fitz Autier continued walking until he reached the stairs, then pushed her in front and made her climb. “Where are you taking me?”

“Keep moving,” he replied.

“I—I’m hungry.” She had not eaten all day.

“Gilbert!” He did not stop moving, but shouted to someone below. “Send food.”

“You…you can’t…I…”

“Say your piece,
demoiselle,
” Fitz Autier said. “You’ve had no trouble speaking your mind before now.”

They climbed to the topmost floor and stepped into the circular tower that was her father’s bedchamber. Fitz Autier freed her hands.

Aelia felt the blood rush from her head as she gazed into the once-familiar room. Wallis’s belongings were gone. The feather bed had been stripped of its hangings, and Wallis’s trunks were missing. One thin blanket lay at the foot of the bed, and a massive suit of armor had been placed in the farthest corner beside a three-legged stool.

Her father had been dead merely a month, yet this usurper had moved in as if he had every right to do so. As if her father had never been lord here.

“None of this is yours!”

“You think not, my lady?” He took hold of her arm
and led her roughly to the window. “Observe. All that you see is mine. You are vanquished, Saxon.”

Aelia turned to slap his arrogant face, but he caught her hand and pressed it against the cool metal hauberk covering his chest. ’Twas the place where no normal heart pulsed, but a cold and cruel one.

Yet he did not strike back. He lowered his head, until his lips were but a breath away from hers.

And then he kissed her.

’T
was meant to punish her for her impertinence, her utter disregard for his authority. Lady Aelia needed to understand who was in control at Ingelwald—and it was not she.

Lust played no part in his actions. He was merely demonstrating his mastery over her when he urged her mouth to open under his, when his tongue touched hers, when he tipped his head for better access to her lips.

Yet he damned the chain hauberk that kept him from feeling her soft breasts pressing against his chest, and the fluttering of her heart. Her shoulders were small and yielding under his war-hardened hands. Her back was narrow, her stature surprisingly delicate, considering her fiery nature.

And Mathieu wanted to consume her. He slid his hands around her waist, touching the crests of her hips as he lowered his mouth to her jaw, then her ear and her throat, sipping, tasting Aelia. She was a powerful elixir, drugging him, dissolving his common sense.

And when he realized that, he pulled away.

Mathieu released Aelia so suddenly she stumbled
back a step before regaining her balance. Her face was flushed and he saw confusion in her green eyes, but Gilbert de Bosc pushed open the door to the chamber and strode in before either of them managed to say a word.

“Your supper, Sir Mathieu,” he said, looking for a place to set the platter of food.

“Put it on the bed,” Mathieu said as two more of his men entered. They carried a large trunk and a washstand, and set them on the floor in the far corners of the room.

Mathieu sat down on the bed and made a deliberate show of turning his attention to the food. The kiss meant naught. ’Twas only to demonstrate his complete dominance over her.

“There are Saxons below who are ready to swear fealty to you, Sir Mathieu.”

“No!”

Shock and outrage rang clear in Aelia’s tone, but Mathieu studiously avoided looking at her. He poured ale into a cup and took a healthy swallow. “Give them a meal and have them wait for me.”

“You bribe them for their loyalty!” Aelia cried. “’Tis a thin mark of fidelity that you win here, Norman.”

Mathieu stood abruptly. “What makes you so sure, Lady Aelia? What has changed for these people, besides the name of their liege lord?”

“They—”

“Naught,” he said as he walked to the door. “They will go on as before, but in the future, they will have an overlord who will protect them.”

“Who will grow rich through their labors.”

“As your father did not?”

“Our people respected and revered Wallis! He was a fair and generous man—”

“Who overindulged his offspring. Cease your chatter now, and partake of this meal before it’s taken away!”

He walked out and let the heavy door slam behind him. “She is not to leave this room,” he said to the guards who awaited him.

“Yes, baron.”

He could not get down the stairs fast enough to suit him. The woman was impossible. Tedious. And he had more important things to do than dally with her in the chamber he planned to use for the duration of his stay at Ingelwald. He did not care whom it had belonged to before his victory here.

There was no weapon in the room. He wouldn’t leave her armed, but Aelia could not help but hope she would find a forgotten dagger among his things.

She pulled the door open, but came face-to-face with two Norman guards who would not let her pass. “Am I a prisoner here?” she demanded.

“Yes, my lady,” one of the men replied.

Aelia huffed indignantly and returned to her father’s chamber, slamming the door behind her. She hoped it fell off its hinges.

But when it did not, she was reduced to pacing the length of the room while she cursed her Norman captor. Repeatedly.

If she’d been hungry before, that kiss had taken away her appetite. What had she been thinking, allowing him such intimacy? The man had butchered her people and taken away their homes. He’d bound and imprisoned her brother, a mere child. And now he’d usurped her father’s own chamber.

The truth was, she had
not
been thinking. His kiss
had been pure sensation—a tingling heat that had frozen her mind but warmed her body. She hadn’t realized that a simple kiss could do such a thing, and wondered if Fitz Autier had felt the same.

No, most likely not. Or he would not have broken away from her just as she’d begun to feel the same ravishing sensations she’d experienced the night before. Aelia took a deep breath and turned her thoughts to a more productive line. ’Twas pointless to give any further consideration to that kiss, or anything she’d felt while imprisoned in his tent.

She had to figure a way to defeat the Norman knight. Mayhap his army was stronger than hers, but if Aelia could kill Fitz Autier, his men would have no choice but to surrender and return Ingelwald to its rightful masters.

How was she to kill him? Without a weapon, there was little hope of that.

Aelia sat down on the edge of the bed and eyed the platter. She had not eaten since the night before, yet food no longer interested her. There was a gnawing pain at her center that had naught to do with hunger. Her belly roiled at her defeat, her imprisonment, her humiliation.

Her life should have been forfeit when Selwyn refused to surrender. Yet she still lived and breathed, while he lay dead in the courtyard.

The line of bodies had not been as long as Aelia had anticipated. Only twenty Ingelwald men lay dead, alongside another twenty Normans. Even so, none of those brave Saxons had had to die. If the greedy William had not sent his knights to every corner of England, there would have been no reason for the death and destruction wrought over these last two years.

Her father would still be alive.

Never had her need for his counsel been so great, nor her desire for his fatherly embrace. Aelia felt like a lost child again, frail and vulnerable, and in need of protection. Wallis had always provided that.

She pressed one hand against her chest as if she could hold in her anguish, and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Her father was gone and she’d had little time to shed her tears when, weeks ago, they’d put him in the ground. Tears pooled in Aelia’s eyes now as she lowered her head to the bed and wept for her father and Godwin, and all that had been lost.

Mathieu was weary of war. After two years of death and destruction, he wanted nothing more than to settle here at Ingelwald in peace. He was no fool, though. The Saxons of Wallis’s fyrd who’d just sworn fealty were no more loyal to him than they were to King William. They’d merely done the most expedient thing in order to get on with their lives.

Auvrai d’Evreux would remain at Ingelwald to deal with them and to keep order when Mathieu left for London. Auvrai would be the one to oversee the reinforcement of the protective walls, and the improvements to the hall. When Mathieu wed Lady Clarise, she would have an impressive home here at Ingelwald.

He picked up a lamp and started up the stairs toward the master’s chamber. Sleep would be a welcome amenity just now, but Mathieu did not know if he would be able to rest with Lady Aelia in the room. ’Twould be best if he found himself a bed elsewhere, but—

The rasp of unsheathed steel made Mathieu swing ’round abruptly and reach for his sword. The figure on the landing was swathed in shadow, but his blade gleamed bright in the lamplight, and it was poised to
strike between the loosened buckles of Mathieu’s hauberk. Mathieu raised his sword arm in a gesture of resignation.

When the assailant moved slightly into the light, Mathieu saw that he was merely an adolescent boy with the downy fur of his first beard. However, the boy’s age would not keep him from moving in for the kill, Mathieu knew.

“The lady…” the lad said. “You have no right.”

His French was passable, though his accent was thick. His sword hand trembled.

“You would protect Lady Aelia from me?”

“She is lady of Ingelwald,” the boy said. “All men here protect…
honor
…her.”

All Mathieu had to do was toss the lamp to one side and pull away from the point of the sword. But throwing a candle, even though ’twas enclosed in the lamp, would be a perilous choice. The manor house was made mostly of wood, and the rushes on the floors were extremely combustible.

“Your devotion is admirable.” ’Twould be an easy task to disarm and kill this boy. But his death, when they’d just won peace here, would cause far more trouble than Mathieu wanted. Still, he would not be cowed by a youth with a weapon. “I intend no harm to the lady.”

“Release her!” the boy demanded.

Mathieu felt the sword pierce his flesh, and he gritted his teeth against the pain and eased away. “That will not be possible.”

He made a sudden feint to the right, pulling away from the boy’s blade. Raising his own weapon, he found ’twas an easy feat to knock the boy’s sword from his hand and back him up against the wall.

At the sound of the scuffle, guards from the hall
below and the upper floor took to the stairs. When they arrived upon the landing in between, Mathieu already had the situation under control.

“Your loyalty does you credit,” he said, pulling the boy’s arms behind him. “And because of it, your life is spared.”

The Saxon, gone pale either with fury or fear, did not speak.

“What is your name?”

“Halig.”

Mathieu turned him over to the guards. “Lock him up with the others.”

“Lady Aelia is good woman, Norman,” the boy said. “You take her—”

“No harm will come to the woman as long as she behaves.”

Mathieu could not fault Halig for attempting to protect Aelia. ’Twas what he would have done had Queen Mathilda or any other innocent woman been in peril. But Aelia was no innocent. She’d donned armor and raised her bow against his men. Mathieu himself bore a gash upon his face as a result of her arrow.

Yet she had the loyalty and love of her people. Mathieu had taken note of the homage they’d paid her when she’d walked across Ingelwald’s grounds. Old and young alike revered her. ’Twas Aelia’s defeat—more than Selwyn’s—that had won Ingelwald for Mathieu.

He continued up the staircase, more watchful now as he approached the master’s chamber. One of the two guards he’d posted at the door was still on duty. Mathieu passed him and entered the room, half expecting an attack upon his life, even though he’d been careful to leave Lady Aelia no weapon.

Lamplight flickered in the periphery of the room, casting her sleeping form in shadows.

Her head lay upon her crossed arms on the mattress, but her body was curled on the floor at the bedside. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and regular. ’Twas as if she’d sat down beside the bed to await his return, but had fallen asleep instead.

The food on the plate was untouched, and Mathieu wondered when she’d last eaten. Earlier, she’d complained of hunger.

’Twas not his concern. If she refused to eat, he could do naught but watch her starve herself.

But he would put her to bed, then go and deal with his newest wound. Mathieu crouched down to pick her up, and she made a small sound, much like a sigh, yet more. ’Twas the sound of despair.

And there was moisture upon her cheeks.

Mathieu gathered her into his arms and lifted her to the bed, grimacing when her body touched the gash in his side. He didn’t think the boy had done much more than scratch him. Mayhap the wound was worse than that.

He lay Aelia upon the bed, then set the plate of food on the trunk, and covered her with his blanket. When she stirred restlessly, he moved away from her, quietly removing the battle horn that was still strapped over his shoulder. He lowered the heavy hauberk to the floor and walked toward the lamplight, unlacing his thin undertunic. The lower right side was covered with blood.

With a muttered curse, Mathieu pulled the sherte over his head and looked at the wound. ’Twas deep enough to need stitching, though not bad enough to cause him serious worry. He’d had worse, but he was going to need help tending it.

He opened the door and spoke to the guard, sending him to find Sir Auvrai, a man who knew more about healing than any surgeon Mathieu had ever known. Then he closed the door and went to the washstand, where a basin of water and several clean cloths awaited him.

Stitches were likely to chafe and bother him on the journey to London, but there was naught to do about it. He had no intention of putting off his return to William’s court, thereby delaying his betrothal. The sooner he wed Clarise and returned to Ingelwald, the better.

“What happened?”

Mathieu turned and watched Aelia swing her legs over the edge of the bed and stand. Even from across the room, he could see that her eyes were red-rimmed and wary.

“You’re bleeding. Did the mighty Norman knight suffer a mishap with his sword?”

“’Twas a lucky jab from your overzealous swain.” He turned away from her, but heard the floor creak under her feet as she approached. “Why are you not sleeping?”

“I never meant to sleep.”

Mathieu sucked in a breath when she touched the laceration.

“This needs sewing.”

“And what would you know of it?”

“More than I like. Give me that.” She took the cloth from his hand and swabbed the wound carefully.

“You didn’t eat.”

“Having a Norman in my father’s bedchamber turned my stomach.” Mathieu held his breath as she pressed the edges of the cut. Her touch was gentle, yet knowledgeable.

“You have some skill here,
demoiselle.
”

“Not by my choice, Norman,” she replied. “My father said ’twas a lady’s duty to tend the sick and injured of her estate. I learned all I know from Erlina—the old woman who lay dead in my father’s courtyard. She was a fine healer before her mind turned.” Aelia took a clean cloth and dropped it in the basin of water. “Whoever speared you missed anything important.”

“’Twas one of your admirers, defending your honor.”

Aelia’s hand stilled and she gazed up at Mathieu with contempt. “Did you kill him?”

“He was just a boy. Of course I did not kill him, even though—” A sharp knock at the door interrupted him. “Enter!”

’Twas the herald, Gilbert de Bosc, carrying the leather satchel in which Sir Auvrai kept his medicines. Gilbert was no warrior, but a man fluent in the Saxon tongue. Mathieu had never seen him wield a sword in battle and did not know if he would be able to defend himself if necessary. Still, he had his uses, besides functioning as an interpreter. His administrative skills were immense, and he was free to tend the sick and wounded. “Sir Auvrai will be here presently.”