The Mercenary's Bride
Page 1
Brice had removed his chain mail and other accoutrements of fighting and war and stood there as just a man. Yet now he seemed even more dangerous than before.
He was tall and large, with broad shoulders that bespoke of years of training in his craft. She swallowed deeply as she realized he watched her perusal of him. Gillian lowered her gaze to her clasped hands and waited quietly.
Without even lifting her head, she could see him moving closer to her. “Do you need something to drink or eat?”
“My lord,” she said quietly as she rose to her feet and stood before him. “I need nothing from you save your grant of safe passage to the convent.”
The tension between and around them grew as she waited on his word. His brown eyes darkened even more as the intensity and heat of his gaze moved over her.
“You have asked for one of the two things I could not grant you, lady, even if I wished it to be so.”
Her heart began to pound in her chest as he reached out and took her hand in his, tugging her even closer.
“What is the other?” She held her breath as he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist. He allowed his lips to rest there for a moment longer than necessary before looking back at her.
“I could not let you greet the morning as a maiden still,” he said.
The Mercenary’s Bride
Harlequin® Historical #1002—July 2010
Praise for Terri Brisbin
The Conqueror’s Lady
“Compelling and riveting with its rich narrative, pulsing sexual tension and chilling suspense. It’s a tale of a man of passion, action and heat, and the innocent beauty who conquers him body and soul.”
—RT Book Reviews
Possessed by the Highlander
“Brisbin’s nicely crafted romance beautifully renders its characters’ growth and powerful emotions.”
—RT Book Reviews
Surrender to the Highlander
“Rich in historical detail, laced with the perfect amount of passion, Ms. Brisbin continually delivers highly satisfying romances. Don’t miss it.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Taming the Highlander
“Taming the Highlander is a lively, frolicking tale of life in the highlands; truly a must read.”
—Historical Romance Writers
The Earl’s Secret
“Terri Brisbin is an historical romance author of note and a shining star within the Harlequin Historical writers. The Earl’s Secret is highly recommended!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
The Maid of Lorne
“With her usual superb sense of characterization and exceptional gift for creating sizzling sexual chemistry, Brisbin fashions a splendidly satisfying medieval historical.”
—Booklist
The Duchess’s Next Husband
“This is a quintessential tale of both love and emotional growth—in other words, the perfect romance.”
—The Best Reviews
TERRI BRISBIN
The Mercenary’s Bride
Available from Harlequin® Historical and TERRI BRISBIN
The Dumont Bride #634
The Norman’s Bride #696
The Countess Bride #707
The Christmas Visit #727
“Love at First Step”
The King’s Mistress #735
The Betrothal #749
“The Claiming of Lady Joanna”
The Duchess’s Next Husband #751
The Maid of Lorne #786
Taming the Highlander #807
The Earl’s Secret #831
Surrender to the Highlander #886
Possessed by the Highlander #910
*The Conqueror’s Lady #954
*The Mercenary’s Bride #1002
Harlequin Historical Undone eBook
*A Night for Her Pleasure
Look for Soren’s story coming soon
Author Note
Although the 1066 invasion of Duke William of Normandy brought about huge changes in the politics and society of England, some of those changes were already underway. Normans had become an integral part of England during Edward the Confessor’s reign; many gaining lands and titles long before the Conqueror set foot there. So the Saxons had some experience with Norman ways before this major invasion force landed in Pevensey in October 1066.
Many Saxons held their lands after William’s arrival—those who pledged their loyalty to the new ruler were permitted to retain them, but many were supplanted by those who’d fought for William. Important Norman nobles gained more property and often Saxon heiresses.
Thought ruthless and decisive about using force to implement his rule, William did not employ it fully after the Battle of Hastings until the revolt three years later in the north of England. Then he unleashed his anger in what’s still called “the Harrowing of the North,” destroying everything in his path and effectively wiping out what was left of the Saxon way of life.
In my story one of Harold’s sons, Edmund, appears as a leader of the rebels. My Edmund is really a composite of several real people who lived in the aftermath of the Battle of Hastings and continued to fight the Normans as they moved from the southeast of England northward and westward to take control of the whole country.
It is believed that at least two of Harold’s sons did survive (or avoid) the battle that killed their father and that they and their mother joined in the efforts of some of the others opposing the Normans. The earls of Mercia and Northumbria, Harold’s brothers-by-marriage, switched sides several times during this conflict, were even taken to Normandy along with the designated Saxon heir apparent, Edgar Atheling, and were later part of the struggle that led to William’s Harrowing of the North.
So any resemblance of my Edmund to the real protagonists of history is intentional!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Prologue
Taerford Manor, Wessex, England
December 1066
Bishop Obert summoned a meeting with the second of the knights on the list he’d prepared months before of those who were to benefit from the king’s generosity. He carried the papers with him that would turn the knight into a baron and make a penniless bastard into a rich lord—if he could take the lands granted him from the Saxon rebels who still held them.
Obert paced along the length of the table, waiting for Brice Fitzwilliam, bastard knight from Brittany, to arrive. If he was to make it back to London before the king’s coronation he must leave on the morrow, and this was his last duty here in Taerford. Regardless of the winter closing in around them, regardless of the yet unsettled lands and regardless of his own wants or needs, he was Duke William’s loyal servant. After God, of course, he mused as he turned towards the group of men now approaching.
As seemed to be their custom, the new lord of Taerford, Giles Fitzhenry, walked side by side with the man for whom Obert waited. Thinking back to his weeks here, he rarely saw one without the other, whether in the hall or yards, in any task needed to be done here in Taerford. They strode in, followed by more of Giles’s m
en, fresh from practising their fighting skills in the yard. They became quieter with every step closer and bowed as one to him.
‘My lord,’ he said to Giles first, and then, wishing to proceed with his task, he turned to the other. ‘My lord,’ he said as he nodded to Fitzwilliam.
The implications were not lost on anyone listening and the hall grew silent as they waited on Obert’s words. The surprise filled the warrior’s face until he laughed aloud with joy. If it was inappropriate, Obert could understand it—as one bastard pleased by the success of another who shared his status. The ripples of cheering and shouting ebbed quickly as the entire hall watched and waited on the declaration.
Obert motioned the knight forwards to kneel in front of him. Although this should have been more ceremonial and formal, and before the duke himself, the dangers of the times and place gave way to expediency. Lord Giles stood, once more, at his friend’s side, placing his hand on Brice’s shoulder as Obert continued.
‘In the Duke’s name, I declare you, Brice Fitzwilliam, now Baron and Lord of Thaxted, and vassal to the Duke himself,’ Obert intoned. The pledging of loyalty directly to the duke, who was soon to be king, ensured a network of warriors who owed their lands and titles and wealth to only him, with no other liege lords between them. Obert could not fight the smile that threatened, for it had been his idea to do so. ‘As such, you have the right to lay claim to all the lands, the livestock, the villeins and other properties owned or held by the traitor Eoforwic of Thaxted before his death.’
Although the Normans and Bretons present cheered, the peasants who’d lived on this land and claimed Saxon heritage did not. He understood that the victors in any engagement deserved everything they fought so hard to gain, but the compassionate part of him also understood the shame of being the defeated. However, this day belonged to the victorious Breton knight before him.
‘The Duke declares that you should marry the daughter of Eoforwic, if possible, or seek another appropriate bride from the surrounding lands and loyal vassals if not.’
Obert handed the new lord the package of folded parchments that carried the grant of lands and titles. Holding out his hands, he waited for Brice to offer his pledge. In a deep voice that shook from the power of this promise, Brice repeated the words as Obert’s clerk whispered them.
‘By the Lord before whom I, Brice Fitzwilliam, now of Thaxted, swear this oath and in the name of all that is holy, I will pledge to William of Normandy, Duke and now King of all England, to be true and faithful, and to love all which he loves and to shun all which he shuns, according to the laws of God and the order of the world. I swear that I will not ever, with will or action, through word or deed or omission, do anything which is unpleasing to him, on condition that he will hold to me as I shall deserve it, and that he will perform everything as it was in our agreement when I first submitted myself to him and his mercy and chose his will over mine. I offer this unconditionally, with no expectations other than his faith and favour as my liege lord.’
Obert raised his voice so that all could hear.
‘I, Obert of Caen, speaking in the name and with the authority of William, Duke of Normandy and King of England, do accept this oath of fealty as sworn here before these witnesses and before God and do promise that William, as lord and king, will protect and defend the person and properties of Brice Fitzwilliam of Thaxted who here pledges on his honour that he will be ruled by the king’s will and his word. In the king’s name, I agree to the promises contained herein this oath unconditionally, with no expectations other than his faith and service as loyal vassal to the king.’
Obert allowed the words to echo through the hall and then released the new lord of Thaxted to stand before him. ‘To Lord Thaxted,’ he called out. ‘Thaxted!’
The men joined in his cheer then, stamping their feet and clapping their hands and he permitted it to go on for several minutes. Lord Giles pounded his friend on the back and then pulled him into a hug that spoke of years of toil and triumph together. Only when Obert spied Lady Fayth entering the hall did he realise he must speak to Brice about the woman involved. As he watched the expression on the lady’s face change several times on her approach after hearing the news of Brice’s grant, he knew that the weaker sex had a way of making things difficult for the men chosen or designated to oversee them as lords or husbands.
Obert noticed the hesitation in the lady’s greeting and in her congratulatory words even if no one else did. Ah, the soft feelings of women did ever make things more difficult for men. As Lord Giles took her hand and stood by her side, Obert comprehended the biggest difference between the two knights now made lords by their king.
Lord Giles had not had to hunt for his wife once he’d fought his way to his lands.
He could not say the same for Lord Brice.
Chapter One
Thaxted Forest, northeastern England
March 1067
The ground beneath her feet began to shake and Gillian searched for a cause. It was a fair day, considering that winter still claimed the land, but no clouds marred the sky’s bright blue expanse. Looking up, she could see no sign of a coming storm that would cause the thunderous noise that covered the area.
Pushing her hood back, Gillian stepped into the road and glanced both ahead and behind. With only a moment to spare, she realised the reason for such a clamour and jumped back into the tangle of brush and bush at the road’s edge. With a prayer of thanks offered that she’d stolen a dark brown cloak on her escape, she tugged it around her and lay still as the large group of mounted knights and warriors thundered past her hiding place. When they pulled up a short distance from where she lay motionless and silent, she dared not even breathe for the fear of being detected and captured by these unknown marauders.
Too far away to hear and too low to understand, their words were a jumble of Norman French and some English, as well. Keeping her face down, Gillian waited for them to move on their way. When she heard the sounds of men dismounting and walking along the road, her body began to tremble. Being caught out alone during these dangerous times was an invitation to death or worse and something Gillian had taken pains to avoid.
Her decision to leave her home and flee to the convent was not made in haste or without considering the consequences, but her alternatives were limited and not attractive: the marriage her brother Oremund had arranged to a poxed old man or one the invading duke had made to a vicious Norman warrior on his way to destroy all she held dear. All she could do was stay out of sight and pray this troop of soldiers would move on and her quest to reach the convent would continue.
Gillian waited as the men discussed something and held her breath once more, trying not to gain their attention as their voices grew nearer to the place where she hid. She recognised the name of her home and her brother’s, as well. If only they would speak in her tongue or at the least speak slower so that she could try to understand more of their words!
After a few seemingly endless minutes, the men began to walk away from her, calling out to the others that they saw nothing. She raised her head with care as slowly as she could and watched their retreat. But one knight remained in the road, not more than several yards from where she lay. Instead of following the others, he reached up and tugged at his helm, pulling it free and tucking it under his arm as he turned.
The gasp escaped before she could stop it.
He was tall and muscular and the most attractive man she’d ever beheld, even considering her cousin who was accounted to be every woman’s dream. He did not wear his blond hair in the short, shorn Norman-style; instead it hung loosely around his face. She could not tell the colour of his eyes at this distance, but his face was all masculine angles and intriguing in spite of his being a Norman.
A Norman! And a Norman in full battle armour.
Holy Mother of God, protect her!
And he was staring into the trees in her direction. She dared not move, even to seek the cover of the snarls of branches beneath h
er for he cocked his head, narrowed his eyes and waited. She knew he listened for another sign that someone was hiding and she barely let out her breath as she remained motionless there.
Gillian thought he might come into the thicket to search, but instead he turned to the others before placing his helm on and striding with those long legs back to them. He rained down curses as he walked, some so loud and rude that she felt the heat of a blush creeping up her cheeks. He could not be the lord who the Conqueror had given Thaxted to, for no nobleman would act in such a common way, using words as he had and comparing one of his men to a beast of burden, and a feeble, useless one at that.
So, who was he and what was his mission here?
One of the other men called out orders to move on and she prayed that they would indeed do so. Gillian did not move until the dust settled back on to the road’s dry surface and no sounds could be heard. Even then, she dragged herself to sit up and pulled her cloak around her. She would not move from this spot until she was certain that there was a safe and adequate distance between herself and the warriors.
Pulling the skin of watered ale from beneath her cloak, she drank deeply and eased the dryness in her throat. The exertion of walking many miles, the dustiness of the road and the fear that yet pounded in her veins all caused her parched throat and the ale soothed it. Tempted to partake of the food she carried wrapped in cloth, Gillian decided to wait, for she had taken only enough to last her for two days of journeying from the keep to the convent and she had few coins to buy more.
If any at all was available for sale along the way.
The winter had come early and the last harvest was a meagre one, disturbed by plans of wars and their aftermath. Any surplus, even some of that required to feed the number of souls who lived on her father’s lands, had gone to feed King Harold’s army as it passed close by. They had been first on their way north to face the forces of Harald Hardrada, and then on their way south to battle with the usurper William of Normandy.