Married to Her Enemy

by Jenni Fletcher

  From captive to bride...

  Lady Aediva of Etton will do anything to protect her sister, Cille. So when enemies storm her family’s keep, Aediva assumes Cille’s identity...taking her place as prisoner of Sir Svend du Danemark.

  Svend’s sole aim is to fulfill his service to William the Conqueror and rebuild the life a woman’s betrayal once lost him. So when he receives his new orders to quash the Saxon rebellion, he is stunned. To do his duty, he must vow to take the beautiful yet provoking Aediva as his wife!

  “Why?” She looked panicked. “What does he want with me?”

  He wishes for you to marry again.

  The answer sprang to his lips, but the obvious fear in her voice made him hesitate. With his hand gripping her arm, he felt suddenly, irrationally, protective. It wasn’t his place to tell her the earl’s plans, but she was watching him, no longer defiant but frightened, asking him a question. He felt a stirring in his chest—something he hadn’t felt in a long time—as if something were shifting inside of him. Damn it all, how could such a small woman have such a powerful effect on his senses?

  “He intends for you to marry again,” he said softly, surprising himself.

  “Marry a Norman?”

  Author Note

  The early years of William the Conqueror’s reign in England were marked by instability and rebellion. Those Saxon nobles who survived the Battle of Hastings had their lands confiscated, but others were offered a chance to keep their homes in exchange for their allegiance. Most, however, such as the infamous Hereward the Wake in East Anglia, chose to rebel against the oppressive new Norman regime, though this generally took the form of stubborn resistance rather than outright warfare.

  The description of William’s treatment of rebels in this story is based on real-life events, most notably those that occurred during the brutal Harrying of the North in 1069. By this point the king had abandoned any attempt at compromise to the extent that, according to the Domesday Book, by 1086 only five percent of English land still remained in Saxon control.

  This story, however, is set in Mercia in 1067, less than a year after the Conquest, when it might still have been possible to gain favor with the new king. William did reward his supporters with English land and encouraged intermarriage between Norman and Saxon as a means to secure property and lend legitimacy to his kingship. In order to control a large, rebellious Saxon population, he also started a campaign of castle building almost immediately upon arriving in England, so although the stone castle described in this story is slightly ahead of its time, its presence is still plausible during a period of tumultuous political unrest and upheaval.

  JENNI FLETCHER

  Married to

  Her Enemy

  Jenni Fletcher was born on the north coast of Scotland and now lives in Yorkshire with her husband and two children. She wanted to be a writer as a child, but got distracted by reading instead, finally writing down her first paragraph thirty years later. She’s had more jobs than she can remember, but has finally found one she loves. She can be contacted via Twitter, @jenniauthor.

  Married to Her Enemy is Jenni Fletcher’s gripping debut for Harlequin Historical!

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  To my wonderful family, because you always said I could do it. And to Andy, my best friend.

  Contents

  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

  Excerpt from Baby on the Oregon Trail by Lynna Banning

  Chapter One

  Etton, near Peterborough, Mercia,

  August 1067

  Aediva shoved the full weight of her body against the heavy wooden gate, skidding in the mud as she finally dropped the iron locking bar.

  Then she turned and ran. Back up the hill, back past the abandoned houses and scattered belongings dropped in the desperate rush to escape, back towards the Thane’s hall that stood, circular-shaped and slightly raised on a mound in the centre.

  At the entrance she stopped, windswept hair tumbling over her face like a hazel and honey-flecked veil, glancing fearfully over her shoulder as if expecting to find an arrow aimed at her throat.

  How long did they have? How long before the Conquest reached their door?

  An hour if they were lucky.

  Not long enough.

  Then she blinked and the fear was gone, replaced by a steely determination. The Normans might be coming, but she had another, more urgent crisis to deal with first.

  Breathless, she charged into the hall, skirting around the still-smoking central fireplace before bursting headlong into the birthing chamber.

  ‘How is she?’ She dropped, panting, into the straw by the bed. ‘Is the babe any further along?’

  Eadgyth, the midwife, shook her grey head sadly. ‘Not yet. She needs to push.’

  ‘But she’s been pushing for hours!’

  Aediva chewed her lip anxiously, still weighing their chances of escape. How could it be taking so long? How much more could Cille’s small body take? Every moment of delay brought the Normans closer towards them. Every moment increased the risk of capture, or worse. But Cille’s baby seemed in no hurry to be born.

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Nothing. All we can do is wait.’

  Wait! Aediva caught her breath, trying to stave off the rising tide of panic, the feeling that her whole world—the Saxon world that she knew—was collapsing around her head. First Leofric, then her father and now Cille. Not to mention Edmund. The last year had brought so much heartache and suffering, surely she couldn’t lose her sister as well?

  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the memory of that morning: the dull thud of Cille’s swooning body, the terrible slow spread of blood through the rushes. News of the Norman soldiers’ approach had finally shocked her into labour, albeit not before time. The babe was already dangerously late, but Aediva had thought her older sister still asleep, not listening as she’d ordered their people to pack up and flee east, towards the Fens, one of the last strongholds of Saxon resistance. If it hadn’t been for that shock, they might all have escaped.

  ‘They’ve gone, then?’ Eadgyth handed her a cup of mead.

  ‘Aye.’

  She took a long draught, listening to the heavy rumble of carts in the distance, wondering if she’d done the right thing. She’d made the decision on Cille’s behalf, just as she’d made every decision since their father’s death that last winter, taking over the day-to-day running of the village while her sister prepared for her confinement. Not that Cille had shown even the slightest interest in her inheritance. Since her unexpected arrival in the spring she’d seemed a mere ghost of her former self, barely talking let alone taking charge.

  Which had left her to do it, acting as Thane in
deed if not name, doing her best to behave as their father would have wanted. But then he’d never faced a Norman invasion! How could she know what he would have done? Would he have run away or simply refused to leave, like Eadgyth? Or put up a fight, defending Etton to the bitter and bloody end? Her heart suspected the latter, but her head had prevailed. What chance did Saxon farmers have against Norman soldiers?

  Her gaze slid towards the leather curtain that separated the birthing chamber from the hall, as if she were expecting a horde of Normans to burst through at any moment. What chance did three women have?

  She only hoped she’d done the right thing.

  She leaned over and stroked the side of Cille’s face—her face, so like hers that they might have been twins, not sisters born two years apart. Every small feature seemed to mirror her own, from the sharply arched brows to the slightly pointed chin. Only their eyes told them apart. Cille’s a warm forget-me-not blue, soft and gentle as a summer’s sky, and her own a fiery brown with gold flecks flashing like lightning across them.

  A tear seeped from the corner of one of those eyes now and she brushed it aside, reaching across to clasp Cille’s trembling hands between her own. The fingers felt damp and clammy, as if she were sweating and shivering at the same time. In mercy’s name, how much more could either of them take?

  ‘Take care of the baby.’

  The voice was faint, but Aediva jumped, afraid that she might have imagined it. But, no, those were Cille’s eyes staring up at her, black orbs ringed with crimson shadows so large they seemed to drain the life from her small, sunken face.

  ‘Hush.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘You need to save your strength.’

  ‘Please...’ Cille’s voice was ragged, but the look on her face was deadly serious. ‘Promise me. Take care of my child.’

  Aediva caught her breath, hot tears scalding the backs of her eyelids. ‘I promise.’

  ‘There’s something else.’ Cille heaved herself up on her elbows, ignoring Eadgyth’s grunt of protest. ‘Something I need to tell you.’

  ‘Later. You need to...’

  She left the sentence unfinished as she heard a noise outside—a faint rumble at first, building steadily to a thunderous crescendo. The unmistakable heavy pounding of hooves, and lots of them.

  Warhorses!

  A jolt of panic tore through her body. She’d thought she could control her emotions, but now that the time had come and all hope of escape was lost all she could feel was the rush of blood in her ears and the terrible, deafening thud of her own heartbeat.

  Not yet! The plea echoed in her head. Not before the baby was born! They needed more time!

  Cille sank back onto the bed with a gasp, her body convulsing with pain. Had she heard it too?

  Aediva exchanged a look with Eadgyth, an unspoken message passing between them, and then reached under the bed and drew out a long iron broadsword. It was almost as tall as she was, and heavy to boot, but it was a formidable weapon. She only hoped she could wield it.

  Briefly she glanced down at her dishevelled appearance. She’d barely had time to dress that morning, throwing on a simple homespun tunic that was already mud-stained and tattered. Her hair was even more unkempt, coiling down her back in a mass of tangles. She hadn’t had time to put on a headdress. Not that it mattered. What the Normans thought of her appearance was the very least of her worries.

  She dropped a kiss onto Cille’s forehead and pulled back the curtain to the deserted hall. Now that the first rush of panic was over, she knew what she had to do.

  She took a deep breath, willing her heart to stop racing. She couldn’t help Cille give birth, but she could keep the Norman invaders away until the baby was born. No matter what, she wouldn’t let them into this chamber.

  No matter what. Or who.

  * * *

  Sir Svend du Danemark ran a hand through pale blond hair and swore fluently under his breath.

  ‘It looks like they knew we were coming.’

  His squire, Renard, had a habit of stating the obvious.

  Steel-blue eyes narrowed, taking in every detail of the terrain with the experienced gaze of a professional soldier. The base of the valley was a craggy gorge, split down the middle by a meandering river that carried water from the high hills to the east. There was no sign of habitation, just gorse and a scattering of twisted hawthorns, but as the river curved to the south, the land rose and flattened out into a ledge, revealing the stockade of a small, almost completely hidden settlement. No wonder it had taken so long to find.

  Svend swallowed another oath. At this time of year the villagers should have been busy harvesting their crops, but the long strips of farmland were deserted. Instead he could see fresh furrows in the mud, tracks left by horses and carts. If they’d put out a banner the residents couldn’t have made their departure any more obvious.

  ‘Ten shillings if she’s still here?’ Renard persisted.

  ‘Twenty,’ Svend murmured, resisting the urge to knock his squire into the mud.

  In truth, he would have paid a lot more to get this over with. Hunting a woman was no honourable task for a knight and he resented his orders—even if they did come from the King via his cousin, William FitzOsbern, the new Earl of Hereford.

  Hawklike, his gaze narrowed in on the meagre earthen defences. What in blazes was Lady Cille doing here? The village was well hidden, but hardly a stronghold. What had made her flee a fortress like Redbourn and take refuge in such an isolated place? And why the hell was he wasting his time finding her? Surely the future of the Conquest couldn’t depend on one Saxon woman!

  There must be something more important he could be doing!

  He kept his thoughts to himself. He’d learnt to keep his own counsel a long time ago, preferring to live up to the reputation his men had ascribed him of being inscrutable, keeping his emotions well hidden.

  ‘Take the men and surround the palisade.’ He rubbed the light blond stubble on his chin with irritation. He needed a bath and a shave. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘You’re going alone, sir?’

  Renard’s expression was anxious and Svend raised an eyebrow, not sure whether to be amused or insulted. ‘She’s only one woman.’

  ‘But it might be a trap. The Saxons might be hiding.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He bit back a sarcastic retort. ‘But she’s more likely to come peacefully if we don’t scare the wits out of her.’

  ‘She might be armed.’

  ‘I’m certain of it.’

  He placed a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Renard was a good squire, and would make a fine knight one day, but he could be annoyingly over-attentive at times.

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be close by if she overpowers me.’

  He winked, spurring his destrier forward before Renard could detect the sarcasm. The hill was steep but he surged fearlessly ahead, trusting his mount’s training and his men’s obedience as they thundered towards the stockade, his blond hair, worn to shoulder-length rather than in the cropped Norman fashion, streaming behind him like a banner of white gold, as if he were charging headlong into battle.

  The wind tore at his face and he grinned, sharing his mount’s exhilaration. Talbot was a fine specimen, sixteen hands high at his grey shoulder, and worth every bruise it had taken to win him. Svend’s grin spread wickedly as he recalled the French Baron whose haughty dismissal of a fifteen-year-old farmer’s son had cost him his finest warhorse—not to mention his dignity before the then Duke William of Normandy.

  It was the same day that he’d been plucked from a life of brawling in tournaments and offered training as a household knight—been given a sense of focus and purpose, a way to vent the anger of his past. His low rank hadn’t made him popular with the rest of the high-born squires at William’s court, but thick skin a
nd quick fists had earned him a position he could never have dreamed of. Knighthood and a place in the King’s personal guard. It was no mean feat for the fourth son of a Danish farmer.

  Not to mention an outlaw.

  He drew rein in front of the wooden palisade and dismounted, tossing his cloak aside and drawing his sword from its scabbard in one fluid movement. The ground was muddy—hardly surprising after a week of near constant rain and mizzle—and it covered his boots in a cloying, sticky mess. Not for the first time he found himself wondering why they’d left Normandy for this fogbound, rain-soaked isle. He was heartily sick of the rough terrain, the appalling weather and, most of all, this search for a woman who seemed more phantom than flesh and blood.

  Phantom. His mouth curved in a mirthless smile. That was what his men called her. Impossible to find, let alone to capture. They’d spent two weeks travelling in circles, searching for Etton’s hidden valley. And now, from the look of things, she’d eluded them yet again.

  He muttered another imprecation. The Earl had promised to reward him on the King’s behalf upon his return to Redbourn—some share in the spoils of conquest for ten years’ loyal service—just as soon as he found the woman.

  At this rate it would take another ten years.

  He took his frustration out on the gate, shattering the wooden frame with one kick and sending the locking bar spinning ten feet into the mud. He frowned at the sight of it. If the gate had been barred from the inside there might still be a chance she was there. Foolish of him not to have checked, letting frustration get the better of caution, but no matter. The village was clearly deserted, the wattle-and-daub dwellings empty and abandoned.

  He stalked between them, past broken pots and dropped blankets strewn haphazardly over the rough ground, as if the inhabitants had left recently and in a rush. He felt a now familiar twinge of unease. Clearly the fearsome Norman reputation had preceded them—bloodthirsty tales of retribution and punishment. The thought made him uncomfortable. Rule by fear was no just way to govern a country, but the King was implacable towards those who resisted his rule.