The Saxon Bride (The Norman Conquest Series)

by York, Ashley

  She sat stiffly and tried not to lean against him. The fear she felt was as much for her as for John. Arthur's behavior was strange. The baby lurched in response, and she rubbed it soothingly. Arthur roughly pulled her hand away and wrapped it around his side.

  "Hold on so you don't fall."

  She had no choice but to lean against him. His woolen tunic stunk; its roughness chafed her cheek as she was jerked against it by the speed of the horse. "I'm concerned for my child. Do we need to travel this fast?"

  "I don't want John to die before you get there."

  The reality that John was near death overwhelmed her. She turned her face against Arthur's shirt and cried. No, John could not die. He had a child and didn't even know about it. He couldn't die on her. She wanted him to raise their child with her. He may not be a Saxon but he was the man she wanted. Her sobs racked her body, and she clung tighter to Arthur, trembling against him. She had always felt such comfort from him. She realized with some trepidation that his hands remained holding the reins. Then she noticed how stiffly he held himself. He wasn't offering her any comfort. He appeared angry.

  "What is amiss?" She pulled back to ask the question. His face was a mask of rage.

  "Shut up."

  Fear cut through her like a knife and she gasped at his words. "What have I done that you would speak to me so? How have I wronged you?"

  The eyes that finally met hers were dark with his fury. "You are a good for nothing whore." He pulled the reins sharply to a stop. The horse reared slightly. Quickly jumping down, Arthur grabbed her off the horse none too gently before she could dismount on the other side. "Look at you!" He yanked her cape open and pointed accusingly at her unborn child. "Just look at you!" He spit his words at her as he paced. "Why couldn't you wait for me? I would never have left you there for long."

  Rowena shook her head, shivering in fear. When she opened her mouth to answer, he slapped her, hard. Her hand flew to her face in reflex. She tasted blood when her tongue ran along her numbing lip. Arthur was a madman. Fear gripped her tightly. Her heart raced in her chest. There was no way to know what he would do next.

  "That Norman bastard should never have touched what was not his!" Arthur shouted the words at her. His face twisted in a snarling rage of disgust.

  "I am his wife." Rowena tried to speak calmly, tried to cover the fear twisting in her gut.

  "You are a Saxon. He had no right to take you!" Tears sprang to his eyes, and he added as if to himself, "They have taken enough." His mouth twisted into a pout as if he would cry. Despite her fear, Rowena felt compassion for his obvious pain. He finally looked her in the eye, his voice a mere whisper. "How could you let him have you, Rowena?" His words were spoken so tenderly. "You are mine."

  She wiped the blood that slipped down her chin. He made no sense. Where was John? Glancing around, she realized she had no idea where she was.

  "Where is he?"

  "Who?" Fear gripped her heart. Arthur seemed incoherent.

  "John." She spoke slowly, as if to a child.

  His face showed only contempt as his eyes raked her body. He shook his head as if finding her lacking.

  "Arthur? Is John hurt? Can you take me to him?"

  He pulled the blanket off her shoulder, pulling her off balance in the effort. "Whore!" The mantle and cape came off next. She struggled to remain standing against each yank of material.

  Disbelief spread through her. He was going to strip her naked.

  "Please, Arthur, it is so cold." Was there any part of the compassionate man she once knew still within him? "I need to stay covered."

  Rolling the heavy material into a ball before throwing it on the ground, Arthur's face was tight with anger, his nostrils flared. "You have no idea what you've done, do you?" He dug his fingers into her hair and cruelly pulled her up against him. Nose to nose, he spat his words at her through gritted teeth. "I tried to protect you."

  The madness in his eyes was so apparent to her now. How could she have missed that gleam? He snickered as he continued with his taunts. "You never deserved my protection, did you? You made me beg. Me! A Saxon." Grabbing a fistful of her gown, his breath was hot against her face. She turned, pulling back as far as she could. "I won't beg anymore."

  Already off balance, the force of his shove knocked her to the ground. She didn't have time to catch her breath before he was pulling up her skirts, his filthy hands grabbing at her. She kicked at him, her sobs nearly choking her. His eyes bulged in his outrage. He slapped her hard. Her head jerked back with the force, to slam against the ground.

  On her back, the weight of the baby was heavy. Then Arthur's face was looming over her, leering down. His hands were hot touching exposed skin. The sensitive area between her legs burned where he rubbed himself against her. Flattening himself on top of her as best he could, she closed her eyes. Let my child survive this unharmed. Arthur paid the child no heed until the situation became impossible for him to complete his task. On his knees between her spread legs, he roughly tried to flip her over. She resisted, grabbing his arm, desperate to stop him.

  "No, Arthur!" Determinedly she pulled against his tunic, sitting up with difficulty. She implored him with her eyes, pushing against him. "Don't do this. Please."

  The force of the baby's kick seemed to break Arthur from his madness. Looking at her swelling abdomen, he quickly pulled himself to standing. He acted as if he'd been burned. She tucked her legs beneath her skirts. Shivering in the cold air, her body began to shake uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered loudly in the silence. Arthur continued to stare at her belly. The hot wetness between her legs was spreading beneath her. She didn't know if she was bleeding or if it was something else. The shooting pain across her abdomen doubled her into a ball.

  The movement seemed to break through his obsession with the baby. His eyes searched her face. "Please," she said. Her voice was tight with pain. "Help me."

  Scooping her up into his arms, he held her against him as he walked toward the open field. With each step she bit her lip to hold back her cry of pain. If he dropped her, the child would not survive. The smell of mold and rot surrounded them as he carried her feet first between abandoned hay piles, riddled with debris and vermin, through a small opening. The pain lessened as his movements slowed. The opening could easily have gone unnoticed, overgrown with brush as it was.

  Arthur kicked at the twigs along the ground revealing a much larger entrance to an underground room. A dungeon! The stone steps that led into the darkened cave were moist and the air was hot. He stood her gently against the far side of the cavern. She trembled, backing up against the damp wall. The pain shot through her again and her knees buckled beneath her. She crumbled to the ground. Her eyes tightly closed, she held her breath against the excruciating pain. All her insides seemed to tighten against the all encompassing pain.

  Breathing heavily when it finally passed, she opened her eyes to Arthur coming down the same stone steps, her cape in his hands. She touched the sticky wetness on her gown. It wasn't blood. The baby was coming.

  Arthur loomed over her, his face an unreadable mask. Sweat trickled down her neck as her body slowly returned to normal. She was already exhausted. "Please, Arthur. Help me." The baby was coming. She was desperate for his assistance. Her words were barely above a whisper. "I need you. I can't do this alone."

  He squatted beside her. She resisted the strong urge to pull away from him when he smoothed her hair out of her face. She had spoken the truth. She was totally at his mercy.

  "Oh, my lady." His voice sounded like the old Arthur, and when he smiled, her breath caught in her throat. "It should be our child you're having."

  Her gasp of disbelief hung in the air between them. Could she really have ever cared for this man? What had happened to turn him into such a monster?

  Afraid to anger him, she tried to keep the fear out of her voice. "I'm sorry."

  Tipping his head as if a thought had just occurred to him, he smiled reassuringly at her. "Did
he force himself on you then?" There was such hope in his eyes.

  "Yes." She lied easily. Aught for her child.

  He nodded understandingly and she found herself nodding with him.

  "The Norman bastard." His voice was low and menacing. He searched her face, for what? She didn't know. Finally, he stood and straightened his tunic. "He will pay for this. Rest for now. I will return."

  Panicked, she reached for him. The pain overwhelmed her again. He clucked and turned around to leave her there. She looked to the opening and the light on the stairs he had just ascended. Hope that she could make it to the steps on her own was all she had but her body tightened beyond endurance and somewhere in her mind, she saw the light go out.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  As soon as John broke through the trees, he saw the guard in the tower. Relieved, he loosened his hold on the reins and allowed the horse to pick up speed as he crossed the open field. He wasn't sure what he would find when he finally made it to the castle. There had been signs along the way of one man on horseback not far ahead. He looked to be riding a Norman destrier but John knew it was no Norman. It was Arthur.

  John jumped from his horse before it had completely stopped, and the stable boy grabbed the reins to still the animal.

  "Has Arthur been here?" The young boy shook his head. John grimaced and quickly assessed the area. "Is the Lady Rowena about?"

  His pulse quickened at the thought of seeing her again.

  "In the garden, my lord."

  Why would she be in the garden? The bitter cold made it a miserable day to be outside. He pulled his gloves off as he headed through the garden gate. There was no sign of Rowena. A strong sense of foreboding spread up his spine when he noticed her needlework fluttering in the breeze on the bench. Picking it up, he wondered why she would just leave her handiwork. As he headed toward the kitchen, he stopped short at the sight on the path. A well-worn riding glove lay there. Someone left in a hurry. Retrieving it, he looked more closely at the man's glove. Disbelief strangled him. He let the glove drop to the ground and headed in through the kitchen.

  "My lord!" Joan's eyes widened in surprise at seeing him, and she looked behind him, expectantly. She frowned. "Where's the Lady Rowena?"

  Joan strode past him, catching the door before he could close it. She turned back to him after looking into the garden. "Did you not pass her?"

  John brusquely handed her the needlework. "She is not out there."

  "What?" Her voice trembled. She grabbed the shawl from the hook alongside the door. "My lady?" Joan called out as she headed into the garden.

  John heard the fear in her voice. He was coming to his own conclusions. He was too late. Arthur had come and now Rowena was gone.

  "When did you last see her?" he asked when Joan returned. Regardless of how his wife felt about his enemy, he needed to track the man down.

  "It was just a short while ago. Where would she go?"

  "Was anyone with her?" He cursed himself for the spark of hope that question caused him.

  Joan shook her head. "She was alone."

  She did not look directly at him. A lead weight settled in his chest. She was lying. The weight twisted and threatened to cut off his air. He realized he didn't want to know why she would lie. He already knew. Striding past her, John found several men sitting at a table in the Great Hall. They were Saxon soldiers. They stopped speaking as soon as they saw him. John had to make a decision. Did he treat them as his own men, which by rights they were, or did he continue to let them stay apart from him, treating him like the enemy? They looked him up and down, assessing him. Perhaps they were as unsure as he was. They visibly stiffened as he approached. He resisted the urge to do the same.

  "Do you know about the trouble with the villagers?" He swallowed hard to ease the tension in his own voice.

  The men exchanged questioning glances. John needed to know if he could trust these men so he waited. Finally, the tall man with the dark wavy hair and full beard nodded slowly. "We know there's been trouble about."

  "What do you make of it?" John asked, calmly pouring himself a drink from the pitcher that sat on the table while inside his gut tensed.

  A thin man with dirty blonde hair spoke up excitedly, almost tripping over his own words. "I know what they want us to think."

  "Enough, Rolf." The dark-haired man spoke sharply but barely moved, quieting the excited man.

  John drank his cider slowly.

  The man's eyes were on him as he sized him up. "There are rumors." He finally added in explanation.

  Placing his cup on the table, John stood tall when he turned toward the man. "What kind of rumors?"

  "That the Normans are trying to kill all the Saxons." The big man sat up a little straighter, intently focused on John.

  This man would be a worthy opponent. He recognized him as one of the men who had watched him in the practice yard so many months ago now.

  "What do you think?" John met his level gaze. He held his breath. A strong winter wind whipped against the narrow windows causing the candles on the walls behind the men to sputter slightly.

  "I think—why? Even if you don't like us, we are of more use to you alive than dead."

  "So you don't believe the rumors?" John asked.

  The man's eyes never wavered from John's face as he slowly shook his head.

  "Then who is doing the killing?" John's question hung in the air. The other men shifted uncomfortably, avoiding each other's eyes.

  "Someone who stands to gain from the continued unrest, I'd venture."

  "Would that be a Norman or a Saxon?"

  "You're the only Norman here." The man's statement sounded like a threat. John tipped his head, as if to more clearly understand the man. The man finally looked uneasy.

  "Speak clear, if you would." John's words were congenial enough but the man didn't miss his icy tone.

  "My lord, I do not believe you would wish us harm." Turning back to John, the man slowly and deliberately raised his hand and offered it to John. Hesitating but a second, John accepted the gesture and clasped his arm. "My name is Robert."

  "Nor I, my lord," Rolf spoke up next. "Well, you know my name."

  Rolf looked down sheepishly. The others around him muttered their agreement. John looked at their faces. They could be Normans or Saxons. They were men first. They had as much to lose as he did, perhaps more, if these massacres continued. John made his decision.

  "The fact is the men attacking the villages are here, at least one of them. I followed his trail back from Towton."

  "Towton?" Robert asked. "That's just the next village over."

  "Aye. I think they are planning to attack us here."

  The men muttered in surprise at this news.

  "But we are a protected castle, my lord." Robert spoke for all the men. "Surely that would be foolish on their part."

  "Unless they believe you will move against me," John replied.

  Robert grunted, disgust written all over his face. "So they kill our kin so that we will rise up against you? How dumb do they believe we are that we can't tell a Saxon slaughter over a Norman one?"

  John was taken aback by this statement but schooled his features. What did they know of Norman slaughters? The question disturbed him. He'd fought a battle in Normandy years ago. He'd been told they fought against marauders. William had said as much. They had slaughtered helpless villagers, mainly women and children. The carnage was much like he'd seen here. How would these Saxons have any experience with that?

  "What would you have us do, my lord?" It was Rolf, his eyes intent on John.

  "We need to prepare against a possible attack." John looked each man in the eye. Their sincerity was intense. "It may be that the attack will come from inside."

  "Someone we already know?" Robert asked.

  John nodded. It could even be one of them but no, they had all been in here. They couldn't be the man he'd been following. "Prepare yourselves and keep your eyes and ears open."


  "You think there will be someone coming in that we may know?" Rolf asked, his eyes were big with uncertainty.

  "Someone like Arthur," one of the men said and the group laughed as if at a private joke. John was filled with the overwhelming sense that someone was walking over his grave.

  "What about Arthur?" He held his breath. Like a wolf, he had his prey in his sight.

  "He's a strange one, is all." Robert seemed embarrassed by their inside humor.

  "How so?"

  "He never seemed to like to practice. The king wanted a fighting force ready even in your absence, my lord. Arthur was always reluctant to keep us fit and ready," Robert explained.

  Rolf picked up the story. "Robert here would ride us out to the open field, up by the Roman ruins, so we could practice. We had to do it without Arthur knowing about it. We're nothing but soldiers, my lord."

  "Yah, we're lousy farmers," an older man with salt and pepper hair spoke out. The rest of the men smiled and nodded their agreement.

  "Hate farming," Rolf spoke under his breath. "Boring as hell."

  John frowned. "How did Arthur expect you to be ready?"

  They looked blankly at him. Robert finally shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know. He seemed more interested in chasing after the Lady Rowena…begging your pardon, my lord." Robert looked down as if embarrassed by his loose tongue.

  John had thought the same thing. So Arthur didn't want these men ready if William called them into service. Was it to make John look bad or William? "Then, Robert, I suggest you take your men out into the yard for a long overdue practice."

  "What about Arthur?" Rolf asked.

  "Have you seen him?" John's jaw tensed.

  "Just a short while before you came, my lord. I saw him headed toward the garden," the older man said.

  "But then he left the garden with the Lady Rowena," Rolf added, looking at the older man.

  Damn. Feeling like he'd been punched in the gut, John struggled to breathe normally. His suspicions were confirmed. He had been right not to trust Rowena. She had gone off with Arthur as soon as he came for her. Was she in on the plotting against him as well?